* * * * * letters of a woman homesteader by _elinore pruitt stewart_ [illustration] boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge and , by the atlantic monthly co. , by elinore pruitt stewart all rights reserved _published may _ publishers' note the writer of the following letters is a young woman who lost her husband in a railroad accident and went to denver to seek support for herself and her two-year-old daughter, jerrine. turning her hand to the nearest work, she went out by the day as house-cleaner and laundress. later, seeking to better herself, she accepted employment as a housekeeper for a well-to-do scotch cattle-man, mr. stewart, who had taken up a quarter-section in wyoming. the letters, written through several years to a former employer in denver, tell the story of her new life in the new country. they are genuine letters, and are printed as written, except for occasional omissions and the alteration of some of the names. park st. contents i. the arrival at burnt fork ii. filing a claim iii. a busy, happy summer iv. a charming adventure and zebulon pike v. sedalia and regalia vi. a thanksgiving-day wedding vii. zebulon pike visits his old home viii. a happy christmas ix. a confession x. the story of cora belle xi. zebbie's story xii. a contented couple xiii. proving up xiv. the new house xv. the "stocking-leg" dinner xvi. the horse-thieves xvii. at gavotte's camp xviii. the homesteader's marriage and a little funeral xix. the adventure of the christmas tree xx. the joys of homesteading xxi. a letter of jerrine's xxii. the efficient mrs. o'shaughnessy xxiii. how it happened xxiv. a little romance xxv. among the mormons xxvi. success * * * * * letters of a woman homesteader i the arrival at burnt fork burnt fork, wyoming, _april , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- are you thinking i am lost, like the babes in the wood? well, i am not and i'm sure the robins would have the time of their lives getting leaves to cover me out here. i am 'way up close to the forest reserve of utah, within half a mile of the line, sixty miles from the railroad. i was twenty-four hours on the train and two days on the stage, and oh, those two days! the snow was just beginning to melt and the mud was about the worst i ever heard of. the first stage we tackled was just about as rickety as it could very well be and i had to sit with the driver, who was a mormon and so handsome that i was not a bit offended when he insisted on making love all the way, especially after he told me that he was a widower mormon. but, of course, as i had no chaperone i looked very fierce (not that that was very difficult with the wind and mud as allies) and told him my actual opinion of mormons in general and particular. meantime my new employer, mr. stewart, sat upon a stack of baggage and was dreadfully concerned about something he calls his "tookie," but i am unable to tell you what that is. the road, being so muddy, was full of ruts and the stage acted as if it had the hiccoughs and made us all talk as though we were affected in the same way. once mr. stewart asked me if i did not think it a "gey duir trip." i told him he could call it gay if he wanted to, but it didn't seem very hilarious to me. every time the stage struck a rock or a rut mr. stewart would "hoot," until i began to wish we would come to a hollow tree or a hole in the ground so he could go in with the rest of the owls. at last we "arriv," and everything is just lovely for me. i have a very, very comfortable situation and mr. stewart is absolutely no trouble, for as soon as he has his meals he retires to his room and plays on his bagpipe, only he calls it his "bugpeep." it is "the campbells are coming," without variations, at intervals all day long and from seven till eleven at night. sometimes i wish they would make haste and get here. there is a saddle horse especially for me and a little shotgun with which i am to kill sage chickens. we are between two trout streams, so you can think of me as being happy when the snow is through melting and the water gets clear. we have the finest flock of plymouth rocks and get so many nice eggs. it sure seems fine to have all the cream i want after my town experiences. jerrine is making good use of all the good things we are having. she rides the pony to water every day. i have not filed on my land yet because the snow is fifteen feet deep on it, and i think i would rather see what i am getting, so will wait until summer. they have just three seasons here, winter and july and august. we are to plant our garden the last of may. when it is so i can get around i will see about land and find out all i can and tell you. i think this letter is about to reach thirty-secondly, so i will send you my sincerest love and quit tiring you. please write me when you have time. sincerely yours, elinore rupert. ii filing a claim _may , ._ dear, dear mrs. coney,-- well, i have filed on my land and am now a bloated landowner. i waited a long time to even _see_ land in the reserve, and the snow is yet too deep, so i thought that as they have but three months of summer and spring together and as i wanted the land for a ranch anyway, perhaps i had better stay in the valley. so i have filed adjoining mr. stewart and i am well pleased. i have a grove of twelve swamp pines on my place, and i am going to build my house there. i thought it would be very romantic to live on the peaks amid the whispering pines, but i reckon it would be powerfully uncomfortable also, and i guess my twelve can whisper enough for me; and a dandy thing is, i have all the nice snow-water i want; a small stream runs right through the center of my land and i am quite near wood. a neighbor and his daughter were going to green river, the county-seat, and said i might go along, so i did, as i could file there as well as at the land office; and oh, that trip! i had more fun to the square inch than mark twain or samantha allen _ever_ provoked. it took us a whole week to go and come. we camped out, of course, for in the whole sixty miles there was but one house, and going in that direction there is not a tree to be seen, nothing but sage, sand, and sheep. about noon the first day out we came near a sheep-wagon, and stalking along ahead of us was a lanky fellow, a herder, going home for dinner. suddenly it seemed to me i should starve if i had to wait until we got where we had planned to stop for dinner, so i called out to the man, "little bo-peep, have you anything to eat? if you have, we'd like to find it." and he answered, "as soon as i am able it shall be on the table, if you'll but trouble to get behind it." shades of shakespeare! songs of david, the shepherd poet! what do you think of us? well, we got behind it, and a more delicious "it" i never tasted. such coffee! and out of _such_ a pot! i promised bo-peep that i would send him a crook with pink ribbons on it, but i suspect he thinks i am a crook without the ribbons. the sagebrush is so short in some places that it is not large enough to make a fire, so we had to drive until quite late before we camped that night. after driving all day over what seemed a level desert of sand, we came about sundown to a beautiful cañon, down which we had to drive for a couple of miles before we could cross. in the cañon the shadows had already fallen, but when we looked up we could see the last shafts of sunlight on the tops of the great bare buttes. suddenly a great wolf started from somewhere and galloped along the edge of the cañon, outlined black and clear by the setting sun. his curiosity overcame him at last, so he sat down and waited to see what manner of beast we were. i reckon he was disappointed for he howled most dismally. i thought of jack london's "the wolf." after we quitted the cañon i saw the most beautiful sight. it seemed as if we were driving through a golden haze. the violet shadows were creeping up between the hills, while away back of us the snow-capped peaks were catching the sun's last rays. on every side of us stretched the poor, hopeless desert, the sage, grim and determined to live in spite of starvation, and the great, bare, desolate buttes. the beautiful colors turned to amber and rose, and then to the general tone, dull gray. then we stopped to camp, and such a scurrying around to gather brush for the fire and to get supper! everything tasted so good! jerrine ate like a man. then we raised the wagon tongue and spread the wagon sheet over it and made a bedroom for us women. we made our beds on the warm, soft sand and went to bed. it was too beautiful a night to sleep, so i put my head out to look and to think. i saw the moon come up and hang for a while over the mountain as if it were discouraged with the prospect, and the big white stars flirted shamelessly with the hills. i saw a coyote come trotting along and i felt sorry for him, having to hunt food in so barren a place, but when presently i heard the whirr of wings i felt sorry for the sage chickens he had disturbed. at length a cloud came up and i went to sleep, and next morning was covered several inches with snow. it didn't hurt us a bit, but while i was struggling with stubborn corsets and shoes i communed with myself, after the manner of prodigals, and said: "how much better that i were down in denver, even at mrs. coney's, digging with a skewer into the corners seeking dirt which _might_ be there, yea, even eating codfish, than that i should perish on this desert--of imagination." so i turned the current of my imagination and fancied that i was at home before the fireplace, and that the backlog was about to roll down. my fancy was in such good working trim that before i knew it i kicked the wagon wheel, and i certainly got as warm as the most "sot" scientist that ever read mrs. eddy could possibly wish. after two more such days i "arrived." when i went up to the office where i was to file, the door was open and the most taciturn old man sat before a desk. i hesitated at the door, but he never let on. i coughed, yet no sign but a deeper scowl. i stepped in and modestly kicked over a chair. he whirled around like i had shot him. "well?" he interrogated. i said, "i am powerful glad of it. i was afraid you were sick, you looked in such pain." he looked at me a minute, then grinned and said he thought i was a book-agent. fancy me, a fat, comfortable widow, trying to sell books! well, i filed and came home. if you will believe me, the scot was glad to see me and didn't herald the campbells for two hours after i got home. i'll tell you, it is mighty seldom any one's so much appreciated. no, we have no rural delivery. it is two miles to the office, but i go whenever i like. it is really the jolliest kind of fun to gallop down. we are sixty miles from the railroad, but when we want anything we send by the mail-carrier for it, only there is nothing to get. i know this is an inexcusably long letter, but it is snowing so hard and you know how i like to talk. i am sure jerrine will enjoy the cards and we will be glad to get them. many things that are a comfort to us out here came from dear mrs. ----. baby has the rabbit you gave her last easter a year ago. in denver i was afraid my baby would grow up devoid of imagination. like all the kindergartners, she depended upon others to amuse her. i was very sorry about it, for my castles in spain have been real homes to me. but there is no fear. she has a block of wood she found in the blacksmith shop which she calls her "dear baby." a spoke out of a wagon wheel is "little margaret," and a barrel-stave is "bad little johnny." well, i must quit writing before you vote me a nuisance. with lots of love to you, your sincere friend, elinore rupert. iii a busy, happy summer _september , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- this has been for me the busiest, happiest summer i can remember. i have worked very hard, but it has been work that i really enjoy. help of any kind is very hard to get here, and mr. stewart had been too confident of getting men, so that haying caught him with too few men to put up the hay. he had no man to run the mower and he couldn't run both the mower and the stacker, so you can fancy what a place he was in. i don't know that i ever told you, but my parents died within a year of each other and left six of us to shift for ourselves. our people offered to take one here and there among them until we should all have a place, but we refused to be raised on the halves and so arranged to stay at grandmother's and keep together. well, we had no money to hire men to do our work, so had to learn to do it ourselves. consequently i learned to do many things which girls more fortunately situated don't even know have to be done. among the things i learned to do was the way to run a mowing-machine. it cost me many bitter tears because i got sunburned, and my hands were hard, rough, and stained with machine oil, and i used to wonder how any prince charming could overlook all that in any girl he came to. for all i had ever read of the prince had to do with his "reverently kissing her lily-white hand," or doing some other fool trick with a hand as white as a snowflake. well, when my prince showed up he didn't lose much time in letting me know that "barkis was willing," and i wrapped my hands in my old checked apron and took him up before he could catch his breath. then there was no more mowing, and i almost forgot that i knew how until mr. stewart got into such a panic. if he put a man to mow, it kept them all idle at the stacker, and he just couldn't get enough men. i was afraid to tell him i could mow for fear he would forbid me to do so. but one morning, when he was chasing a last hope of help, i went down to the barn, took out the horses, and went to mowing. i had enough cut before he got back to show him i knew how, and as he came back manless he was delighted as well as surprised. i was glad because i really like to mow, and besides that, i am adding feathers to my cap in a surprising way. when you see me again you will think i am wearing a feather duster, but it is only that i have been said to have almost as much sense as a "mon," and that is an honor i never aspired to, even in my wildest dreams. i have done most of my cooking at night, have milked seven cows every day, and have done all the hay-cutting, so you see i have been working. but i have found time to put up thirty pints of jelly and the same amount of jam for myself. i used wild fruits, gooseberries, currants, raspberries, and cherries. i have almost two gallons of the cherry butter, and i think it is delicious. i wish i could get some of it to you, i am sure you would like it. we began haying july and finished september . after working so hard and so steadily i decided on a day off, so yesterday i saddled the pony, took a few things i needed, and jerrine and i fared forth. baby can ride behind quite well. we got away by sunup and a glorious day we had. we followed a stream higher up into the mountains and the air was so keen and clear at first we had on our coats. there was a tang of sage and of pine in the air, and our horse was midside deep in rabbit-brush, a shrub just covered with flowers that look and smell like goldenrod. the blue distance promised many alluring adventures, so we went along singing and simply gulping in summer. occasionally a bunch of sage chickens would fly up out of the sagebrush, or a jack rabbit would leap out. once we saw a bunch of antelope gallop over a hill, but we were out just to be out, and game didn't tempt us. i started, though, to have just as good a time as possible, so i had a fish-hook in my knapsack. presently, about noon, we came to a little dell where the grass was as soft and as green as a lawn. the creek kept right up against the hills on one side and there were groves of quaking asp and cottonwoods that made shade, and service-bushes and birches that shut off the ugly hills on the other side. we dismounted and prepared to noon. we caught a few grasshoppers and i cut a birch pole for a rod. the trout are so beautiful now, their sides are so silvery, with dashes of old rose and orange, their speckles are so black, while their backs look as if they had been sprinkled with gold-dust. they bite so well that it doesn't require any especial skill or tackle to catch plenty for a meal in a few minutes. in a little while i went back to where i had left my pony browsing, with eight beauties. we made a fire first, then i dressed my trout while it was burning down to a nice bed of coals. i had brought a frying-pan and a bottle of lard, salt, and buttered bread. we gathered a few service-berries, our trout were soon browned, and with water, clear, and as cold as ice, we had a feast. the quaking aspens are beginning to turn yellow, but no leaves have fallen. their shadows dimpled and twinkled over the grass like happy children. the sound of the dashing, roaring water kept inviting me to cast for trout, but i didn't want to carry them so far, so we rested until the sun was getting low and then started for home, with the song of the locusts in our ears warning us that the melancholy days are almost here. we would come up over the top of a hill into the glory of a beautiful sunset with its gorgeous colors, then down into the little valley already purpling with mysterious twilight. so on, until, just at dark, we rode into our corral and a mighty tired, sleepy little girl was powerfully glad to get home. after i had mailed my other letter i was afraid that you would think me plumb bold about the little bo-peep, and was a heap sorrier than you can think. if you only knew the hardships these poor men endure. they go two together and sometimes it is months before they see another soul, and rarely ever a woman. i wouldn't act so free in town, but these men see people so seldom that they are awkward and embarrassed. i like to put them at ease, and it is to be done only by being kind of hail-fellow-well-met with them. so far not one has ever misunderstood me and i have been treated with every courtesy and kindness, so i am powerfully glad you understand. they really enjoy doing these little things like fixing our dinner, and if my poor company can add to any one's pleasure i am too glad. sincerely yours, elinore rupert. mr. stewart is going to put up my house for me in pay for my extra work. i am ashamed of my long letters to you, but i am such a murderer of language that i have to use it all to tell anything. please don't entirely forget me. your letters mean so much to me and i will try to answer more promptly. iv a charming adventure and zebulon pike _september , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- your second card just reached me and i am plumb glad because, although i answered your other, i was wishing i could write you, for i have had the most charming adventure. it is the custom here for as many women as care to to go in a party over into utah to ashland (which is over a hundred miles away) after fruit. they usually go in september, and it takes a week to make the trip. they take wagons and camp out and of course have a good time, but, the greater part of the way, there isn't even the semblance of a road and it is merely a semblance anywhere. they came over to invite me to join them. i was of two minds--i wanted to go, but it seemed a little risky and a big chance for discomfort, since we would have to cross the uinta mountains, and a snowstorm likely any time. but i didn't like to refuse outright, so we left it to mr. stewart. his "ye're nae gang" sounded powerful final, so the ladies departed in awed silence and i assumed a martyr-like air and acted like a very much abused woman, although he did only what i wanted him to do. at last, in sheer desperation he told me the "bairn canna stand the treep," and that was why he was so determined. i knew why, of course, but i continued to look abused lest he gets it into his head that he can boss me. after he had been reduced to the proper plane of humility and had explained and begged my pardon and had told me to consult only my own pleasure about going and coming and using his horses, only not to "expoose" the bairn, why, i forgave him and we were friends once more. next day all the men left for the roundup, to be gone a week. i knew i never could stand myself a whole week. in a little while the ladies came past on their way to ashland. they were all laughing and were so happy that i really began to wish i was one of the number, but they went their way and i kept wanting to go _somewhere_. i got reckless and determined to do something real bad. so i went down to the barn and saddled robin adair, placed a pack on "jeems mcgregor," then jerrine and i left for a camping-out expedition. it was nine o'clock when we started and we rode hard until about four, when i turned robin loose, saddle and all, for i knew he would go home and some one would see him and put him into the pasture. we had gotten to where we couldn't ride anyway, so i put jerrine on the pack and led "jeems" for about two hours longer; then, as i had come to a good place to camp, we stopped. while we had at least two good hours of daylight, it gets so cold here in the evening that fire is very necessary. we had been climbing higher into the mountains all day and had reached a level tableland where the grass was luxuriant and there was plenty of wood and water. i unpacked "jeems" and staked him out, built a roaring fire, and made our bed in an angle of a sheer wall of rock where we would be protected against the wind. then i put some potatoes into the embers, as baby and i are both fond of roasted potatoes. i started to a little spring to get water for my coffee when i saw a couple of jack rabbits playing, so i went back for my little shotgun. i shot one of the rabbits, so i felt very like leather-stocking because i had killed but one when i might have gotten two. it was fat and young, and it was but the work of a moment to dress it and hang it up on a tree. then i fried some slices of bacon, made myself a cup of coffee, and jerrine and i sat on the ground and ate. everything smelled and tasted so good! this air is so tonic that one gets delightfully hungry. afterward we watered and restaked "jeems," i rolled some logs on to the fire, and then we sat and enjoyed the prospect. the moon was so new that its light was very dim, but the stars were bright. presently a long, quivering wail arose and was answered from a dozen hills. it seemed just the sound one ought to hear in such a place. when the howls ceased for a moment we could hear the subdued roar of the creek and the crooning of the wind in the pines. so we rather enjoyed the coyote chorus and were not afraid, because they don't attack people. presently we crept under our navajos and, being tired, were soon asleep. i was awakened by a pebble striking my cheek. something prowling on the bluff above us had dislodged it and it struck me. by my waterbury it was four o'clock, so i arose and spitted my rabbit. the logs had left a big bed of coals, but some ends were still burning and had burned in such a manner that the heat would go both under and over my rabbit. so i put plenty of bacon grease over him and hung him up to roast. then i went back to bed. i didn't want to start early because the air is too keen for comfort early in the morning. the sun was just gilding the hilltops when we arose. everything, even the barrenness, was beautiful. we have had frosts, and the quaking aspens were a trembling field of gold as far up the stream as we could see. we were 'way up above them and could look far across the valley. we could see the silvery gold of the willows, the russet and bronze of the currants, and patches of cheerful green showed where the pines were. the splendor was relieved by a background of sober gray-green hills, but even on them gay streaks and patches of yellow showed where rabbit-brush grew. we washed our faces at the spring,--the grasses that grew around the edge and dipped into the water were loaded with ice,--our rabbit was done to a turn, so i made some delicious coffee, jerrine got herself a can of water, and we breakfasted. shortly afterwards we started again. we didn't know where we were going, but we were on our way. that day was more toilsome than the last, but a very happy one. the meadowlarks kept singing like they were glad to see us. but we were still climbing and soon got beyond the larks and sage chickens and up into the timber, where there are lots of grouse. we stopped to noon by a little lake, where i got two small squirrels and a string of trout. we had some trout for dinner and salted the rest with the squirrels in an empty can for future use. i was anxious to get a grouse and kept close watch, but was never quick enough. our progress was now slower and more difficult, because in places we could scarcely get through the forest. fallen trees were everywhere and we had to avoid the branches, which was powerful hard to do. besides, it was quite dusky among the trees long before night, but it was all so grand and awe-inspiring. occasionally there was an opening through which we could see the snowy peaks, seemingly just beyond us, toward which we were headed. but when you get among such grandeur you get to feel how little you are and how foolish is human endeavor, except that which reunites us with the mighty force called god. i was plumb uncomfortable, because all my own efforts have always been just to make the best of everything and to take things as they come. at last we came to an open side of the mountain where the trees were scattered. we were facing south and east, and the mountain we were on sheered away in a dangerous slant. beyond us still greater wooded mountains blocked the way, and in the cañon between night had already fallen. i began to get scary. i could only think of bears and catamounts, so, as it was five o'clock, we decided to camp. the trees were immense. the lower branches came clear to the ground and grew so dense that any tree afforded a splendid shelter from the weather, but i was nervous and wanted one that would protect us against any possible attack. at last we found one growing in a crevice of what seemed to be a sheer wall of rock. nothing could reach us on two sides, and in front two large trees had fallen so that i could make a log heap which would give us warmth and make us safe. so with rising spirits i unpacked and prepared for the night. i soon had a roaring fire up against the logs and, cutting away a few branches, let the heat into as snug a bedroom as any one could wish. the pine needles made as soft a carpet as the wealthiest could afford. springs abound in the mountains, so water was plenty. i staked "jeems" quite near so that the firelight would frighten away any wild thing that tried to harm him. grass was very plentiful, so when he was made "comfy" i made our bed and fried our trout. the branches had torn off the bag in which i had my bread, so it was lost in the forest, but who needs bread when they have good, mealy potatoes? in a short time we were eating like lent was just over. we lost all the glory of the sunset except what we got by reflection, being on the side of the mountain we were, with the dense woods between. big sullen clouds kept drifting over and a wind got lost in the trees that kept them rocking and groaning in a horrid way. but we were just as cozy as we could be and rest was as good as anything. i wish you could once sleep on the kind of bed we enjoyed that night. it was both soft and firm, with the clean, spicy smell of the pine. the heat from our big fire came in and we were warm as toast. it was so good to stretch out and rest. i kept thinking how superior i was since i dared to take such an outing when so many poor women down in denver were bent on making their twenty cents per hour in order that they could spare a quarter to go to the "show." i went to sleep with a powerfully self-satisfied feeling, but i awoke to realize that pride goeth before a fall. i could hardly remember where i was when i awoke, and i could almost hear the silence. not a tree moaned, not a branch seemed to stir. i arose and my head came in violent contact with a snag that was not there when i went to bed. i thought either i must have grown taller or the tree shorter during the night. as soon as i peered out, the mystery was explained. such a snowstorm i never saw! the snow had pressed the branches down lower, hence my bumped head. our fire was burning merrily and the heat kept the snow from in front. i scrambled out and poked up the fire; then, as it was only five o'clock, i went back to bed. and then i began to think how many kinds of idiot i was. here i was thirty or forty miles from home, in the mountains where no one goes in the winter and where i knew the snow got to be ten or fifteen feet deep. but i could never see the good of moping, so i got up and got breakfast while baby put her shoes on. we had our squirrels and more baked potatoes and i had delicious black coffee. after i had eaten i felt more hopeful. i knew mr. stewart would hunt for me if he knew i was lost. it was true, he wouldn't know which way to start, but i determined to rig up "jeems" and turn him loose, for i knew he would go home and that he would leave a trail so that i could be found. i hated to do so, for i knew i should always have to be powerfully humble afterwards. anyway it was still snowing, great, heavy flakes; they looked as large as dollars. i didn't want to start "jeems" until the snow stopped because i wanted him to leave a clear trail. i had sixteen loads for my gun and i reasoned that i could likely kill enough food to last twice that many days by being careful what i shot at. it just kept snowing, so at last i decided to take a little hunt and provide for the day. i left jerrine happy with the towel rolled into a baby, and went along the brow of the mountain for almost a mile, but the snow fell so thickly that i couldn't see far. then i happened to look down into the cañon that lay east of us and saw smoke. i looked toward it a long time, but could make out nothing but smoke, but presently i heard a dog bark and i knew i was near a camp of some kind. i resolved to join them, so went back to break my own camp. at last everything was ready and jerrine and i both mounted. of all the times! if you think there is much comfort, or even security, in riding a pack-horse in a snowstorm over mountains where there is no road, you are plumb wrong. every once in a while a tree would unload its snow down our backs. "jeems" kept stumbling and threatening to break our necks. at last we got down the mountain-side, where new danger confronted us,--we might lose sight of the smoke or ride into a bog. but at last, after what seemed hours, we came into a "clearing" with a small log house and, what is rare in wyoming, a fireplace. three or four hounds set up their deep baying, and i knew by the chimney and the hounds that it was the home of a southerner. a little old man came bustling out, chewing his tobacco so fast, and almost frantic about his suspenders, which it seemed he couldn't get adjusted. as i rode up, he said, "whither, friend?" i said "hither." then he asked, "air you spying around for one of them dinged game wardens arter that deer i killed yisteddy?" i told him i had never even seen a game warden and that i didn't know he had killed a deer. "wall," he said, "air you spying around arter that gold mine i diskivered over on the west side of baldy?" but after a while i convinced him that i was no more nor less than a foolish woman lost in the snow. then he said, "light, stranger, and look at your saddle." so i "lit" and looked, and then i asked him what part of the south he was from. he answered, "yell county, by gum! the best place in the united states, or in the world, either." that was my introduction to zebulon pike parker. only two "johnny rebs" could have enjoyed each other's company as zebulon pike and myself did. he was so small and so old, but so cheerful and so sprightly, and a real southerner! he had a big, open fireplace with backlogs and andirons. how i enjoyed it all! how we feasted on some of the deer killed "yisteddy," and real corn-pone baked in a skillet down on the hearth. he was so full of happy recollections and had a few that were not so happy! he is, in some way, a kinsman of pike of pike's peak fame, and he came west "jist arter the wah" on some expedition and "jist stayed." he told me about his home life back in yell county, and i feel that i know all the "young uns." there was george henry, his only brother; and there were phoebe and "mothie," whose real name is martha; and poor little mary ann, whose death was described so feelingly that no one could keep back the tears. lastly there was little mandy, the baby and his favorite, but who, i am afraid, was a selfish little beast since she had to have her prunellas when all the rest of the "young uns" had to wear shoes that old uncle buck made out of rawhide. but then "her eyes were blue as morning-glories and her hair was jist like corn-silk, so yaller and fluffy." bless his simple, honest heart! his own eyes are blue and kind, and his poor, thin little shoulders are so round that they almost meet in front. how he loved to talk of his boyhood days! i can almost see his father and george henry as they marched away to the "wah" together, and the poor little mother's despair as she waited day after day for some word, that never came. poor little mary ann was drowned in the bayou, where she was trying to get water-lilies. she had wanted a white dress all her life and so, when she was dead, they took down the white cross-bar curtains and mother made the little shroud by the light of a tallow dip. but, being made by hand, it took all the next day, too, so that they buried her by moonlight down back of the orchard under the big elm where the children had always had their swing. and they lined and covered her grave with big, fragrant water-lilies. as they lowered the poor little home-made coffin into the grave the mockingbirds began to sing and they sang all that dewy, moonlight night. then little mandy's wedding to judge carter's son jim was described. she wore a "cream-colored poplin with a red rose throwed up in it," and the lace that was on grandma's wedding dress. there were bowers of sweet southern roses and honeysuckle and wistaria. don't you know she was a dainty bride? at last it came out that he had not heard from home since he left it. "don't you ever write?" i asked. "no, i am not an eddicated man, although i started to school. yes'm, i started along of the rest, but they told me it was a yankee teacher and i was 'fraid, so when i got most to the schoolhouse i hid in the bushes with my spelling-book, so that is all the learning i ever got. but my mother was an eddicated woman, yes'm, she could both read and write. i have the bible she give me yit. yes'm, you jist wait and i'll show you." after some rummaging in a box he came back with a small leather-bound bible with print so small it was hard to read. after turning to the record of births and deaths he handed it to me, his wrinkled old face shining with pride as he said, "there, my mother wrote that with her own hand." i took the book and after a little deciphered that "zebulon pike parker was born feb. , ," written in the stiff, difficult style of long ago and written with pokeberry ink. he said his mother used to read about some "old feller that was jist covered with biles," so i read job to him, and he was full of surprise they didn't "git some cherry bark and some sasparilly and bile it good and gin it to him." he had a side room to his cabin, which was his bedroom; so that night he spread down a buffalo robe and two bearskins before the fire for jerrine and me. after making sure there were no moths in them, i spread blankets over them and put a sleepy, happy little girl to bed, for he had insisted on making molasses candy for her because they happened to be born on the same day of the month. and then he played the fiddle until almost one o'clock. he played all the simple, sweet, old-time pieces, in rather a squeaky, jerky way, i am afraid, but the music suited the time and the place. next morning he called me early and when i went out i saw such a beautiful sunrise, well worth the effort of coming to see. i had thought his cabin in a cañon, but the snow had deceived me, for a few steps from the door the mountains seemed to drop down suddenly for several hundred feet and the first of the snow peaks seemed to lie right at our feet. around its base is a great swamp, in which the swamp pines grow very thickly and from which a vapor was rising that got about halfway up the snow peak all around. fancy to yourself a big jewel-box of dark green velvet lined with silver chiffon, the snow peak lying like an immense opal in its center and over all the amber light of a new day. that is what it looked most like. well, we next went to the corral, where i was surprised to find about thirty head of sheep. some of them looked like they should have been sold ten years before. "don't you ever sell any of your sheep?" i asked. "no'm. there was a feller come here once and wanted to buy some of my wethers, but i wouldn't sell any because i didn't need any money." then he went from animal to animal, caressing each and talking to them, calling them each by name. he milked his one cow, fed his two little mules, and then we went back to the house to cook breakfast. we had delicious venison steak, smoking hot, and hoe-cakes and the "bestest" coffee, and honey. after breakfast we set out for home. our pack transferred to one of the little mules, we rode "jeems," and mr. parker rode the other mule. he took us another way, down cañon after cañon, so that we were able to ride all the time and could make better speed. we came down out of the snow and camped within twelve miles of home in an old, deserted ranch house. we had grouse and sage chicken for supper. i was so anxious to get home that i could hardly sleep, but at last i did and was only awakened by the odor of coffee, and barely had time to wash before zebulon pike called breakfast. afterwards we fixed "jeems's" pack so that i could still ride, for zebulon pike was very anxious to get back to his "critters." poor, lonely, childlike little man! he tried to tell me how glad he had been to entertain me. "why," he said, "i was plumb glad to see you and right sorry to have you go. why, i would jist as soon talk to you as to a nigger. yes'm, i would. it has been almost as good as talking to old aunt dilsey." if a yankee had said the same to me i would have demanded instant apology, but i know how the southern heart longs for the dear, kindly old "niggers," so i came on homeward, thankful for the first time that i can't talk correctly. i got home at twelve and found, to my joy, that none of the men had returned, so i am safe from their superiority for a while, at least. with many apologies for this outrageous letter, i am your ex-washlady, elinore rupert. v sedalia and regalia _november , ._ my dear friend,-- i was dreadfully afraid that my last letter was too much for you and now i feel plumb guilty. i really don't know how to write you, for i have to write so much to say so little, and now that my last letter made you sick i almost wish so many things didn't happen to me, for i always want to tell you. many things have happened since i last wrote, and zebulon pike is not done for by any means, but i guess i will tell you my newest experience. i am making a wedding dress. don't grin; it isn't mine,--worse luck! but i must begin at the beginning. just after i wrote you before, there came a terrific storm which made me appreciate indoor coziness, but as only baby and i were at home i expected to be very lonely. the snow was just whirling when i saw some one pass the window. i opened the door and in came the dumpiest little woman and two daughters. she asked me if i was "mis' rupit." i told her that she had almost guessed it, and then she introduced herself. she said she was "mis' lane," that she had heard there was a new stranger in the country, so she had brought her twin girls, sedalia and regalia, to be neighborly. while they were taking off their many coats and wraps it came out that they were from linwood, thirty miles away. i was powerful glad i had a pot roast and some baked beans. after we had put the horses in the barn we had dinner and i heard the story of the girls' odd names. the mother is one of those "comfy," fat little women who remain happy and bubbling with fun in spite of hard knocks. i had already fallen in love with regalia, she is so jolly and unaffected, so fat and so plain. sedalia has a veneer of most uncomfortable refinement. she was shocked because gale ate all the roast she wanted, and if i had been very sensitive i would have been in tears, because i ate a helping more than gale did. but about the names. it seemed that "mis' lane" married quite young, was an orphan, and had no one to tell her things she should have known. she lived in missouri, but about a year after her marriage the young couple started overland for the west. it was in november, and one night when they had reached the plains a real blue blizzard struck them. "mis' lane" had been in pain all day and soon she knew what was the matter. they were alone and it was a day's travel back to the last house. the team had given out and the wind and sleet were seeing which could do the most meanness. at last the poor man got a fire started and a wagon sheet stretched in such a manner that it kept off the sleet. he fixed a bed under the poor shelter and did all he could to keep the fire from blowing away, and there, a few hours later, a little girl baby was born. they melted sleet in the frying-pan to get water to wash it. "mis' lane" kept feeling no better fast, and about the time they got the poor baby dressed a second little one came. that she told me herself is proof she didn't die, i guess, but it is right hard to believe she didn't. luckily the fire lasted until the babies were dressed and the mother began to feel better, for there was no wood. soon the wind stopped and the snow fell steadily. it was warmer, and the whole family snuggled up under the wagon sheet and slept. mr. lane is a powerful good husband. he waited two whole days for his wife to gain strength before he resumed the journey, and on the third morning he actually carried her to the wagon. just think of it! could more be asked of any man? every turn of the wheels made poor "mis' lane" more homesick. like mrs. wiggs of the cabbage patch, she had a taste for geographical names, and "mis' lane" is very loyal, so she wanted to call the little first-born "missouri." mr. lane said she might, but that if she did he would call the other one "arkansas." sometimes homesickness would almost master her. she would hug up the little red baby and murmur "missouri," and then daddy would growl playfully to "arkansas." it went on that way for a long time and at last she remembered that sedalia was in missouri, so she felt glad and really named the older baby "sedalia." but she could think of nothing to match the name and was in constant fear the father would name the other baby "little rock." for three years poor gale was just "t'other one." then the lanes went to green river where some lodge was having a parade. they were watching the drill when a "bystander that was standing by" said something about the "fine regalia." instantly "mis' lane" thought of her unnamed child; so since that time gale has had a name. there could be no two people more unlike than the sisters. sedalia is really handsome, and she is thin. but she is vain, selfish, shallow, and conceited. gale is not even pretty, but she is clean and she is honest. she does many little things that are not exactly polite, but she is good and true. they both went to the barn with me to milk. gale tucked up her skirts and helped me. she said, "i just love a stable, with its hay and comfortable, contented cattle. i never go into one without thinking of the little baby christ. i almost expect to see a little red baby in the straw every time i peek into a manger." sedalia answered, "well, for heaven's sake, get out of the stable to preach. who wants to stand among these smelly cows all day?" they stayed with us almost a week, and one day when gale and i were milking she asked me to invite her to stay with me a month. she said to ask her mother, and left her mother and myself much together. but sedalia stuck to her mother like a plaster and i just could not stand sedalia a whole month. however, i was spared all embarrassment, for "mis' lane" asked me if i could not find work enough to keep gale busy for a month or two. she went on to explain that sedalia was expecting to be married and that gale was so "common" she would really spoil the match. i was surprised and indignant, especially as sedalia sat and listened so brazenly, so i said i thought sedalia would need all the help she could get to get married and that i should be glad to have gale visit me as long as she liked. so gale stayed on with me. one afternoon she had gone to the post-office when i saw mr. patterson ride up. he went into the bunk-house to wait until the men should come. now, from something gale had said i fancied that bob patterson must be the right man. i am afraid i am not very delicate about that kind of meddling, and while i had been given to understand that patterson was the man sedalia expected to marry, i didn't think any man would choose her if he could get gale, so i called him. we had a long chat and he told me frankly he wanted gale, but that she didn't care for him, and that they kept throwing "that danged sedalia" at him. then he begged my pardon for saying "danged," but i told him i approved of the word when applied to sedalia, and broke the news to him that gale was staying with me. he fairly beamed. so that night i left gale to wash dishes and bob to help her while i held mr. stewart a prisoner in the stable and questioned him regarding patterson's prospects and habits. i found both all that need be, and told mr. stewart about my talk with patterson, and he said, "wooman, some day ye'll gang ploom daft." but he admitted he was glad it was the "bonny lassie, instead of the bony one." when we went to the house mr. stewart said, "weel, when are you douchy bairns gangin' to the kirk?" they left it to me, so i set thanksgiving day, and as there is no "kirk to gang to," we are going to have a justice of the peace and they are to be married here. we are going to have the dandiest dinner that i can cook, and mr. stewart went to town next day for the wedding dress, the gayest plaid outside of caledonia. but gale has lots of sense and is going to wear it. i have it almost finished, and while it doesn't look just like a worth model, still it looks plumb good for me to have made. the boys are going up after zebulon pike, and mr. stewart is going after "mis' lane." joy waves are radiating from this ranch and about thanksgiving morning one will strike you. with lots of love and happy wishes, your ex-washlady, elinore rupert. vi a thanksgiving-day wedding dear mrs. coney,-- ... i think every one enjoyed our thanksgiving programme except poor gale. she was grieved, i verily believe, because mr. patterson is not mormon and could not take sedalia and herself also. i suppose it seemed odd to her to be unable to give way to sedalia as she had always done. i had cooked and cooked. gale and zebulon pike both helped all they could. the wedding was to be at twelve o'clock, so at ten i hustled gale into my room to dress. i had to lock the door to keep her in, and i divided my time between the last touches to my dinner and the finishing touches to gale's toilet and receiving the people. the lane party had not come yet, and i was scared to death lest sedalia had had a tantrum and that mr. stewart would not get back in time. at last i left the people to take care of themselves, for i had too much on my mind to bother with them. just after eleven mr. stewart, mis' lane, sedalia, and pa lane "arriv" and came at once into the kitchen to warm. in a little while poor, frightened gale came creeping in, looking guilty. but she looked lovely, too, in spite of her plaid dress. she wore her hair in a coronet braid, which added dignity and height, as well as being simple and becoming. her mother brought her a wreath for her hair, of lilies of the valley and tiny pink rosebuds. it might seem a little out of place to one who didn't see it, but the effect was really charming. sedalia didn't know that mr. stewart had given gale her dress, so, just to be nasty, she said, as soon as she saw gale, "dear me, when are you going to dress, gale? you will hardly have time to get out of that horse-blanket you are wearing and get into something decent." you see, she thought it was one of my dresses fixed over for gale. presently sedalia asked me if i was invited to the "function." she had some kind of rash on her face and zebulon pike noticed the rash and heard the word "function," so he thought that was the name of some disease and asked mr. stewart if the "function" was "catching." mr. stewart had heard sedalia, but knew "zebbie" had not heard all that was said and how he got the idea he had, so he answered, "yes, if ye once get the fever." so zebulon pike privately warned every one against getting the "function" from sedalia. there are plenty of people here who don't know exactly what a function is, myself among them. so people edged away from sedalia, and some asked her if she had seen the doctor and what he thought of her case. poor girl, i'm afraid she didn't have a very enjoyable time. at last the "jestice" of the peace came, and i hope they live happy ever afterward. that night a dance was given to celebrate the event and we began to have dinner immediately after the wedding so as to get through in time to start, for dances are never given in the home here, but in "the hall." every settlement has one and the invitations are merely written announcements posted everywhere. we have what sedalia calls "homogenous" crowds. i wouldn't attempt to say what she means, but as everybody goes no doubt she is right. our dinner was a success, but that is not to be wondered at. every woman for miles around contributed. of course we had to borrow dishes, but we couldn't think of seating every one; so we set one table for twenty-four and had three other long tables, on one of which we placed all the meats, pickles, and sauces, on another the vegetables, soup, and coffee, and on the third the pie, cakes, ice-cream, and other desserts. we had two big, long shelves, one above the other, on which were the dishes. the people helped themselves to dishes and neighbors took turns at serving from the tables, so people got what they wanted and hunted themselves a place to sit while they ate. two of the cowboys from this ranch waited upon the table at which were the wedding party and some of their friends. boys from other ranches helped serve and carried coffee, cake, and ice-cream. the tablecloths were tolerably good linen and we had ironed them wet so they looked nice. we had white lace-paper on the shelves and we used drawn-work paper napkins. as i said, we borrowed dishes, or, that is, every woman who called herself our neighbor brought whatever she thought we would need. so after every one had eaten i suggested that they sort out their dishes and wash them, and in that way i was saved all that work. we had everything done and were off to the dance by five o'clock. we went in sleds and sleighs, the snow was so deep, but it was all so jolly. zebbie, mr. stewart, jerrine, and i went in the bobsled. we jogged along at a comfortable pace lest the "beasties" should suffer, and every now and then a merry party would fly past us scattering snow in our faces and yelling like comanches. we had a lovely moon then and the snow was so beautiful! we were driving northward, and to the south and back of us were the great somber, pine-clad uintah mountains, while ahead and on every side were the bare buttes, looking like old men of the mountains,--so old they had lost all their hair, beard, and teeth. vii zebulon pike visits his old home _december , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- our thanksgiving affair was the most enjoyable happening i can remember for a long time. zebulon pike came, but i had as a bait for him two fat letters from home. as soon as i came back from his place i wrote to mrs. carter and trusted to luck for my letter to reach her. i told her all i could about her brother and how seldom he left his mountain home. i asked her to write him all she could in one letter, as the trips between our place and his were so few and far between. so when she received my letter she wrote all she could think of, and then sent her letter and mine to mothie and phoebe, who are widows living in the old home. they each took turns writing, so their letters are a complete record of the years "zebbie" has been gone. the letters were addressed to me along with a cordial letter from mrs. carter asking me to see that he got them and to use my judgment in the delivering. i couldn't go myself, but i wanted to read the letters to him and to write the answers; so i selected one piece of news i felt would bring him to hear the rest without his knowing how much there was for him. well, the boys brought him, and a more delighted little man i am sure never lived. i read the letters over and over, and answers were hurried off. he was dreadfully homesick, but couldn't figure on how he could leave the "critters," or how he could trust himself on a train. mr. stewart became interested, and he is a very resourceful man, so an old frenchman was found who had no home and wanted a place to stay so he could trap. he was installed at zebulon pike's with full instructions as to each "critter's" peculiarities and needs. then one of the boys, who was going home for christmas to memphis, was induced to wait for mr. parker and to see him safe to little rock. his money was banked for him, and mr. stewart saw that he was properly clothed and made comfortable for the trip. then he sent a telegram to judge carter, who met zebulon pike at little rock, and they had a family reunion in yell county. i have had some charming letters from there, but that only proves what i have always said, that i am the luckiest woman in finding really lovely people and having really happy experiences. good things are constantly happening to me. i wish i could tell you about my happy christmas, but one of my new year's resolutions was to stop loading you down with two-thousand-word letters. from something you wrote i think i must have written boastingly to you at some time. i have certainly not intended to, and you must please forgive me and remember how ignorant i am and how hard it is for me to express myself properly. i felt after i had written to mr. parker's people that i had taken a liberty, but luckily it was not thought of in that way by them. if you only knew how far short i fall of my own hopes you would know i could _never_ boast. why, it keeps me busy making over mistakes just like some one using old clothes. i get myself all ready to enjoy a success and find that i have to fit a failure. but one consolation is that i generally have plenty of material to cut generously, and many of my failures have proved to be real blessings. i do hope this new year may bring to you the desire of your heart and all that those who love you best most wish for you. with lots and lots of love from baby and myself. your ex-washlady, elinore rupert. viii a happy christmas dear mrs. coney,-- my happy christmas resulted from the ex-sheriff of this county being snowbound here. it seems that persons who come from a lower altitude to this country frequently become bewildered, especially if in poor health, leave the train at any stop and wander off into the hills, sometimes dying before they are found. the ex-sheriff cited a case, that of a young german who was returning from the philippines, where he had been discharged after the war. he was the only child of his widowed mother, who has a ranch a few miles from here. no one knew he was coming home. one day the cook belonging to the camp of a construction gang went hunting and came back running, wild with horror. he had found the body of a man. the coroner and the sheriff were notified, and next morning went out for the body, but the wolves had almost destroyed it. high up in a willow, under which the poor man had lain down to die, they saw a small bundle tied in a red bandanna and fast to a branch. they found a letter addressed to whoever should find it, saying that the body was that of benny louderer and giving them directions how to spare his poor old mother the awful knowledge of how he died. also there was a letter to his mother asking her not to grieve for him and to keep their days faithfully. "their days," i afterward learned, were anniversaries which they had always kept, to which was added "benny's day." poor boy! when he realized that death was near his every thought was for the mother. well, they followed his wishes, and the casket containing the bare, gnawed bones was sealed and never opened. and to this day poor mrs. louderer thinks her boy died of some fever while yet aboard the transport. the manner of his death has been kept so secret that i am the only one who has heard it. i was so sorry for the poor mother that i resolved to visit her the first opportunity i had. i am at liberty to go where i please when there is no one to cook for. so, when the men left, a few days later, i took jerrine and rode over to the louderer ranch. i had never seen mrs. louderer and it happened to be "benny's day" that i blundered in upon. i found her to be a dear old german woman living all alone, the people who do the work on the ranch living in another house two miles away. she had been weeping for hours when i got there, but in accordance with her custom on the many anniversaries, she had a real feast prepared, although no one had been bidden. she says that god always sends her guests, but that was the first time she had had a little girl. she had a little daughter once herself, little gretchen, but all that was left was a sweet memory and a pitifully small mound on the ranch, quite near the house, where benny and gretchen are at rest beside "der fader, herr louderer." she is such a dear old lady! she made us so welcome and she is so entertaining. all the remainder of the day we listened to stories of her children, looked at her pictures, and jerrine had a lovely time with a wonderful wooden doll that they had brought with them from germany. mrs. louderer forgot to weep in recalling her childhood days and showing us her treasures. and then our feast,--for it was verily a feast. we had goose and it was _so_ delicious. i couldn't tell you half the good things any more than i could have eaten some of all of them. we sat talking until far into the night, and she asked me how i was going to spend christmas. i told her, "probably in being homesick." she said that would never do and suggested that we spend it together. she said it was one of their special days and that the only happiness left her was in making some one else happy; so she had thought of cooking some nice things and going to as many sheep camps as she could, taking with her the good things to the poor exiles, the sheep-herders. i liked the plan and was glad to agree, but i never dreamed i should have so lovely a time. when the queer old wooden clock announced two we went to bed. i left quite early the next morning with my head full of christmas plans. you may not know, but cattle-men and sheep-men cordially hate each other. mr. stewart is a cattle-man, and so i didn't mention my christmas plans to him. i saved all the butter i could spare for the sheep-herders; they never have any. that and some jars of gooseberry jelly was all i could give them. i cooked plenty for the people here, and two days before christmas i had a chance to go down to mrs. louderer's in a buggy, so we went. we found her up to her ears in cooking, and such sights and smells i could never describe. she was so glad i came early, for she needed help. i never worked so hard in my life or had a pleasanter time. mrs. louderer had sent a man out several days before to find out how many camps there were and where they were located. there were twelve camps and that means twenty-four men. we roasted six geese, boiled three small hams and three hens. we had besides several meat-loaves and links of sausage. we had twelve large loaves of the _best_ rye bread; a small tub of doughnuts; twelve coffee-cakes, more to be called fruit-cakes, and also a quantity of little cakes with seeds, nuts, and fruit in them,--so pretty to look at and _so_ good to taste. these had a thick coat of icing, some brown, some pink, some white. i had thirteen pounds of butter and six pint jars of jelly, so we melted the jelly and poured it into twelve glasses. the plan was, to start real early christmas eve morning, make our circuit of camps, and wind up the day at frau o'shaughnessy's to spend the night. yes, mrs. o'shaughnessy is irish,--as irish as the pigs in dublin. before it was day the man came to feed and to get our horses ready. we were up betimes and had breakfast. the last speck was wiped from the shining stove, the kitchen floor was scrubbed, and the last small thing put in order. the man had four horses harnessed and hitched to the sled, on which was placed a wagon-box filled with straw, hot rocks, and blankets. our twelve apostles--that is what we called our twelve boxes--were lifted in and tied firmly into place. then we clambered in and away we went. mrs. louderer drove, and tam o'shanter and paul revere were snails compared to us. we didn't follow any road either, but went sweeping along across country. no one else in the world could have done it unless they were drunk. we went careening along hill-sides without even slacking the trot. occasionally we struck a particularly stubborn bunch of sagebrush and even the sled-runners would jump up into the air. we didn't stop to light, but hit the earth several feet in advance of where we left it. luck was with us, though. i hardly expected to get through with my head unbroken, but not even a glass was cracked. it would have done your heart good to see the sheep-men. they were all delighted, and when you consider that they live solely on canned corn and tomatoes, beans, salt pork, and coffee, you can fancy what they thought of their treat. they have mutton when it is fit to eat, but that is certainly not in winter. one man at each camp does the cooking and the other herds. it doesn't make any difference if the cook never cooked before, and most of them never did. at one camp, where we stopped for dinner, they had a most interesting collection of fossils. after delivering our last "apostle," we turned our faces toward frau o'shaughnessy's, and got there just in time for supper. mrs. o'shaughnessy is a widow, too, and has quite an interesting story. she is a dumpy little woman whose small nose seems to be smelling the stars, it is so tip-tilted. she has the merriest blue eyes and the quickest wit. it is really worth a severe bumping just to be welcomed by her. it was so warm and cozy in her low little cabin. she had her table set for supper, but she laid plates for us and put before us a beautifully roasted chicken. thrifty mrs. louderer thought it should have been saved until next day, so she said to frau o'shaughnessy, "we hate to eat your hen, best you save her till tomorrow." but mrs. o'shaughnessy answered, "oh, 't is no mather, 't is an ould hin she was annyway." so we enjoyed the "ould hin," which was brown, juicy, and tender. when we had finished supper and were drinking our "tay," mrs. o'shaughnessy told our fortunes with the tea-leaves. she told mine first and said i would die an old maid. i said it was rather late for that, but she cheerfully replied, "oh, well, better late than niver." she predicted for mrs. louderer that she should shortly catch a beau. "'t is the next man you see that will come coortin' you." before we left the table some one knocked and a young man, a sheep-herder, entered. he belonged to a camp a few miles away and is out from boston in search of health. he had been into town and his horse was lamed so he could not make it into camp, and he wanted to stay overnight. he was a stranger to us all, but mrs. o'shaughnessy made him at home and fixed such a tempting supper for him that i am sure he was glad of the chance to stay. he was very decidedly english, and powerfully proud of it. he asked mrs. o'shaughnessy if she was irish and she said, "no, ye haythen, it's chinese oi am. can't yez tell it be me cockney accint?" mr. boutwell looked very much surprised. i don't know which was the funnier, the way he looked or what she said. we had a late breakfast christmas morning, but before we were through mr. stewart came. we had planned to spend the day with mrs. o'shaughnessy, but he didn't approve of our going into the sheep district, so when he found where we had gone he came after us. mrs. louderer and he are old acquaintances and he bosses her around like he tries to boss me. before we left, mrs. o'shaughnessy's married daughter came, so we knew she would not be lonely. it was almost one o'clock when we got home, but all hands helped and i had plenty cooked anyway, so we soon had a good dinner on the table. mr. stewart had prepared a christmas box for jerrine and me. he doesn't approve of white waists in the winter. i had worn one at the wedding and he felt personally aggrieved. for me in the box were two dresses, that is, the material to make them. one is a brown and red checked, and the other green with a white fleck in, both outing flannel. for jerrine there was a pair of shoes and stockings, both stockings full of candy and nuts. he is very bluff in manner, but he is really the kindest person. mrs. louderer stayed until new year's day. my christmas was really a very happy one. your friend, elinore rupert. ... an interesting day on this ranch is the day the cattle are named. if mr. stewart had children he would as soon think of leaving them unnamed as to let a "beastie" go without a name. on the day they vaccinated he came into the kitchen and told me he would need me to help him name the "critters." so he and i "assembled" in a safe place and took turns naming the calves. as fast as a calf was vaccinated it was run out of the chute and he or i called out a name for it and it was booked that way. the first two he named were the "duke of monmouth" and the "duke of montrose." i called my first "oliver cromwell" and "john fox." the poor "mon" had to have revenge, so the next ugly, scrawny little beast he called the "poop of roome." and it was a heifer calf, too. this morning i had the startling news that the "poop" had eaten too much alfalfa and was all "swellit oop," and, moreover, he had "stealit it." i don't know which is the more astonishing, that the pope has stolen alfalfa, or that he has eaten it. we have a swell lot of names, but i am not sure i could tell you which is "bloody mary," or which is "elizabeth," or, indeed, which is which of any of them. e.r. ix a confession _april , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- i find upon re-reading your letter that i did not answer it at all when i wrote you. you must think me very indifferent, but i really don't mean to be. my house joins on to mr. stewart's house. it was built that way so that i could "hold down" my land and job at the same time. i see the wisdom of it now, though at first i did not want it that way. my boundary lines run within two feet of mr. stewart's house, so it was quite easy to build on. i think the pattersons' ranch is about twenty-five miles from us. i am glad to tell you they are doing splendidly. gale is just as thrifty as she can be and bobby is steady and making money fast. their baby is the dearest little thing. i have heard that sedalia is to marry a mormon bishop, but i doubt it. she puts on very disgusting airs about "our bobby," and she patronizes gale most shamefully; but gale, bless her unconscious heart, is so happy in her husband and son that she doesn't know sedalia is insulting. my dear old grandmother whom i loved so much has gone home to god. i used to write long letters to her. i should like a few addresses of old persons who are lonely as she was, who would like letters such as i write. you know i can't be brief. i have tried and cannot. if you know of any persons who would not tire of my long accounts and would care to have them, you will be doing me a favor to let me know. i have not treated you quite frankly about something you had a right to know about. i am ashamed and i regret very much that i have not told you. i so dread the possibility of losing your friendship that i will _never_ tell you unless you promise me beforehand to forgive me. i know that is unfair, but it is the only way i can see out of a difficulty that my foolish reticence has led me into. few people, perhaps, consider me reticent, but in some cases i am afraid i am even deceitful. won't you make it easy to "'fess" so i may be happy again? truly your friend, elinore rupert. _june , ._ my dear friend,-- your card just to hand. i wrote you some time ago telling you i had a confession to make and have had no letter since, so thought perhaps you were scared i had done something too bad to forgive. i am suffering just now from eye-strain and can't see to write long at a time, but i reckon i had better confess and get it done with. the thing i have done is to marry mr. stewart. it was such an inconsistent thing to do that i was ashamed to tell you. and, too, i was afraid you would think i didn't need your friendship and might desert me. another of my friends thinks that way. i hope my eyes will be better soon and then i will write you a long letter. your old friend with a new name, elinore stewart. x the story of cora belle _august , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- ... grandma edmonson's birthday is the th of may, and mrs. o'shaughnessy suggested that we give her a party. i had never seen grandma, but because of something that happened in her family years ago which a few narrow-heads whom it didn't concern in the least cannot forgive or forget, i had heard much of her. the family consists of grandma, grandpa, and little cora belle, who is the sweetest little bud that ever bloomed upon the twigs of folly. the edmonsons had only one child, a daughter, who was to have married a man whom her parents objected to solely because he was a sheep-man, while their sympathies were with the cattle-men, although they owned only a small bunch. to gain their consent the young man closed out his interest in sheep, at a loss, filed on a splendid piece of land near them, and built a little home for the girl he loved. before they could get to town to be married grandpa was stricken with rheumatism. grandma was already almost past going on with it, so they postponed the marriage, and as that winter was particularly severe, the young man took charge of the edmonson stock and kept them from starving. as soon as he was able he went for the license. mrs. o'shaughnessy and a neighbor were hunting some cattle that had wandered away and found the poor fellow shot in the back. he was not yet dead and told them it was urgently necessary for them to hurry him to the edmonsons' and to get some one to perform the marriage ceremony as quickly as possible, for he could not live long. they told him such haste meant quicker death because he would bleed more; but he insisted, so they got a wagon and hurried all they could. but they could not outrun death. when he knew he could not live to reach home, he asked them to witness all he said. everything he possessed he left to the girl he was to have married, and said he was the father of the little child that was to come. he begged them to befriend the poor girl he had to leave in such a condition, and to take the marriage license as evidence that he had tried to do right. the wagon was stopped so the jolting would not make death any harder, and there in the shadow of the great twin buttes he died. they took the body to the little home he had made, and mrs. o'shaughnessy went to the edmonsons' to do what she could there. poor cora jane didn't know how terrible a thing wounded pride is. she told her parents her misdeeds. they couldn't see that they were in any way to blame. they seemed to care nothing for her terrible sorrow nor for her weakened condition. all they could think of was that the child they had almost worshiped had disgraced them; so they told her to go. mrs. o'shaughnessy took her to the home that had been prepared for her, where the poor body lay. some way they got through those dark days, and then began the waiting for the little one to come. poor cora jane said she would die then, and that she wanted to die, but she wanted the baby to know it was loved,--she wanted to leave something that should speak of that love when the child should come to understanding. so mrs. o'shaughnessy said they would make all its little clothes with every care, and they should tell of the love. mrs. o'shaughnessy is the daintiest needleworker i have ever seen; she was taught by the nuns at st. catherine's in the "ould country." she was all patience with poor, unskilled cora jane, and the little outfit that was finally finished was dainty enough for a fairy. little cora belle is so proud of it. at last the time came and mrs. o'shaughnessy went after the parents. long before, they had repented and were only too glad to go. the poor mother lived one day and night after the baby came. she laid the tiny thing in her mother's arms and told them to call her cora belle. she told them she gave them a pure little daughter in place of the sinful one they had lost. that was almost twelve years ago, and the edmonsons have lived in the new house all this time. the deed to the place was made out to cora belle, and her grandfather is her guardian.... if you traveled due north from my home, after about nine hours' ride you would come into an open space in the butte lands, and away between two buttes you would see the glimmer of blue water. as you drew nearer you would be able to see the fringe of willows around the lake, and presently a low, red-roofed house with corrals and stables. you would see long lines of "buck" fence, a flock of sheep near by, and cattle scattered about feeding. this is cora belle's home. on the long, low porch you would see two old folks rocking. the man is small, and has rheumatism in his legs and feet so badly that he can barely hobble. the old lady is large and fat, and is also afflicted with rheumatism, but has it in her arms and shoulders. they are both cheerful and hopeful, and you would get a cordial welcome.... when you saw cora belle you would see a stout, square-built little figure with long flaxen braids, a pair of beautiful brown eyes and the longest and whitest lashes you ever saw, a straight nose, a short upper lip, a broad, full forehead,--the whole face, neither pretty nor ugly, plentifully sown with the brownest freckles. she is very truly the head of the family, doing all the housework and looking after the stock, winter and summer, entirely by herself. three years ago she took things into her own hands, and since that time has managed altogether. mrs. o'shaughnessy, however, tells her what to do. the sheep, forty in number, are the result of her individual efforts. mrs. o'shaughnessy told her there was more money in raising lambs than in raising chickens, so she quit the chickens as a business and went to some of the big sheep-men and got permission to take the "dogie" lambs, which they are glad to give away. she had plenty of cows, so she milked cows and fed lambs all day long all last year. this year she has forty head of nice sheep worth four dollars each, and she doesn't have to feed them the year round as she would chickens, and the wolves are no worse to kill sheep than they are to kill chickens. when shearing-time came she went to a sheep-man and told him she would help cook for his men one week if he would have her sheep sheared with his. she said her work was worth three dollars, that is what one man would get a day shearing, and he could easily shear her sheep in one day. that is how she got her sheep sheared. the man had her wool hauled to town with his, sold it for her, and it brought sixty dollars. she took her money to mrs. o'shaughnessy. she wanted some supplies ordered before she went home, because, as she gravely said, "the rheumatiz would get all the money she had left when she got home,"--meaning that her grandparents would spend what remained for medicine. the poor old grandparents read all the time of wonderful cures that different dopes accomplish, and they spend every nickel they can get their hands on for nostrums. they try everything they read of, and have to buy it by the case,--horrid patent stuff! they have rolls of testimonials and believe every word, so they keep on trying and hoping. when there is any money they each order whatever medicine they want to try. if mrs. edmonson's doesn't seem to help her, grandpa takes it and she takes his,--that is their idea of economy. they would spend hours telling you about their different remedies and would offer you spoonful after spoonful of vile-looking liquid, and be mildly grieved when you refused to take it. grandma's hands are so bent and twisted that she can't sew, so dear old grandpa tries to do it. mrs. o'shaughnessy told me that she helped out when she could. three years ago she made them all a complete outfit, but the "rheumatiz" has been getting all the spare money since then, so there has been nothing to sew. a peddler sold them a piece of gingham which they made up for cora belle. it was broad pink and white stripes, and they wanted some style to "cory's" clothes, so they cut a gored skirt. but they had no pattern and made the gores by folding a width of the goods biasly and cutting it that way. it was put together with no regard to matching the stripes, and a bias seam came in the center behind, but they put no stay in the seam and the result was the most outrageous affair imaginable. well, we had a large room almost empty and mr. stewart liked the idea of a party, so mrs. louderer, mrs. o'shaughnessy, and myself planned for the event. it was to be a sewing-bee, a few good neighbors invited, and all to sew for grandma.... so mrs. o'shaughnessy went to grandma's and got all the material she had to make up. i had saved some sugar-bags and some flour-bags. i knew cora belle needed underwear, so i made her some little petticoats of the larger bags and some drawers of the smaller. i had a small piece of white lawn that i had no use for, and of that i made a dear little sunbonnet with a narrow edging of lace around, and also made a gingham bonnet for her. two days before the time, came mrs. louderer, laden with bundles, and mrs. o'shaughnessy, also laden. we had all been thinking of cora belle. mr. stewart had sent by mail for her a pair of sandals for everyday wear and a nice pair of shoes, also some stockings. mrs. louderer brought cloth for three dresses of heavy dutch calico, and gingham for three aprons. she made them herself and she sews so carefully. she had bought patterns and the little dresses were stylishly made, as well as well made. mrs. o'shaughnessy brought a piece of crossbar with a tiny forget-me-not polka dot, and also had goods and embroidery for a suit of underwear. my own poor efforts were already completed when the rest came, so i was free to help them. late in the afternoon of the th a funny something showed up. fancy a squeaky, rickety old wagon without a vestige of paint. the tires had come off and had been "set" at home; that is done by heating the tires red-hot and having the rims of the wheels covered with several layers of burlap, or other old rags, well wet; then the red-hot tire is put on and water hurriedly poured on to shrink the iron and to keep the burlap from blazing. well, whoever had set cora belle's tires had forgotten to cut away the surplus burlap, so all the ragtags were merrily waving in the breeze. cora belle's team would bring a smile to the soberest face alive. sheba is a tall, lanky old mare. once she was bay in color, but the years have added gray hair until now she is roan. being so long-legged she strides along at an amazing pace which her mate, balaam, a little donkey, finds it hard to keep up with. balaam, like sheba, is full of years. once his glossy brown coat was the pride of some mexican's heart, but time has added to his color also, and now he is blue. his eyes are sunken and dim, his ears no longer stand up in true donkey style, but droop dejectedly. he has to trot his best to keep up with sheba's slowest stride. about every three miles he balks, but little cora belle doesn't call it balking, she says balaam has stopped to rest, and they sit and wait till he is ready to trot along again. that is the kind of layout which drew up before our door that evening. cora belle was driving and she wore her wonderful pink dress which hung down in a peak behind, fully six inches longer than anywhere else. the poor child had no shoes. the winter had tried the last pair to their utmost endurance and the "rheumatiz" had long since got the last dollar, so she came with her chubby little sunburned legs bare. her poor little scarred feet were clean, her toe-nails full of nicks almost into the quick, broken against rocks when she had been herding her sheep. in the back of the wagon, flat on the bottom, sat grandma and grandpa, such bundles of coats and blankets i can't describe. after a great deal of trouble we got them unloaded and into the house. then mrs. louderer entertained them while mrs. o'shaughnessy and i prepared supper and got a bath ready for cora belle. we had a t-bone steak, mashed potatoes, hominy, hot biscuits and butter, and stewed prunes. their long ride had made them hungry and i know they enjoyed their meal. after supper cora belle and i washed the dishes while mrs. o'shaughnessy laid out the little clothes. cora belle's clothes were to be a surprise. the postmistress here also keeps a small store and has ribbon, and when she heard of our plans from mr. stewart she sent up a couple of pairs of hair-ribbon for cora belle. soon mrs. o'shaughnessy called us, and cora belle and i went into the bedroom where she was. i wish you could have seen that child! poor little neglected thing, she began to cry. she said, "they ain't for me, i know they ain't. why, it ain't my birthday, it's granny's." nevertheless, she had her arms full of them and was clutching them so tightly with her work-worn little hands that we couldn't get them. she sobbed so deeply that grandma heard her and became alarmed. she hobbled to the door and pounded with her poor twisted hands, calling all the while, "cory, cory belle, what ails you?" she got so excited that i opened the door, but cora belle told her to go away. she said, "they ain't for you, granny, and they ain't for me either." ... people here observe decoration day faithfully, and cora belle had brought half a wagon-load of iris, which grows wild here. next morning we were all up early, but cora belle's flowers had wilted and she had to gather more, but we all hurried and helped. she said as she was going to see her mother she wanted to wear her prettiest dress, so gale and mrs. o'shaughnessy helped her to get ready. the cemetery is only about two miles away, so we were all down quite early. we were obliged to hurry because others were coming to help sew. cora belle went at once to the graves where her parents lie side by side, and began talking to her mother just as though she saw her. "you didn't know me, did you, mother, with my pretty new things? but i am your little girl, mamma. i am your little cora belle." after she had talked and had turned every way like a proud little bird, she went to work. and, oh, how fast she worked! both graves were first completely covered with pine boughs. it looked like sod, so closely were the little twigs laid. next she broke the stems off the iris and scattered the blossoms over, and the effect was very beautiful. then we hurried home and everybody got busy. the men took grandpa off to another part of the ranch where they were fanning oats to plant, and kept him all day. that was good for him because then he could be with the men all day and he so seldom has a chance to be with men. several ladies came and they all made themselves at home and worked like beavers, and we all had a fine time.... sedalia was present and almost caused a riot. she says she likes unusual words because they lend distinction to conversation. well, they do--sometimes. there was another lady present whose children are very gifted musically, but who have the bad name of taking what they want without asking. the mother can neither read nor write, and she is very sensitive about the bad name her children have. while we were all busy some one made a remark about how smart these children were. sedalia thought that a good time to get in a big word, so she said, "yes, i have always said lula was a progeny." mrs. hall didn't know what she meant and thought that she was casting reflections on her child's honesty, so with her face scarlet and her eyes blazing she said, "sedalia lane, i won't allow you nor nobody else to say my child is a progeny. you can take that back or i will slap you peaked." sedalia took it back in a hurry, so i guess little lula hall is not a progeny. every one left about four except gale, mrs. o'shaughnessy, mrs. louderer, and the edmonsons. they had farthest to go, so they stayed over night again. we worked until ten o'clock that night over grandma's clothes, but everything was thoroughly finished. every button was on, every thread-end knotted and clipped, and some tired workers lay down to rest, as did a very happy child and a very thankful old lady. every one got away by ten o'clock the next morning. the last i saw of little cora belle was when they had reached the top of a long slope and balaam had "stopped to rest." the breeze from the south was playfully fluttering the rags on the wheels. presently i heard a long "hee-haw, hee-haw," and i knew balaam had rested and had started. i have been a very busy woman since i began this letter to you several days ago. a dear little child has joined the angels. i dressed him and helped to make his casket. there is no minister in this whole country and i could not bear the little broken lily-bud to be just carted away and buried, so i arranged the funeral and conducted the services. i know i am unworthy and in no way fitted for such a mission, but i did my poor best, and if no one else is comforted, i am. i know the message of god's love and care has been told once, anyway, to people who have learned to believe more strongly in hell than in heaven. dear friend, i do hope that this new year will bring you and yours fuller joys than you have ever known. if i had all the good gifts in my hands you should certainly be blessed. your sincere friend, elinore rupert stewart. xi zebbie's story _september , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- it was just a few days after the birthday party and mrs. o'shaughnessy was with me again. we were down at the barn looking at some new pigs, when we heard the big corral gates swing shut, so we hastened out to see who it could be so late in the day. it was zebbie. he had come on the stage to burnt fork and the driver had brought him on here.... there was so much to tell, and he whispered he had something to tell me privately, but that he was too tired then; so after supper i hustled him off to bed.... next morning ... the men went off to their work and zebbie and i were left to tell secrets. when he was sure we were alone he took from his trunk a long, flat box. inside was the most wonderful shirt i have ever seen; it looked like a cross between a nightshirt and a shirt-waist. it was of homespun linen. the bosom was ruffled and tucked, all done by hand,--such tiny stitches, such patience and skill. then he handed me an old daguerreotype. i unfastened the little golden hook and inside was a face good to see and to remember. it was dim, yet clear in outline, just as if she were looking out from the mellow twilight of long ago. the sweet, elusive smile,--i couldn't tell where it was, whether it was the mouth or the beautiful eyes that were smiling. all that was visible of her dress was the dutch collar, just like what is being worn now. it was pinned with an ugly old brooch which zebbie said was a "breast-pin" he had given her. under the glass on the other side was a strand of faded hair and a slip of paper. the writing on the paper was so faded it was scarcely readable, but it said: "pauline gorley, age , ." next he showed me a note written by pauline, simply worded, but it held a world of meaning for zebbie. it said, "i spun and wove this cloth at adeline's, enough for me a dress and you a shirt, which i made. it is for the wedding, else to be buried in. yours, pauline." the shirt, the picture, and the note had waited for him all these years in mothie's care. and now i will tell you the story. long, long ago some one did something to some one else and started a feud. unfortunately the gorleys were on one side and the parkers on the other. that it all happened before either zebbie or pauline was born made no difference. a gorley must hate a parker always, as also a parker must hate a gorley. pauline was the only girl, and she had a regiment of big brothers who gloried in the warfare and wanted only the slightest pretext to shoot a parker. so they grew up, and zebbie often met pauline at the quiltings and other gatherings at the homes of non-partisans. he remembers her so perfectly and describes her so plainly that i can picture her easily. she had brown eyes and hair. she used to ride about on her sorrel palfrey with her "nigger" boy cæsar on behind to open and shut plantation gates. she wore a pink calico sunbonnet, and zebbie says "she was just like the pink hollyhocks that grew by mother's window." isn't that a sweet picture? her mother and father were both dead, and she and her brothers lived on their plantation. zebbie had never dared speak to her until one day he had driven over with his mother and sisters to a dinner given on a neighboring plantation. he was standing outside near the wall, when some one dropped a spray of apple blossoms down upon him from an upper window. he looked up and pauline was leaning out smiling at him. after that he made it a point to frequent places where he might expect her, and things went so well that presently cæsar was left at home lest he should tell the brothers. she was a loyal little soul and would not desert, although he urged her to, even promising to go away, "plumb away, clean to scott county if she would go." she told him that her brothers would go even as far as that to kill him, so that they must wait and hope. finally zebbie got tired of waiting, and one day he boldly rode up to the gorley home and formally asked for pauline's hand. the bullet he got for his presumption kept him from going to the war with his father and brother when they marched away. some time later george gorley was shot and killed from ambush, and although zebbie had not yet left his bed the gorleys believed he did it, and one night pauline came through a heavy rainstorm, with only cæsar, to warn zebbie and to beg him, for her sake, to get away as fast as he could that night. she pleaded that she could not live if he were killed and could never marry him if he killed her brothers, so she persuaded him to go while they were all innocent. well, he did as she wished and they never saw each other again. he never went home again until last thanksgiving, and dear little pauline had been dead for years. she herself had taken her little gifts for zebbie to mothie to keep for him. some years later she died and was buried in the dress she mentioned. it was woven at adeline carter's, one of the bitterest enemies of the gorleys, but the sacrifice of her pride did her no good because she was long at rest before zebbie knew. he had been greatly grieved because no stone marked her grave, only a tangle of rose-briers. so he bought a stone, and in the night before decoration day he and two of uncle buck's grandsons went to the gorley burying-ground and raised it to the memory of sweet pauline. some of the gorleys still live there, so he came home at once, fearing if they should find out who placed the stone above their sister they would take vengeance on his poor, frail body. after he had finished telling me his story, i felt just as i used to when grandmother opened the "big chist" to air her wedding clothes and the dress each of her babies wore when baptized. it seemed almost like smelling the lavender and rose-leaves, and it was with reverent fingers that i folded the shirt, the work of love, yellow with age, and laid it in the box.... well, mrs. o'shaughnessy returned, and early one morning we started with a wagon and a bulging mess-box for zebbie's home. we were going a new and longer route in order to take the wagon. dandelions spread a carpet of gold. larkspur grew waist-high with its long spikes of blue. the service-bushes and the wild cherries were a mass of white beauty. meadowlarks and robins and bluebirds twittered and sang from every branch, it almost seemed. a sky of tenderest blue bent over us and fleecy little clouds drifted lazily across.... soon we came to the pineries, where we traveled up deep gorges and cañons. the sun shot arrows of gold through the pines down upon us and we gathered our arms full of columbines. the little black squirrels barked and chattered saucily as we passed along, and we were all children together. we forgot all about feuds and partings, death and hard times. all we remembered was that god is good and the world is wide and beautiful. we plodded along all day. next morning there was a blue haze that zebbie said meant there would be a high wind, so we hurried to reach his home that evening. the sun was hanging like a great red ball in the smoky haze when we entered the long cañon in which is zebbie's cabin. already it was dusky in the cañons below, but not a breath of air stirred. a more delighted man than zebbie i never saw when we finally drove up to his low, comfortable cabin. smoke was slowly rising from the chimney, and gavotte, the man in charge, rushed out and the hounds set up a joyful barking. gavotte is a frenchman, and he was all smiles and gesticulations as he said, "welcome, welcome! to-day i am rejoice you have come. yesterday i am despair if you have come because i am scrub, but to-day, behold, i am delight." i have heard of clean people, but gavotte is the cleanest man i ever saw. the cabin floor was so white i hated to step upon it. the windows shone, and at each there was a calico curtain, blue-and-white check, unironed but newly washed. in one window was an old brown pitcher, cracked and nicked, filled with thistles. i never thought them pretty before, but the pearly pink and the silvery green were so pretty and looked so clean that they had a new beauty. above the fireplace was a great black eagle which gavotte had killed, the wings outspread and a bunch of arrows in the claws. in one corner near the fire was a washstand, and behind it hung the fishing-tackle. above one door was a gun-rack, on which lay the rifle and shotgun, and over the other door was a pair of deer-antlers. in the center of the room stood the square home-made table, every inch scrubbed. in the side room, which is the bedroom, was a wide bunk made of pine plank that had also been scrubbed, then filled with fresh, sweet pine boughs, and over them was spread a piece of canvas that had once been a wagon sheet, but gavotte had washed it and boiled and pounded it until it was clean and sweet. that served for a sheet. zebbie was beside himself with joy. the hounds sprang upon him and expressed their joy unmistakably. he went at once to the corrals to see the "critters," and every one of them was safely penned for the night. "old sime," an old ram (goodness knows _how_ old!), promptly butted him over, but he just beamed with pleasure. "sime knows me, dinged if he don't!" was his happy exclamation. we went into the cabin and left him fondling the "critters." gavotte did himself proud getting supper. we had trout and the most delicious biscuit. each of us had a crisp, tender head of lettuce with a spoonful of potato salad in the center. we had preserves made from canned peaches, and the firmest yellow butter. soon it was quite dark and we had a tiny brass lamp which gave but a feeble light, but it was quite cool so we had a blazing fire which made it light enough. when supper was over, zebbie called us out and asked us if we could hear anything. we could hear the most peculiar, long-drawn, sighing wail that steadily grew louder and nearer. i was really frightened, but he said it was the forerunner of the windstorm that would soon strike us. he said it was wind coming down crag cañon, and in just a few minutes it struck us like a cold wave and rushed, sighing, on down the cañon. we could hear it after it had passed us, and it was perfectly still around the cabin. soon we heard the deep roaring of the coming storm, and zebbie called the hounds in and secured the door. the sparks began to fly up the chimney. jerrine lay on a bearskin before the fire, and mrs. o'shaughnessy and i sat on the old blue "settle" at one side. gavotte lay on the other side of the fire on the floor, his hands under his head. zebbie got out his beloved old fiddle, tuned up, and began playing. outside the storm was raging, growing worse all the time. zebbie played and played. the worse the tumult, the harder the storm, the harder he played. i remember i was holding my breath, expecting the house to be blown away every moment, and zebbie was playing what he called "bonaparte's retreat." it all seemed to flash before me--i could see those poor, suffering soldiers staggering along in the snow, sacrifices to one man's unholy ambition. i verily believe we were all bewitched. i shouldn't have been surprised to have seen witches and gnomes come tumbling down the chimney or flying in at the door, riding on the crest of the storm. i glanced at mrs. o'shaughnessy. she sat with her chin in her hand, gazing with unseeing eyes into the fire. zebbie seemed possessed; he couldn't tire. it seemed like hours had passed and the tumult had not diminished. i felt like shrieking, but i gathered jerrine up into my arms and carried her in to bed. mrs. o'shaughnessy came with us. she touched my elbow and said, "child, don't look toward the window, the banshees are out to-night." we knelt together beside the bed and said our beads; then, without undressing save pulling off our shoes, we crawled under our blankets and lay on the sweet, clean pine. we were both perfectly worn out, but we could not sleep. there seemed to be hundreds of different noises of the storm, for there are so many cañons, so many crooks and turns, and the great forest too. the wind was shrieking, howling, and roaring all at once. a deep boom announced the fall of some giant of the forest. i finally dozed off even in that terrible din, but zebbie was not so frenzied as he had been. he was playing "annie laurie," and that song has always been a favorite of mine. the storm began gradually to die away and "annie laurie" sounded so beautiful. i was thinking of pauline and, i know, to zebbie, annie laurie and pauline gorley are one and the same. i knew no more until i heard zebbie call out, "ho, you sleepy-heads, it's day." mrs. o'shaughnessy turned over and said she was still sleepy. my former visit had taught me what beauty the early morning would spread before me, so i dressed hastily and went outdoors. zebbie called me to go for a little walk. the amber light of the new day was chasing the violet and amethyst shadows down the cañons. it was all more beautiful than i can tell you. on one side the cañon-walls were almost straight up. it looked as if we might step off into a very world of mountains. soon old baldy wore a crown of gleaming gold. the sun was up. we walked on and soon came to a brook. we were washing our faces in its icy waters when we heard twigs breaking, so we stood perfectly still. from out the undergrowth of birch and willows came a deer with two fawns. they stopped to drink, and nibbled the bushes. but soon they scented strangers, and, looking about with their beautiful, startled eyes, they saw us and away they went like the wind. we saw many great trees uptorn by the storm. high up on the cliffs zebbie showed me where the eagles built every year.... we turned homeward and sat down upon the trunk of a fallen pine to rest and take another look at the magnificent view. zebbie was silent, but presently he threw a handful of pebbles down the cañon wall. "i am not sorry pauline is dead. i have never shed a tear. i know you think that is odd, but i have never wanted to mourn. i am glad that it is as it is. i am happy and at peace because i know she is mine. the little breeze is pauline's own voice; she had a little caressing way just like the gentlest breeze when it stirs your hair. there is something in everything that brings back pauline: the beauty of the morning, the song of a bird or the flash of its wings. the flowers look like she did. so i have not lost her, she is mine more than ever. i have always felt so, but was never quite sure until i went back and saw where they laid her. i know people think i am crazy, but i don't care for that. i shall not hate to die. when you get to be as old as i am, child, everything will have a new meaning to you." at last we slowly walked back to the cabin, and at breakfast zebbie told of the damage the storm had done. he was so common-place that no one ever would have guessed his strange fancy.... i shall never forget zebbie as i last saw him. it was the morning we started home. after we left the bench that zebbie lives on, our road wound down into a deeper cañon. zebbie had followed us to where a turn in the cañon should hide us from view. i looked back and saw him standing on the cliffs, high above us, the early morning sun turning his snowy hair to gold, the breeze-fingers of pauline tossing the scanty locks. i shall always remember him so, a living monument to a dead past. elinore stewart. xii a contented couple _october , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- ... i once "heared" sedalia lane telling some of her experiences, and she said she "surreptitiously stole along." one day, when i thought the coast was clear, i was surreptitiously examining the contents of the tool-chest with a view toward securing to myself such hammers, saws, and what else i might need in doing some carpentry work i had planned. the tool-chest is kept in the granary; both it and the granary are usually kept locked. now the "gude mon" has an idea that a "wooman" needs no tools, and the use and misuse of his tools have led to numbers of inter-household wars. i was gloating over my opportunity, and also making the best of it, when a medley of burring scotch voices brought me to a quick realization that discretion is the better part of valor. so i went into seclusion behind a tall oat-bin. it seemed that two neighbors whom i had never seen were preparing to go to town, and had come to get some tools and to see if the stewart would lend them each a team. now mr. stewart must be very righteous, because he certainly regardeth his beast, although he doesn't always love his neighbor as himself. he was willing, however, for friends tam campbell and archie mcettrick to use his teams, but he himself would take a lighter rig and go along, so as to see that his horses were properly cared for, and to help out in case of need. they made their plans, set the day, and went their ways. as soon as i could, i made myself scarce about the granary and very busy about the house, and, like josiah allen, i was in a very "happyfied" state of mind. there is nothing mr. stewart likes better than to catch me unprepared for something. i had been wanting to go to town, and he had said i might go with him next time he went, if i was ready when he was. i knew i would not hear one word about the proposed trip, but that only added to the fun. i had plenty of time to make all preparations; so the day before they were to start found me with all in readiness. it was quite early in the spring and the evenings were quite chilly. we had just finished supper, when we heard a great rumbling, and i knew neighbors campbell and mcettrick had arrived on their way to town; so i began to prepare supper for them. i hadn't expected a woman, and was surprised when i saw the largest, most ungainly person i have ever met come shambling toward me. she was aggie mcettrick. she is tall and raw-boned, she walks with her toes turned out, she has a most peculiar lurching gait like a camel's. she has skin the color of a new saddle, and the oddest straggly straw-colored hair. she never wears corsets and never makes her waists long enough, so there is always a streak of gray undershirt visible about her waist. her skirts are never long enough either, and she knits her own stockings. those inclined can always get a good glimpse of blue-and-white striped hose. she said, "i guess you are the missus." and that was every word she said until i had supper on the table. the men were busy with their teams, and she sat with her feet in my oven, eyeing my every movement. i told her we had just had our supper, but she waited until i had theirs ready before she announced that neither she nor archie ate hot biscuits or steak, that they didn't take tea for supper, preferred coffee, and that neither of them could eat peaches or honey. so all of my supper was ruled off except the butter and cream. she went down to their wagons and brought up what she wanted, so tam campbell was the only one who ate my honey and biscuit. tam is just a scot with an amazingly close fist, and he is very absent-minded. i had met annie, his wife, and their six children. she told me of his absent-mindedness. her remedy for his trouble when it came to household needs was to repeat the article two or three times in the list. people out like we are buy a year's supply at a time. so a list of needed things is made up and sent into town. tam always managed to forget a great many things. well, bedtime came. i offered to show them to their room, but aggie said, "we'll nae sleep in your bed. we'll jest bide in the kitchen." i could not persuade her to change her mind. tam slept at the barn in order to see after the "beasties," should they need attention during the night. as i was preparing for bed, aggie thrust her head into my room and announced that she would be up at three o'clock. i am not an early bird, so i thought i would let aggie get her own breakfast, and i told her she would find everything in the pantry. as long as i was awake i could hear archie and aggie talking, but i could not imagine what about. i didn't know their habits so well as i came to later. next morning the rumbling of their wagons awakened me, but i turned over and slept until after six. there are always so many things to do before leaving that it was nine o'clock before we got started. we had only gotten about two miles, when mr. stewart remembered he had not locked the granary, so back we trotted. we nooned only a few miles from home. we knew we could not catch the wagons before camping-time unless we drove very hard, so mr. stewart said we would go by the edmonsons' and spend the night there. i enjoy even the memory of that drive through the short spring afternoon,--the warm red sand of the desert; the wind river mountains wrapped in the blue veil of distance; the sparse gray-green sage, ugly in itself, but making complete a beautiful picture; the occasional glimpse we had of shy, beautiful wild creatures. so much happiness can be crowded into so short a time. i was glad, though, when cora belle's home became a part of our beautiful picture. it is situated among great red buttes, and there is a blue lake back of the house. around the lake is a fringe of willows. their house is a low, rambling affair, with a long, low porch and a red clay roof. before the house is a cotton-wood tree, its gnarled, storm-twisted branches making it seem to have the "rheumatiz." there is a hop-vine at one end of the porch. it had not come out when we were there, but the dead vine clung hopelessly to its supports. little cora belle just bubbled with delight, and her grandparents were scarcely better than she. spring house-cleaning was just finished, and they have company so seldom that they made us feel that we were doing them a favor by stopping. poor old "pa" hobbled out to help put the team away, and when they came back, cora belle asked me out to help prepare supper, so i left mr. stewart with "granny" and "pa" to listen to their recitals and to taste their many medicines. cora belle is really an excellent housekeeper. her cooking would surprise many people. her bread was delicious, and i am sure i never tasted anything better than the roasted leg of lamb she gave us for supper. i am ashamed to tell you how much i ate of her carrot jam. from where i sat i had a splendid view of the sunset across the lake. speaking of things singly, wyoming has nothing beautiful to offer. taken altogether, it is grandly beautiful, and at sunrise and sunset the "heavens declare his glory." cora belle is so animated and so straightforward, so entirely clean in all her thoughts and actions, that she commands love and respect at one and the same time. after supper her grandfather asked her to sing and play for us. goodness only knows where they got the funny little old organ that cora belle thinks so much of. it has spots all over it of medicine that has been spilled at different times, and it has, as cora belle said, lost its voice in spots; but that doesn't set back cora belle at all, she plays away just as if it was all right. some of the keys keep up a mournful whining and groaning, entirely outside of the tune. cora belle says they play themselves. after several "pieces" had been endured, "pa" said, "play my piece, cory belle"; so we had "bingen on the rhine" played and sung from a to izzard. dear old "pa," his pain-twisted old face just beamed with pride. i doubt if heaven will have for him any sweeter music than his "baby's" voice. granny's squeaky, trembly old voice trailed in after cora belle's, always a word or two behind. "tell my friends and companions when they meet and _scrouge_ around"; that is the way they sang it, but no one would have cared for that, if they had noticed with what happy eagerness the two sang together. the grandparents would like to have sat up all night singing and telling of things that happened in bygone days, but poor tired little cora belle began to nod, so we retired. as we were preparing for bed it suddenly occurred to mr. stewart that i had not been surprised when going to town was mentioned, so he said, "wooman, how did it happen that you were ready when i was to gae to the toone?" "oh," i said, "i knew you were going." "who tell it ye?" "a little bird." "'t was some fool wooman, mayhap." i didn't feel it necessary to enlighten him, and i think he is still wondering how i knew. next morning we were off early, but we didn't come up with the wagons until almost camping-time. the great heavily-loaded wagons were creaking along over the heavy sands. the mcettricks were behind, aggie's big frame swaying and lurching with every jolt of the wagon. they never travel without their german socks. they are great thick things to wear on the outside of their shoes. as we came up behind them, we could see aggie's big socks dangling and bobbing beside archie's from where they were tied on the back part of the wagon. we could hear them talking and see them gesticulating. when we came nearer, we found they were quarreling, and they kept at it as long as i was awake that night. after the men had disposed of their loads, they and mr. stewart were going out of town to where a new coal-mine was being opened. i intended to go on the train to rock springs to do some shopping. aggie said she was going also. i suggested that we get a room together, as we would have to wait several hours for the train, but she was suspicious of my motives. she is greatly afraid of being "done," so she told me to get my own room and pay for it. we got into town about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the train left at midnight. i had gone to my room, and jerrine and myself were enjoying a good rest after our fatiguing drive, when my door was thrown open and a very angry aggie strode in. they asked us fifty cents each for our rooms. aggie paid hers under protest and afterward got to wondering how long she was entitled to its use. she had gone back to the clerk about it, and he had told her for that night only. she argued that she should have her room for a quarter, as she would only use it until midnight. when that failed, she asked for her money back, but the clerk was out of patience and refused her that. aggie was angry all through. she vowed she was being robbed. after she had berated me soundly for submitting so tamely, she flounced back to her own room, declaring she would get even with the robbers. i had to hurry like everything that night to get myself and jerrine ready for the train, so i could spare no time for aggie. she was not at the depot, and jerrine and i had to go on to rock springs without her. it is only a couple of hours from green river to rock springs, so i had a good nap and a late breakfast. i did my shopping and was back at green river at two that afternoon. the first person i saw was aggie. she sat in the depot, glowering at everybody. she had a basket of eggs and a pail of butter, which she had been trying to sell. she was waiting for the night train, the only one she could get to rock springs. i asked her had she overslept. "no, i didna," she replied. then, she proceeded to tell me that, as she had paid for a whole night's use of a room, she had stayed to get its use. that it had made her plans miscarry didn't seem to count. after all our business was attended to, we started for home. the wagons were half a day ahead of us. when we came in sight, we could see aggie fanning the air with her long arms, and we knew they were quarreling. i remarked that i could not understand how persons who hated each other so could live together. clyde told me i had much to learn, and said that really he knew of no other couple who were actually so devoted. he said to prove it i should ask aggie into the buggy with me and he would get in with archie, and afterwards we would compare notes. he drove up alongside of them, and aggie seemed glad to make the exchange. as we had the buggy, we drove ahead of the wagons. it seems that archie and aggie are each jealous of the other. archie is as ugly a little monkey as it would be possible to imagine. she bemeaned him until at last i asked her why she didn't leave him, and added that i would not stand such crankiness for one moment. then she poured out the vials of her wrath upon my head, only i don't think they were vials but barrels. about sundown we made it to where we intended to camp and found that mrs. o'shaughnessy had established a sheep-camp there, and was out with her herd herself, having only manny, a mexican boy she had brought up herself, for a herder. she welcomed us cordially and began supper for our entire bunch. soon the wagons came, and all was confusion for a few minutes getting the horses put away for the night. aggie went to her wagon as soon as it stopped and made secure her butter and eggs against a possible raid by mrs. o'shaughnessy. having asked too high a price for them, she had failed to sell them and was taking them back. after supper we were sitting around the fire, tam going over his account and lamenting that because of his absent-mindedness he had bought a whole hundred pounds of sugar more than he had intended, aggie and archie silent for once, pouting i suspect. clyde smiled across the camp-fire at me and said, "gin ye had sic a lass as i hae, ye might blither." "gin ye had sic a mon as mine--" i began, but mrs. o'shaughnessy said, "gin ye had sic a mon as i hae." then we all three laughed, for we had each heard the same thing, and we knew the mcettricks wouldn't fight each other. they suspected us of laughing at them, for archie said to aggie, "aggie, lass, is it sport they are making of our love?" "'t is daft they be, archie, lad; we'll nae mind their blither." she arose and shambled across to archie and hunkered her big self down beside him. we went to bed and left them peaceable for once. i am really ashamed of the way i have treated you, but i know you will forgive me. i am not strong yet, and my eyes are still bothering me, but i hope to be all right soon now, and i promise you a better letter next time. jerrine is very proud of her necklace. i think they are so nice for children. i can remember how proud i was of mine when i was a child. please give your brother our thanks, and tell him his little gift made my little girl very happy. i am afraid this letter will seem rather jumbled. i still want the address of your friend in salem or any other. i shall find time to write, and i am not going to let my baby prevent me from having many enjoyable outings. we call our boy henry clyde for his father. he is a dear little thing, but he is a lusty yeller for baby's rights. with much love, jerrine and her mamma. xiii proving up _october , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- i think you must be expecting an answer to your letter by now, so i will try to answer as many of your questions as i remember. your letter has been mislaid. we have been very much rushed all this week. we had the thresher crew two days. i was busy cooking for them two days before they came, and have been busy ever since cleaning up after them. clyde has taken the thresher on up the valley to thresh for the neighbors, and all the men have gone along, so the children and i are alone. no, i shall not lose my land, although it will be over two years before i can get a deed to it. the five years in which i am required to "prove up" will have passed by then. i couldn't have held my homestead if clyde had also been proving up, but he had accomplished that years ago and has his deed, so i am allowed my homestead. also i have not yet used my desert right, so i am still entitled to one hundred and sixty acres more. i shall file on that much some day when i have sufficient money of my own earning. the law requires a cash payment of twenty-five cents per acre at the filing, and one dollar more per acre when final proof is made. i should not have married if clyde had not promised i should meet all my land difficulties unaided. i wanted the fun and the experience. for that reason i want to earn every cent that goes into my own land and improvements myself. sometimes i almost have a brain-storm wondering how i am going to do it, but i know i shall succeed; other women have succeeded. i know of several who are now where they can laugh at past trials. do you know?--i am a firm believer in laughter. i am real superstitious about it. i think if bad luck came along, he would take to his heels if some one laughed right loudly. i think jerrine must be born for the law. she always threshes out questions that arise, to her own satisfaction, if to no one else's. she prayed for a long time for her brother; also she prayed for some puppies. the puppies came, but we didn't let her know they were here until they were able to walk. one morning she saw them following their mother, so she danced for joy. when her little brother came she was plainly disappointed. "mamma," she said, "did god really make the baby?" "yes, dear." "then he hasn't treated us fairly, and i should like to know why. the puppies could walk when he finished them; the calves can, too. the pigs can, and the colt, and even the chickens. what is the use of giving us a half-finished baby? he has no hair, and no teeth; he can't walk or talk, nor do anything else but squall and sleep." after many days she got the question settled. she began right where she left off. "i know, mamma, why god gave us such a half-finished baby; so he could learn our ways, and no one else's, since he must live with us, and so we could learn to love him. every time i stand beside his buggy he laughs and then i love him, but i don't love stella nor marvin because they laugh. so that is why." perhaps that is the reason. zebbie's kinsfolk have come and taken him back to yell county. i should not be surprised if he never returned. the lanes and the pattersons leave shortly for idaho, where "our bobbie" has made some large investments. i hope to hear from you soon and that you are enjoying every minute. with much love, your friend, elinore stewart. xiv the new house _december , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- i feel just like visiting to-night, so i am going to "play like" you have come. it is so good to have you to chat with. please be seated in this low rocker; it is a present to me from the pattersons and i am very proud of it. i am just back from the patterson ranch, and they have a dear little boy who came the th of november and they call him robert lane. i am sure this room must look familiar to you, for there is so much in it that was once yours. i have two rooms, each fifteen by fifteen, but this one on the south is my "really" room and in it are my treasures. my house faces east and is built up against a side-hill, or should i say hillside? anyway, they had to excavate quite a lot. i had them dump the dirt right before the house and terrace it smoothly. i have sown my terrace to california poppies, and around my porch, which is six feet wide and thirty long, i have planted wild cucumbers. every log in my house is as straight as a pine can grow. each room has a window and a door on the east side, and the south room has two windows on the south with space between for my heater, which is one of those with a grate front so i can see the fire burn. it is almost as good as a fireplace. the logs are unhewed outside because i like the rough finish, but inside the walls are perfectly square and smooth. the cracks in the walls are snugly filled with "daubing" and then the walls are covered with heavy gray building-paper, which makes the room very warm, and i really like the appearance. i had two rolls of wall-paper with a bold rose pattern. by being very careful i was able to cut out enough of the roses, which are divided in their choice of color as to whether they should be red, yellow, or pink, to make a border about eighteen inches from the ceiling. they brighten up the wall and the gray paper is fine to hang pictures upon. those you have sent us make our room very attractive. the woodwork is stained a walnut brown, oil finish, and the floor is stained and oiled just like it. in the corners by the stove and before the windows we take our comfort. from some broken bamboo fishing-rods i made frames for two screens. these i painted black with some paint that was left from the buggy, and gavotte fixed the screens so they will stay balanced, and put in casters for me. i had a piece of blue curtain calico and with brass-headed tacks i put it on the frame of jerrine's screen, then i mixed some paste and let her decorate it to suit herself on the side that should be next her corner. she used the cards you sent her. some of the people have a suspiciously tottering appearance, perhaps not so very artistic, but they all mean something to a little girl whose small fingers worked patiently to attain satisfactory results. she has a set of shelves on which her treasures of china are arranged. on the floor is a rug made of two goatskins dyed black, a present from gavotte, who heard her admiring zebbie's bearskin. she has a tiny red rocking-chair which she has outgrown, but her rather dilapidated family of dolls use it for an automobile. for a seat for herself she has a small hassock that you gave me, and behind the blue screen is a world apart. my screen is made just like jerrine's except that the cover is cream material with sprays of wild roses over it. in my corner i have a cot made up like a couch. one of my pillows is covered with some checked gingham that "dawsie" cross-stitched for me. i have a cabinet bookcase made from an old walnut bedstead that was a relic of the mountain meadow massacre. gavotte made it for me. in it i have my few books, some odds and ends of china, all gifts, and a few fossil curios. for a floor-covering i have a braided rug of blue and white, made from old sheets and jerrine's old dresses. in the center of my room is a square table made of pine and stained brown. over it is a table-cover that you gave me. against the wall near my bed is my "dresser." it is a box with shelves and is covered with the same material as my screen. above it i have a mirror, but it makes ugly faces at me every time i look into it. upon the wall near by is a match-holder that you gave me. it is the heads of two fisher-folk. the man has lost his nose, but the old lady still thrusts out her tongue. the material on my screen and "dresser" i bought for curtains, then decided to use some white crossbar i had. but i wish i had not, for every time i look at them i think of poor little mary ann parker. i am going to make you a cup of tea and wonder if you will see anything familiar about the teapot. you should, i think, for it is another of your many gifts to me. now i feel that you have a fairly good idea of what my house looks like, on the inside anyway. the magazines and jerrine's cards and mother goose book came long ago, and jerrine and i were both made happy. i wish i could do nice things for you, but all i can do is to love you. your sincere friend, elinore rupert. xv the "stocking-leg" dinner _february, ._ dear mrs. coney,-- ... this time i want to tell you about a "stocking-leg" dinner which i attended not long ago. it doesn't sound very respectable, but it was one of the happiest events i ever remember. mrs. louderer was here visiting us, and one afternoon we were all in the kitchen when gavotte came skimming along on the first pair of snowshoes i ever saw. we have had lots of snow this winter, and many of the hollows and gullies are packed full. gavotte had no difficulty in coming, and he had come for the mail and to invite us to a feast of "ze hose." i could not think what kind of a dinner it could be, and i did not believe that mr. stewart would go, but after gavotte had explained how much easier it was now than at any other time because the hard-packed snow made it possible to go with bobsleds, i knew he would go. i can't say i really wanted to go, but mrs. louderer took it for granted that it would be delightful, so she and mr. stewart did the planning. next morning gavotte met mrs. o'shaughnessy and invited her. then, taking the mail, he went on ahead to blaze a trail we should follow with the sleds. we were to start two days later. they planned we could easily make the trip in a day, as, with the gulches filled with snow, short cuts were possible, and we could travel at a good pace, as we would have a strong team. to me it seemed dangerous, but dinner-parties have not been so plenty that i could miss one. so, when the day came on which we were to start, we were up betimes and had a mess-box packed and mr. stewart had a big pile of rocks hot. we all wore our warmest clothes, and the rest carried out hot rocks and blankets while i put the kitchen in such order that the men left to feed the stock would have no trouble in getting their meals. mr. stewart carried out the mess-box, and presently we were off. we had a wagon-box on bobsleds, and the box was filled with hay and hot rocks with blankets on top and more to cover us. mr. stewart had two big bags of grain in front, feed for the horses, and he sat on them. it was a beautiful day and we jogged along merrily. we had lots of fun, and as we went a new way, there was much that was new to mrs. o'shaughnessy and myself, and it was all new to the rest. gavotte had told us where we should noon, and we reached the place shortly after twelve. mr. stewart went to lift out the mess-box,--but he had forgotten to put it in! oh, dear! we were a disappointed lot. i don't think i was ever so hungry, but there was nothing for it but to grin and bear it. it did me some good, though, to remember how a man misses his dinner. the horses had to be fed, so we walked about while they were eating. we went up a cañon that had high cliffs on one side, and came to a place where, high up on the rock wall, in great black letters, was this legend: "dick fell off of this here clift and died." i should think there would be no question that any one who fell from that place on to the boulders below _would_ die. soon we started again, and if not quite so jolly as we were before, at least we looked forward to our supper with a keen relish and the horses were urged faster than they otherwise would have been. the beautiful snow is rather depressing, however, when there is snow everywhere. the afternoon passed swiftly and the horses were becoming jaded. at four o'clock it was almost dark. we had been going up a deep cañon and came upon an appalling sight. there had been a snow-slide and the cañon was half-filled with snow, rock, and broken trees. the whole way was blocked, and what to do we didn't know, for the horses could hardly be gotten along and we could not pass the snow-slide. we were twenty-five miles from home, night was almost upon us, and we were almost starved. but we were afraid to stay in that cañon lest more snow should slide and bury us, so sadly we turned back to find as comfortable a place as we could to spend the night. the prospects were very discouraging, and i am afraid we were all near tears, when suddenly there came upon the cold air a clear blast from a horn. mrs. louderer cried, "ach, der reveille!" once i heard a lecturer tell of climbing the matterhorn and the calls we heard brought his story to mind. no music could have been so beautiful. it soon became apparent that we were being signaled; so we drove in the direction of the sound and found ourselves going up a wide cañon. we had passed the mouth of it shortly before we had come to the slide. even the tired horses took new courage, and every few moments a sweet, clear call put new heart into us. soon we saw a light. we had to drive very slowly and in places barely crept. the bugler changed his notes and we knew he was wondering if we were coming, so mr. stewart helloed. at once we had an answer, and after that we were steadily guided by the horn. many times we could not see the light, but we drove in the right direction because we could hear the horn. at last, when it was quite dark and the horses could go no farther, we drew up before the fire that had been our beacon light. it was a bonfire built out upon a point of rock at the end of the cañon. back from it among the pines was a 'dobe house. a dried-up mummy of a man advanced from the fire to meet us, explaining that he had seen us through his field-glasses and, knowing about the snow-slide, had ventured to attract us to his poor place. carlota juanita was within, prepared for the _señoras_, if they would but walk in. if they would! more dead than alive, we scrambled out, cold-stiffened and hungry. carlota juanita threw open the low, wide door and we stumbled into comfort. she hastened to help us off with our wraps, piled more wood on the open fire, and busied herself to make us welcome and comfortable. poor carlota juanita! perhaps you think she was some slender, limpid-eyed, olive-cheeked beauty. she was fat and forty, but not fair. she had the biggest wad of hair that i ever saw, and her face was so fat that her eyes looked beady. she wore an old heelless pair of slippers or sandals that would hardly stay on, and at every step they made the most exasperating sliding noise, but she was all kindness and made us feel very welcome. the floor was of dirt, and they had the largest fireplace i have ever seen, with the widest, cleanest hearth, which was where they did their cooking. all their furniture was home-made, and on a low bench near the door were three water-jars which, i am sure, were handmade. away back in a corner they had a small altar, on which was a little statue of mary and the child. before it, suspended by a wire from the rafters, was a cow's horn in which a piece of punk was burning, just as the incense is kept burning in churches. supper was already prepared and was simmering and smoking on the hearth. as soon as the men came in, carlota juanita put it on the table, which was bare of cloth. i can't say that i really like mexican bread, but they certainly know how to cook meat. they had a most wonderful pot-roast with potatoes and corn dumplings that were delicious. the roast had been slashed in places and small bits of garlic, pepper, bacon, and, i think, parsley, inserted. after it and the potatoes and the dumplings were done, carlota had poured in a can of tomatoes. you may not think that was good, but i can assure you it was and that we did ample justice to it. after we had eaten until we were hardly able to swallow, carlota juanita served a queer mexican pie. it was made of dried buffalo-berries, stewed and made very sweet. a layer of batter had been poured into a deep baking-dish, then the berries, and then more batter. then it was baked and served hot with plenty of hard sauce; and it was powerful good, too. she had very peculiar coffee with goat's milk in it. i took mine without the milk, but i couldn't make up my mind that i liked the coffee. we sat around the fire drinking it, when manuel pedro felipe told us it was some he had brought from mexico. i didn't know they raised it there, but he told us many interesting things about it. he and carlota juanita both spoke fairly good english. they had lived for many years in their present home and had some sheep, a few goats, a cow or two, a few pigs, and chickens and turkeys. they had a small patch of land that carlota juanita tilled and on which was raised the squaw corn that hung in bunches from the rafters. down where we live we can't get sweet corn to mature, but here, so much higher up, they have a sheltered little nook where they are able to raise many things. upon a long shelf above the fire was an ugly old stone image, the bottom broken off and some plaster applied to make it set level. the ugly thing they had brought with them from some old ruined temple in mexico. we were all so very tired that soon carlota juanita brought out an armful of the thickest, brightest rugs and spread them over the floor for us to sleep upon. the men retired to a lean-to room, where they slept, but not before manuel pedro felipe and carlota had knelt before their altar for their devotions. mrs. o'shaughnessy and myself and jerrine, knowing the rosary, surprised them by kneeling with them. it is good to meet with kindred faith away off in the mountains. it seems there could not possibly be a mistake when people so far away from creeds and doctrines hold to the faith of their childhood and find the practice a pleasure after so many years. the men bade us good-night, and we lost no time in settling ourselves to rest. luckily we had plenty of blankets. away in the night i was awakened by a noise that frightened me. all was still, but instantly there flashed through my mind tales of murdered travelers, and i was almost paralyzed with fear when again i heard that stealthy, sliding noise, just like carlota juanita's old slippers. the fire had burned down, but just then the moon came from behind a cloud and shone through the window upon carlota juanita, who was asleep with her mouth open. i could also see a pine bough which was scraping against the wall outside, which was perhaps making the noise. i turned over and saw the punk burning, which cast a dim light over the serene face of the blessed virgin, so all fear vanished and i slept as long as they would let me in the morning. after a breakfast of _tortillas_, cheese, and rancid butter, and some more of the coffee, we started again for the stocking-leg dinner. carlota juanita stood in the door, waving to us as long as we could see her, and manuel p.f. sat with mr. stewart to guide us around the snow-slide. under one arm he carried the horn with which he had called us to him. it came from some long-horned cow in mexico, was beautifully polished, and had a fancy rim of silver. i should like to own it, but i could not make it produce a sound. when we were safe on our way our guide left us, and our spirits ran high again. the horses were feeling good also, so it was a merry, laughing party that drew up before zebbie's two hours later. long before i had lent gavotte a set of the leather-stocking tales, which he had read aloud to zebbie. together they had planned a leather-stocking dinner, at which should be served as many of the viands mentioned in the tales as possible. we stayed two days and it was one long feast. we had venison served in half a dozen different ways. we had antelope; we had porcupine, or hedgehog, as pathfinder called it; and also we had beaver-tail, which he found toothsome, but which i did _not_. we had grouse and sage hen. they broke the ice and snared a lot of trout. in their cellar they had a barrel of trout prepared exactly like mackerel, and they were more delicious than mackerel because they were finer-grained. i had been a little disappointed in zebbie after his return from home. it seemed to me that pauline had spoiled him. i guess i was jealous. this time he was the same little old zebbie i had first seen. he seemed to thoroughly enjoy our visit, and i am sure we each had the time of our lives. we made it home without mishap the same day we started, all of us sure life held something new and enjoyable after all. if nothing happens there are some more good times in store for me this summer. gavotte once worked under professor marsden when he was out here getting fossils for the smithsonian institution, and he is very interesting to listen to. he has invited us to go with him out to the bad-land hills in the summer to search for fossils. the hills are only a few miles from here and i look forward to a splendid time. xvi the horse-thieves [no date.] dear mrs. coney,-- ... i am so afraid that you will get an overdose of culture from your visit to the hub and am sending you an antidote of our sage, sand, and sunshine. mrs. louderer had come over to see our boy. together we had prepared supper and were waiting for clyde, who had gone to the post-office. soon he came, and after the usual friendly wrangling between him and mrs. louderer we had supper. then they began their inevitable game of cribbage, while i sat near the fire with baby on my lap. clyde was telling us of a raid on a ranch about seventy-five miles away, in which the thieves had driven off thirty head of fine horses. there were only two of the thieves, and the sheriff with a large posse was pursuing them and forcing every man they came across into the chase, and a regular man-hunt was on. it was interesting only because one of the thieves was a noted outlaw then out on parole and known to be desperate. we were in no way alarmed; the trouble was all in the next county, and somehow that always seems so far away. we knew if the men ever came together there would be a pitched battle, with bloodshed and death, but there seemed little chance that the sheriff would ever overtake the men. i remember i was feeling sorry for the poor fellows with a price on their heads,--the little pink man on my lap had softened my heart wonderfully. jerrine was enjoying the pictures in a paper illustrating early days on the range, wild scenes of roping and branding. i had remarked that i didn't believe there were any more such times, when mrs louderer replied, "dot yust shows how much it iss you do not know. you shall come to mine house and when away you come it shall be wiser as when you left." i had kept at home very closely all summer, and a little trip seemed the most desirable thing i could think of, particularly as the baby would be in no way endangered. but long ago i learned that the quickest way to get what i want is not to want it, outwardly, at least. so i assumed an indifference that was not very real. the result was that next morning every one was in a hurry to get me started,--clyde greasing the little old wagon that looks like a twin to cora belle's, and mrs. louderer, who thinks no baby can be properly brought up without goose-grease, busy greasing the baby "so as he shall not some cold take yet." mrs. louderer had ridden over, so her saddle was laid in the wagon and her pony, bismarck, was hitched in with chub, the laziest horse in all wyoming. i knew clyde could manage very well while i should be gone, and there wasn't a worry to interfere with the pleasure of my outing. we jogged along right merrily, mrs. louderer devoting her entire attention to trying to make chub pull even with bismarck, jerrine and myself enjoying the ever-changing views. i wish i could lay it all before you. summer was departing with reluctant feet, unafraid of winter's messengers, the chill winds. that day was especially beautiful. the gleaming snow peaks and heavy forest south and at our back; west, north, and east, long, broken lines of the distant mountains with their blue haze. pilot butte to the north, one hundred miles away, stood out clear and distinct as though we could drive there in an hour or two. the dull, neutral-colored "bad land" hills nearer us are interesting only because we know they are full of the fossil remains of strange creatures long since extinct. for a distance our way lay up henry's fork valley; prosperous little ranches dotted the view, ripening grain rustled pleasantly in the warm morning sunshine, and closely cut alfalfa fields made bright spots of emerald against the dun landscape. the quaking aspens were just beginning to turn yellow; everywhere purple asters were a blaze of glory except where the rabbit-bush grew in clumps, waving its feathery plumes of gold. over it all the sky was so deeply blue, with little, airy, white clouds drifting lazily along. every breeze brought scents of cedar, pine, and sage. at this point the road wound along the base of cedar hills; some magpies were holding a noisy caucus among the trees, a pair of bluebirds twittered excitedly upon a fence, and high overhead a great black eagle soared. all was so peaceful that horse-thieves and desperate men seemed too remote to think about. presently we crossed the creek and headed our course due north toward the desert and the buttes. i saw that we were not going right to reach mrs. louderer's ranch, so i asked where we were supposed to be going. "we iss going to the mouth of dry creek by, where it goes black's fork into. dere mine punchers holdts five huntert steers. we shall de camp visit and you shall come back wiser as when you went." well, we both came away wiser. i had thought we were going only to the louderer ranch, so i put up no lunch, and there was nothing for the horses either. but it was too beautiful a time to let such things annoy us. anyway, we expected to reach camp just after noon, so a little delay about dinner didn't seem so bad. we had entered the desert by noon; the warm, red sands fell away from the wheels with soft, hissing sounds. occasionally a little horned toad sped panting along before us, suddenly darting aside to watch with bright, cunning eyes as we passed. some one had placed a buffalo's skull beside a big bunch of sage and on the sage a splendid pair of elk's antlers. we saw many such scattered over the sands, grim reminders of a past forever gone. about three o'clock we reached our destination, but no camp was there. we were more disappointed than i can tell you, but mrs. louderer merely went down to the river, a few yards away, and cut an armful of willow sticks wherewith to coax chub to a little brisker pace, and then we took the trail of the departed mess-wagon. shortly, we topped a low range of hills, and beyond, in a cuplike valley, was the herd of sleek beauties feeding contentedly on the lush green grass. i suppose it sounds odd to hear desert and river in the same breath, but within a few feet of the river the desert begins, where nothing grows but sage and greasewood. in oasis-like spots will be found plenty of grass where the soil is nearer the surface and where sub-irrigation keeps the roots watered. in one of these spots the herd was being held. when the grass became short they would be moved to another such place. it required, altogether, fifteen men to take care of the herd, because many of the cattle had been bought in different places, some in utah, and these were always trying to run away and work back toward home, so they required constant herding. soon we caught the glimmer of white canvas, and knew it was the cover of the mess-wagon, so we headed that way. the camp was quite near the river so as to be handy to water and to have the willows for wood. not a soul was at camp. the fire was out, and even the ashes had blown away. the mess-box was locked and mrs. louderer's loud calls brought only echoes from the high rock walls across the river. however, there was nothing to do but to make the best of it, so we tethered the horses and went down to the river to relieve ourselves of the dust that seemed determined to unite with the dust that we were made of. mrs. louderer declared she was "so mat as nodings and would fire dot herman so soon as she could see him alreaty." presently we saw the most grotesque figure approaching camp. it was herman, the fat cook, on hunks, a gaunt, ugly old horse, whose days of usefulness under the saddle were past and who had degenerated into a workhorse. the disgrace of it seemed to be driving him into a decline, but he stumbled along bravely under his heavy load. a string of a dozen sage chickens swung on one side, and across the saddle in front of herman lay a young antelope. a volley of german abuse was hurled at poor herman, wound up in as plain american as mrs. louderer could speak: "and who iss going to pay de game warden de fine of dot antelope what you haf shot? and how iss it that we haf come de camp by und so starved as we iss hungry, and no cook und no food? iss dat for why you iss paid?" herman was some dutch himself, however. "how iss it," he demanded, "dat you haf not so much sense as you haf tongue? how haf you lived so long as always in de west und don't know enough to hunt a bean-hole when you reach your own camp. hey?" mrs. louderer was very properly subdued and i delighted when he removed the stones from where the fire had been, exposing a pit from which, with a pair of pot-hooks, he lifted pots and ovens of the most delicious meat, beans, and potatoes. from the mess-box he brought bread and apricot pie. from a near-by spring he brought us a bright, new pail full of clear, sparkling water, but mrs. louderer insisted upon tea and in a short time he had it ready for us. the tarpaulin was spread on the ground for us to eat from, and soon we were showing an astonished cook just how much food two women and a child could get away with. i ate a good deal of ashes with my roast beef and we all ate more or less sand, but fastidiousness about food is a good thing to get rid of when you come west to camp. when the regular supper-time arrived the punchers began to gather in, and the "boss," who had been to town about some business, came in and brought back the news of the man-hunt. the punchers sat about the fire, eating hungrily from their tin plates and eagerly listening to the recital. two of the boys were tenderfeet: one from tennessee called "daisy belle," because he whistled that tune so much and because he had nose-bleed so much,--couldn't even ride a broncho but his nose would bleed for hours afterwards; and the other, "n'yawk," so called from his native state. n'yawk was a great boaster; said he wasn't afraid of no durned outlaw,--said his father had waded in bloody gore up to his neck and that he was a chip off the old block,--rather hoped the chase would come our way so he could try his marksmanship. the air began to grow chill and the sky was becoming overcast. preparations for the night busied everybody. fresh ponies were being saddled for the night relief, the hard-ridden, tired ones that had been used that day being turned loose to graze. some poles were set up and a tarpaulin arranged for mrs. louderer and me to sleep under. mrs. louderer and jerrine lay down on some blankets and i unrolled some more, which i was glad to notice were clean, for baby and myself. i can't remember ever being more tired and sleepy, but i couldn't go to sleep. i could hear the boss giving orders in quick, decisive tones. i could hear the punchers discussing the raid, finally each of them telling exploits of his favorite heroes of outlawry. i could hear herman, busy among his pots and pans. then he mounted the tongue of the mess-wagon and called out, "we haf for breakfast cackle-berries, first vot iss come iss served, und those vot iss sleep late gets nodings." i had never before heard of cackle-berries and asked sleepy mrs. louderer what they were. "vait until morning and you shall see," was all the information that i received. soon a gentle, drizzling rain began, and the punchers hurriedly made their beds, as they did so twitting n'yawk about making his between our tent and the fire. "you're dead right, pard," i heard one of them say, "to make your bed there, fer if them outlaws comes this way they'll think you air one of the women and they won't shoot you. just us _men_ air in danger." "confound your fool tongues, how they goin' to know there's any women here? i tell you, fellers, my old man waded in bloody gore up to his neck and i'm just like him." they kept up this friendly parleying until i dozed off to sleep, but i couldn't stay asleep. i don't think i was afraid, but i certainly was nervous. the river was making a sad, moaning sound; the rain fell gently, like tears. all nature seemed to be mourning about something, happened or going to happen. down by the river an owl hooted dismally. half a mile away the night-herders were riding round and round the herd. one of them was singing,--faint but distinct came his song: "bury me not on the lone prairie." over and over again he sang it. after a short interval of silence he began again. this time it was, "i'm thinking of my dear old mother, ten thousand miles away." two punchers stirred uneasily and began talking. "blast that tex," i heard one of them say, "he certainly has it bad to-night. what the deuce makes him sing so much? i feel like bawling like a kid; i wish he'd shut up." "he's homesick; i guess we all are too, but they ain't no use staying awake and letting it soak in. shake the water off the tarp, you air lettin' water catch on your side an' it's running into my ear." that is the last i heard for a long time. i must have slept. i remember that the baby stirred and i spoke to him. it seemed to me that something struck against the guy-rope that held our tarpaulin taut, but i wasn't sure. i was in that dozy state, half asleep, when nothing is quite clear. it seemed as though i had been listening to the tramp of feet for hours and that a whole army must be filing past, when i was brought suddenly into keen consciousness by a loud voice demanding, "hello! whose outfit is this?" "this is the up,--louderer's," the boss called back; "what's wanted?" "is that you, mat? this is ward's posse. we been after meeks and murdock all night. it's so durned dark we can't see, but we got to keep going; their horses are about played. we changed at hadley's, but we ain't had a bite to eat and we got to search your camp." "sure thing," the boss answered, "roll off and take a look. hi, there, you herm, get out of there and fix these fellers something to eat." we were surrounded. i could hear the clanking of spurs and the sound of the wet, tired horses shaking themselves and rattling the saddles on every side. "who's in the wickiup?" i heard the sheriff ask. "some women and kids,--mrs. louderer and a friend." in an incredibly short time herman had a fire coaxed into a blaze and mat watson and the sheriff went from bed to bed with a lantern. they searched the mess-wagon, even, although herman had been sleeping there. the sheriff unceremoniously flung out the wood and kindling the cook had stored there. he threw back the flap of our tent and flashed the lantern about. he could see plainly enough that there were but the four of us, but i wondered how they saw outside where the rain made it worse, the lantern was so dirty. "yes," i heard the sheriff say, "we've been pushing them hard. they're headed north, evidently intend to hit the railroad but they'll never make it. every ford on the river is guarded except right along here, and there's five parties ranging on the other side. my party's split,--a bunch has gone on to the bridge. if they find anything they're to fire a volley. same with us. i knew they couldn't cross the river nowhere but at the bridge or here." the men had gathered about the fire and were gulping hot coffee and cold beef and bread. the rain ran off their slickers in little rivulets. i was sorry the fire was not better, because some of the men had on only ordinary coats, and the drizzling rain seemed determined that the fire should not blaze high. before they had finished eating we heard a shot, followed by a regular medley of dull booms. the men were in their saddles and gone in less time than it takes to tell it. the firing had ceased save for a few sharp reports from the revolvers, like a coyote's spiteful snapping. the pounding of the horse's hoofs grew fainter, and soon all was still. i kept my ears strained for the slightest sound. the cook and the boss, the only men up, hurried back to bed. watson had risen so hurriedly that he had not been careful about his "tarp" and water had run into his bed. but that wouldn't disconcert anybody but a tenderfoot. i kept waiting in tense silence to hear them come back with dead or wounded, but there was not a sound. the rain had stopped. mrs. louderer struck a match and said it was three o'clock. soon she was asleep. through a rift in the clouds a star peeped out. i could smell the wet sage and the sand. a little breeze came by, bringing tex's song once more:-- "oh, it matters not, so i've been told, how the body lies when the heart grows cold." oh, dear! the world seemed so full of sadness. i kissed my baby's little downy head and went to sleep. it seems that cowboys are rather sleepy-headed in the morning and it is a part of the cook's job to get them up. the next i knew, herman had a tin pan on which he was beating a vigorous tattoo, all the time hollering, "we haf cackle-berries und antelope steak for breakfast." the baby was startled by the noise, so i attended to him and then dressed myself for breakfast. i went down to the little spring to wash my face. the morning was lowering and gray, but a wind had sprung up and the clouds were parting. there are times when anticipation is a great deal better than realization. never having seen a cackle-berry, my imagination pictured them as some very luscious wild fruit, and i was so afraid none would be left that i couldn't wait until the men should eat and be gone. so i surprised them by joining the very earliest about the fire. herman began serving breakfast. i held out my tin plate and received some of the steak, an egg, and two delicious biscuits. we had our coffee in big enameled cups, without sugar or cream, but it was piping hot and _so_ good. i had finished my egg and steak and so i told herman i was ready for my cackle-berries. "listen to her now, will you?" he asked. and then indignantly, "how many cackle-berries does you want? you haf had so many as i haf cooked for you." "why, herman, i haven't had a single berry," i said. then such a roar of laughter. herman gazed at me in astonishment, and mr. watson gently explained to me that eggs and cackle-berries were one and the same. n'yawk was not yet up, so herman walked over to his bed, kicked him a few times, and told him he would scald him if he didn't turn out. it was quite light by then. n'yawk joined us in a few minutes. "what the deuce was you fellers kicking up such a rumpus fer last night?" he asked. "you blamed blockhead, don't you know?" the boss answered. "why, the sheriff searched this camp last night. they had a battle down at the bridge afterwards and either they are all killed or else no one is hurt. they would have been here otherwise. ward took a shot at them once yesterday, but i guess he didn't hit; the men got away, anyway. and durn your sleepy head! you just lay there and snored. well, i'll be danged!" words failed him, his wonder and disgust were so great. n'yawk turned to get his breakfast. his light shirt was blood-stained in the back,--seemed to be soaked. "what's the matter with your shirt, it's soaked with blood?" some one asked. "then that durned daisy belle has been crawling in with me, that's all," he said. "blame his bleeding snoot. i'll punch it and give it something to bleed for." then mr. watson said, "daisy ain't been in all night. he took jesse's place when he went to town after supper." that started an inquiry and search which speedily showed that some one with a bleeding wound had gotten in with n'yawk. it also developed that mr. watson's splendid horse and saddle were gone, the rope that the horse had been picketed with lying just as it had been cut from his neck. now all was bustle and excitement. it was plainly evident that one of the outlaws had lain hidden on n'yawk's bed while the sheriff was there, and that afterwards he had saddled the horse and made his escape. his own horse was found in the willows, the saddle cut loose and the bridle off, but the poor, jaded thing had never moved. by sunup the search-party returned, all too worn-out with twenty-four hours in the saddle to continue the hunt. they were even too worn-out to eat, but flung themselves down for a few hours' rest. the chase was hopeless anyway, for the search-party had gone north in the night. the wounded outlaw had doubtless heard the sheriff talking and, the coast being clear to the southward, had got the fresh horse and was by that time probably safe in the heavy forests and mountains of utah. his getting in with n'yawk had been a daring ruse, but a successful one. where his partner was, no one could guess. but by that time all the camp excepting herman and mrs. louderer were so panicky that we couldn't have made a rational suggestion. n'yawk, white around his mouth, approached mrs. louderer. "i want to quit," he said. "well," she said, calmly sipping her coffee, "you haf done it." "i'm sick," he stammered. "i know you iss," she said, "i haf before now seen men get sick when they iss scared to death." "my old daddy--" he began. "yes, i know, he waded the creek vone time und you has had cold feet effer since." poor fellow, i felt sorry for him. i had cold feet myself just then, and i was powerfully anxious to warm them by my own fire where a pair of calm blue eyes would reassure me. i didn't get to see the branding that was to have taken place on the range that day. the boss insisted on taking the trail of his valued horse. he was very angry. he thought there was a traitor among the posse. who started the firing at the bridge no one knew, and watson said openly that it was done to get the sheriff away from camp. my own home looked mighty good to me when we drove up that evening. i don't want any more wild life on the range,--not for a while, anyway. your ex-washlady, elinore rupert stewart. xvii at gavotte's camp _november , ._ my dear friend,-- at last i can write you as i want to. i am afraid you think i am going to wait until the "bairns" are grown up before writing to my friends, but indeed i shall not. i fully intend to "gather roses while i may." since god has given me two blessings, children and friends, i shall enjoy them both as i go along. i must tell you why i have not written as i should have done. all summer long my eyes were so strained and painful that i had to let all reading and writing go. and i have suffered terribly with my back. but now i am able to be about again, do most of my own work, and my eyes are much better. so now i shall not treat you so badly again. if you could only know how kind every one is to me, you would know that even ill health has its compensations out here. dear mrs. louderer, with her goose-grease, her bread, and her delicious "kuchens." mrs. o'shaughnessy, with her cheery ways, her tireless friendship, and willing, capable hands. gavotte even, with his tidbits of game and fish. dear little cora belle came often to see me, sometimes bringing me a little of grandpa's latest cure, which i received on faith, for, of course, i could not really swallow any of it. zebbie's nephew, parker carter, came out, spent the summer with him, and they have now gone back to yell county, leaving gavotte in charge again. gavotte had a most interesting and prosperous summer. he was commissioned by a wealthy easterner to procure some fossils. i had had such a confined summer that clyde took me out to gavotte's camp as soon as i was able to sit up and be driven. we found him away over in the bad lands camped in a fine little grove. he is a charming man to visit at any time, and we found him in a particularly happy mood. he had just begun to quarry a gigantic find; he had piles of specimens; he had packed and shipped some rare specimens of fossil plants, but his "beeg find" came later and he was jubilant. to dig fossils successfully requires great care and knowledge, but it is a work in which gavotte excels. he is a splendid cook. i almost believe he could make a johnny reb like codfish, and that night we had a delicious supper and all the time listening to a learned discourse about prehistoric things. i enjoyed the meal and i enjoyed the talk, but i could not sleep peacefully for being chased in my dreams by pterodactyls, dinosaurs, and iguanodons, besides a great many horrible creatures whose names i have forgotten. of course, when the ground begins to freeze and snow comes, fossil-mining is done for until summer comes, so gavotte tends the critters and traps this winter. i shall not get to go to the mountains this winter. the babies are too small, but there is always some happy and interesting thing happening, and i shall have two pleasures each time, my own enjoyment, and getting to tell you of them. xviii the homesteader's marriage and a little funeral _december , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- every time i get a new letter from you i get a new inspiration, and i am always glad to hear from you. i have often wished i might tell you all about my clyde, but have not because of two things. one is i could not even begin without telling you what a good man he is, and i didn't want you to think i could do nothing but brag. the other reason is the haste i married in. i am ashamed of that. i am afraid you will think me a becky sharp of a person. but although i married in haste, i have no cause to repent. that is very fortunate because i have never had one bit of leisure to repent in. so i am lucky all around. the engagement was powerfully short because both agreed that the trend of events and ranch work seemed to require that we be married first and do our "sparking" afterward. you see, we had to chink in the wedding between times, that is, between planting the oats and other work that must be done early or not at all. in wyoming ranchers can scarcely take time even to be married in the springtime. that having been settled, the license was sent for by mail, and as soon as it came mr. stewart saddled chub and went down to the house of mr. pearson, the justice of the peace and a friend of long standing. i had never met any of the family and naturally rather dreaded to have them come, but mr. stewart was firm in wanting to be married at home, so he told mr. pearson he wanted him and his family to come up the following wednesday and serve papers on the "wooman i' the hoose." they were astonished, of course, but being such good friends they promised him all the assistance they could render. they are quite the dearest, most interesting family! i have since learned to love them as my own. well, there was no time to make wedding clothes, so i had to "do up" what i did have. isn't it queer how sometimes, do what you can, work will keep getting in the way until you can't get anything done? that is how it was with me those few days before the wedding; so much so that when wednesday dawned everything was topsy-turvy and i had a very strong desire to run away. but i always did hate a "piker," so i stood pat. well, i had most of the dinner cooked, but it kept me hustling to get the house into anything like decent order before the old dog barked, and i knew my moments of liberty were limited. it was blowing a perfect hurricane and snowing like midwinter. i had bought a beautiful pair of shoes to wear on that day, but my vanity had squeezed my feet a little, so while i was so busy at work i had kept on a worn old pair, intending to put on the new ones later; but when the pearsons drove up all i thought about was getting them into the house where there was fire, so i forgot all about the old shoes and the apron i wore. i had only been here six weeks then, and was a stranger. that is why i had no one to help me and was so confused and hurried. as soon as the newcomers were warm, mr. stewart told me i had better come over by him and stand up. it was a large room i had to cross, and how i did it before all those strange eyes i never knew. all i can remember very distinctly is hearing mr. stewart saying, "i will," and myself chiming in that i would, too. happening to glance down, i saw that i had forgotten to take off my apron or my old shoes, but just then mr. pearson pronounced us man and wife, and as i had dinner to serve right away i had no time to worry over my odd toilet. anyway the shoes were comfortable and the apron white, so i suppose it could have been worse; and i don't think it has ever made any difference with the pearsons, for i number them all among my most esteemed friends. it is customary here for newlyweds to give a dance and supper at the hall, but as i was a stranger i preferred not to, and so it was a long time before i became acquainted with all my neighbors. i had not thought i should ever marry again. jerrine was always such a dear little pal, and i wanted to just knock about foot-loose and free to see life as a gypsy sees it. i had planned to see the cliff-dwellers' home; to live right there until i caught the spirit of the surroundings enough to live over their lives in imagination anyway. i had planned to see the old missions and to go to alaska; to hunt in canada. i even dreamed of honolulu. life stretched out before me one long, happy jaunt. i aimed to see all the world i could, but to travel unknown bypaths to do it. but first i wanted to try homesteading. but for my having the grippe, i should never have come to wyoming. mrs. seroise, who was a nurse at the institution for nurses in denver while i was housekeeper there, had worked one summer at saratoga, wyoming. it was she who told me of the pine forests. i had never seen a pine until i came to colorado; so the idea of a home among the pines fascinated me. at that time i was hoping to pass the civil-service examination, with no very definite idea as to what i would do, but just to be improving my time and opportunity. i never went to a public school a day in my life. in my childhood days there was no such thing in the indian territory part of oklahoma where we lived, so i have had to try hard to keep learning. before the time came for the examination i was so discouraged because of the grippe that nothing but the mountains, the pines, and the clean, fresh air seemed worth while; so it all came about just as i have written you. so you see i was very deceitful. do you remember, i wrote you of a little baby boy dying? that was my own little jamie, our first little son. for a long time my heart was crushed. he was such a sweet, beautiful boy. i wanted him so much. he died of erysipelas. i held him in my arms till the last agony was over. then i dressed the beautiful little body for the grave. clyde is a carpenter; so i wanted him to make the little coffin. he did it every bit, and i lined and padded it, trimmed and covered it. not that we couldn't afford to buy one or that our neighbors were not all that was kind and willing; but because it was a sad pleasure to do everything for our little first-born ourselves. as there had been no physician to help, so there was no minister to comfort, and i could not bear to let our baby leave the world without leaving any message to a community that sadly needed it. his little message to us had been love, so i selected a chapter from john and we had a funeral service, at which all our neighbors for thirty miles around were present. so you see, our union is sealed by love and welded by a great sorrow. little jamie was the first little stewart. god has given me two more precious little sons. the old sorrow is not so keen now. i can bear to tell you about it, but i never could before. when you think of me, you must think of me as one who is truly happy. it is true, i want a great many things i haven't got, but i don't want them enough to be discontented and not enjoy the many blessings that are mine. i have my home among the blue mountains, my healthy, well-formed children, my clean, honest husband, my kind, gentle milk cows, my garden which i make myself. i have loads and loads of flowers which i tend myself. there are lots of chickens, turkeys, and pigs which are my own special care. i have some slow old gentle horses and an old wagon. i can load up the kiddies and go where i please any time. i have the best, kindest neighbors and i have my dear absent friends. do you wonder i am so happy? when i think of it all, i wonder how i can crowd all my joy into one short life. i don't want you to think for one moment that you are bothering me when i write you. it is a real pleasure to do so. you're always so good to let me tell you everything. i am only afraid of trying your patience too far. even in this long letter i can't tell you all i want to; so i shall write you again soon. jerrine will write too. just now she has very sore fingers. she has been picking gooseberries, and they have been pretty severe on her brown little paws. with much love to you, i am "honest and truly" yours, elinore rupert stewart. xix the adventure of the christmas tree _january , ._ my dear friend,-- i have put off writing you and thanking you for your thought for us until now so that i could tell you of our very happy christmas and our deer hunt all at once. to begin with, mr. stewart and junior have gone to boulder to spend the winter. clyde wanted his mother to have a chance to enjoy our boy, so, as he had to go, he took junior with him. then those of my dear neighbors nearest my heart decided to prevent a lonely christmas for me, so on december st came mrs. louderer, laden with an immense plum pudding and a big "_wurst_," and a little later came mrs. o'shaughnessy on her frisky pony, chief, her scarlet sweater making a bright bit of color against our snow-wrapped horizon. her face and ways are just as bright and cheery as can be. when she saw mrs. louderer's pudding and sausage she said she had brought nothing because she had come to get something to eat herself, "and," she continued, "it is a private opinion of mine that my neighbors are so glad to see me that they are glad to feed me." now wouldn't that little speech have made her welcome anywhere? well, we were hilariously planning what mrs. o'shaughnessy called a "widdy" christmas and getting supper, when a great stamping-off of snow proclaimed a newcomer. it was gavotte, and we were powerfully glad to see him because the hired man was going to a dance and we knew gavotte would contrive some unusual amusement. he had heard that clyde was going to have a deer-drive, and didn't know that he had gone, so he had come down to join the hunt just for the fun, and was very much disappointed to find there was going to be no hunt. after supper, however, his good humor returned and he told us story after story of big hunts he had had in canada. he worked up his own enthusiasm as well as ours, and at last proposed that we have a drive of our own for a christmas "joy." he said he would take a station and do the shooting if one of us would do the driving. so right now i reckon i had better tell you how it is done. there are many little parks in the mountains where the deer can feed, although now most places are so deep in snow that they can't walk in it. for that reason they have trails to water and to the different feeding-grounds, and they can't get through the snow except along these paths. you see how easy it would be for a man hidden on the trail to get one of the beautiful creatures if some one coming from another direction startled them so that they came along that particular path. so they made their plans. mrs. o'shaughnessy elected herself driver. two miles away is a huge mountain called phillipeco, and deer were said to be plentiful up there. at one time there had been a sawmill on the mountain, and there were a number of deserted cabins in which we could make ourselves comfortable. so it was planned that we go up the next morning, stay all night, have the hunt the following morning, and then come home with our game. well, we were all astir early the next morning and soon grain, bedding, and chuck-box were in the wagon. then mrs. louderer, the _kinder_, and myself piled in; mrs. o'shaughnessy bestrode chief, gavotte stalked on ahead to pick our way, and we were off. it was a long, tedious climb, and i wished over and over that i had stayed at home; but it was altogether on baby's account. i was so afraid that he would suffer, but he kept warm as toast. the day was beautiful, and the views many times repaid us for any hardship we had suffered. it was three o'clock before we reached the old mill camp. soon we had a roaring fire, and gavotte made the horses comfortable in one of the cabins. they were bedded in soft, dry sawdust, and were quite as well off as if they had been in their own stalls. then some rough planks were laid on blocks, and we had our first meal since breakfast. we called it supper, and we had potatoes roasted in the embers, mrs. louderer's _wurst_, which she had been calmly carrying around on her arm like a hoop and which was delicious with the bread that gavotte toasted on long sticks; we had steaming coffee, and we were all happy; even baby clapped his hands and crowed at the unusual sight of an open fire. after supper gavotte took a little stroll and returned with a couple of grouse for our breakfast. after dark we sat around the fire eating peanuts and listening to gavotte and mrs. louderer telling stories of their different great forests. but soon gavotte took his big sleeping-bag and retired to another cabin, warning us that we must be up early. our improvised beds were the most comfortable things; i love the flicker of an open fire, the smell of the pines, the pure, sweet air, and i went to sleep thinking how blest i was to be able to enjoy the things i love most. it seemed only a short time until some one knocked on our door and we were all wide awake in a minute. the fire had burned down and only a soft, indistinct glow from the embers lighted the room, while through a hole in the roof i could see a star glimmering frostily. it was gavotte at the door and he called through a crack saying he had been hearing queer noises for an hour and he was going to investigate. he had called us so that we need not be alarmed should we hear the noise and not find him. we scrambled into our clothes quickly and ran outdoors to listen. i can never describe to you the weird beauty of a moonlight night among the pines when the snow is sparkling and gleaming, the deep silence unbroken even by the snapping of a twig. we stood shivering and straining our ears and were about to go back to bed when we heard faintly a long-drawn wail as if all the suffering and sorrow on earth were bound up in that one sound. we couldn't tell which way it came from; it seemed to vibrate through the air and chill our hearts. i had heard that panthers cried that way, but gavotte said it was not a panther. he said the engine and saws had been moved from where we were to another spring across the cañon a mile away, where timber for sawing was more plentiful, but he supposed every one had left the mill when the water froze so they couldn't saw. he added that some one must have remained and was, perhaps, in need of help, and if we were not afraid he would leave us and go see what was wrong. we went in, made up the fire, and sat in silence, wondering what we should see or hear next. once or twice that agonized cry came shivering through the cold moonlight. after an age, we heard gavotte crunching through the snow, whistling cheerily to reassure us. he had crossed the cañon to the new mill camp, where he had found two women, loggers' wives, and some children. one of the women, he said, was "so ver' seek," 't was she who was wailing so, and it was the kind of "seek" where we could be of every help and comfort. mrs. louderer stayed and took care of the children while mrs. o'shaughnessy and i followed after gavotte, panting and stumbling, through the snow. gavotte said he suspected they were short of "needfuls," so he had filled his pockets with coffee and sugar, took in a bottle some of the milk i brought for baby, and his own flask of whiskey, without which he never travels. at last, after what seemed to me hours of scrambling through the snow, through deepest gloom where pines were thickest, and out again into patches of white moonlight, we reached the ugly clearing where the new camp stood. gavotte escorted us to the door and then returned to our camp. entering, we saw the poor, little soon-to-be mother huddled on her poor bed, while an older woman stood near warning her that the oil would soon be all gone and they would be in darkness. she told us that the sick one had been in pain all the day before and much of the night, and that she herself was worn completely out. so mrs. o'shaughnessy sent her to bed and we took charge. secretly, i felt it all to be a big nuisance to be dragged out from my warm, comfortable bed to traipse through the snow at that time of the night. but the moment poor little molly spoke i was glad i was living, because she was a poor little southern girl whose husband is a mormon. he had been sent on a mission to alabama, and the poor girl had fallen in love with his handsome face and knew nothing of mormonism, so she had run away with him. she thought it would be so grand to live in the glorious west with so splendid a man as she believed her husband to be. but now she believed she was going to die and she was glad of it because she could not return to her "folks," and she said she knew her husband was dead because he and the other woman's husband, both of whom had intended to stay there all winter and cut logs, had gone two weeks before to get their summer's wages and buy supplies. neither man had come back and there was not a horse or any other way to get out of the mountains to hunt them, so they believed the men to be frozen somewhere on the road. rather a dismal prospect, wasn't it? molly was just longing for some little familiar thing, so i was glad i have not yet gotten rid of my southern way of talking. no westerner can ever understand a southerner's need of sympathy, and, however kind their hearts, they are unable to give it. only a southerner can understand how dear are our peculiar words and phrases, and poor little molly took new courage when she found i knew what she meant when she said she was just "honin'" after a friendly voice. well, soon we had the water hot and had filled some bottles and placed them around our patient, and after a couple of hours the tiny little stranger came into the world. it had been necessary to have a great fire in order to have light, so as soon as we got baby dressed i opened the door a little to cool the room and molly saw the morning star twinkling merrily. "oh," she said, "that is what i will call my little girlie,--star, dear little star." it is strange, isn't it? how our spirits will revive after some great ordeal. molly had been sure she was going to die and saw nothing to live for; now that she had had a cup of hot milk and held her red little baby close, she was just as happy and hopeful as if she had never left her best friends and home to follow the uncertain fortunes of young will crosby. so she and i talked of ash-hoppers, smoke-houses, cotton-patches, goobers, poke-greens, and shoats, until she fell asleep. soon day was abroad, and so we went outdoors for a fresh breath. the other woman came out just then to ask after molly. she invited us into her cabin, and, oh, the little mormons were everywhere; poor, half-clad little things! some sour-dough biscuit and a can of condensed milk was everything they had to eat. the mother explained to us that their "men" had gone to get things for them, but had not come back, so she guessed they had got drunk and were likely in jail. she told it in a very unconcerned manner. poor thing! years of such experience had taught her that blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed. she said that if molly had not been sick she would have walked down out of the mountains and got help. just then two shots rang out in quick succession, and soon gavotte came staggering along with a deer across his shoulders. that he left for the family. from our camp he had brought some bacon and butter for molly, and, poor though it may seem, it was a treat for her. leaving the woman to dress the venison with her oldest boy's aid, we put out across the cañon for our own breakfast. beside our much-beaten trail hung the second venison, and when we reached our camp and had our own delicious breakfast of grouse, bread, butter, and coffee, gavotte took chub and went for our venison. in a short time we were rolling homeward. of course it didn't take us nearly so long to get home because it was downhill and the road was clearly marked, so in a couple of hours we were home. gavotte knew the two loggers were in green river and were then at work storing ice for the railroad, but he had not known that their wives were left as they were. the men actually had got drunk, lost their money, and were then trying to replace it. after we debated a bit we decided we could not enjoy christmas with those people in want up there in the cold. then we got busy. it is sixty miles to town, although our nearest point to the railroad is but forty, so you see it was impossible to get to town to get anything. you should have seen us! every old garment that had ever been left by men who have worked here was hauled out, and mrs. o'shaughnessy's deft fingers soon had a pile of garments cut. we kept the machine humming until far into the night, as long as we could keep our eyes open. all next day we sewed as hard as we could, and gavotte cooked as hard as he could. we had intended to have a tree for jerrine, so we had a box of candles and a box of christmas snow. gavotte asked for all the bright paper we could find. we had lots of it, and i think you would be surprised at the possibilities of a little waste paper. he made gorgeous birds, butterflies, and flowers out of paper that once wrapped parcels. then he asked us for some silk thread, but i had none, so he told us to comb our hair and give him the combings. we did, and with a drop of mucilage he would fasten a hair to a bird's back and then hold it up by the hair. at a few feet's distance it looked exactly as though the bird was flying. i was glad i had a big stone jar full of _fondant_, because we had a lot of fun shaping and coloring candies. we offered a prize for the best representation of a "nigger," and we had two dozen chocolate-covered things that might have been anything from a monkey to a mouse. mrs. louderer cut up her big plum pudding and put it into a dozen small bags. these gavotte carefully covered with green paper. then we tore up the holly wreath that aunt mary sent me, and put a sprig in the top of each green bag of pudding. i never had so much fun in my life as i had preparing for that christmas. at ten o'clock, the morning of the th, we were again on our way up the mountain-side. we took shovels so we could clear a road if need be. we had dinner at the old camp, and then gavotte hunted us a way out to the new, and we smuggled our things into molly's cabin so the children should have a real surprise. poor, hopeless little things! theirs was, indeed, a dull outlook. gavotte busied himself in preparing one of the empty cabins for us and in making the horses comfortable. he cut some pine boughs to do that with, and so they paid no attention when he cut a small tree. in the mean time we had cleared everything from molly's cabin but her bed; we wanted her to see the fun. the children were sent to the spring to water the horses and they were all allowed to ride, so that took them out of the way while gavotte nailed the tree into a box he had filled with dirt to hold it steady. there were four women of us, and gavotte, so it was only the work of a few moments to get the tree ready, and it was the most beautiful one i ever saw. your largest bell, dear mrs. coney, dangled from the topmost branch. gavotte had attached a long, stout wire to your santa claus, so he was able to make him dance frantically without seeming to do so. the hairs that held the birds and butterflies could not be seen, and the effect was beautiful. we had a bucket of apples rubbed bright, and these we fastened to the tree just as they grew on their own branches. the puddings looked pretty, too, and we had done up the parcels that held the clothes as attractively as we could. we saved the candy and the peanuts to put in their little stockings. as soon as it was dark we lighted the candles and then their mother called the children. oh, if you could have seen them! it was the very first christmas tree they had ever seen and they didn't know what to do. the very first present gavotte handed out was a pair of trousers for eight-years-old brig, but he just stood and stared at the tree until his brother next in size, with an eye to the main chance, got behind him and pushed him forward, all the time exclaiming, "go on, can't you! they ain't doin' nothin' to you, they's just doin' somethin' for you." still brig would not put out his hand. he just shook his tousled sandy head and said he wanted a bird. so the fun kept up for an hour. santa had for molly a package of oatmeal, a pound of butter, a mason jar of cream, and a dozen eggs, so that she could have suitable food to eat until something could be done. after the presents had all been distributed we put the phonograph on a box and had a dandy concert. we played "there were shepherds," "ave maria," and "sweet christmas bells." only we older people cared for those, so then we had "arrah wanna," "silver bells," "rainbow," "red wing," and such songs. how delighted they were! our concert lasted two hours, and by that time the little fellows were so sleepy that the excitement no longer affected them and they were put to bed, but they hung up their stockings first, and even molly hung hers up too. we filled them with peanuts and candy, putting the lion's share of "niggers" into molly's stocking. next morning the happiness broke out in new spots. the children were all clean and warm, though i am afraid i can't brag on the fit of all the clothes. but the pride of the wearers did away with the necessity of a fit. the mother was radiantly thankful for a warm petticoat; that it was made of a blanket too small for a bed didn't bother her, and the stripes were around the bottom anyway. molly openly rejoiced in her new gown, and that it was made of ugly gray outing flannel she didn't know nor care. baby star crosby looked perfectly sweet in her little new clothes, and her little gown had blue sleeves and they thought a white skirt only added to its beauty. and so it was about everything. we all got so much out of so little. i will never again allow even the smallest thing to go to waste. we were every one just as happy as we could be, almost as delighted as molly was over her "niggers," and there was very little given that had not been thrown away or was not just odds and ends. there was never anything more true than that it is more blessed to give than to receive. we certainly had a delicious dinner too, and we let molly have all she wanted that we dared allow her to eat. the roast venison was so good that we were tempted to let her taste it, but we thought better of that. as soon as dinner was over we packed our belongings and betook ourselves homeward. it was just dusk when we reached home. away off on a bare hill a wolf barked. a big owl hooted lonesomely among the pines, and soon a pack of yelping coyotes went scampering across the frozen waste. it was not the christmas i had in mind when i sent the card, but it was a _dandy_ one, just the same. with best wishes for you for a happy, _happy_ new year, sincerely your friend, elinore rupert stewart. xx the joys of homesteading _january , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- i am afraid all my friends think i am very forgetful and that you think i am ungrateful as well, but i am going to plead not guilty. right after christmas mr. stewart came down with _la grippe_ and was so miserable that it kept me busy trying to relieve him. out here where we can get no physician we have to dope ourselves, so that i had to be housekeeper, nurse, doctor, and general overseer. that explains my long silence. and now i want to thank you for your kind thought in prolonging our christmas. the magazines were much appreciated. they relieved some weary night-watches, and the box did jerrine more good than the medicine i was having to give her for _la grippe_. she was content to stay in bed and enjoy the contents of her box. when i read of the hard times among the denver poor, i feel like urging them every one to get out and file on land. i am very enthusiastic about women homesteading. it really requires less strength and labor to raise plenty to satisfy a large family than it does to go out to wash, with the added satisfaction of knowing that their job will not be lost to them if they care to keep it. even if improving the place does go slowly, it is that much done to stay done. whatever is raised is the homesteader's own, and there is no house-rent to pay. this year jerrine cut and dropped enough potatoes to raise a ton of fine potatoes. she wanted to try, so we let her, and you will remember that she is but six years old. we had a man to break the ground and cover the potatoes for her and the man irrigated them once. that was all that was done until digging time, when they were ploughed out and jerrine picked them up. any woman strong enough to go out by the day could have done every bit of the work and put in two or three times that much, and it would have been so much more pleasant than to work so hard in the city and then be on starvation rations in the winter. to me, homesteading is the solution of all poverty's problems, but i realize that temperament has much to do with success in any undertaking, and persons afraid of coyotes and work and loneliness had better let ranching alone. at the same time, any woman who can stand her own company, can see the beauty of the sunset, loves growing things, and is willing to put in as much time at careful labor as she does over the washtub, will certainly succeed; will have independence, plenty to eat all the time, and a home of her own in the end. experimenting need cost the homesteader no more than the work, because by applying to the department of agriculture at washington he can get enough of any seed and as many kinds as he wants to make a thorough trial, and it doesn't even cost postage. also one can always get bulletins from there and from the experiment station of one's own state concerning any problem or as many problems as may come up. i would not, for anything, allow mr. stewart to do anything toward improving my place, for i want the fun and the experience myself. and i want to be able to speak from experience when i tell others what they can do. theories are very beautiful, but facts are what must be had, and what i intend to give some time. here i am boring you to death with things that cannot interest you! you'd think i wanted you to homestead, wouldn't you? but i am only thinking of the troops of tired, worried women, sometimes even cold and hungry, scared to death of losing their places to work, who could have plenty to eat, who could have good fires by gathering the wood, and comfortable homes of their own, if they but had the courage and determination to get them. i must stop right now before you get so tired you will not answer. with much love to you from jerrine and myself, i am yours affectionately, elinore rupert stewart. xxi a letter of jerrine's _february , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- i think you will excuse my mama for not writing to thank you for black beauty when i tell you why. i wanted to thank you myself, and i wanted to hear it read first so i could very trully thank. mama always said horses do not talk, but now she knows they do since she read the dear little book. i have known it along time. my own pony told me the story is very true. many times i have see men treat horses very badly, but our clyde dont, and wont let a workman stay if he hurts stock. i am very glad. mr edding came past one day with a load of hay. he had too much load to pull up hill and there was much ice and snow but he think he can make them go up so he fighted and sweared but they could not get up. mama tried to lend him some horse to help but he was angry and was termined to make his own pull it but at last he had to take off some hay i wish he may read my black beauty. our clyde is still away. we were going to visit stella. mama was driving, the horses raned away. we goed very fast as the wind. i almost fall out mama hanged on to the lines. if she let go we may all be kill. at last she raned them into a fence. they stop and a man ran to help so we are well but mama hands and arms are still so sore she cant write you yet. my brother calvin is very sweet. god had to give him to us because he squealed so much he sturbed the angels. we are not angels so he dont sturb us. i thank you for my good little book. and i love you for it too. very speakfully, jerrine rupert. xxii the efficient mrs. o'shaughnessy _may , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- your letter of april certainly was a surprise, but a very welcome one. we are so rushed with spring work that we don't even go to the office for the mail, and i owe you letters and thanks. i keep promising myself the pleasure of writing you and keep putting it off until i can have more leisure, but that time never gets here. i am so glad when i can bring a little of this big, clean, beautiful outdoors into your apartment for you to enjoy, and i can think of nothing that would give me more happiness than to bring the west and its people to others who could not otherwise enjoy them. if i could only take them from whatever is worrying them and give them this bracing mountain air, glimpses of the scenery, a smell of the pines and the sage,--if i could only make them feel the free, ready sympathy and hospitality of these frontier people, i am sure their worries would diminish and my happiness would be complete. little star crosby is growing to be the sweetest little kid. her mother tells me that she is going "back yan" when she gets a "little mo' richer." i am afraid you give me too much credit for being of help to poor little molly. it wasn't that i am so helpful, but that "fools rush in where angels fear to tread." it was mrs. o'shaughnessy who was the real help. she is a woman of great courage and decision and of splendid sense and judgment. a few days ago a man she had working for her got his finger-nail mashed off and neglected to care for it. mrs. o'shaughnessy examined it and found that gangrene had set in. she didn't tell him, but made various preparations and then told him she had heard that if there was danger of blood-poisoning it would show if the finger was placed on wood and the patient looked toward the sun. she said the person who looked at the finger could then see if there was any poison. so the man placed his finger on the chopping-block and before he could bat his eye she had chopped off the black, swollen finger. it was so sudden and unexpected that there seemed to be no pain. then mrs. o'shaughnessy showed him the green streak already starting up his arm. the man seemed dazed and she was afraid of shock, so she gave him a dose of morphine and whiskey. then with a quick stroke of a razor she laid open the green streak and immersed the whole arm in a strong solution of bichloride of mercury for twenty minutes. she then dressed the wound with absorbent cotton saturated with olive oil and carbolic acid, bundled her patient into a buggy, and drove forty-five miles that night to get him to a doctor. the doctor told us that only her quick action and knowledge of what to do saved the man's life. i was surprised that you have had a letter from jerrine. i knew she was writing to you that day, but i was feeling very stiff and sore from the runaway and had lain down. she kept asking me how to spell words until i told her i was too tired and wanted to sleep. while i was asleep the man came for the mail, so she sent her letter. i have your address on the back of the writing-pad, so she knew she had it right, but i suspect that was all she had right. she has written you many letters but i have never allowed her to send them because she misspells, but that time she stole a march on me. the books you sent her, "black beauty" and "alice in wonderland," have given her more pleasure than anything she has ever had. she just loves them and is saving them, she says, for her own little girls. she is very confident that the stork will one day visit her and leave her a "very many" little girls. they are to be of assorted sizes. she says she can't see why i order all my babies little and red and squally,--says she thinks god had just as soon let me have larger ones, especially as i get so many from him. one day before long i will get busy and write you of a visit i shall make to a mormon bishop's household. polygamy is still practiced. very truly your friend, elinore rupert stewart. xxiii how it happened _june , ._ dear mrs. coney,-- your letter of the th to hand, and in order to catch you before you leave i'll answer at once and not wait for time. i always think i shall do better with more time, but with three "bairns," garden, chickens, cows, and housework i don't seem to find much time for anything. now for the first question. my maiden name was pruitt, so when i am putting on airs i sign elinore pruitt stewart. i don't think i have ever written anything that clyde would object to, so he can still stay on the pedestal scotch custom puts him upon and remain "the stewart." indeed, i don't think you are too inquisitive, and i am glad to tell you how i happened to meet the "gude mon." it all happened because i had a stitch in my side. when i was housekeeper at the nursery, i also had to attend to the furnace, and, strange but true, the furnace was built across the large basement from where the coal was thrown in, so i had to tote the coal over, and my _modus operandi_ was to fill a tub with coal and then drag it across to the hungry furnace. well, one day i felt the catch and got no better fast. after dr. f---- punched and prodded, she said, "why, you have the grippe." rev. father corrigan had been preparing me to take the civil-service examination, and that afternoon a lesson was due, so i went over to let him see how little i knew. i was in pain and was so blue that i could hardly speak without weeping, so i told the reverend father how tired i was of the rattle and bang, of the glare and the soot, the smells and the hurry. i told him what i longed for was the sweet, free open, and that i would like to homestead. that was saturday evening. he advised me to go straight uptown and put an "ad" in the paper, so as to get it into the sunday paper. i did so, and because i wanted as much rest and quiet as possible i took jerrine and went uptown and got a nice quiet room. on the following wednesday i received a letter from clyde, who was in boulder visiting his mother. he was leaving for wyoming the following saturday and wanted an interview, if his proposition suited me. i was so glad of his offer, but at the same time i couldn't know what kind of person he was; so, to lessen any risk, i asked him to come to the sunshine mission, where miss ryan was going to help me "size him up." he didn't know that part of it, of course, but he stood inspection admirably. i was under the impression he had a son, but he hadn't, and he and his mother were the very last of their race. i am as proud and happy to-day as i was the day i became his wife. i wish you knew him, but i suspect i had better not brag too much, lest you think me not quite sincere. he expected to visit you while he was in boulder. he went to the stock show, but was with a party, so he planned to go again. but before he could, the man he left here, and whom i dismissed for drunkenness, went to boulder and told him i was alone, so the foolish thing hurried home to keep me from too hard work. so that is why he was disappointed. junior can talk quite well, and even calvin jabbers. the children are all well, and jerrine writes a little every day to you. i have been preparing a set of indoor outings for invalids. your telling me your invalid friends enjoyed the letters suggested the idea. i thought to write of little outings i take might amuse them, but wanted to write just as i took the little trips, while the impressions were fresh; that is why i have not sent them before now. is it too late? shall i send them to you? now this is really not a letter; it is just a reply. i must say good-night; it is twelve o'clock, and i am so sleepy. i do hope you will have a very happy summer, and that you will share your happiness with me in occasional letters. with much love, elinore stewart. in writing i forgot to say that the reverend father thought it a good plan to get a position as housekeeper for some rancher who would advise me about land and water rights. by keeping house, he pointed out, i could have a home and a living and at the same time see what kind of a homestead i could get. xxiv a little romance _october , ._ my dear friend,-- i have had such a happy little peep into another's romance that i think i should be cheating you if i didn't tell you. help in this country is extremely hard to get; so when i received a letter from one aurelia timmons, saying she wanted a job,--three dollars a week and _not_ to be called "relie,"--my joy could hardly be described. i could hardly wait until morning to start for bridger bench, where aurelia held forth. i was up before the lark next morning. it is more miles to the bridger bench country than the "gude mon" wants his horses driven in a day; so permission was only given after i promised to curb my impatience and stay overnight with mrs. louderer. under ordinary circumstances that would have been a pleasure, but i knew at least a dozen women who would any of them seize on to aurelia and wrest her from me, so it was only after it seemed i would not get to go at all that i promised. at length the wagon was greased, some oats put in, a substantial lunch and the kiddies loaded in, and i started on my way. perhaps it was the prospect of getting help that gilded everything with a new beauty. the great mountains were so majestic, and the day so young that i knew the night wind was still murmuring among the pines far up on the mountain-sides. the larks were trying to outdo each other and the robins were so saucy that i could almost have flicked them with the willow i was using as a whip. the rabbit-bush made golden patches everywhere, while purple asters and great pink thistles lent their charm. going in that direction, our way lay between a mountain stream and the foothills. there are many ranches along the stream, and as we were out so early, we could see the blue smoke curling from each house we passed. we knew that venison steak, hot biscuit, and odorous coffee would soon grace their tables. we had not had the venison, for the "gude mon" holds to the letter of the law which protects deer here, but we begrudged no one anything; we were having exactly what we wanted. we jogged along happily, if slowly, for i must explain to you that chub is quite the laziest horse in the state, and bill, his partner, is so old he stands like a bulldog. he is splay-footed and sway-backed, but he is a beloved member of our family, so i vented my spite on chub, and the willow descended periodically across his black back, i guess as much from force of habit as anything else. but his hide is thick and his memory short, so we broke no record that day. we drove on through the fresh beauty of the morning, and when the sun was straight overhead we came to the last good water we could expect before we reached mrs. louderer's; so we stopped for lunch. in wyoming quantity has a great deal more to do with satisfaction than does quality; after half a day's drive you won't care so much what it is you're going to eat as you will that there is enough of it. that is a lesson i learned long ago; so our picnic was real. there were no ants in the pie, but that is accounted for by there being no pie. our road had crossed the creek, and we were resting in the shade of a quaking-asp grove, high up on the sides of the bad land hills. for miles far below lay the valley through which we had come. farther on, the mountains with their dense forests were all wrapped in the blue haze of the melancholy days. soon we quitted our enchanted grove whose quivering, golden leaves kept whispering secrets to us. about three o'clock we came down out of the hills on to the bench on which the louderer ranch is situated. perhaps i should explain that this country is a series of huge terraces, each terrace called a bench. i had just turned into the lane that leads to the house when a horseman came cantering toward me. "hello!" he saluted, as he drew up beside the wagon. "goin' up to the house? better not. mrs. louderer is not at home, and there's no one there but greasy pete. he's on a tear; been drunk two days, i'm tellin' you. he's _full_ of mischief. 't ain't safe around old greasy. i advise you to go some'eres else." "well," i asked, "where _can_ i go?" "danged if i know," he replied, "'lessen it 's to kate higbee's. she lives about six or seven miles west. she ain't been here long, but i guess you can't miss her place. just jog along due west till you get to red gulch ravine, then turn north for a couple of miles. you'll see her cabin up against a cedar ridge. well, so 'long!" he dug his spurs into his cayuse's side and rode on. tears of vexation so blinded me that i could scarcely see to turn the team, but ominous sounds and wild yells kept coming from the house, so i made what haste i could to get away from such an unpleasant neighborhood. soon my spirits began to rise. kate higbee, i reflected, was likely to prove to be an interesting person. all westerners are likable, with the possible exception of greasy pete. i rather looked forward to my visit. but my guide had failed to mention the buttes; so, although i jogged as west as i knew how, i found i had to wind around a butte about ever so often. i crossed a ravine with equal frequency, and all looked alike. it is not surprising that soon i could not guess where i was. we could turn back and retrace our tracks, but actual danger lay there; so it seemed wiser to push on, as there was, perhaps, no greater danger than discomfort ahead. the sun hung like a big red ball ready to drop into the hazy distance when we came clear of the buttes and down on to a broad plateau, on which grass grew plentifully. that encouraged me because the horses need not suffer, and if i could make the scanty remnant of our lunch do for the children's supper and breakfast, we could camp in comfort, for we had blankets. but we must find water. i stood up in the wagon and, shading my eyes against the sun's level light, was looking out in the most promising directions when i noticed that the plateau's farther side was bounded by a cedar ridge, and, better yet, a smoke was slowly rising, column-like, against the dun prospect. that, i reasoned, must be my destination. even the horses livened their paces, and in a little while we were there. but no house greeted our eyes,--just a big camp-fire. a lean old man sat on a log-end and surveyed us indifferently. on the ground lay a large canvas-covered pack, apparently unopened. an old saddle lay up against a cedar-trunk. two old horses grazed near. i was powerfully disappointed. you know misery loves company; so i ventured to say, "good-evening." he didn't stir, but he grunted, "hello." i knew then that he was not a fossil, and hope began to stir in my heart. soon he asked, "are you goin' somewheres or jist travelin'?" i told him i had started somewhere, but reckoned i must be traveling, as i had not gotten there. then he said, "my name is hiram k. hull. whose woman are you?" i confessed to belonging to the house of stewart. "which stewart?" he persisted,--"c.r., s.w., or h.c.?" again i owned up truthfully. "well," he continued, "what does he mean by letting you gad about in such onconsequential style?" _sometimes_ a woman gets too angry to talk. don't you believe that? no? well, they do, i assure you, for i was then. he seemed grown to the log. as he had made no move to help me, without answering him i clambered out of the wagon and began to take the horses loose. "ho!" he said; "are you goin' to camp here?" "yes, i am," i snapped. "have you any objections?" "oh, no, none that won't keep," he assured me. it has always been a theory of mine that when we become sorry for ourselves we make our misfortunes harder to bear, because we lose courage and can't think without bias; so i cast about me for something to be glad about, and the comfort that at least we were safer with a simpleton than near a drunken mexican came to me; so i began to view the situation with a little more tolerance. after attending to the horses i began to make the children comfortable. my unwilling host sat silently on his log, drawing long and hard at his stubby old pipe. how very little there was left of our lunch! just for meanness i asked him to share with us, and, if you'll believe me, he did. he gravely ate bread-rims and scraps of meat until there was not one bit left for even the baby's breakfast. then he drew the back of his hand across his mouth and remarked, "i should think when you go off on a ja'nt like this you'd have a well-filled mess-box." again speech failed me. among some dwarf willows not far away a spring bubbled. i took the kiddies there to prepare them for rest. when i returned to the fire, what a transformation! the pack was unrolled and blankets were spread, the fire had been drawn aside, disclosing a bean-hole, out of which hiram k. was lifting an oven. he took off the lid. two of the plumpest, brownest ducks that ever tempted any one were fairly swimming in gravy. two loaves of what he called punk, with a box of crackers, lay on a newspaper. he mimicked me exactly when he asked me to take supper with him, and i tried hard to imitate him in promptitude when i accepted. the babies had some of the crackers wet with hot water and a little of the gravy. we soon had the rest looking scarce. the big white stars were beginning to twinkle before we were through, but the camp-fire was bright, and we all felt better-natured. men are not alone in having a way to their heart through their stomach. i made our bed beneath the wagon, and hiram k. fixed his canvas around, so we should be sheltered. i felt so much better and thought so much better of him that i could laugh and chat gayly. "now, tell me," he asked, as he fastened the canvas to a wheel, "didn't you think i was an old devil at first?" "yes, i did," i answered. "well," he said, "i am; so you guessed right." after i put the children to bed, we sat by the fire and talked awhile. i told him how i happened to be gadding about in "such onconsequential" style, and he told me stories of when the country was new and fit to live in. "why," he said, in a burst of enthusiasm, "time was once when you went to bed you were not sure whether you'd get up alive and with your scalp on or not, the injins were that thick. and then there was white men a durned sight worse; they were likely to plug you full of lead just to see you kick. but now," he continued mournfully, "a bear or an antelope, maybe an elk, is about all the excitement we can expect. them good old days are gone." i am mighty glad of it; a drunken pete is bad enough for me. i was tired, so soon i went to bed. i could hear him as he cut cedar boughs for his own fireside bed, and as he rattled around among his pots and pans. did you ever eat pork and beans heated in a frying-pan on a camp-fire for breakfast? then if you have not, there is one delight left you. but you must be away out in wyoming, with the morning sun just gilding the distant peaks, and your pork and beans must be out of a can, heated in a disreputable old frying-pan, served with coffee _boiled_ in a battered old pail and drunk from a tomato-can. you'll _never_ want iced melons, powdered sugar, and fruit, or sixty-nine varieties of breakfast food, if once you sit trilby-wise on wyoming sand and eat the kind of breakfast we had that day. after breakfast hiram k. hull hitched our horses to the wagon, got his own horses ready, and then said, "'t ain't more 'n half a mile straight out between them two hills to the stage-road, but i guess i had better go and show you exactly, or you will be millin' around here all day, tryin' to find it." in a very few minutes we were on the road, and our odd host turned to go. "s'long!" he called. "tell stewart you seen old hikum. him and me's shared tarps many's the nights. we used to be punchers together,--old clyde and me. tell him old hikum ain't forgot him." so saying, he rode away into the golden morning, and we drove onward, too. we stopped for lunch only a few minutes that day, and we reached the bridger community about two that afternoon. the much sought aurelia had accepted the position of lifetime housekeeper for a sheep-herder who had no house to keep, so i had to cast about for whatever comfort i could. the roadhouse is presided over by a very able body of the clan of ferguson. i had never met her, but formalities count for very little in the west. she was in her kitchen, having more trouble, she said, than a hen whose ducklings were in swimming. i asked her if she could accommodate the children and myself. "yes," she said, "i can give you a bed and grub, but i ain't got no time to ask you nothing. i ain't got no time to inquire who you are nor where you come from. there's one room left. you can have that, but you'll have to look out for yourself and young 'uns." i felt equal to that; so i went out to have the horses cared for and to unload the kiddies. leaning against the wagon was a man who made annual rounds of all the homes in our community each summer; his sole object was to see what kind of flowers we succeeded with. every woman in our neighborhood knows bishey bennet, but i don't think many would have recognized him that afternoon. i had never seen him dressed in anything but blue denim overalls and overshirt to match, but to-day he proudly displayed what he said was his dove-colored suit. the style must have been one of years ago, for i cannot remember seeing trousers quite so skimpy. he wore top-boots, but as a concession to fashion he wore the boot-tops under the trouser-legs, and as the trousers were about as narrow as a sheath skirt, they kept slipping up and gave the appearance of being at least six inches too short. although bishey is tall and thin, his coat was two sizes too small, his shirt was of soft tan material, and he wore a blue tie. but whatever may have been amiss with his costume was easily forgotten when one saw his radiant face. he grasped my hand and wrung it as if it was a chicken's neck. "what in the world is the matter with you?" i asked, as i rubbed my abused paw. "just you come here and i'll tell you," he answered. there was no one to hear but the kiddies, but i went around the corner of the house with him. he put his hand up to his mouth and whispered that "miss em'ly" was coming, would be there on the afternoon stage. i had never heard of "miss em'ly," and said so. "well, just you go in and set on the sofy and soon's i see your horses took care of i'll come in and tell you." i went into my own room, and after i rustled some water i made myself and the kiddies a little more presentable. then we went into the sitting-room and sat on the "sofy." presently bishey sauntered in, trying to look unconcerned and at ease, but he was so fidgety he couldn't sit down. but he told his story, and a dear one it is. it seems that back in new york state he and miss em'ly were "young uns" together. when they were older they planned to marry, but neither wanted to settle down to the humdrumness that they had always known. both dreamed of the golden west; so bishey had gone to blaze the trail, and "miss em'ly" was to follow. first one duty and then another had held her, until twenty-five years had slipped by and they had not seen each other, but now she was coming, that very day. they would be married that evening, and i at once appointed myself matron of honor and was plumb glad there was no other candidate. i at once took the decorations in hand. bishey, jerrine, and myself went out and gathered armfuls of asters and goldenrod-like rabbit-brush. from the dump-pile we sorted cans and pails that would hold water, and we made the sitting-room a perfect bower of purple and gold beauty. i put on my last clean shirt-waist and the children's last clean dresses. then, as there seemed nothing more to do, bishey suggested that we walk up the road and meet the stage; but the day had been warm, and i remembered my own appearance when i had come over that same road the first time. i knew that journey was trying on any one's appearance at any time of the year, and after twenty-five years to be thrust into view covered with alkali dust and with one's hat on awry would be too much for feminine patience; so i pointed out to bishey that he'd better clear out and let miss em'ly rest a bit before he showed up. at last he reluctantly agreed. i went out to the kitchen to find what could be expected in the way of hot water for miss em'ly when she should come. i found i could have all i wanted if i heated it myself. mrs. ferguson could not be bothered about it, because a water company had met there to vote on new canals, the sheep-men were holding a convention, there was a more than usual run of transients besides the regular boarders, and supper was ordered for the whole push. all the help she had was a girl she just knew didn't have sense enough to pound sand into a rat-hole. under those circumstances i was mighty glad to help. i put water on to heat and then forgot miss em'ly, i was enjoying helping so much, until i heard a door slam and saw the stage drive away toward the barn. i hastened to the room i knew was reserved for miss em'ly. i rapped on the door, but it was only opened a tiny crack. i whispered through that i was a neighbor-friend of mr. bennet's, that i had lots of hot water for her and had come to help her if i might. then she opened the door, and i entered. i found a very travel-stained little woman, down whose dust-covered cheeks tears had left their sign. her prettiness was the kind that wins at once and keeps you ever after. she was a strange mixture of stiff reticence and childish trust. she was in _such_ a flutter, and she said she was ashamed to own it, but she was so hungry she could hardly wait. after helping her all i could, i ran out to see about the wedding supper that was to be served before the wedding. i found that no special supper had been prepared. it seemed to me a shame to thrust them down among the water company, the convention, the regulars, and the transients, and i mentally invited myself to the wedding supper and began to plan how we could have a little privacy. the carpenters were at work on a long room off the kitchen that was to be used as storeroom and pantry. they had gone for the day, and their saw-horses and benches were still in the room. it was only the work of a moment to sweep the sawdust away. there was only one window, but it was large and in the west. it took a little time to wash that, but it paid to do it. when a few asters and sprays of rabbit-brush were placed in a broken jar on the window-sill, there was a picture worth seeing. some planks were laid on the saw-horses, some papers over them, and a clean white cloth over all. i sorted the dishes myself; the prettiest the house afforded graced our table. i rubbed the glassware until it shone almost as bright as bishey's smile. bishey had come when he could stay away no longer; he and miss em'ly had had their first little talk, so they came out to where i was laying the table. they were both beaming. miss em'ly took hold at once to help. "bishey," she commanded, "do you go at once to where my boxes are open, the one marked ; bring me a blue jar you'll find in one corner." he went to do her bidding, and i to see about the kiddies. when i came back with them, there was a small willow basket in the center of our improvised table, heaped high with pears, apples, and grapes all a little the worse for their long journey from new york state to wyoming, but still things of beauty and a joy as long as they lasted to wyoming eyes and appetites. we had a perfectly roasted leg of lamb; we had mint sauce, a pyramid of flaky mashed potatoes, a big dish of new peas, a plate of sponge-cake i will be long in forgetting; and the blue jar was full of grape marmalade. our iced tea was exactly right; the pieces of ice clinked pleasantly against our glasses. we took our time, and we were all happy. we could all see the beautiful sunset, its last rays lingering on miss em'ly's abundant auburn hair to make happy the bride the sun shines on. we saw the wonderful colors--orange, rose, and violet--creep up and fade into darker shades, until at last mellow dusk filled the room. then i took the kiddies to my room to be put to bed while i should wait until time for the ceremony. soon the babies were sleeping, and jerrine and i went into the sitting-room. they were sitting on the "sofy." she was telling him that the apples had come from the tree they had played under, the pears from the tree they had set out, the grapes from the vine over the well. she told him of things packed in her boxes, everything a part of the past they both knew. he in turn told her of his struggles, his successes, and some of what he called his failures. she was a most encouraging little person, and she'd say to him, "you did well, bishey. i'll say _that_ for you: you did well!" then he told her about the flowers he had planted for her. i understood then why he acted so queerly about my flowers. it happens that i am partial to old-time favorites, and i grow as many of them as i can get to succeed in this altitude; so i have zinnias, marigolds, hollyhocks, and many other dear old flowers that my mother loved. many of them had been the favorites of miss em'ly's childhood, but bishey hadn't remembered the names; so he had visited us all, and when he found a flower he remembered, he asked the name and how we grew it, then he tried it, until at last he had about all. miss em'ly wiped the tears from her eyes as she remarked, "bishey, you did well; yes, you did _real_ well." i thought to myself how well we could _all_ do if we were so encouraged. at last the white-haired old justice of the peace came, and said the words that made emily wheeler the wife of abisha bennet. a powerfully noisy but truly friendly crowd wished them well. one polite fellow asked her where she was from. she told him from new york _state_. "why," he asked, "do new yorkers always say _state_?" "why, because," she answered,--and her eyes were big with surprise,--"_no_ one would want to say they were from new york _city_." it had been a trying day for us, so soon jerrine and i slipped out to our room. ours was the first room off the sitting-room, and a long hallway led past our door; a bench sat against the wall, and it seemed a favorite roosting-place for people with long discussions. first some fellows were discussing the wedding. one thought bishey "cracked" because he had shipped out an old cooking-stove, one of the first manufactured, all the way from where he came from, instead of buying a new one nearer home. they recalled instance after instance in which he had acted queerly, but to me his behavior was no longer a mystery. i know the stove belonged somewhere in the past and that his every act connected past and future. after they had talked themselves tired, two old fellows took possession of the bench and added a long discussion on how to grow corn to the general din. even sweet corn cannot be successfully grown at this altitude, yet those old men argued pro and con till i know their throats must have ached. in the sitting-room they all talked at once of ditches, water-contracts, and sheep. i was _so_ sleepy. i heard a tired clock away off somewhere strike two. some sheep-men had the bench and were discussing the relative values of different dips. i reckon my ego must have gotten tangled with some one's else about then, for i found myself sitting up in bed foolishly saying,-- "two old herders, unshaved and hairy, whose old tongues are _never_ weary, just outside my chamber-door prate of sheep dips for _ever_ more." next morning it was bishey's cheerful voice that started my day. i had hoped to be up in time to see them off, but i wasn't. i heard him call out to mrs. bishey, "miss em'ly, i've got the boxes all loaded. we can start _home_ in ten minutes." i heard her clear voice reply, "you've done well, bishey. i'll be ready by then." i was hurriedly dressing, hoping yet to see her, when i heard bishey call out to bluff old colonel winters, who had arrived in the night and had not known of the wedding, "hello! winters, have you met miss em'ly? come over here and meet her. i'm a married man now. i married miss em'ly last night." the colonel couldn't have known how apt was his reply when he said, "i'm glad for you, bishey. you've done well." i peeked between the curtains, and saw bishey's wagon piled high with boxes, with miss em'ly, self-possessed and happy, greeting the colonel. soon i heard the rattle of wheels, and the dear old happy pair were on their way to the cabin home they had waited twenty-five years for. bless the kind old hearts of them! i'm sure they've both "done well." xxv among the mormons _november, ._ my dear friend,-- i have wanted to write you for a long time, but have been so busy. i have had some visitors and have been on a visit; i think you would like to hear about it all, so i will tell you. i don't think you would have admired my appearance the morning this adventure began: i was in the midst of fall house-cleaning which included some papering. i am no expert at the very best, and papering a wall has difficulties peculiar to itself. i was up on a barrel trying to get a long, sloppy strip of paper to stick to the ceiling instead of to me, when in my visitors trooped, and so surprised me that i stepped off the barrel and into a candy-bucket of paste. at the same time the paper came off the ceiling and fell over mine and mrs. louderer's head. it was right aggravating, i can tell you, but my visitors were mrs. o'shaughnessy and mrs. louderer, and no one could stay discouraged with that pair around. after we had scraped as much paste as we could off ourselves they explained that they had come to take me somewhere. that sounded good to me, but i could not see how i could get off. however, mrs. louderer said she had come to keep house and to take care of the children while i should go with mrs. o'shaughnessy to e----. we should have two days' travel by sled and a few hours on a train, then another journey by sled. i wanted to go powerfully, but the paste-smeared room seemed to forbid. as mrs. louderer would stay with the children, mr. stewart thought the trip would be good for me. mrs. o'shaughnessy knew i wanted to visit bishop d----, a shining light among the latter-day saints, so she promised we should stay overnight at his house. that settled it; so in the cold, blue light of the early morning, mr. beeler, a new neighbor, had driven my friends over in mrs. louderer's big sled, to which was hitched a pair of her great horses and his own team. he is a widower and was going out to the road for supplies, so it seemed a splendid time to make my long-planned visit to the bishop. deep snow came earlier this year than usual, and the sledding and weather both promised to be good. it was with many happy anticipations that i snuggled down among the blankets and bearskins that morning. mr. beeler is pleasant company, and mrs. o'shaughnessy is so jolly and bright, and i could leave home without a single misgiving with mrs. louderer in charge. the evening sky was blazing crimson and gold, and the mountains behind us were growing purple when we entered the little settlement where the bishop lives. we drove briskly through the scattered, straggling little village, past the store and the meeting-house, and drew up before the dwelling of the bishop. the houses of the village were for the most part small cabins of two or three rooms, but the bishop's was more pretentious. it was a frame building and boasted paint and shutters. a tithing-office stood near, and back of the house we could see a large granary and long stacks of hay. a bunch of cattle was destroying one stack, and mrs. o'shaughnessy remarked that the tallow from those cattle should be used when the olive oil gave out at their anointings, because it was the bishop's cattle eating consecrated hay. we knocked on the door, but got no answer. mr. beeler went around to the back, but no one answered, so we concluded we would have to try elsewhere for shelter. mrs. o'shaughnessy comforted me by remarking, "well, there ain't a penny's worth of difference in a mormon bishop and any other mormon, and d---- is not the only polygamist by a long shot." we had just turned out of the gate when a lanky, tow-headed boy about fourteen years of age rode up. we explained our presence there, and the boy explained to us that the bishop and aunt debbie were away. the next best house up the road was his "maw's," he said; so, as mr. beeler expected to stay with a friend of his, mrs. o'shaughnessy and i determined to see if "maw" could accommodate us for the night. mr. beeler offered to help the boy get the cattle out, but he said, "no, paw said it would not matter if they got into the hay, but that he had to knock off some poles on another part of the stockyard so that some horses could get in to eat." "but," i asked, "isn't that consecrated hay?--isn't it tithing?" "yes," he said, "but that won't hurt a bit, only that old john ladd always pays his tithe with foxtail hay and it almost ruins paw's horses' mouths." i asked him if his father's stock was supposed to get the hay. "no, i guess not," he said, "but they are always getting in accidental like." we left him to fix the fence so the horses could get in "accidental like," and drove the short distance to "the next best house." we were met at the door by a pleasant-faced little woman who hurried us to the fire. we told her our plight. "why, certainly you must stay with me," she said. "i am glad the bishop and deb are away. they keep all the company, and i so seldom have any one come; you see debbie has no children and can do so much better for any one stopping there than i can, but i like company, too, and i am glad of a chance to keep you. you two can have maudie's bed. maud is my oldest girl and she has gone to ogden to visit, so we have plenty of room." by now it was quite dark. she lighted a lamp and bustled about, preparing supper. we sat by the stove and, as mrs. o'shaughnessy said, "noticed." two little boys were getting in wood for the night. they appeared to be about eight years old; they were twins and were the youngest of the family. two girls, about ten and twelve years old, were assisting our hostess; then the boy orson, whom we met at the gate, and maud, the daughter who was away, made up the family. they seemed a happy, contented family, if one judged by appearance alone. after supper the children gathered around the table to prepare next day's lessons. they were bright little folks, but they mingled a great deal of talk with their studies and some of what they talked was family history. "mamma," said kittie, the largest of the little girls, "if aunt deb does buy a new coat and you get her old one, then can i have yours?" "i don't know," her mother replied; "i should have to make it over if you did take it. maybe we can have a new one." "no, we can't have a new one, i know, for aunt deb said so, but she is going to give me her brown dress and you her gray one; she said so the day i helped her iron. we'll have those to make over." for the first time i noticed the discontented lines on our hostess's face, and it suddenly occurred to me that we were in the house of the bishop's second wife. before i knew i was coming on this journey i thought of a dozen questions i wanted to ask the bishop, but i could never ask that care-worn little woman anything concerning their peculiar belief. however, i was spared the trouble, for soon the children retired and the conversation drifted around to mormonism and polygamy; and our hostess seemed to want to talk, so i just listened, for mrs. o'shaughnessy rather likes to "argufy"; but she had no argument that night, only her questions started our hostess's story. she had been married to the bishop not long before the manifesto, and he had been married several years then to debbie. but debbie had no children, and all the money the bishop had to start with had been his first wife's; so when it became necessary for him to discard a wife it was a pretty hard question for him because a little child was coming to the second wife and he had nothing to provide for her with except what his first wife's money paid for. the first wife said she would consent to him starting the second, if she filed on land and paid her back a small sum every year until it was all paid back. so he took the poor "second," after formally renouncing her, and helped her to file on the land she now lives on. he built her a small cabin, and so she started her career as a "second." i suppose the "first" thought she would be rid of the second, who had never really been welcome, although the bishop could never have married a "second" without her consent. "i would _never_ consent," said mrs. o'shaughnessy. "oh, yes, you would if you had been raised a mormon," said our hostess. "you see, we were all of us children of polygamous parents. we have been used to plural marriages all our lives. we believe that such experience fits us for our after-life, as we are only preparing for life beyond while here." "do you expect to go to heaven, and do you think the man who married you and then discarded you will go to heaven too?" asked mrs. o'shaughnessy. "of course i do," she replied. "then," said mrs. o'shaughnessy, "i am afraid if it had been mysilf i'd have been after raising a little hell here intirely." our hostess was not offended, and there followed a long recital of earlier-day hard times that you would scarcely believe any one could live through. it seems the first wife in such families is boss, and while they do not live in the same homes, still she can very materially affect the other's comfort. mrs. o'shaughnessy asked her if she had married again. she said, "no." "then," said mrs. o'shaughnessy, "whose children are these?" "my own," she replied. mrs. o'shaughnessy was relentless. "who is their father?" she asked. i was right sorry for the poor little woman as she stammered, "i--i don't know." then she went on, "of course i _do_ know, and i don't believe you are spying to try to stir up trouble for my husband. bishop d---- is their father, as he is still my husband, although he had to cast me off to save himself and me. i love him and i see no wrong in him. all the gentiles have against him is he is a little too smart for them. 't was their foolish law that made him wrong the children and me, and _not_ his wishes." "but," mrs. o'shaughnessy said, "it places your children in such a plight; they can't inherit, they can't even claim his name, they have no status legally." "oh, but the bishop will see to that," the little woman answered. mrs. o'shaughnessy asked her if she had still to work as hard as she used to. "no, i don't believe i do," she said, "for since mr. d---- has been bishop, things come easier. he built this house with his own money, so deb has nothing to do with it." i asked her if she thought she was as happy as "second" as she would be if she was the _only_ wife. "oh, i don't know," she said, "perhaps not. deb and me don't always agree. she is jealous of the children and because i am younger, and i get to feeling bad when i think she is perfectly safe as a wife and has no cares. she has everything she wants, and i have to take what i can get, and my children have to wait upon her. but it will all come right somewhere, sometime," she ended cheerfully, as she wiped her eyes with her apron. i felt so sorry for her and so ashamed to have seen into her sorrow that i was really glad next morning when i heard mr. beeler's cheerful voice calling, "all aboard!" we had just finished breakfast, and few would ever guess that mrs. d---- knew a trial; she was so cheerful and so cordial as she bade us good-bye and urged us to stop with her every time we passed through. about noon that day we reached the railroad. the snow had delayed the train farther north, so for once we were glad to have to wait for a train, as it gave us time to get a bite to eat and to wash up a bit. it was not long, however, till we were comfortably seated in the train. i think a train ride might not be so enjoyable to most, but to us it was a delight; i even enjoyed looking at the negro porter, although i suspect he expected to be called mister. i found very soon after coming west that i must not say "uncle" or "aunty" as i used to at home. it was not long until they called the name of the town at which we wanted to stop. mrs. o'shaughnessy had a few acquaintances there, but we went to a hotel. we were both tired, so as soon as we had supper we went to bed. the house we stopped at was warmer and more comfortable than the average hotel in the west, but the partitions were very thin, so when a couple of "punchers," otherwise cowboys, took the room next to ours, we could hear every word they said. it appears that one was english and the other a tenderfoot. the tenderfoot was in love with a girl who had filed on a homestead near the ranch on which he was employed, but who was then a waitress in the hotel we were at. she had not seemed kind to the tenderfoot and he was telling his friend about it. the englishman was trying to instruct him as to how to proceed. "you need to be _very_ circumspect, johnny, where females are concerned, but you mustn't be too danged timid either." "i don't know what the devil to say to her; i can barely nod my head when she asks me will i take tea or coffee; and to-night she mixed it because i nodded yes when she said, 'tea or coffee,' and it was the dangdest mess i ever tried to get outside of." "well," the friend counseled, "you just get her into a corner some'eres and say to 'er, 'dearest 'attie, i hoffer you my 'and hand my 'eart.'" "but i _can't_," wailed johnny. "i could never get her into a corner anyway." "if you can't, you're not hold enough to marry then. what the 'ell would you do with a woman in the 'ouse if you couldn't corner 'er? i tell 'e, women 'ave to 'ave a master, and no man better tackle that job until 'e can be sure 'e can make 'er walk the chalk-line." "but i don't want her to walk any line; i just want her to speak to me." "dang me if i don't believe you are locoed. why, she's got 'e throwed hand 'og-tied now. what d'e want to make it any worse for?" they talked for a long time and the englishman continued to have trouble with his _h_'s; but at last johnny was encouraged to "corner 'er" next morning before they left for their ranch. we expected to be astir early anyway, and our curiosity impelled us to see the outcome of the friend's counsel, so we were almost the first in the dining-room next morning. a rather pretty girl was busy arranging the tables, and soon a boyish-looking fellow, wearing great bat-wing chaps, came in and stood warming himself at the stove. i knew at once it was johnny, and i saw "'attie" blush. the very indifference with which she treated him argued well for his cause, but of course he didn't know that. so when she passed by him and her skirt caught on his big spurs they both stooped at once to unfasten it; their heads hit together with such a bump that the ice was broken, although he seemed to think it was her skull. i am sure there ought to be a thaw after all his apologies. after breakfast mrs. o'shaughnessy went out to see her friend cormac o'toole. he was the only person in town we could hope to get a team from with which to continue our journey. this is a hard country on horses at best, and at this time of the year particularly so; few will let their teams go out at any price, but mrs. o'shaughnessy had hopes, and she is so persuasive that i felt no one could resist her. there was a drummer at breakfast who kept "cussing" the country. he had tried to get a conveyance and had failed; so the cold, the snow, the people, and everything else disgusted him. soon mrs. o'shaughnessy returned, and as the drummer was trying to get out to e----, and that was our destination also, she made her way toward him, intending to invite him to ride with us. she wore over her best clothes an old coat that had once belonged to some one of her men friends. it had once been bearskin, but was now more _bare_ skin, so her appearance was against her; she looked like something with the mange. so mr. drummer did not wait to hear what she was going to say but at once exclaimed, "no, madam, i cannot let you ride out with me. i can't get a rig myself in this beastly place." then he turned to a man standing near and remarked, "these western women are so bold they don't hesitate to _demand_ favors." mrs. o'shaughnessy's eyes fairly snapped, but she said nothing. i think she took a malicious delight in witnessing the drummer's chagrin when a few moments later our comfortable sleigh and good strong team appeared. we were going to drive ourselves, but we had to drive to the depot for our suit-cases; but when we got there the ticket-office was not open, so the agent was probably having his beauty sleep. there was a fire in the big stove, and we joined the bunch of men in the depot. among them we noticed a thin, consumptive-looking fellow, evidently a stranger. very soon some men began talking of some transaction in which a bishop b---- was concerned. it seemed they didn't admire the bishop very much; they kept talking of his peculiarities and transgressions, and mentioned his treatment of his wives. his "second," they said, was blind because of cataracts, and, although abundantly able, he left her in darkness. she had never seen her two last children. some one spoke up and said, "i thought polygamy was no longer practiced." then the man explained that they no longer contracted plural marriages, but that many kept _all_ their wives and b---- still had both of his. he went on to say that although such practice is contrary to law, it was almost impossible to make a case against them, for the women would not swear against their husbands. b---- had been arrested once, but his second swore that she didn't know who her children's father was, and it cost the sheriff his office the next election. mrs. o'shaughnessy spoke to an acquaintance of hers and mentioned where we were going. in a short while we got our suit-cases and we were off, but as we drove past the freight depot, the stranger we had noticed came down the steps and asked us to let him ride out with us. i really felt afraid of him, but mrs. o'shaughnessy thinks herself a match for any mere man, so she drew up and the man climbed in. he took the lines and we snuggled down under the robes and listened to the runners, shrill screeching over the frozen surface. we had dinner with a new settler, and about two o'clock that afternoon we overtook a fellow who was plodding along the road. his name was b----, he said, and he pointed out to us his broad fields and herds. he had been overseeing some feeders he had, and his horse had escaped, so he was walking home, as it was only a couple of miles. he talked a great deal in that two-mile trip; too much for his own good, it developed. for the first time since b---- climbed into our sleigh, the stranger spoke. "can you tell me where mrs. belle b---- lives?" he asked. "why, yes," our passenger replied. "she is a member of our little flock. she is slightly related to me, as you perhaps noticed the name, and i will show you to her house." "just how is she related to you?" the stranger asked. "that," the man replied, "is a matter of protection. i have _given_ her the protection of my name." "then she is your wife, is she not?" the stranger asked. "you must be a stranger in this country," the man evaded. "what is your name?" but the stranger didn't seem to hear, and just then we came opposite the residence of the bishop, and the man we had picked up in the road said, "that is my home, won't you get out and warm? my wife will be glad to get acquainted with you ladies." we declined, as it was only a short distance to the house of the man mrs. o'shaughnessy had come to see, so he stayed in the sleigh to show the stranger to the house of mrs. belle b----. i can't say much for it as a house, and i was glad i didn't have to go in. the stranger and b---- got out and entered the house, and we drove away. next morning, as we returned through the little village, it was all excitement. bishop b---- had been shot the night before, just as he had left the house of mrs. belle b----, for what reason or by whom no one knew; and if the bishop knew he had not told, for he either would not or could not talk. they were going to start with him that day to the hospital, but they had no hopes of his living. when we came to mrs. belle's house, mrs. o'shaughnessy got out of the sleigh and went into the house. i could hear her soothing voice, and i was mighty glad the poor, forlorn woman had such a comforter. * * * * * i was so _very_ glad to get home. how good it all looked to me! "poop o' roome" has a calf, and as we drove up to the corral clyde was trying to get it into the stall with the rest. it is "poop's" first calf, and she is very proud of it, and objected to its being put away from her, so she bunted at clyde, and as he dodged her, the calf ran between his feet and he sat down suddenly in the snow. i laughed at him, but i am powerfully glad he is no follower of old joseph smith. mrs. louderer was enjoying herself immensely, she loves children so much. she and clyde hired the "tackler"--so called because he will tackle _any_ kind of a job, whether he knows anything about it or not--to paper the room. he thinks he is a great judge of the fitness of things and of beauty. the paper has a stripe of roses, so tackler reversed every other strip so that some of my roses are standing on their heads. roses don't all grow one way, he claims, and so his method "makes 'em look more nachul like." a little thing like wall-paper put on upside down don't bother me; but what _would_ i do if i were a "second"? your loving friend, elinore rupert stewart. xxvi success _november, ._ dear mrs. coney,-- this is sunday and i suppose i ought not to be writing, but i must write to you and i may not have another chance soon. both your letters have reached me, and now that our questions are settled we can proceed to proceed. now, this is the letter i have been wanting to write you for a long time, but could not because until now i had not actually proven all i wanted to prove. perhaps it will not interest you, but if you see a woman who wants to homestead and is a little afraid she will starve, you can tell her what i am telling you. i never did like to theorize, and so this year i set out to prove that a woman could ranch if she wanted to. we like to grow potatoes on new ground, that is, newly cleared land on which no crop has been grown. few weeds grow on new land, so it makes less work. so i selected my potato-patch, and the man ploughed it, although i could have done that if clyde would have let me. i cut the potatoes, jerrine helped, and we dropped them in the rows. the man covered them, and that ends the man's part. by that time the garden ground was ready, so i planted the garden. i had almost an acre in vegetables. i irrigated and i cultivated it myself. we had all the vegetables we could possibly use, and now jerrine and i have put in our cellar full, and this is what we have: one large bin of potatoes (more than two tons), half a ton of carrots, a large bin of beets, one of turnips, one of onions, one of parsnips, and on the other side of the cellar we have more than one hundred heads of cabbage. i have experimented and found a kind of squash that can be raised here, and that the ripe ones keep well and make good pies; also that the young tender ones make splendid pickles, quite equal to cucumbers. i was glad to stumble on to that, because pickles are hard to manufacture when you have nothing to work with. now i have plenty. they told me when i came that i could not even raise common beans, but i tried and succeeded. and also i raised lots of green tomatoes, and, as we like them preserved, i made them all up that way. experimenting along another line, i found that i could make catchup, as delicious as that of tomatoes, of gooseberries. i made it exactly the same as i do the tomatoes and i am delighted. gooseberries were very fine and very plentiful this year, so i put up a great many. i milked ten cows twice a day all summer; have sold enough butter to pay for a year's supply of flour and gasoline. we use a gasoline lamp. i have raised enough chickens to completely renew my flock, and all we wanted to eat, and have some fryers to go into the winter with. i have enough turkeys for all of our birthdays and holidays. i raised a great many flowers and i worked several days in the field. in all i have told about i have had no help but jerrine. clyde's mother spends each summer with us, and she helped me with the cooking and the babies. many of my neighbors did better than i did, although i know many town people would doubt my doing so much, but i did it. i have tried every kind of work this ranch affords, and i can do any of it. of course i _am_ extra strong, but those who try know that strength and knowledge come with doing. i just love to experiment, to work, and to prove out things, so that ranch life and "roughing it" just suit me. the end * * * * * [frontispiece: his fingers gripped the iron top rail, and he slowly pulled his body up.] molly mcdonald a tale of the old frontier by randall parrish author of "keith of the border," "my lady of doubt," "my lady of the south," etc. with four illustrations in color by ernest l. blumenschein a. l. burt company publishers -------------- new york copyright a. c. mcclurg & co. published april, entered at stationers' hall, london, england contents chapter i an unpleasant situation ii "brick" hamlin iii the news at ripley iv the attack v the defence of the stage vi the condition in the coach vii plans foe escape viii a way to the river ix across the river x the ripening of acquaintance xi a remembrance of the past xii the parting xiii back at fort dodge xiv under arrest xv an old acquaintance xvi the meeting xvii at cross-purposes xviii another message xix a full confession xx molly tells her story xxi molly disappears xxii a deepening mystery xxiii the dead body xxiv in pursuit xxv in the blizzard xxvi unseen danger xxvii hughes' story xxviii snowbound xxix the chase xxx the fight in the snow xxxi the girl and the man xxxii words of love xxxiii molly's story xxxiv the advance of custer xxxv the indian trail xxxvi ready to attack xxxvii the battle with the indians xxxviii at camp supply illustrations his fingers gripped the iron top rail, and he slowly pulled his body up . . . . . . _frontispiece_ "no, don't move! the stage has been gutted and set on fire" the two started back at his rather abrupt entrance his colt poised for action, he lifted the wooden latch molly mcdonald chapter i an unpleasant situation when, late in may, , major daniel mcdonald, sixth infantry, was first assigned to command the new three company post established southwest of fort dodge, designed to protect the newly discovered cimarron trail leading to santa fé across the desert, and, purely by courtesy, officially termed fort devere, he naturally considered it perfectly safe to invite his only daughter to join him there for her summer vacation. indeed, at that time, there was apparently no valid reason why he should deny himself this pleasure. except for certain vague rumors regarding uneasiness among the sioux warriors north of the platte, the various tribes of the plains were causing no unusual trouble to military authorities, although, of course, there was no time in the history of that country utterly devoid of peril from young raiders, usually aided and abetted by outcast whites. however, the santa fé route, by this date, had become a well-travelled trail, protected by scattered posts along its entire route, frequently patrolled by troops, and merely considered dangerous for small parties, south of the cimarron, where roving comanches in bad humor might be encountered. fully assured as to this by officers met at fort ripley, mcdonald, who had never before served west of the mississippi, wrote his daughter a long letter, describing in careful detail the route, set an exact date for her departure, and then, satisfied all was well arranged, set forth with his small command on the long march overland. he had not seen his daughter for over two years, as during her vacation time (she was attending sunnycrest school, on the hudson), she made her home with an aunt in connecticut. this year the aunt was in europe, not expecting to return until fall, and the father had hopefully counted on having the girl with him once again in kentucky. then came his sudden, unexpected transfer west, and the final decision to have her join him there. why not? if she remained the same high-spirited army girl, she would thoroughly enjoy the unusual experience of a few months of real frontier life, and the only hardship involved would be the long stage ride from ripley. this, however, was altogether prairie travel, monotonous enough surely, but without special danger, and he could doubtless arrange to meet her himself at kansas city, or send one of his officers for that purpose. this was the situation in may, but by the middle of june conditions had greatly changed throughout all the broad plains country. the spirit of savage war had spread rapidly from the platte to the rio pecos, and scarcely a wild tribe remained disaffected. arapahoe, cheyenne, pawnee, comanche, and apache alike espoused the cause of the sioux, and their young warriors, breaking away from the control of older chiefs, became ugly and warlike. devere, isolated as it was from the main route of travel (the santa fé stages still following the more northern trail), heard merely rumors of the prevailing condition through tarrying hunters, and possibly an occasional army courier, yet soon realized the gravity of the situation because of the almost total cessation of travel by way of the cimarron and the growing insolence of the surrounding comanches. details from the small garrison were, under urgent orders from headquarters at fort wallace, kept constantly scouting as far south as the fork of the red river, and then west to the mountains. squads from the single cavalry company guarded the few caravans venturing still to cross the cimarron desert, or bore despatches to fort dodge. thus the few soldiers remaining on duty at the home station became slowly aware that this outburst of savagery was no longer a mere tribal affair. outrages were reported from the solomon, the republican, the arkansas valleys. a settlement was raided on smoky fork; stages were attacked near the caches, and one burned; a wagon train was ambushed in the raton pass, and only escaped after desperate fighting. altogether the situation appeared extremely serious and the summer promised war in earnest. mcdonald was rather slow to appreciate the real facts. his knowledge of indian tactics was exceedingly small, and the utter isolation of his post kept him ignorant. at first he was convinced that it was merely a local disturbance and would end as suddenly as begun. then, when realization finally came, was already too late to stop the girl. she would be already on her long journey. what could he do? what immediate steps could he hope to take for her protection? ordinarily he would not have hesitated, but now a decision was not so easily made. of his command scarcely thirty men remained at devere, a mere infantry guard, together with a small squad of cavalrymen, retained for courier service. his only remaining commissioned officer at the post was the partially disabled cavalry captain, acting temporarily as adjutant, because incapacitated for taking the field. he had waited until the last possible moment, trusting that a shift in conditions might bring back some available officer. now he had to choose between his duty as commander and as father. further delay was impossible. devere was a fort merely by courtesy. in reality it consisted only of a small stockade hastily built of cottonwood timber, surrounding in partial protection a half dozen shacks, and one fairly decent log house. the situation was upon a slight elevation overlooking the ford, some low bluffs, bare of timber but green with june grass to the northward, while in every other direction extended an interminable sand-desert, ever shifting beneath wind blasts, presenting as desolate a scene as eye could witness. the yellow flood of the river, still swollen by melting mountain snow, was a hundred feet from the stockade gate, and on its bank stood the log cavalry stables. below, a scant half mile away, were the only trees visible, a scraggly grove of cottonwoods, while down the face of the bluff and across the flat ran the slender ribbon of trail. monotonous, unchanging, it was a desolate picture to watch day after day in the hot summer. in the gloom following an early supper the two officers sat together in the single room of the cabin, a candle sputtering on the table behind them, smoking silently or moodily discussing the situation. mcdonald was florid and heavily built, his gray mustache hanging heavily over a firm mouth, while the captain was of another type, tall, with dark eyes and hair. the latter by chance opened the important topic. "by the way, major," he said carelessly, "i guess it is just as well you stopped your daughter from coming out to this hole. lord, but it would be an awful place for a woman." "but i did n't," returned the other moodily. "i put it off too long." "put it off! good heavens, man, did n't you write when you spoke about doing so? do you actually mean the girl is coming--here?" mcdonald groaned. "that is exactly what i mean, travers. damme, i have n't thought of anything else for a week. oh, i know now i was an old fool even to conceive of such a trip, but when i first wrote her i had no conception of what it was going to be like out here. there was not a rumor of indian trouble a month ago, and when the tribes did break out it was too late for me to get word back east. the fact is, i am in the devil of a fix--without even an officer whom i can send to meet her, or turn her back. if i should go myself it would mean a court-martial." travers stared into the darkness through the open door, sucking at his pipe. "by george, you are in a pickle," he acknowledged slowly. "i supposed she had been headed off long ago. have n't heard you mention the matter since we first got here. where do you suppose the lass is by now?" "near as i can tell she would leave ripley the th." "humph! then starting to-night, a good rider might intercept her at fort dodge. she would be in no danger travelling alone for that distance. the regular stages are running yet, i suppose?" "yes; so far as i know." "under guard?" "only from the caches to fort union; there has been no trouble along the lower arkansas yet. the troops from dodge are scouting the country north, and we are supposed to keep things clear of hostiles down this way." "supposed to--yes; but we can't patrol five hundred miles of desert with a hundred men, most of them dough-boys. the devils can break through any time they get ready--you know that. at this minute there is n't a mile of safe country between dodge and union. if she was my daughter--" "you 'd do what?" broke in mcdonald, jumping to his feet. "i 'd give my life to know what to do!" "why, i'd send somebody to meet her--to turn her back if that was possible. peyton would look after her there at ripley until you could arrange." "that's easy enough to say, travers, but tell me who is there to send? do you chance to know an enlisted man out yonder who would do--whom you would trust to take care of a young girl alone?" the captain bent his head on one hand, silent for some minutes. "they are a tough lot, major; that's a fact, when you stop to call the roll. those recruits we got at leavenworth were mostly rough-necks--seven of them in the guard-house to-night. our best men are all out," with a wave of his hand to the south. "it's only the riff-raff we 've got left, at devere." "you can't go?" the captain rubbed his lame leg regretfully. "no; i 'd risk it if i could only ride, but i could n't sit a saddle." "and my duty is here; it would cost me my commission." there was a long thoughtful silence, both men moodily staring out through the door. away in the darkness unseen sentinels called the hour. then travers dropped one hand on the other's knee. "dan," he said swiftly, "how about that fellow who came in with despatches from union just before dark? he looked like a real man." "i did n't see him. i was down river with the wood-cutters all day." travers got up and paced the floor. "i remember now. what do you say? let's have him in, anyhow. they never would have trusted him for that ride if he had n't been the right sort." he strode over to the door, without waiting an answer. "here, carter," he called, "do you know where that cavalryman is who rode in from fort union this afternoon?" a face appeared in the glow of light, and a gloved hand rose to salute. "he's asleep in 'b's' shack, sir," the orderly replied. "said he 'd been on the trail two nights and a day." "reckon he had, and some riding at that. rout him out, will you; tell him the major wants to see him here at once." the man wheeled as if on a pivot, and disappeared. "if carter could only ride," began mcdonald, but travers interrupted impatiently. "if! but we all know he can't. worst i ever saw, must have originally been a sailor." he slowly refilled his pipe. "now, see here, dan, it's your daughter that's to be looked after, and therefore i want you to size this man up for yourself. i don't pretend to know anything about him, only he looks like a soldier, and they must think well of him at union." mcdonald nodded, but without enthusiasm; then dropped his head into his hands. in the silence a coyote howled mournfully not far away; then a shadow appeared on the log step, the light of the candle flashing on a row of buttons. "this is the man, sir," said the orderly, and stood aside to permit the other to enter. chapter ii "brick" hamlin the two officers looked up with some eagerness, mcdonald straightening in his chair, and returning the cavalryman's salute instinctively, his eyes expressing surprise. he was a straight-limbed fellow, slenderly built, and appearing taller than he really was by reason of his erect, soldierly carriage; thin of waist, broad of chest, dressed in rough service uniform, without jacket, just as he had rolled out of the saddle, rough shirt open at the throat, patched, discolored trousers, with broad yellow stripe down the seam, stuck into service riding boots, a revolver dangling at his left hip, and a soft hat, faded sadly, crushed in one hand. the major saw all this, yet it was at the man's uncovered face he gazed most intently. he looked upon a countenance browned by sun and alkali, intelligent, sober, heavily browed, with eyes of dark gray rather deeply set; firm lips, a chin somewhat prominent, and a broad forehead, the light colored hair above closely trimmed; the cheeks were darkened by two days' growth of beard. mcdonald unclosed, then clenched his hand. "you are from fort union, captain travers tells me?" "yes, sir," the reply slow, deliberate, as though the speaker had no desire to waste words. "i brought despatches; they were delivered to captain travers." "yes, i know; but i may require you for other service. what were your orders?" "to return at convenience." "good. i know hawley, and do not think he would object. what is your regiment?" "seventh cavalry." "oh, yes, just organized; before that?" "the third." "i see you are a non-com--corporal?" "sergeant, sir, since my transfer." "second enlistment?" "no, first in the regulars--the seventh was picked from other commands." "i understand. you say first in the regulars. does that mean you saw volunteer service?" "three years, sir." "ah!" his eyes brightening instantly. "then how does it happen you failed to try for a commission after the war? you appear to be intelligent, educated?" the sergeant smiled. "unfortunately my previous service had been performed in the wrong uniform, sir," he said quietly. "i was in a texas regiment." there was a moment's silence, during which travers smoked, and the major seemed to hesitate. finally the latter asked: "what is your name, sergeant?" "hamlin, sir." the pipe came out of travers' mouth, and he half arose to his feet. "by all the gods!" he exclaimed. "that's it! now i 've got you placed--you 're--you 're 'brick' hamlin!" the man unconsciously put one hand to his hair, his eyes laughing. "some of the boys call me that--yes," he confessed apologetically. travers was on his feet now, gesticulating with his pipe. "damn! i knew i'd seen your face somewhere. it was two years ago at washita. say, dan, this is the right man for you; better than any fledgling west pointer. why, he is the same lad who brought in dugan--you heard about that!" the major shook his head. "no! oh, of course not. nothing that goes on out here ever drifts east of the missouri. lord! we might as well be serving in a foreign country. well, listen: i was at washita then, and had the story first-hand. dugan was a lieutenant in 'd' troop, out with his first independent command scouting along the canadian. he knew as much about indians as a cow does of music. one morning the young idiot left camp with only one trooper along--hamlin here--and he was a 'rookie,' to follow up what looked like a fresh trail. two hours later they rode slap into a war party, and the fracas was on. dugan got a ball through the body at the first fire that paralyzed him. he was conscious, but could n't move. the rest was up to hamlin. you ought to have heard dugan tell it when he got so he could speak. hamlin dragged the boy down into a buffalo wallow, shot both horses, and got behind them. it was all done in the jerk of a lamb's tall. they had two henry rifles, and the 'rookie' kept them both hot. he got some of the bucks, too, but of course, we never knew how many. there were twenty in the party, and they charged twice, riding their ponies almost to the edge of the wallow, but hamlin had fourteen shots without reloading, and they could n't quite make it. dugan said there were nine dead ponies within a radius of thirty feet. anyhow it was five hours before 'd' troop came up, and that's what they found when they got there--dugan laid out, as good as dead, and hamlin shot twice, and only ten cartridges left. hell," he added disgustedly, "and you never even heard of it east of the missouri." there was a flush of color on the sergeant's cheeks, but he never moved. "there was nothing else to do but what i did," he explained simply. "any of the fellows would have done the same if they had been up against it the way i was. may i ask," his eyes first upon one and then the other inquiringly, "what it was you wanted of me?" mcdonald drew a long breath. "certainly, sergeant, sit down--yes, take that chair." he described the situation in a few words, and the trooper listened quietly until he was done. travers interrupted once, his voice emerging from a cloud of smoke. as the major concluded, hamlin asked a question or two gravely. "how old is your daughter, sir?" "in her twentieth year." "have you a picture of the young lady?" the major crossed over to his fatigue coat hanging on the wall, and extracted a small photograph from an inside pocket. "this was taken a year ago," he explained, "and was considered a good likeness then." hamlin took the card in his hands, studied the face a moment, and then placed it upon the table. "you figure she ought to leave ripley on the th," he said slowly. "then i shall need to start at once to make dodge in time." "you mean to go then? of course, you realize i have no authority to order you on such private service." "that's true. i 'm a volunteer, but i 'll ask you for a written order just the same in case my troop commander should ever object, and i 'll need a fresh horse; i rode mine pretty hard coming up here." "you shall have the pick of the stables, sergeant," interjected the cavalry captain, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "anything else? have you had rest enough?" "four hours," and the sergeant stood up again. "all i require will be two days' rations, and a few more revolver cartridges. the sooner i 'm off the better." if he heard travers' attempt at conversation as the two stumbled together down the dark hill, he paid small attention. at the stables, aided by a smoky lantern, he picked out a tough-looking buckskin mustang, with an evil eye; and, using his own saddle and bridle, he finally led the half-broken animal outside. "that buckskin's the devil's own," protested travers, careful to keep well to one side. "i 'll take it out of him before morning," was the reply. "come on, boy! easy now--easy! how about the rations, captain?" "carter will have them for you at the gate of the stockade. do you know the trail?" "well enough to follow--yes." mcdonald was waiting with carter, and the dim gleam of the lantern revealed his face. "remember, sergeant, you are to make her turn back if you can. tell her i wish her to do so--yes, this letter will explain everything, but she is a pretty high-spirited girl, and may take the bit in her teeth--imagine she 'd rather be here with me, and all that. if she does i suppose you 'll have to let her have her own way--the lord knows her mother always did. anyhow you 'll stay with her till she 's safe." "i sure will," returned the sergeant, gathering up his reins. "good-bye to you." "good-bye and good luck," and mcdonald put out his hand, which the other took hesitatingly. the next instant he was in the saddle, and with a wild leap the startled mustang rounded the edge of the bluff, flying into the night. all had occurred so quickly that hamlin's mind had not yet fully adjusted itself to all the details. he was naturally a man of few words, deciding on a course of action quietly, yet not apt to deviate from any conclusion finally reached. but he had been hurried, pressed into this adventure, and now welcomed an opportunity to think it all out coolly. at first, for a half mile or more, the plunging buckskin kept him busy, bucking viciously, rearing, leaping madly from side to side, practising every known equine trick to dislodge the grim rider in the saddle. the man fought out the battle silently, immovable as a rock, and apparently as indifferent. twice his spurs brought blood, and once he struck the rearing head with clenched fist. the light of the stars revealed the faint lines of the trail, and he was content to permit the maddened brute to race forward, until, finally mastered, the animal settled down into a swift gallop, but with ears laid back in ugly defiance. the rider's gray eyes smiled pleasantly as he settled more comfortably into the saddle, peering out from beneath the stiff brim of his scouting hat; then they hardened, and the man swore softly under his breath. the peculiar nature of this mission which he had taken upon himself had been recalled. he was always doing something like that--permitting himself to become involved in the affairs of others. now why should he be here, riding alone through the dark to prevent this unknown girl from reaching devere? she was nothing to him--even that glimpse of her pictured face had not impressed him greatly; rather interesting, to be sure, but nothing extraordinary; besides he was not a woman's man, and, through years of isolation, had grown to avoid contact with the sex--and he was under no possible obligation to either mcdonald or travers. yet here he was, fully committed, drawn into the vortex, by a hasty ill-considered decision. he was tired still from his swift journey across the desert from fort union, and now faced another three days' ride. then what? a headstrong girl to be convinced of danger, and controlled. the longer he thought about it all, the more intensely disagreeable the task appeared, yet the clearer did he appreciate its necessity. he chafed at the knowledge that it had become his work--that he had permitted himself to be ensnared--yet he dug his spurs into the mustang and rode steadily, grimly, forward. the real truth was that hamlin comprehended much more fully than did the men at devere the danger menacing travellers along the main trail to santa fé. news reached fort union much quicker than it did that isolated post up on the cimarron. he knew of the fight in raton pass, and that two stages within ten days had been attacked, one several miles east of bent's fort. this must mean that a desperate party of raiders had succeeded in slipping past those scattered army details scouting into the northwest. whether or not these warriors were in any considerable force he could not determine--the reports of their depredations were but rumors at union when he left--yet, whether in large body or small, they would have a clear run in the arkansas valley before any troops could be gathered together to drive them out. perhaps even now, the stages had been withdrawn, communication with santa fé abandoned. this had been spoken of as possible at union the night he left, for it was well known there that there was no cavalry force left at dodge which could be utilized as guards. the wide map of the surrounding region spread out before him in memory; he felt its brooding desolation, its awful loneliness. nevertheless he must go on--perhaps at the stage station near the ford of the arkansas he could learn the truth. so he bent lower over the buckskin's neck and rode straight through the black, silent night. it was a waterless desert stretching between the cimarron and the arkansas, consisting of almost a dead level of alkali and sand, although toward the northern extremity the sand had been driven by the ceaseless wind into grotesque hummocks. the trail, cut deep by traders' wagons earlier in the spring, was still easily traceable for a greater part of the distance, and hamlin as yet felt no need of caution--this was a country the indians would avoid, the only danger being from some raiding party from the south. at early dawn he came trotting down into the arkansas valley, and gazed across at the greenness of the opposite bank. there, plainly in view, were the deep ruts of the main trail running close in against the bluff. his tired eyes caught no symbol of life either up or down the stream, except a thin spiral of blue smoke that slowly wound its way upward. an instant he stared, believing it to be the fire of some emigrant's camp; then realized that he looked upon the smouldering débris of the stage station. chapter iii the news at ripley miss molly mcdonald had departed for the west--carefully treasuring her father's detailed letter of instruction--filled with interest and enthusiasm. she was an army girl, full of confidence in herself and delighted at the prospect of an unusual summer. moreover, her natural spirit of adventure had been considerably stimulated by the envious comments of her schoolmates, who apparently believed her wondrously daring to venture such a trip, the apprehensive advice of her teachers, and much reading, not very judiciously chosen, relative to pioneer life on the plains. the possible hardships of the long journey alone did not appall her in the least. she had made similar trips before and had always found pleasant and attentive companionship. being a wholesome, pleasant-faced girl, with eyes decidedly beautiful, and an attractive personality, the making or new friendships was never difficult. of course the stage ride would be an entirely fresh and precarious experience, but then her father would doubtless meet her before that, or send some officer to act as escort. altogether the prospect appeared most delightful and alluring. the illness of the principal of sunnycrest had resulted in the closing of the school some few days earlier than had been anticipated, and it was so lonely there after the others had departed that miss molly hastened her packing and promptly joined the exodus. why not? she could wait the proper date at kansas city or fort ripley just as well, enjoying herself meanwhile amid a new environment, and no doubt she would encounter some of her father's army friends who would help entertain her pleasantly. miss mcdonald was somewhat impulsive, and, her interest once aroused, impatient of restraint. as a result of this earlier departure she reached ripley some two days in advance of the prearranged schedule, and in spite of her young strength and enthusiasm, most thoroughly tired out by the strain of continuous travel. her one remaining desire upon arrival was for a bed, and actuated by this necessity, when she learned that the army post was fully two miles from the town, she accepted proffered guidance to the famous gilsey house and promptly fell asleep. the light of a new day gave her a first real glimpse of the surrounding dreariness as she stood looking out through the grimy glass of her single window, depressed and heartsick. the low, rolling hills, bare and desolate, stretched to the horizon, the grass already burned brown by the sun. the town itself consisted of but one short, crooked street, flanked by rough, ramshackle frame structures, two-thirds of these apparently saloons, with dirty, flapping tents sandwiched between, and huge piles of tin cans and other rubbish stored away behind. the street was rutted and dusty, and the ceaseless wind swirled the dirt about in continuous, suffocating clouds. the hotel itself, a little, squatty, two-storied affair, groaned to the blast, threatening to collapse. nothing moved except a wagon down the long ribbon of road, and a dog digging for a bone behind a near-by tent. it was so squalid and ugly she turned away in speechless disgust. the interior, however, offered even smaller comfort. a rude bedstead, one leg considerably short and propped up by a half brick, stood against the board wall; a single wooden chair was opposite, and a fly-specked mirror hung over a tin basin and pitcher. the floor sagged fearfully and the side walls lacked several inches of reaching the ceiling. even in the dim candle light of the evening before, the bed coverings had looked so forbidding that molly had compromised, lying down, half-dressed on the outside; now, in the garish glare of returning day they appeared positively filthy. and this was the best to be had; she realized that, her courage failing at the thought of remaining alone amid such surroundings. as she washed, using a towel of her own after a single glance at the hotel article, and did up her rebellious hair, she came to a prompt decision. she would go directly on--would take the first stage. perhaps her father, or whomever he sent, would be met with along the route. the coaches had regular meeting stations, so there was small danger of their missing each other. even if she was compelled to wait over at fort dodge, the environment there could certainly be no more disagreeable than this. the question of possible danger was dismissed almost without serious thought. she had seen no papers since leaving st. louis, and the news before that contained nothing more definite than rumors of uneasiness among the plains indians. army officers interviewed rather made light of the affair, as being merely the regular outbreak of young warriors, easily suppressed. on the train she had met with no one who treated the situation as really serious, and, if it was, then surely her father would send some message of restraint. satisfied upon this point, and fully determined upon departing at the earliest opportunity, she ventured down the narrow, creaking stairs in search of breakfast. the dining-room was discovered at the foot of the steps, a square box of a place, the two narrow windows looking forth on the desolate prairie. there were three long tables, but only one was in use, and, with no waiter to guide her, the girl advanced hesitatingly and took a seat opposite the two men already present. they glanced up, curiously interested, staring at her a moment, and then resumed their interrupted meal. miss mcdonald's critical eyes surveyed the unsavory-looking food, her lips slightly curving, and then glanced inquiringly toward the men. the one directly opposite was large and burly, with iron-gray hair and beard, about sixty years of age, but with red cheeks and bright eyes, and a face expressive of hearty good nature. his clothing was roughly serviceable, but he looked clean and wholesome. the other was an army lieutenant, but molly promptly quelched her first inclination to address him, as she noted his red, inflamed face and dissipated appearance. as she nibbled, half-heartedly, at the miserable food brought by a slovenly waiter, the two men exchanged barely a dozen words, the lieutenant growling out monosyllabic answers, finally pushing back his chair, and striding out. again the girl glanced across at the older man, mustering courage to address him. at the same moment he looked up, with eyes full of good humor and kindly interest. "looks rather tough, i reckon, miss," waving a big hand over the table. "but you 'll have ter git used to it in this kentry." "oh, i do not believe i ever could," disconsolately. "i can scarcely choke down a mouthful." "so i was noticin'; from the east, i reckon?" "yes; i--i came last night, and--and really i am afraid i am actually homesick already. it--it is even more--more primitive than i supposed. do--do you live here--at ripley?" "good lord, no!" heartily, "though i reckon yer might not think my home wuz much better. i 'm the post-trader down at fort marcy, jist out o' santa fé. i 'll be blame glad ter git back thar too, i 'm a tellin' yer." "that--that is what i wished to ask you about," she stammered. "the santa fé stage; when does it leave here? and--and where do i arrange for passage?" he dropped knife and fork, staring at her across the table. "good lord, miss," he exclaimed swiftly. "do yer mean to say ye 're goin' to make that trip alone?" "oh, not to santa fé; only as far as the stage station at the arkansas crossing," she exclaimed hastily. "i am going to join my father; he--he commands a post on the cimarron--major mcdonald." "well, i 'll be damned," said the man slowly, so surprised that he forgot himself. "babes in the wilderness; what, in heaven's name, ever induced yer dad to let yer come on such a fool trip? is n't thar no one to meet yer here, or at dodge?" "i--i don't know," she confessed. "father was going to come, or else send one of his officers, but i have seen no one. i am here two days earlier than was expected, and--and i haven't heard from my father since last month. see, this is his last letter; won't you read it, please, and tell me what i ought to do?" the man took the letter, and read the three pages carefully, and then turned back to note the date, before handing the sheets across the table. "the major sure made his instructions plain enough," he said slowly. "and yer have n't heard from him since, or seen any one he sent to meet yer?" the girl shook her head slowly. "well, that ain't to be wondered at, either," he went on. "things has changed some out yere since that letter was wrote. i reckon yer know we 're havin' a bit o' injun trouble, an' yer dad is shore to be pretty busy out thar on the cimarron." "i--i do not think i do. i have seen no papers since leaving st. louis. is the situation really serious? is it unsafe for me to go farther?" the man rubbed his chin, as though undecided what was best to say. but the girl's face was full of character, and he answered frankly. "it's serious 'nough, i reckon, an' i certainly wish i wus safe through to fort marcy, but i don't know no reason now why you could n't finish up your trip all right. i wus out to the fort last evenin' gettin' the latest news, an' thar hasn't been no trouble to speak of east of old bent's fort. between thar and union, thar's a bunch o' mescalo apaches raisin' thunder. one lot got as far as the caches, an' burned a wagon train, but were run back into the mount'ns. troops are out along both sides the valley, an' thar ain't been no stage held up, nor station attacked along the arkansas. i reckon yer pa 'll have an escort waitin' at the crossin'?" "of course he will; what i am most afraid of is that i might miss him or his messenger on the route." "not likely; there's only two stages a week each way, an' they have regular meeting points." she sat quiet, eyes lowered to the table, thinking. she liked the man, and trusted him; he seemed kindly deferential. finally she looked up. "when do you go?" "to-day. i was goin' to wait 'bout yere a week longer, but am gitting skeered they might quit runnin' their coaches. to tell the truth, miss, it looks some to me like thar wus a big injun war comin', and i 'd like ter git home whar i belong afore it breaks loose." "will--will you take me with you?" he moistened his lips, his hands clasping and unclasping on the table. "sure, if yer bound ter go. i 'll do the best i kin fer yer, an' i reckon ther sooner yer start the better chance ye 'll have o' gittin' through safe." he hesitated. "if we should git bad news at dodge, is there anybody thar, at the fort, you could stop with?" "colonel carver." "he 's not thar now; been transferred to wallace, but, i reckon, any o' those army people would look after yer. ye 've really made up yer mind to try it, then?" "yes, yes; i positively cannot stay here. i shall go as far as dodge at least. if--if we are going to travel together, i ought to know your name." "sure yer had," with a laugh. "i fergot all 'bout that--it's moylan, miss; william moylan; 'sutler bill' they call me mostly, west o' the river. let's go out an' see 'bout thet stage." as he rounded the table, molly rose to her feet, and held out her hand. "i am so glad i spoke to you, mr. moylan," she said simply. "i am not at all afraid now. if you will wait until i get my hat, i 'll be down in a minute." "sutler bill" stood in the narrow hall watching her run swiftly upstairs, twirling his hat in his hands, his good-natured face flushed. once he glanced in the direction of the bar-room, wiping his lips with his cuff, and his feet shuffled. but he resisted the temptation, and was still there when miss mcdonald came down. chapter iv the attack slightly more than sixty miles, as the route ran, stretched between old fort dodge and the ford crossing the arkansas leading down to the cimarron; another sixty miles distant, across a desert of alkali and sand, lay devere. the main santa fé trail, broad and deeply rutted by the innumerable wheels of early spring caravans, followed the general course of the river, occasionally touching the higher level plains, but mostly keeping close beneath the protection of the northern bluffs, or else skirting the edge of the water. night or day the route was easily followed, and, in other years, the traveller was seldom for long out of sight of toiling wagons. now scarcely a wheel turned in all that lonely distance. the west-bound stage left the station at deer creek at four o'clock in the afternoon with no intimation of danger ahead. its occupants had eaten dinner in company with those of the east-bound coach, eighteen miles down the river at cañon bluff, and the in-coming driver had reported an open road, and no unusual trouble. no indian signs had been observed, not even signal fires during the night, and the conductor, who had come straight from santa fé, reported that troops from fort union had driven the only known bunch of raiders back from the neighborhood of the trail, and had them already safely corralled in the mountains. this report, seemingly authentic and official, served to relax the nerves, and the west-bound driver sang to himself as he guided the four horses forward, while the conductor, a sawed-off gun planted between his knees, nodded drowsily. inside there were but three passengers, jerking back and forth, as the wheels struck the deep ruts of the trail, occasionally exchanging a word or two, but usually staring gloomily forth at the monotonous scene. miss mcdonald and moylan occupied the back seat, some baggage wedged tightly between to keep them more secure on the slippery cushion, while facing them, and clinging to his support with both hands, was a pock-marked mexican, with rather villainous face and ornate dress, and excessively polite manners. he had joined the little party at dodge, smiling happily at sight of miss molly's face when she unveiled, although his small knowledge of english prevented any extended effort at conversation. moylan, however, after careful scrutiny, engaged him shortly in spanish, and later explained to the girl, in low tones, that the man was a santa fé gambler known as gonzales, with a reputation to be hinted at but not openly discussed. they were some six miles to the west of deer creek, the horses still moving with spirit, the driver's foot on the brake, when the stage took a sudden plunge down a sloping bank where the valley perceptibly narrowed. to the left, beyond a flat expanse of brown, sun-scorched grass, flowed the widely-spreading waters of the arkansas, barely covering the treacherous sandy bottom, and from the other side came the more distant gleam of alkali plains; to the right arose the bluffs, here both steep and rugged, completely shutting off the view, barren of vegetation except for a few scattered patches of grass. suddenly a man rode out of a rift in the bank, directly in front, and held up his hand. surprised, startled, the driver instantaneously clamped on his brake, and brought his horses to a quick stop; the conductor, nearly flung from his seat, yanked his gun forward. "none of that now," called out the man in saddle quickly, both hands uplifted to show their emptiness. "this is no hold-up. i 've got news." he spurred his pony forward slowly, the animal seemingly barely able to move, and swung out of the saddle beside the front wheel, staggering a bit as though his limbs were cramped as his feet felt the ground. "i 'm from fort union," he said, "seventh cavalry, sent through by way of cimarron springs. there is hell to pay west of here; the stations at arkansas crossing and low water were burned last night." "the devil you say," burst out the driver hoarsely, his startled eyes sweeping the horizon. "injuns?" "sure, plenty of signs, but i have n't seen any bucks myself. as soon as i discovered what had happened at the crossing i struck out on to the plateau, and came around that way to warn those fellows at low water. but when i got sight of that station from off the bluffs yonder it had been wiped out. then i thought about this stage going west to-day, and came on to meet you. must have ridden a hundred an' twenty miles since yesterday; the mustang is all in." moylan stuck his head out the nearest window. "look like they had much of a fight at the crossing?" he asked. "not much; more like a night raid; two whites killed, and scalped. the third man either was taken away, or his body got burnt in the building. horses all gone." "what tribe?" "arapahoes, from the way they scalped; that's what made it so serious--if those northern indians have broken loose there is going to be war this time for sure." the men on the box looked at each other questioningly. "i don't see no use tryin' to go on, jake, do you?" asked the driver soberly. "even if we do git through, thar ain't no hosses to be had." the other shook his head, rubbing his gun-stock. "most likely those same red devils are layin' for us now somewhar between yere an' low water; whar the trail runs in between them two big rocks, most probable," he concluded. "not havin' no ha'r to lose, i 'm fer goin' back." with an oath of relief, the driver released his brake, and skilfully swung the leaders around, the coach groaning as it took the sharp turn. the man on the ground caught a swiftly passing glimpse of the young woman's face within, and strode hurriedly forward as the coach started. "hold on there, pardner," he commanded sternly. "this poor bronc' won't travel another mile. there 's plenty of room for me inside, and i 'll turn the tired devil loose. hold on, i say!" the driver once again slapped on the brake, growling and reluctant, his anxious eyes searching the trail in both directions. hamlin quietly uncinched his saddle, flinging it to the coach roof; the bridle followed, and then, with a slap on the haunch of the released animal, he strode to the stage door, thrust his henry rifle within, and took the vacant seat beside gonzales. with a sudden crack of the driver's whip the four horses leaped forward, and the coach careened on the slope of the trail, causing the passengers to clutch wildly to keep from being precipitated into a mass on the floor. as the traces straightened, miss molly, clinging desperately to a strap, caught her first fair glance at the newcomer. his hat was tilted back, the light revealing lines of weariness and a coating of the gray, powdery dust of the alkali desert, but beneath it appeared the brown, sun-scorched skin, while the gray eyes looking straight at her, were resolute and smiling. his rough shirt, open at the throat, might have been the product of any sutler's counter; he wore no jacket, and the broad yellow stripe down the leg of the faded blue trousers alone proclaimed him a soldier. he smiled across at her, and she lowered her eyes, while his glance wandered on toward the others. "don't seem to be very crowded to-day," he began, genially addressing moylan. "not an extremely popular route at present, i reckon. mining, pardner?" "no; post-trader at fort marcy." "oh, that's it," his eyebrows lifting slightly. "this indian business is a bad job for you then." his eyes fell on his seatmate. "well, if this is n't little gonzales!--you 've got a good ways from home." "si, señor!" returned the mexican brokenly. "i tink i not remem." "no, i reckon not. i'm not one of your class; cards and i never did agree. i shut up your game once down at union; night hassinger was killed. remember now, don't you?" "si, señor," spreading his hands. "it was mos' unfortunate." "would have been more so, if the boys had got hold of you--saint anne! but that fellow on the box is driving some." the thud of the horses' feet under the lash, coupled with the reckless lurching of the coach, ended all further attempt at conversation, and the four passengers held on grimly, and stared out of the windows, as if expecting every instant that some accident would hurl them headlong. the frightened driver was apparently sparing neither whip nor tongue, the galloping teams jerking the stage after them in a mad race up the trail. hamlin thrust his head out of the nearest window, but a sudden lurch hurled him back, the coach taking a sharp curve on two wheels, and coming down level once again with a bump which brought the whole four together. the little mexican started to scream out a spanish oath, but hamlin gripped his throat before it was half uttered, while moylan pressed the girl back into her seat, bracing himself to hold her firm. "what the devil--" he began angrily, and then the careening coach stopped as suddenly as though it had struck the bank, again tearing loose their handhold on the seats and flinging them headlong. they heard the creaking clamp of the brakes, the dancing of frightened horses, a perfect volley of oaths, the crunch of feet as men leaped from the top to the ground; then, all at once, the stage lurched forward, swerving sharply to the left, and struck out across the flat directly toward the bluff. hamlin struggled to the nearest window, and, grasping the sill to hold himself upright, leaned out. he caught a momentary glimpse of two men riding swiftly up the trail; the box above was empty, the wheelers alone remained in harness, and they were running uncontrolled. "by god!" he muttered. "those two damn cowards have cut loose and left us!" even as the unrestrained words leaped from his lips, he realized the only hope--the reins still dangled, caught securely in the brake lever. inch by inch, foot by foot, he wiggled out; moylan, comprehending, caught his legs, holding him steady against the mad pitching. his fingers gripped the iron top rail, and, exerting all his strength, he slowly pulled his body up, until he fell forward into the driver's seat. swift as he had been, the action was not quickly enough conceived to avert disaster. he had the reins in his grip when the swinging pole struck the steep side of the bluff, snapping off with a sharp crack, and flinging down the frightened animals, the wheels, crashing against them, as the coach came to a sudden halt. hamlin hung on grimly, flung forward to the footrail by the force of the shock, his body bruised and aching. one horse lay motionless, head under, apparently instantly killed; his mate struggled to his feet, tore frantically loose from the traces, and went flying madly down the slope, the broken harness dangling at its heels. the sergeant sat up and stared about, sweeping the blood from a slight gash out of his eyes. then he came to himself with a gasp--understanding instantly what it all meant, why those men had cut loose the horses and ridden away, why the wheelers had plunged forward in that mad run-away race--between the bluffs and the river a swarm of indians were lashing their ponies, spreading out like the sticks of a fan. chapter v the defence of the stage there were times when hamlin's mental processes seemed slow, almost sluggish, but this was never true in moments of emergency and peril. then he became swift, impetuous, seemingly borne forward by some inspiring instinct. it was for such experiences as this that he remained in the service--his whole nature responding almost joyously to the bugle-call of action, of imminent danger, his nerves steadying into rock. these were the characteristics which had won him his chevrons in the unrewarded service of the frontier, and, when scarcely more than a boy, had put a captain's bars on the gray collar of his confederate uniform. now, as he struggled to his knees, gripping the iron foot-rail with one hand, a single glance gave him a distinct impression of their desperate situation. with that knowledge, there likewise flashed over his mind the only possible means of defence. the indians, numbering at least thirty, had ridden recklessly out from under the protection of the river bank, spreading to right and left, as their ponies' hoofs struck the turf, and were now charging down upon the disabled coach, yelling madly and brandishing their guns. the very reckless abandon of their advance expressed the conception they had of the situation--they had witnessed the flight of the two fugitives, the runaway of the wheelers, and believed the remaining passengers would be helpless victims. they came on, savage and confident, not anticipating a fight, but a massacre--shrieking prisoners, and a glut of revenge. with one swing of his body, hamlin was upon the ground, and had jerked open the inside door of the coach, forcing it back against the dirt of the bluff which towered in protection above. his eyes were quick to perceive the peculiar advantage of position; that their assailants would be compelled to advance from only one direction. the three within were barely struggling to their feet, dazed, bewildered, failing as yet to comprehend fully those distant yells, when he sprang into their midst, uttering his swift orders, and unceremoniously jerking the men into position for defence. "here, quick now! don't waste time! it's a matter of seconds, i tell you! they're coming--a horde of them. here, moylan, take this rifle barrel and knock a hole through the back there big enough to sight out of. hit it hard, damn you, it's a case of life or death! what have you got, gonzales? a revolver? into that window there, and blaze away; you 've got the reputation of a gun-man; now let's see you prove it. get back in the corner, miss, so i can slip past--no, lie down below the fire line!" "but--but i will not!" and she faced him, her face white, but her eyes shining. "i can shoot! see!" and she flashed a pearl-handled revolver defiantly. the sergeant thrust her unceremoniously aside and plunged across to the opposite window, gripping his henry rifle. "do as i say," he growled. "this is our fight. get down! now, you terriers, let them have it!" there was a wild skurrying of mounted figures almost at the coach wheels, hair streaming, feathers waving, lean, red arms thrown up, the air vocal with shrill outcries--then the dull bark of a henry, the boom of a winchester, the sharp spitting of a colt. the smoke rolled out in a cloud, pungent, concealing, nervous fingers pressing the triggers again and again. they could see reeling horses, men gripping their ponies' manes to keep erect, staring, frightened eyes, animals flung back on their haunches, rearing madly in the air. the fierce yell of exultation changed into a savage scream, bullets crashed into the thin sides of the coach; it rocked with the contact of a half-naked body flung forward by a plunging horse; the mexican swore wildly in spanish, and then--the smoke blew aside and they saw the field; the dead and dying ponies, three motionless bodies huddled on the grass, a few dismounted stragglers racing on foot for the river bank, and a squad of riders circling beyond the trail. hamlin swept the mingled sweat and blood out of his eyes, smiled grimly, and glanced back into the coach, instinctively slipping fresh cartridges into his hot rifle. "that's one time those fellows ran into a hornet's nest," he commented quietly, all trace of excitement vanished. "better load up, boys, for we 're not through yet--they 'll only be more careful next time. anybody hurt?" "somethin' creased my back," replied moylan, complainingly, and trying vainly to put a hand on the spot. "felt like a streak o' fire." the sergeant reached across, fingering the torn shirt curiously. "seared the flesh, pardner, but no blood worth mentioning. they 've got some heavy artillery out there from the sound--old army muskets likely. it is our repeating rifles that will win out--those red devils don't understand them yet." "señor, you tink we win out den?" and gonzales peered up blinking into the other's face. "sacre! dey vil fight deeferent de nex' time. ze americaine muskeet, eet carry so far--ess eet not so?" hamlin patted his brown barrel affectionately as if it were an old friend, and smiled across into the questioning eyes of the girl. "i 'm willing to back this weapon against the best of them for distance," he replied easily, "and it's accurate besides. how about it, moylan?" "i 'd about as soon be in front as behind one of them cannon," answered the sutler soberly. "i toted one four years. but say, pardner, what's yer name? yer a cavalryman, ain't yer?" "sergeant--forgot i was n't properly introduced," and he bent his head slightly, glancing again toward the girl. "hamlin is the rest of it." "'brick' hamlin?" "sometimes--delicate reference to my hair, miss," and he took off his hat, his gray eyes laughing. "born that way, but does n't seem to interfere with me much, since i was a kid. you 've heard of me then, moylan? so has our little friend, gonzales, here." the sober-faced sutler merely nodded, evidently in no mood for pleasantry. "oh, ye're all right," he said finally. "i've heard 'em say you was a fighter down round santa fé, an' i know it myself now. but what the hell are we goin' to do? this yere stagecoach ain't much of a fort to keep off a bunch o' redskins once they git their mad up. them musket bullets go through like the sides was paper, an' i reckon we ain't got no over-supply o' ammunition--i know i ain't fer this winchester. how long do yer reckon we kin hold out?" hamlin's face became grave, his eyes also, turning toward the river. the sun was already sinking low in the west, and the indians, gathered in council out of rifle-shot, were like shadows against the glimmering water beyond. "they 'll try us again just before dark," he affirmed slowly, "but more cautiously. if that attack fails, then they 'll endeavor to creep in, and take us by surprise. it's going to be a clear night, and there is small chance for even an indian to hide in that buffalo-grass with the stars shining. they have got to come up from below, for no buck could climb down this bluff without making a noise. i don't see why, with decent luck, we can't hold out as we are until help gets here; those fellows who rode away will report at cañon bluff and send a rider on to dodge for help. there ought to be soldiers out here by noon to-morrow. what troops are at dodge now?" "only a single company--infantry," replied moylan gloomily. "all the rest are out scouting 'long the solomon. damned if i believe they 'll send us a man. those two cowards will likely report us all dead--otherwise they would n't have any excuse for runnin' away--and the commander will satisfy himself by sendin' a courier to the fellers in the field." "well, then," commented the sergeant, his eyes gleaming, "we 've simply got to fight it out alone, i reckon, and hang on to our last shots. what do you make of those reds?" the three men stared for some time at the distant group over their rifles, in silence. "they ain't all arapahoes, that 's certain," said moylan at last. "some of 'em are cheyennes. i 've seen that chief before--it's roman nose." "the big buck humped up on the roan?" "that's the one, and he is a bad actor; saw him once over at fort kearney two years ago. had a council there. say!" in surprise, "ain't that an ogalla sioux war bonnet bobbin' there to the right, sergeant?" hamlin studied the distant feathered head-dress indicated, shading his eyes with one hand. "i reckon maybe it is, moylan," he acknowledged at last gravely. "those fellows have evidently got together; we're going to have the biggest scrap this summer the old army has had yet. looks as though it was going to begin right here--and now. see there! the dance is on, boys; there they come; they will try it on foot this time." he tested his rifle, resting one knee on the seat; moylan pushed the barrel of his winchester out through the ragged hole in the back of the coach, and the little mexican lay flat, his eyes on the level with the window-casing. the girl alone remained motionless, crouched on the floor, her white face uplifted. the entire field stretching to the river was clear to the view, the short, dry buffalo-grass offering no concealment. to the right of the coach, some fifty feet away, was the only depression, a shallow gully leading down from the bluff, but this slight advantage was unavailable. the sun had already dropped from view, and the gathering twilight distorted the figures, making them almost grotesque in their savagery. yet they could be clearly distinguished, stealing silently forward, guns in hand, spreading out in a wide half-circle, obedient to the gestures of roman nose, who, still mounted upon his pony, was traversing the river bank, his every motion outlined against the dull gleam of water behind him. from the black depths of the coach the three men watched in almost breathless silence, gripping their weapons, fascinated, determined not to waste a shot. gonzales, under the strain, uttered a fierce spanish curse, but hamlin crushed his arm between iron fingers. "keep still, you fool!" he muttered, never glancing around. "let your gun talk!" the assailants came creeping on, snakes rather than men, appearing less and less human in the increasing shadows. twice the sergeant lifted his henry, sighting along the brown barrel, lowering the weapon again in doubt of the distance. he was conscious of exultation, of a swifter pulse of the heart, yet his nerves were like steel, his grip steady. only a dim fleeting memory of the girl, half hidden in the darkness behind, gave him uneasiness--he could not turn and look into her eyes. roman nose was advancing now at the centre of that creeping half circle, a hulking figure perched on his pony's back, yet well out of rifle range. he spread his hands apart, clasping a blanket, looking like a great bird flapping its wings, and the ground in front flamed, the red flare splitting the gray gloom. the speeding bullets crashed through the leather of the coach, splintering the wood; the mexican rolled to the floor, uttering one inhuman cry, and lay motionless; a great volume of black smoke wavered in the still air. "walt! wait until they get to their feet!" hamlin cried eagerly. "ah! there they come--now unlimber." he saw only those black, indistinct figures, leaping out of the smoke, converging on the coach, their naked arms uplifted, their voices mingling in savage yells. like lightning he worked his rifle, heart throbbing to the excitement, oblivious to all else; almost without realization he heard the deeper bellow of moylan's winchester, the sharp bark of a revolver at his very ear. gonzales was all right, then! good! he never thought of the girl, never saw her grip the pistol from the mexican's dead hand, and crawl white-faced, over his body, to that front seat. all he really knew was that those devils were coming, leaping, crowding through the smoke wreathes; he saw them stumble, and rise again; he saw one leap into the air, and then crash face down; he saw them break, circling to right and left, crouching as they ran. two reached the stage--only two! one pitched forward, a revolver bullet between his eyes, his head wedged in the spokes of the wheel; the other hamlin struck with emptied rifle-barrel as his red hand gripped the door, sending him sprawling back into the dirt. it was all the work of a minute, an awful minute, intense, breathless--then silence, the smoke drifting away, the dark night hiding the skulking runners. chapter vi the condition in the coach mechanically--scarcely conscious of the action--the sergeant slipped fresh cartridges into the hot rifle chamber, swept the tumbled hair out of his eyes with his shirt sleeve, and stared into the night. he could hardly comprehend yet that the affair was ended, the second attack repulsed. it was like a delirium of fever; he almost expected to see those motionless bodies outstretched on the grass spring up, yelling defiance. then he gripped himself firmly, realizing the truth--it was over with for the present; away off there in the haze obscuring the river bank those indistinct black smudges were fleeing savages, their voices wailing through the night. just in front, formless, huddled where they had fallen, were the bodies of dead and dying, smitten ponies and half-naked men. he drew a deep breath through clinched teeth, endeavoring to distinguish his comrades. the interior of the coach was black, and soundless, except for some one's swift, excited breathing. as he extended his cramped leg to the floor he touched a motionless body. not until then had he realized the possibility of death also within. he felt downward with one hand, his nerves suddenly throbbing, and his finger touched a cold face--the mexican. it must have been that last volley, for he could distinctly recall the sharp bark of gonzales' revolver between his own shots. "the little devil," he muttered soberly. "it was a squarer death than he deserved. he was a game little cock." then he thought of moylan, wondering why the man did not move, or speak. that was not like moylan. he bent forward, half afraid in the stillness, endeavoring to discover space on the floor for both his feet. he could perceive now a distant star showing clear through the ragged opening jabbed in the back of the coach, but no outline of the sutler's burly shoulders. "moylan!" he called, hardly above a whisper. "what is the trouble? have you been hit, man?" there was no answer, no responding sound, and he stood up, reaching kindly over across the seat. then he knew, and felt a shudder run through him from head to foot. bent double over the iron back of the middle seat, with hands still gripping his hot rifle, the man hung, limp and lifeless. almost without realizing the act, hamlin lifted the heavy body, laid it down upon the cushion, and unclasped the dead fingers gripping the winchester stock. "every shot gone," he whispered to himself dazedly, "every shot gone! ain't that hell!" then it came to him in a sudden flash of intelligence--he was alone; alone except for the girl. they were out there yet, skulking in the night, planning revenge, those savage foemen--arapahoes, cheyennes, ogallas. they had been beaten back, defeated, smitten with death, but they were indians still. they would come back for the bodies of their slain, and then--what? they could not know who were living, who dead, in the coach; yet must have discovered long since that it had only contained three defenders. they would guess that ammunition would be limited. his knowledge of the fighting tactics of the plains tribes gave clear vision of what would probably occur. they would wait, scattered out in a wide circle from bluff to bluff, lying snake-like in the grass. some of the bolder might creep in to drag away the bodies of dead warriors, risking a chance shot, but there would be no open attack in the dark. that would be averse to all indian strategy, all precedent. even now the mournful wailing had ceased; roman nose had rallied his warriors, instilled into them his own unconquerable savagery, and set them on watch. with the first gray dawn they would come again, leaping to the coach's wheels, yelling, triumphant, mad with new ferocity--and he was alone, except for the girl. and where was she? he felt for her on the floor, but only touched the mexican's feet. he had to lean across the seat where moylan's body lay, shrouded in darkness, before his groping fingers came in contact with the skirt of her dress. she was on the front seat, close to the window; against the lightness of the outer sky, her head seemed lying upon the wooden frame. she did not move, he could not even tell that she breathed, and for an instant his dry lips failed him utterly, his blood seemed to stop. good god! had she been killed also? how, in heaven's name, did she ever get there? then suddenly she lifted her head slightly, brushing back her hair with one arm; the faint starlight gleamed on a short steel barrel. the sergeant expelled his breath swiftly, wetting his dry lips. "are you hurt?" he questioned anxiously. "lord, but you gave me a scare!" she seemed to hear his voice, yet scarcely to understand, like one aroused suddenly from sleep. "what! you spoke--then--then--there are others? i--i am not here all alone?" "not if you count me," he said, a trace of recklessness in the answer. "i have n't even a scratch so far as i know. did they touch you?" "no; that is, i am not quite sure; it--it was all so horrible i cannot remember. who are you? are you the--the soldier?" "yes--i 'm hamlin. would you mind telling me how you ever got over there?" she straightened up, seemed to notice the heavy revolver in her fingers, and let it fall to the floor. "oh, it is like a dream--an awful dream. i could n't help myself. when the mexican rolled off on to the floor, i knew he was dead, and--and there was his revolver held right out to me in his hand. before i realized i had it, and was up here--i--i killed one--he--he fell in the wheel; i--i can never forget that!" "don't try," broke in hamlin earnestly. "you 're all right," he added, admiration in his voice. "and so it was you there with the small gun. i heard it bark, but never knew gonzales was hit. when did it happen?" "when--when they fired first. it--it was all smoke out there when i got to the window; they--they looked like--like wild beasts, and it did n't seem to me i was myself at all." the man laughed lightly. "you did the right thing, that 's all," he consoled, anxious to control her excitement. "now you and i must decide what to do next--we are all alone." "alone! has mr. moylan been hit also?" "yes," he answered, feeling it was better to tell her frankly. "he was shot, and is beyond our help. but come," and he reached over and took her hand, "you must not give up now." she offered no resistance, but sat motionless, her face turned away. yet she knew she trembled from head to foot, the reaction mastering her. a red tongue of flame seemed to slit the outside blackness; there was a single sharp report, echoing back from the bluff, but no sound of the striking bullet. just an instant he caught a glimpse of her face, as she drew back, startled. "oh, they are coming again! what shall we do?" "no," he insisted, still retaining her hand, confident in his judgment. "those fellows will not attempt to rush us again to-night. you must keep cool, for we shall need all our wits to get away. an indian never risks a night assault, unless it is a surprise. he wants to see what he is up against. those bucks have got all they want of this outfit; they have no reason to suppose any of us were hit. they are as much afraid as we are, but when it gets daylight, and they can see the shape we 're in, then they 'll come yelling." "but they can lie out there in the dark and shoot," she protested. "that shot was aimed at us, was n't it?" "i reckon it was, but it never got here. don't let that worry you; if an indian ever hits anything with a gun it 's going to be by pure accident." he stared out of the window. "they 're liable to bang away occasionally, and i suppose it is up to us to make some response just to tell them we 're awake and ready. but they ain't firing expecting to do damage--only to attract attention while they haul off their dead. there 's a red snake yonder now creeping along in the grass--see!" "no," hysterically, "it is just black to me." "you have n't got the plainsman's eyes yet. watch, now; i 'm going to stir the fellow up." he leaned forward, the stock of the henry held to his shoulder, and she clutched the window-casing. an instant the muzzle of the rifle wavered slightly, then steadied into position. "have to guess the distance," he muttered in explanation, and pulled the trigger. there was a lightning flash, a sharp ringing report, a yell in the distance, followed by the sound of scrambling. hamlin laughed, as he lowered his gun. "made him hump, anyway," he commented cheerfully. "now what comes next?" "i--i do not know," she answered, as though the question had been asked her, "do you?" somehow she was not as frightened as she had been. the calm steady coolness of the man was having its natural effect, was helping to control her own nerves. she felt his strength, his confidence, and was beginning to lean upon him--he seemed to know exactly what he was about. "well, no, honestly i don't; not yet," he returned, hesitating slightly. "there is no use denying we are in a mighty bad hole. if moylan had n't got shot we might have held out till help arrived; i 've got about twenty cartridges left; but you and i alone never could do it. i 've got to think it out, i reckon; this has been a blind fight so far; nothing to it but blazing away as fast as i could pull trigger. now, maybe, i can use my brains a bit." she could not see him, but some instinct led her to put out her hand and touch the rough sleeve of his shirt. it made her sure of his presence, his protection. the man felt the movement, and understood its meaning, his heart throbbing strangely. "you are going to trust me?" "of--of course; how could you doubt that?" "well," still half questioning, "you see i 'm only an enlisted man, and sometimes officers' ladies think we are mostly pretty poor stuff, just food for powder." she tightened her grip on his sleeve, drawing a quick breath of surprise. "oh, but i am not like that; truly i am not. i--i saw your face this afternoon, and--and i liked you then. i will do whatever you say." "thank you," he said simply. "to know that makes everything so much easier for me. we shall have to work together from now on. you keep sharp watch at the window there, while i think a bit--there 's ordinarily a chance somewhere, you know, if one is only bright enough to uncover it." how still the night was, and dark; although the sky was cloudless, the stars shone clearly away up in the black vault. not even the howl of a distant coyote broke the silence. to the left, seemingly a full half-mile distant, was the red flicker of a fire, barely visible behind a projection of bank. but in front not even the keen eyes of the sergeant could distinguish any sign of movement. apparently the indians had abandoned their attempt to recover the bodies of their dead. chapter vii plans for escape desperate as he certainly felt their situation to be, for a moment or two hamlin was unable to cast aside the influence of the girl, or concentrate his thoughts on some plan for escape. it may have been the gentle pressure of her hand upon his sleeve, but her voice continued to ring in his ears. he had never been a woman's man, nor was he specially interested in this woman beside him. he had seen her fairly, with his first appreciative glance, when he had climbed into the stage on the preceding day. he had realized there fully the charm of her face, the dark roguish eyes, the clear skin, the wealth of dark hair. yet all this was impersonal; however pretty she might be, the fact was nothing to him and never could be. knowing who she was, he comprehended instantly the social gulf stretching unbridged between them. an educated man himself, with family connections he had long ago ceased to discuss, he realized his present position more keenly than he otherwise might. he had enlisted in the army with no misunderstanding as to what a private's uniform meant. he had never heretofore supposed he regretted any loss in this respect, his nature apparently satisfied with the excitement of active frontier service, yet he vaguely knew there had been times when he longed for companionship with women of the class to which he had once belonged. fortunately his border stations offered little temptation in this respect, and he had grown to believe that he had actually forgotten. that afternoon even--sweetly fair as miss mcdonald undoubtedly appeared--he had looked upon her without the throb of a pulse, as he might upon a picture. she was not for him even to admire--she was major mcdonald's daughter, whom he had been sent to guard. that was all then. yet he knew that somehow it was different now--the personal element had entered unwelcomed, into the equation. sitting there in the dark, gonzales' body crumpled on the floor at his feet, and moylan lying stiff and cold along the back seat, with this girl grasping his sleeve in trust, she remained no longer merely the major's daughter--she had become _herself_. and she did not seem to care and did not seem to realize that there were barriers of rank, which under other circumstances must so utterly separate them. she liked him, and frankly told him so, not as she would dismiss an inferior with kindness, but as though he was an equal, as though he was a gentleman. somehow the very tone of her voice, the clinging touch of her hand, sent the blood pumping through his veins. something besides duty inspired him; he was no longer merely a soldier, but had suddenly become transformed into a man. years of repression, of iron discipline, were blotted out, and he became even as his birthright made him. "molly mcdonald," "molly mcdonald," he whispered the name unconsciously to himself. then his eyes caught the distant flicker of indian fire, and his teeth locked savagely. there was something else to do besides dream. because the girl had spoken pleasantly was no reason why he should act the fool. angry at himself, he gripped his faculties, and faced the situation, aroused, intent. he must save himself--and _her_! but how? what plan promised any possibility of success? he had their surroundings in a map before his eyes. his training had taught him to note and remember what others would as naturally neglect. he was a soldier of experience, a plainsman by long training, and even in the fierceness of the indians' attack on the stage his quick glance had completely visualized their surroundings. he had not appreciated this at the time, but now the topography of the immediate region was unrolled before him in detail; yard by yard it reappeared as though photographed. he saw the widely rutted trail, rounding the bluff at the right a hundred yards away, curving sharply down the slope and then disappearing over the low hill to the left, a slight stream trickling along its base. below, the short buffalo-grass, sunburned and brittle, ran to the sandy edge of the river, which flowed silently in a broad, shallow, yellow flood beneath the star gleam. under the protection of that bank, but somewhat to the left, where a handful of stunted cottonwood trees had found precarious foothold in the sand, gleamed the solitary indian fire. about its embers, no doubt, squatted the chiefs and older warriors, feasting and taking council, while the younger bucks lay, rifles in hand, along the night-enshrouded slope, their cruel, vengeful eyes seeking to distinguish the outlines of the coach against the black curtain of the bluff. this had proven thus far their salvation--that steep uplift of earth against which the stage had crashed in its mad dash--for its precipitant front had compelled the savages to attack from one direction only, a slight overhang, not unlike a roof, making it impossible even to shoot down from above. but this same sharp incline was now likewise a preventive of escape. hamlin shook his head as he recalled to mind its steep ascent, without root or shrub to cling to. no, it would never do to attempt that; not with her. perhaps alone he might scramble up somehow, but with her the feat would be impossible. he dismissed this as hopeless, his memory of their surroundings drifting from point to point aimlessly. he saw the whole barren vista as it last stood revealed under the glow of the sun--the desolate plateau above, stretching away into the dim north, the brown level of the plains, broken only by sharp fissures in the surface, treeless, extending for unnumbered leagues. to east and west the valley, now scarcely more green than those upper plains, bounded by its verdureless bluffs, ran crookedly, following the river course, its only sign of white dominion the rutted trail. beyond the stream there extended miles of white sand-dunes, fantastically shapen by the wind, gradually changing into barren plains of alkali. between crouched the vigilant indian sentinels, alert and revengeful. certain facts were clear--to remain meant death, torture for him if they were taken alive, and worse than death for her. perspiration burst out upon his face at the thought. no! great god! not that; he would kill her himself first. yet this was the truth, the truth to be faced. the nearest available troops were at dodge, a company of infantry. if they started at once they could never arrive in time to prevent an attack at daybreak. the indians undoubtedly knew this, realized the utter helplessness of their victims, and were acting accordingly. otherwise they would never have lighted that fire nor remained on guard. moreover if the two of them should succeed in stealing forth from the shelter of the coach, should skulk unseen amid the dense blackness of the overhanging bluff, eluding the watchers, what would it profit in the end? their trail would be clear; with the first gray of dawn those savage trackers would be at work, and they would be trapped in the open, on foot, utterly helpless even to fight. the man's hands clenched and unclenched about his rifle-barrel in an agony of indecision, his eyes perceiving the silhouette of the girl against the lighter arc of sky. no, not that--not that! they must hide their trail, leave behind no faintest trace of passage for these hounds to follow. yet how could the miracle be accomplished? out from the mists of tortured memory came, as a faint hope, a dim recollection of that narrow gully cutting straight down across the trail, over which the runaway had crashed in full gallop. that surely could not be far back, and was of sufficient depth to hide them in the darkness. he was uncertain how far it extended, but at some time it had been a water-course and must have reached the river. and the river would hide their trail! a new hope sprang into his eyes. he felt the sudden straightening up of his body. "what--what is it?" she questioned, startled. "do you see anything? are they coming?" "no, no," almost impatiently. "it is still as death out there, but i almost believe i have discovered a means of escape. do you remember a gully we ran over while i was on top of the stage?" "i am not sure; was it when that awful jolt came?" "yes, it flung me to the foot-board just when i had untangled the lines. we could not have travelled a dozen yards farther before we struck this bluff--could we?" "i hardly think so," yet evidently bewildered by his rapid questioning. "only i was so confused and frightened i can scarcely remember. why are you so anxious to know?" "because," he returned earnestly, bending toward her, "i believe that gash in the earth is going to get us out of here. anyhow it is the only chance i can figure. if we can creep through to the river, undiscovered, i 'll agree to leave mister indian guessing as to where we 've gone." the new note of animation in the man's voice aroused her, but she grasped his arm tighter. "but--but, oh, can we? won't they be hiding there too?" "it's a chance, that's all--but better than waiting here for a certainty. see here, miss mcdonald," and he caught her hand in his own, forgetful of all save his own purpose and the necessity of strengthening her to play out the game, "the trend of that gulf is to the west; except up here close to the bluff it runs too far away for a guard line. the indians will be lying out here on the open prairie; they will creep as close in as they dare under cover of darkness. i 'll bet there are twenty red snakes now within a hundred feet of us--oh, don't shiver and lose your nerve! they 'll not try to close that gap yet; it's too dangerous with us on guard and only one side of the coach exposed. that fellow was trying us out a while ago, and they 've kept quiet ever since i let drive at him. they know the limits of the safety zone, and will keep there until just before daylight. that is when they 'll try to creep up upon us. have you got the time?" she opened her watch, feeling for the hands with her fingers, wondering vaguely at her own calmness. the cool resourcefulness of hamlin was like a tonic. "it--it is a little after one o'clock," she said slowly, "although i am not sure my watch is exactly right." "near enough; there are signs of daylight at four--three hours left; that ought to be sufficient, but with no darkness to spare. will you go with me? will you do exactly as i say?" she drew a swift breath, holding her hand to her side. "oh, yes," her voice catching, "what--what else can i do? i cannot stay here with those dead men!" "but i want you to go because--well, because you trust me," he urged, a new trace of tenderness in his lowered voice. "because you know i would give my life to defend you." he was not sure, but he thought her face was suddenly uplifted, her eyes seeking to see him in the darkness. "i do," she answered gravely, "you must believe i do; but i have never been in such peril before, in such a situation of horror, and i am all unnerved. there doesn't seem to be anything left me but--to trust you." "that is good; all i can ask. i know you are all right, but i want you to keep your nerve. we are going to take a big chance; we 've got to do it--a single misplay, a slip of the foot, an incautious breath may cost our lives." "are you going to try to get away? to elude the indians?" "yes, and there is but one possibility of success--to creep the length of the gully there, and so reach the river. here is gonzales' belt. don't be afraid of it; it is not dead men who are going to hurt us. swing the strap over your shoulder this way, and slip the revolver into the holster. that's right; we'll carry as little as we can, and leave our hands free." he hesitated, staring about in the darkness, swiftly deciding what to take. "do you happen to know if either of the passengers carried any grub?" "grub?" "plains' term for food," impatiently, "rations; something for lunch _en route_." "oh, yes, mr. moylan did; said he never took chances on having to go hungry. it was in a flat leather pouch." "haversack. i have it. that will be enough to carry, with the canteen. now there is only one thing more before we leave. we must impress those fellows with the notion that we are wide-awake, and on guard yet. see any movement out there?" "i--i am not sure," she answered doubtfully. "there is a black smudge beyond that dead pony; lean forward here and you can see what i mean--on the ground. i--i imagined it moved just then." she pointed into the darkness. "it is the merest shadow, but seemed to wiggle along, and then stop; it's still now." hamlin focussed his keen eyes on the spot indicated, shading them with one hand. "slide back further on the seat," he whispered softly, "and let me in next the window." there was a moment's silence, the only sound the wind. the girl gripped the back of the seat nervously with both hands, holding her breath; the sergeant, the outline of his face silhouetted against the sky, stared motionless into the night without. suddenly, not making a sound, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder. chapter viii a way to the river she waited in agony as he sighted carefully, striving to gauge the distance. it seemed an interminable time before his finger pressed the trigger. then came the report, a flash of flame, and the powder smoke blown back in her face. half-blinded by the discharge, she yet saw that black smudge leap upright; again the henry blazed, and the dim figure went down. there was a cry--a mad yell of rage--in which scattered voices joined; spits of fire cleaving the darkness, the barking of guns of different calibre. a bit of flying lead tore through the leather back of the coach with an odd rip; another struck the casing of the door, sending the wooden splinters flying like arrows. hawk-eyed, hamlin fired twice more, aiming at the sparks, grimly certain that a responding howl from the left evidenced a hit. then, as quickly, all was still, intensely black once more. the sergeant drew back from the window, leaning his gun against the casing. "that will hold them for a while," he said cheerfully. "two less out there, i reckon, and the others won't get careless again right away. now is our time; are you ready?" there was no response, the stillness so profound he could hear the faint ticking of the girl's watch. he reached out, almost alarmed, and touched her dress. "what is the trouble?" he questioned anxiously. "didn't you hear me speak?" he waited breathless, but there was no movement, no sound, and his hand, trembling, in spite of his iron nerve, groped its way upward. she was lying back against the opposite window, her head bent sideways. "my god," he thought, "did those devils get her?" he lifted her slight figure up on one arm, all else blotted out, all other memory vanished through this instant dread. his cheek stung where flying splinters had struck him, but that was nothing. she was warm, her flesh was warm; then his searching fingers felt the moist blood trickling down from the edge of her hair. he let out his breath slowly, the sudden relief almost choking him. it was bad enough surely, but not what he had first feared, not death. she had been struck hard--a flying splinter of wood, perhaps, or a deflected bullet--her hair matted with blood, yet it was no more than a flesh wound, although leaving her unconscious. if he hesitated it was but for an instant. the entire situation recurred to him in a flash; he must change his plans, but dare waste no time. if they were to escape it must be accomplished now, shadowed by darkness, while those savage watchers were safely beyond sound. his lean jaws set with fierce determination, and he grimly hitched his belt forward, one sinewy hand fingering the revolver. he would have to trust to that weapon entirely for defense; he could not carry both the rifle and the girl. moving slowly, cautiously, fearful lest some creaking of the old stage might betray his motions to those keen ears below, he backed through the open door. once feeling the ground firm beneath his feet, and making sure that both canteen and haversack were secure, he reached back into the darkness, grasping the form of the unconscious girl. he stood erect with her held securely in his arms, strands of hair blowing against his cheek, listening intently, striving with keen eyes to penetrate the black curtain. the wind was fortunate, blowing steadily across the flat from the river, and they were surely invisible against the background of the overhanging bluff. he did not even feel it necessary to crouch low to avoid discovery. he knew that peril would confront them later, when they ventured out into the open. how light she seemed, as though he clasped a child. bearing her was going to be easier than he had supposed; the excitement yielded him a new measure of strength, yet he went forward very slowly, feeling along, inch by inch, planting his feet with exceeding care. the earth was hard-packed and would leave little trail; there were no leaves, no dead grass to rustle. beyond the protection afforded by the stage he felt the full sweep of the wind and permitted her head to rest lower on one arm so that he could look about more clearly. she had not even moaned, although he had felt her breath upon his face. once he stumbled slightly over some fallen earth, and farther along a foot slipped on a treacherous stone, but the slight noise died unnoticed in the night. it was farther to the gully than he had supposed; his heart was in his throat fearing he had missed it, half-believing the depression failed to extend to the base of the bluff. then his foot, exploring blindly, touched the edge of the bank. carefully he laid his burden down, placing his battered campaign hat beneath her head. he bent over her again, assuring himself that she breathed regularly, and then crept down alone into the shallow ravine. his nerves were like steel now, his hand steady, his heart beating without an accelerated throb. he knew the work, and rejoiced in it. this was why he was a soldier. silently, swiftly, he unbuckled his belt, refastening it across the straps so as to hold canteen and haversack noiseless, and then, revolver in hand, began creeping down under cover of the low banks. he must explore the path first before attempting to bear her along in his arms; must be sure the passage was unguarded. after it swerved to the right there would be little danger, but while it ran straight, some cautious savage might have chosen it to skulk in. to deal with such he needed to be alone, and free. he must have crawled thus for thirty yards, hands and knees aching horribly, his eyes ever peering over the edge of the bank, his ears tingling to the slightest noise. the tiny glow of the fire far away to the left was alone visible in the intense blackness; the wind brought to him no sound of movement. the stillness was profound, almost uncanny; as he paused and listened he could distinguish the throb of his heart. he was across the trail at last, for he had felt and traced the ruts of wheels, and where the banks had been worked down almost to a level with the prairie. he crossed this opening like a snake, and then arose to his knees beyond, where the gully deepened. he remained poised, motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. surely that was something else--that shapeless blotch of shadow, barely topping the line of bank! was it ten feet away? or five? he could not tell. he stared; there was no movement, and yet his eyes began to discern dimly the outlines--the head and shoulders of a man! the sergeant crept forward--an inch, two inches, a foot. the figure did not stir. now he was sure the fellow's head was lying flat on the turf, oddly distorted by a feathered war bonnet. the strange posture, the utter lack of movement, seemed proof that the tired warrior had fallen asleep on watch. like a cat hamlin crept up slowly toward him, poised for a spring. some sense of the wild must have stirred the savage into semi-consciousness. suddenly he sat up, gripping the gun in his hands. yet even as his opening eyes saw dimly the sergeant's menacing shadow, before he could scream his alarm, or spring upright, the revolver butt struck with dull thud, and he went tumbling backward into the ditch, his cry of alarm ending in a hoarse croak. from somewhere, out of the dense darkness in front a voice called, sharp and guttural, as if its owner had been startled by the mysterious sound of the blow. it was the language of the arapahoes, and out of his vague memory of the tongue, spurred to recollection by the swift emergency, hamlin growled a hoarse answer, hanging breathlessly above the motionless body until the "ugh!" of the fellow's response proved him without suspicion. he waited, counting the seconds, every muscle strained with expectancy, listening. he had a feeling that some one was crawling over the short grass, wiggling along like a snake, but the faint sound, if sound it was, grew less distinct. finally he lifted his head above the edge of the bank, but saw nothing, not even a dim shadow. "they are closing in, i reckon," he thought soberly, "and it is n't likely there will be any more of these gentry as far back as this; looks as though this gully turned west just beyond. anyhow i 've got to risk it." he returned more rapidly, knowing the passage, yet with no less caution, finding the unconscious girl lying exactly as he had left her. as he clasped her form in his arms, her lips uttered some incoherent words, but otherwise she gave no sign of life. "yes, yes," he whispered close to her ear, hoping thus to hold her silent. "it is all right now; only keep still." he could feel her breathing, and realized the danger of her return to consciousness. if she should be frightened and cry out, their fate would be sealed. yet he must accept the chance, now that he knew the way to be clear. he held her tightly in both arms, his revolver thrust back into its holster. bending as low as he could with his burden, feeling carefully through the darkness before advancing a foot, he moved steadily forward. where the gully deepened their heads were at the edge of the bank, but much of the way was exposed, except for the dark shadows of the slope. fortunately there were clouds to the west, already obscuring that half of the sky, but to the east nothing was visible against the faint luminousness of the sky-line. once, far over there to the left, a gun was fired, the flame splitting the night asunder, and against the distant reflection a black figure rose up between, only to be instantly snuffed out again. hamlin put down his uplifted foot, and waited, in tense, motionless silence, but nothing happened, except the echo of a far-away voice. a dozen feet farther, some four-footed animal suddenly leaped to the edge of the bank, sniffed, and disappeared noiselessly. so taut were his nerves strung that the sergeant sank upon his knees, releasing one hand to grip his revolver, before he realized the cause of alarm--some prowling prairie wolf. then, with teeth grimly locked, bending lower and lower, he crept across the rutted trail, and past the dead body of the indian. not until then did he dare to breathe naturally or to stand upright; but now, the gully, bending to the right, led away from danger, every step gained adding to their safety. he was confident now, full of his old audacity, yet awake to every trick of plainscraft. the girl's head rested against his shoulder, and he bent his cheek to hers, feeling its warmth. the touch of his unshaven beard pricked her into semi-consciousness, and she spoke so loud that it gave him a thrill of apprehension. he dared not run in the darkness for fear of stumbling, yet moved with greater swiftness, until the depression ended at the river. here, under the protection of the bank, hamlin put down his burden and stood erect, stretching his strained muscles and staring back into the dark. what now? which way should they turn? he had accomplished all he had planned for himself back there in the coach, but now he became aware of other problems awaiting solution. in less than an hour it would be daylight; he almost imagined it was lighter already over yonder in the east. with the first dawn those watchful indians, creeping cautiously closer, would discover the stage deserted, and would be on their trail. and they had left a trail easily followed. perhaps the hard, dry ground might confuse those savage trackers, but they would scour the open country between bluff and river, and find the dead warrior in the gully. that would tell the story. to go west, along the edge of the river, wading in the water, would be useless precaution; such a trick would be suspected at once, and there was no possibility of rescue from that direction. they might as well walk open-eyed into a trap. there was but one hope, one opportunity--to cross the stream before dawn came and hide among those shifting sand-dunes of the opposite shore. hamlin thoroughly understood the risk involved, the treacherous nature of the arkansas, the possibility that both might be sucked down by engulfing quicksand, yet even such a lonely death was preferable to indian torture. the girl at his feet stirred and moaned. in another moment he had filled his hat with water from the river, had lifted her head upon one arm, and using the handkerchief from about his throat, was washing away the blood that matted her hair. now that his fingers felt the wound, he realized the force of the blow stunning her, although its outward manifestation was slight. her figure trembled in his arms and her eyes opened, gazing up wonderingly at the black outlines of his shadow. then she made an effort as though to draw away. "lie still a while yet, miss mcdonald," he said soothingly, "until you regain your strength." he heard the quick gasp of her breath, and felt the sudden relaxing of her muscles. "you!" she exclaimed in undisguised relief at recognition of the voice; "is it really you? where are we? what has happened?" he told her rapidly, his face bent close, realizing that she was clinging to him again as she had once before back in the stage. as he ended, she lifted one hand to her wound. "and i am not really hurt--not seriously?" her voice bewildered. "i--i never realized i had been struck. and--and you carried me all that way--" she shuddered, looking about into the black silence. "i--i can hardly comprehend--yet. please explain again; they are back there watching for us still, believing we are in the coach; they will follow our trail as soon as it becomes daylight. why--why, the sky is brighter over in the east already, is n't it? what was it you said we must do?" "get across the river; once hidden in those sand-dunes over there we 'll be safe enough." "across the river," she repeated the words dully, sitting up to stare out toward the water. then her head sank into her hands. "can we--can we ever do that?" hamlin bent forward on his knees, striving with keen eyes, sharpened by his night's experience, to learn more of what lay before them. the movement, slight as it was, served to frighten her, and she grasped him by the sleeve. "do not leave me; do not go away," she implored swiftly. "whatever you say is best, i will do." chapter ix across the river he dropped his hand upon hers, clasping the clinging fingers tightly. "yes, we can make it," he answered confidently. "wait until i make sure what is out there." he had slight recollection of the stream at this point, although he had crossed it often enough at the known fords, both above and below. yet these crossings had always been accomplished with a horse under him, and a knowledge of where the trail ran. but he knew the stream, its peculiarities and dangers. it was not the volume of water, nor its depth he feared, for wide as it appeared stretching from bank to bank, he realized its shallow sluggishness. the peril lay in quicksand, or the plunging into some unseen hole, where the sudden swirl of water might pull them under. alone he would have risked it recklessly, but with her added weight in his arms, he realized how a single false step would be fatal. the farther shore was invisible; he could perceive nothing but the slight gleam of water lapping the sand at his feet, as it flowed slowly, noiselessly past, and beyond, the dim outline of a narrow sand ridge. even this, however, was encouragement, proving the shallowness of the stream. he turned about, his face so close he could see her eyes. "we shall have to try it, miss mcdonald; you must permit me to carry you." "yes." "and whatever happens do not scream--just cling tight to me." "yes," a little catching in her throat. "tell me first, please, just what it is you fear." "quicksand principally; it is in all these western rivers, and the two of us together on one pair of feet will make it harder to pull out of the suck. if i tell you to get down, do so quickly." "yes." "then there may be holes out there in the bottom. i don't mind those so much, although these cavalry boots are no help in swimming." "i can swim." "hardly in your clothes; but i am glad to know it, nevertheless. you could keep afloat at least, and the holes are never very large. are you ready now?" she gave him her hands and stood up. the sergeant drew in a long breath and transferred the haversack to her shoulder. "we 'll try and keep that from getting soaked, if we can," he explained. "there is no hotel over in those sand-hills. now hold on tight." he swung her easily to his broad shoulder, clasping her slender figure closely with one arm. "that's it! now get a firm grip. i 'll carry you all right." to the girl, that passage was never more than a dim memory. still partially dazed from the severe blow on her head, she closed her eyes as hamlin stepped cautiously down into the stream and clung to him desperately, expecting each moment to be flung forward into the water. but the sergeant's mind was upon his work, and every detail of the struggle left its impress on his memory. he saw the dark sweep of the water, barely visible in the gleam of those few stars unobscured by cloud, and felt the sluggish flow against his legs as he moved. the bottom was soft, yet his feet did not sink deeply, although it was rather difficult wading. however, the clay gave him more confidence than sand underfoot, and there was less depth of water even than he had anticipated. he was wet only to the thighs when he toiled up on to the low spit of sand, and put the girl down a moment to catch a fresh breath and examine the broader stretch of water ahead. they could see both shores now, that which they had just left, a black, lumping, dim outline. except for the lapping of the water at their feet, all was deathly still. even the indian fire had died out, and it was hard to conceive that savages were hidden behind that black veil, and that they two were actually fleeing for their lives. to the girl it was like some dreadful delirium of sleep, but the man felt the full struggle. there was a star well down in the south he chose to guide by, but beyond that he must trust to good fortune. without a word he lifted her again to his shoulder, and pushed on. the water ran deeper, shelving off rapidly, until it rose well above his waist, and with sufficient current do that he was compelled to lean against it to maintain balance, scarcely venturing forward a foot at a time. once he stumbled over some obstruction, barely averting a fall; he felt the swift clutch of her fingers at his throat, the quick adjustment of her body, but her lips gave no utterance of alarm. his groping feet touched the edge of a hole, and he turned, facing the current, tracing his way carefully until he found a passage on solid bottom. a bit of driftwood swirled down out of the night; a water-soaked limb, striking against him before it was even seen, bruised one arm, and then dodged past like a wild thing, leaving a glitter of foam behind. the sand-dunes grew darker, more distinct, the water began to grow shallow, the bottom changing from mud to sand. he slipped and staggered in the uncertain footing, his breath coming in quicker gasps, yet with no cessation of effort. once he felt the dreaded suck about his ankles, and broke into a reckless run, splashing straight forward, falling at the water's edge, yet not before the girl was resting safely on the soft sand. strong as hamlin was, his muscles trained by strenuous out-door life, he lay there for a moment utterly helpless, more exhausted from the nervous strain indeed, than the physical exertion. he had realized fully the desperate nature of that passage, expecting every step to be engulfed, and the reaction, the knowledge that they had actually attained the shore safely, left him weak as a child, hardly able to comprehend the fact. the girl was upon her feet first, alarmed and solicitous, bending down to touch him with her hand. "sergeant, you are not hurt?" she questioned. "tell me you are not hurt?" "oh, no," dragging himself up the bank, yet panting as he endeavored to speak cheerfully. "only that was a rather hard pull, the last of it, and i am short of breath. i shall be all right in a moment." there was a sand-dune just beyond, and he seated himself and leaned against it. "i am beginning to breathe easier already," he explained. "sit down here, miss mcdonald. we are safe enough now in this darkness." "you are all wet, soaking wet." "that is nothing; the sand is warm yet from yesterday's sun, and my clothes will dry fast enough. it is beginning to grow light in the east." the faces of both turned in that direction where appeared the first twilight approach of dawn. already were visible the dark lines of the opposite shore, across the gleam of water, and beyond appeared the dim outlines of the higher bluffs. the slope between river and hill, however, remained in impenetrable darkness. the minds of both fugitives reverted to the same scene--the wrecked stage with its dead passengers within, its savage watchers without. she lifted her head, and the soft light reflected on her face. "i--i thank god we are not over there now," she said falteringly. "yes," he admitted. "they will be creeping in closer; they will not wait much longer. hard as i have worked, i can't realize yet that we are out of those toils." "you did not expect to succeed?" "no; frankly i did not; all i could do was hope--take the one chance left. the slightest accident meant betrayal. i am ashamed of being so weak just now, but it was the strain. you see," he explained carefully, "i 've been scouting through hostile indian country mostly day and night for nearly a week, and then this thing happened. no matter how iron a man is his nerve goes back on him after a while." "i know." "it was n't myself," he went on doggedly, "but it was the knowledge of having to take care of you. that was what made me worry; that, and knowing a single misstep, the slightest noise, would bring those devils on us, where i could n't fight, where there was just one thing i could do." there was silence, her hands pressed to her face, her eyes fixed on him. then she questioned him soberly. "you mean, kill me?" "sure," he answered simply, without looking around; "i would have had to do it--just as though you were a sister of mine." her hands reached out and clasped his, and he glanced aside at her face, seeing it clearly. "i--i thought you would," she said, her voice trembling. "i--i was going to ask you once before i was hurt, but--but i could n't, and somehow i trusted you from the first, when you got in." she hesitated, and then asked, "how did you know i was molly mcdonald? you never asked." the sergeant's eyes smiled, turning away from her face to stare out again across the river. "because i had seen your picture." "my picture? but you told us you were from fort union?" "yes; that is my station, only i had been sent to the cantonment on the cimarron with despatches. your father was in command there, and worried half to death about you. he could not leave the post, and the only officer remaining there with him was a disabled cavalry captain. every man he could trust was out on scouting service. he took a chance on me. maybe he liked my looks, i don't know; more probably, he judged i would n't be a sergeant and entrusted with those despatches i 'd just brought in, if i was n't considered trustworthy. anyhow i had barely fallen asleep when the orderly called me, and that was what was wanted--that i ride north and head you off." "but you were not obliged to go?" "no; i was not under your father's orders. i doubt if i would have consented if i had n't been shown your picture. i could n't very well refuse then." she sat with hands clasped together, her eyes shadowed by long lashes. "i should have thought there would have been some soldiers there--his own men." "there were," dryly, "but the army just now is recruited out of pretty tough material. to be in the ranks is almost a confession of good-for-nothingness. you are an officer's daughter and understand this to be true." "yes," she answered doubtfully. "i have been brought up thinking so; only, of course, there are exceptions." "no doubt, and i hope i am already counted one." "you know you are. my father trusted you, and so do i." "i have wondered some times," he said musingly, watching her face barely visible in the dawn, "whether those of your class actually considered us as being really human, as anything more valuable than mere food for powder. i came into the regular army at the close of the war from the volunteer service. i was accustomed to discipline and all that, and knew my place. but i never suspected then that a private soldier was considered a dog. yet that was the first lesson i was compelled to learn. it has been pretty hard sometimes to hold in, for there was a time when i had some social standing and could resent an insult." she was looking straight at him, surprised at the bitterness in his voice. "they carry it altogether too far," she said. "i have often thought that--mostly the young officers, the west pointers--and yet you know that the majority of enlisted men are--well, dragged from the slums. my father says it has been impossible to recruit a good class since the war closed, that the right kind had all the army they wanted." "which is true enough, but there are good men nevertheless, and every commander knows it. a little considerate treatment would make them better still." she shook her head questioningly. "i do not know," she admitted. "i suppose there are two viewpoints. you were in the volunteers, you said. why did you enlist in the regulars?" "largely because i liked soldiering, or thought i did. i knew there would be plenty of fighting out here, and, i believed, advancement." "you mean to a commission?" "yes. you see, i did not understand then the impossibility, the great gulf fixed. i dreamed that good fortune might give me something to do worth while." "and fate has been unkind?" "in a way, yes," and he laughed rather grimly. "i had my chance--twice; honorable mention, and all that, but that ended it. there is no bridge across the chasm. an enlisted man is not held fit for any higher position; if that was not sufficient to bar me, the fact that i had fought for the south would." "you were in the confederate army? you must have been very young." "oh, no; little more than a boy, of course, but so were the majority of my comrades. i was in my senior college year when the war broke out. but, miss mcdonald, this will never do! see how light it is growing. there, they have begun firing already. we must get back out of sight behind the sand-dunes." chapter x the ripening of acquaintance they needed to retire but a few steps to be entirely concealed, yet so situated as to command a view across the muddy stream. the sun had not risen above the horizon, but the gray dawn gave misty revealment of the sluggish-flowing river, the brown slope opposite, and the darker shadow of bluffs beyond. the popping of those distant guns had ceased by the time they attained their new position, and they could distinguish the indians--mere black dots against the brown slope--advancing in a semicircle toward the silent stage. evidently they were puzzled, fearful of some trickery, for occasionally a gun would crack viciously, the brown smoke plainly visible, the advancing savages halting to observe the effect. then a bright colored blanket was waved aloft as though in signal, and the entire body, converging toward the deserted coach, leaped forward with a wild yell, which echoed faintly across the water. the girl hid her face in the sand, with a half-stifled sob, but the sergeant watched grimly, his eyes barely above the ridge. what would they do when they discovered the dead bodies?--when they realized that others had eluded their vigilance during the night? would they be able to trace them, or would his ruse succeed? of course their savage cunning would track them as far as the river--there was no way in which he could have successfully concealed the trail made down the gully, or the marks left on the sandy bank. but would they imagine he had dared to cross the broad stream, burdened with the girl, confronting almost certain death in the quicksand? would they not believe rather that he had waded along the water's edge headed west, hoping thus to escape to the bluffs, where some hiding-place might be found? even if they suspected a crossing, would any warriors among them be reckless enough to follow? would they not be more apt to believe that both fugitives had been sucked down into the treacherous stream? almost breathless hamlin watched, these thoughts coursing through his mind, realizing the deadly trap in which they were caught, if the indians suspected the truth and essayed the passage. behind them was sand, ridge after ridge, as far as the eye could discern, and every step they took in flight would leave its plain trail. and now the test was at hand. he saw them crowd about the coach, leaping and yelling with fury; watched them jerk open the door, and drag forth the two dead bodies, dancing about them, like so many demons, brandishing their guns. a moment they were bunched thus, their wild yelling shrill with triumph; then some among them broke away, bending low as they circled in against the bluff. they knew already that there had been others in the stage, others who had escaped. they were seeking the trail. suddenly one straightened up gesticulating, and the others rushed toward him--they had found the "sign"! they were silent now, those main trailers, two of them on hands and knees. only back where the bodies lay some remained yelling and dancing furiously. then they also, in response to a shout and the wave of a blanketed arm, scattered, running west toward the gully. there was no hesitancy now; some savage instinct seemed to tell them where the fugitives had gone. they dragged the dead warrior from the ditch, screaming savagely at the discovery. a dozen scrambled for the river bank, others ran for the pony herd, while one or two remained beside the dead warrior. even at that distance hamlin could distinguish roman nose, and tell what were his orders by every gesture of his arm. the sergeant grasped the girl's hand, his own eyes barely above the sand ridge, his lips whispering back. "no, don't move; i'll tell you everything. the stage has been gutted and set on fire. now they are coming with the ponies. most of them are directly opposite studying the marks we left on the sand of the bank. yes, they look across here, but the chief is sure we have gone the other way; he is waving his hand up the river now, and talking. now he is getting on his horse; there are ten or twelve of them. one fellow is pointing across here, but no one agrees with him. now roman nose is giving orders. hear that yell! they 're off now, riding up stream, lashing their ponies into a run. all of them? no; quite a bunch are going back to the coach. i don't believe they are going to hang around here long though, for they are driving in all their ponies." [illustration: "no, don't move! the stage has been gutted and set on fire."] "but won't those others come back when they discover we have not gone up the river?" "i wish i could answer that," he replied earnestly. "but it all depends on what those devils know of the whereabouts of troops. they are northern indians, and must have broken through the scouting details sent out from wallace and dodge. some of the boys are bound to be after them, and there is more chance for them to get back safely along the mountains than in the other direction. i don't suppose an indian in the bunch was ever south of the arkansas. wait! those fellows are going to move now; going for good, too--they are taking the dead indians with them." they were little more than black dots at that distance, yet the sun was up by this time and his keen vision could distinguish every movement. "creep up here, and you can see also," he said quietly. "they are far enough away now so that it is safe." there was a moment of breathless quiet, the two fugitives peering cautiously over the sand ridge. to the girl it was a confusion of figures rushing back and forth about the smoking ruins of the stage; occasionally a faint yell echoed across the river, and she could distinguish a savage on his pony gesticulating as he rode back and forth. but the sergeant comprehended the scene. his eyes met hers and read her bewilderment. "they are going all right, and in a hurry. it's plain enough they are afraid to stay there any longer. see, they are lashing bodies on to the ponies. ah, that is what i wanted to be sure about--that fellow is heading west on the trail; now the others are moving." "then you are sure roman nose will not return? that--that we are safe?" "yes; i would n't hesitate to go back as soon as the last of them disappear over the ridge," pointing up the river. "they knew they had to go that way; roman nose and his band hoped we 'd taken that direction, and hurried on ahead to catch us if he could. they are afraid to stay about here any longer. look how they are lashing those ponies; there, the last of them are leaving." they lay there in the sand, already becoming warm, under the rays of the sun, trying to assure themselves that all danger of discovery had vanished. there was no movement on the opposite shore, only the blue spiral of smoke curling up against the bluff, marking where the stage had stood. about this, outlined upon the brown grass, appeared darker patches representing dead ponies and the bodies of moylan and gonzales where they had been tumbled, scalped and otherwise mutilated. down by the river a wounded pony tried to follow the disappearing cavalcade, but fell, giving vent to one scream of agony. then all was silent, motionless, the last straggler clubbing his horse pitilessly as he vanished over the ridge. hamlin sat up, his eyes smiling. "we are the lucky ones, miss mcdonald," he said, his manner unconsciously more formal now that the danger had passed and a swift realization of who his companion was recurring to his mind. "something must have frightened them." he shaded his eyes, staring at the bluffs opposite, "but there is nothing in sight from here. well, the best thing we can do is to eat breakfast. may i have the haversack, and see what it is stocked with?" "certainly not. there is so little i can do, i do not propose yielding any prerogative." and she drew her head through the strap, letting the leather bag fall to the sand. "i am afraid there is no cloth here. would you dare light a fire?" "hardly, even if we had fuel," he answered, watching her with interest. she glanced up into his face, her cheeks reddening. "why don't you want me to do this?" "how do you know i object? indeed, it is quite pleasant to be waited upon. only, you see, it is very unusual for an officer's daughter to take such good care of an enlisted man." "but i am not thinking of that at all. you--this is different." "for the moment, perhaps," just a slight bitterness in his tone, "and i should enjoy it while i can." she stopped in her work, sitting straight before him. her eyes were indignant, yet she stifled the first words that leaped to her lips. his soft hat lay on the sand and the sun revealed his tanned face, bringing out its strength. "you--should n't say that," she faltered. "surely you do not believe i will ever become ungrateful." "no; and yet gratitude is not altogether satisfactory." he hesitated. "it is hard to explain just what i mean to you, for you do not realize the life we lead out here--the loneliness of it. even a man in the ranks may possess the desires of a human being. i--well, i 'm hungry for the companionship of a good woman. don't misunderstand, miss mcdonald. i am not presuming, nor taking advantage of the accident which has placed us in this peculiar position, but i have been a trooper out here now a long while, stationed at little isolated frontier posts, riding the great plains, doing the little routine duties of soldiering. i have n't spoken to a decent woman on terms of social equality for two years; i 've looked at a few from a distance and taken orders from them. but they have glanced through me as though i were something inanimate instead of a man. i saved an officer's life once down there," and he pointed into the southeast, "and his wife thanked me as though it were a disagreeable duty. i reckon you don't understand, but i don't like the word gratitude." "but i do understand," and she stretched out her hand to him across the opened haversack. "i 'm not so dull, and it must be awful to feel alone like that, i told you i--i liked you, and--i do. now remember that, please, and be good. from now on i am not major mcdonald's daughter, not even miss mcdonald--i 'm just molly mcdonald." the gray eyes laughed. "you are assuming a great risk." "i don't believe it," her forehead wrinkling a little, but her eyes bright. "you and i can be friends--can't we?" "we 'll try, out here, at least. even if the dream does n't last long, it will be pleasant to remember." "you do not think it will last, then?" he shook his head. "i would be a fool to hope; i have been in the army too long." they were still for a minute, the girl's fingers toying with the flap of the haversack, her eyes gazing across the river. he thought they were misty. "i am sorry you are so prejudiced," she said at last slowly, "for i am not like that at all. i am not going to be ashamed of a friend because he--he is in the ranks. i shall be only the more proud. what is your full name?" he passed his hand over his hair, and laughed. "they call me 'brick' hamlin--a subtle reference to this crown of glory." "but it is n't red," she insisted swiftly. "only it shows a little bright with the sun on it, and i am not going to call you that. i don't like nicknames. what did they call you before you went into the army? when--when you did know good women?" the sergeant bent his head, and then lifted his gray eyes to the girl's face. "i had almost forgotten," he confessed, "but i'll tell you--david carter hamlin; there, you have all of it--my mother called me dave--could you, once?" "could i?" laughingly. "why, of course; now, dave, we will have breakfast." "and i am quite ready for it--molly." the girl's cheeks reddened, but their eyes met, and both laughed. chapter xi a remembrance of the past moylan must have had miss mcdonald in mind when he had stocked up with food at fort dodge, and had therefore chosen all the delicacies to be found at that frontier post. these were not extensive, consisting largely of canned goods, which, nevertheless, made a brave show, and were clearly enough not the ordinary fare of the border. hamlin had to smile at the array, but molly handled each article almost with reverence, tears dimming her eyes in memory. "he--he bought these for me," she said softly, and looking across reproachfully at the sergeant. "it was the best he could do." "i was not laughing at poor moylan; only, i fear, he had a wrong conception of a girl's needs on the trail. but i reckon our combined appetites are equal to it." "i do not feel as though i could swallow a mouthful." "under orders you will try. we have a hard day before us, young lady, and some tramping to do afoot. i wish i knew where that horse i turned loose last night has drifted to; into the bluffs, probably, where the grass is green. he would be of some help just now. try this, miss mcdonald, for lack of something better. i yearn for ham and coffee, but hardly dare build a fire yet. the smoke would be seen for miles away." "if we were across the river we could use the stage fire." "yes, but there is a wide river flowing between. don't be afraid of that trip," noting the expression of her face. "it will be easy enough to cross back by daylight, now that i know where the danger spots are." "i was not so terribly afraid last night; i hardly had time to realize what was being done, did you?" "well, yes; it was risky business. awfully treacherous bottom and i was trusting to good luck." the sergeant ate heartily, speaking occasionally so as to divert her mind, but for the most part, busily thinking and endeavoring to decide his next move. he sat facing the river, continually lifting his head to scan the opposite shore. there was probably a scouting detail somewhere near at hand, either approaching from the east, alarmed by the report of the fleeing stage crew, or else a detachment tracking roman nose's warriors across those plains extending into the north. the latter contingency was the more probable, judging from the indians' flight, and his own knowledge of the small reserve force left at dodge. besides, ride as they might those two fleeing cowards of yesterday could hardly have yet reached that shelter of safety and might not confess the truth of their desertion even when they did arrive. a pursuing force was the only real hope for escaping the necessity of a hard tramp back over the trail. well, the girl looked fit, and he glanced toward her appreciatively. in spite of the sad experiences of the past night she was a pleasant spectacle, her eyes bright with excitement, her cheeks flushed under the morning sun which flecked her dark, disordered hair with odd color. hers was a winsome face, with smiling lips, and frank good nature in its contour. he was surprised to note how fresh and well she looked. "are you tired?" "not very. it seems more as though i had dreamed all this than actually passed through the experience. perhaps when i do realize, the reaction will set in. but now i am strong, and--and not at all frightened." "nor hungry?" "it is hard to eat, but i am often that way." her hand strayed to the emptied haversack, and she turned it carelessly over, where it lay beside her on the sand. "why, this is an old confederate sack, isn't it? i hadn't noticed before; see, the 'c. s. a.' is on the flap." "so it is; perhaps moylan served in the south." "i think not. i am sure this was never his, for he bought it at dodge. i remember he told me he would have to find something to carry our lunch in." she pushed the flap farther back, then held it up to the sunlight. "there are some other letters, but they are hardly decipherable. i cannot read the first line at all, but the second is somewhat plainer--'fourth texas infantry.'" hamlin reached out his hand swiftly, and grasped the haversack, forgetting everything else in suddenly aroused interest. the girl, surprised, stared up into his face, as he closely studied the faded inscription, his face expressing unconcealed amazement. "good god!" he ejaculated breathlessly. "it was gene's. what can this mean?" "you--you knew the soldier?" "knew him? yes," speaking almost unconsciously, his incredulous eyes still on the inscription, as though fearful it might vanish. "that man was either my best friend, or my worst enemy; under heaven, i know not which. why, it is like a miracle, the finding of this bag out here in the desert. it is the clue i have been searching after for nearly five years." he seemed to pull himself together with an effort, realizing her presence. "excuse me, miss mcdonald, but this thing knocked me silly. i hardly knew what i was saying." "it means much to you? to your life?" "everything, if i can only trace it back, and thus discover the present whereabouts of the original owner." "was that your regiment, then--the fourth texas infantry?" he bowed his head, now looking frankly at her. "would you mind telling me your rank?" "i became captain of 'b' company after the fight at chancellorsville; we served in virginia under massa robert, and lost every commissioned officer in that affair." he hesitated to go on, but she prompted him by a question: "and then what? what was it that happened? don't be afraid to tell me." his gray eyes met hers, and then turned away, his lips pressed together. "nothing until the day we fought at fisher's hill," he said slowly. "then i was dismissed from the service--for cowardice." "cowardice!" repeating the word in quick protest. "why, how could that be? surely your courage had been sufficiently tested before?" "cowardice, and disobedience of orders," he repeated dully, "after i had been under fire almost night and day for three years; after i had risen from the ranks and commanded the regiment." "and you had no defence?" "no; at least, none i could use; this man might have saved me, but he did not, and i never knew why." "who was he?" "my senior captain, detailed on early's staff; he brought me the orders verbally i was afterwards accused of disobeying. i was temporarily in command of the regiment that day with rank as major. there was a mistake somewhere, and we were horribly cut up, and a number taken prisoners. it was my word against his, and--and he lied." she took the haversack from him, studying the scarcely legible inscription. "'e. l. f.' are those the letters?" "yes; they stand for eugene le fevre; he was of french descent, his home in new orleans." "you knew him well?" "i thought so; we were at school together and afterwards in the army." she looked across at him again, touched by the tender echo of his voice; then leaned forward and placed one hand upon his. "you have not spoken about this for a long while, have you?" "no," his eyes lighting up pleasantly, "hardly thought of it, except sometimes alone at night. the memory made me savage, and all my efforts to ascertain the truth have proven useless." "that is why you enlisted?" "largely; there is no better place to hide one's past than in the ranks out here on the plains. i--i could not remain at home with that disgrace hanging over me." "you must tell me all about it." her head lifted suddenly as she gazed out across the river, shading her eyes. "why, what are those?" she exclaimed eagerly, "there, moving on the bluffs opposite?" his glance swept to the northward, and he was as instantly the soldier again. far away on the upper plateau, clearly outlined against the blue of the distant sky, appeared a number of dark figures. for a moment he believed them buffaloes, but in another instant decided instead they were horsemen riding two by two. "get down lower, miss mcdonald," he commanded. "now we can see, and not be seen. they must be cavalrymen, the way they ride, but we can take no chances." they watched the black specks pass east to where the bluff circled in toward the river. it was from there those distant riders first observed the dim spiral of smoke still curling up from the burning stage, for they halted, bunching together, and then disappeared slowly down a gash in the side of the hill. emerging on the lower flat they turned in the direction of the fire, spurring their horses into a swift trot. there was no longer any doubt of their being troopers, and hamlin stood upright on the sand hummock waving his hat. they were gathered about the fire, a few dismounted beside the dead bodies, before his signal was observed. then a field glass flashed in the sunlight, and three or four of the party rode down to the bank of the river. one of these, the glasses still held in his hand, his horse's hoofs in the water, shouted across the stream. "who are you over there?" "white people," answered hamlin, using his hands for a trumpet. "we escaped from the stage last night. i am a sergeant, seventh cavalry, and the lady with me is the daughter of major mcdonald at fort devere." "how did you get across?" "waded in the dark; there is good bottom. send a man over with a couple of horses." the officer turned and spoke to the others grouped beside him; then raised his voice again. "are you sure there is no quicksand?" "none to hurt; come straight over the end of that sand spit, and then swerve about a dozen feet to the right to keep out of a hole. the water won't go to a horse's belly. try it, wasson, you ought to know me." "you 're 'brick' hamlin, ain't you?" "a good guess, sam; come on." two troopers left their saddles, and the third man, the one answering the last hail, gathered the reins in one hand, and spurred his horse confidently into the brown water. following the sergeant's shouted directions, the three animals plunged forward and came dripping up the low sand bank. the rider, a sallow-faced man clad in rough corduroy, patched and colorless, leaned over and held out his hand. "dern yer o' skin," he said solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eyes, "ye 're sure got the luck of it. ain't seen ye afore fer two years." "that 's right, sam; down on the cowskin, wasn't it? who 's over there?" "leftenant gaskins, an' some o' the fourth cavalry, scoutin' out o' dodge; been plum to ther mountings, an' goin' home ag'in. whut the hell (beggin' yer pardin, mam) has happened yere?" "i 'll explain when we get across," and hamlin swung the haversack to his shoulder, and turned to the girl. "this is sam wasson, miss mcdonald, a scout i have been out with before; let me help you into the saddle." chapter xii the parting they recrossed the stream carefully, the horses restless and hard to control in the current, the men riding on either side, grasping the bit of the girl's mount. others had joined the little squad of troopers on the bank, and welcomed them with a cheer. the lieutenant dismounted. at sight of the girl's face he whipped off his hat, and came forward. "miss mcdonald," he said, pleasantly greeting her, "i am lieutenant gaskins, and i have met your father--of the sixth infantry, is he not? so glad to be of service, you know. you were in the stage, i understand; a most remarkable escape." "i owe it all to sergeant hamlin," she replied, turning to glance toward the latter. "he bore me away unconscious in his arms. indeed, i scarcely realized what happened. do you know anything regarding my father?" "oh, yes, i can put your mind at ease so far as he is concerned. i presume you were endeavoring to reach his post when this unfortunate affair occurred." "yes." "sheridan has ordered devere abandoned for the present, and the major's troops are to return to dodge. no doubt we shall be in the field within a week or two. but we can cultivate acquaintance later; now i must straighten out this affair." he bowed again, and turned stiffly toward hamlin, who had dismounted, his manner instantly changing. he was a short, heavily built man, cleanly shaven, with dark, arrogant eyes, and prominent chin. "you are a sergeant of the seventh, you said," he began brusquely. "what were you doing here?" "my troop is stationed at fort union," was the quiet response. "i carried despatches to devere, and while there was requested by major mcdonald to intercept his daughter and turn her back." "were you subject to major mcdonald's orders?" "it was not an order, but a request." "oh, indeed; a mere pleasure excursion." "it has hardly turned out that way, sir, and conditions seemed to justify my action." "that is for others to determine. when was the attack made?" "just before sundown last evening. the driver and guard escaped on the lead horses, and the wheelers ran away, wrecking the coach." "there were four passengers?" "yes; we fought them off until after dark, although the mexican was killed by the first fire. i don't know when the other man got his." "who were they?" "gonzales ran a high-ball game at santa fé; the other, moylan, was post-sutler at fort marcy." "how many indians? who were they?" "about thirty; we must have killed five or six. it was hardly more than daylight when they left, and i could not tell just how many bodies they strapped on the ponies. they were a mixed bunch of young bucks, principally arapahoes, led by roman nose." "went west, hey?" "yes, sir." the lieutenant turned his gaze up the river, and then looked at wasson, who remained seated in the saddle. "must be the same lot maxwell told us about up on pawnee fork, sam," he said at last. "he will be likely to cut their trail some time to-day. we knew a bunch had headed south, but did n't suppose they had got as far as this already. better leave maxwell to run them in, i suppose? our orders are to return to dodge." "they have n't three hours the start," ventured hamlin in surprise, "and cannot travel fast with so many of their ponies doubly loaded." "that is for me to decide," staring insolently, "and i understand my duty without any advice. is there any damage done west of here?" "the station at the crossing is burned; two dead men there; i don't know what became of the third." "then it is just as i thought; those fellows will turn north before they get that far, and will run straight into maxwell. what do you say, sam?" the scout lolled carelessly in the saddle, his eyes on the river, his lean, brown face expressionless. "i reckon as how it don't make no great difference what i say," he answered soberly. "yer ain't taken no advice frum me yit, fur as i remember. but if yer really want ter know, this time, my notion is them bucks will most likely hide in the bluffs till night, an' then sneak past maxwell after it gits good an' dark. if this yere wus my outfit now, i 'd just naturally light on to the trail fast, orders er no orders. i reckon it's injuns we cum out after, an' i don't suppose the war department would find any fault if we found a few." the blood surged into the lieutenant's face, but opposition only served to increase his obstinacy. "i prefer to rely on my own judgment," he said tartly. "from what this man reports they are in stronger force than we are. besides my instructions were not to provoke hostilities." wasson grinned, revealing his yellow teeth. "sure not; they are so damned peaceable themselves." "i prefer leaving captain maxwell to deal with the situation," gaskins went on pompously, ignoring the sneer, "as he outranks me, and i am under strict instructions to return at once to the fort. two of our horses are disabled already, and smiley is too sick to be left alone. there are only sixteen men fit for duty, and three of those would have to be detailed to look after him. i 'll not risk it. well," he broke off suddenly, and addressing a corporal who had just ridden up and saluted, "have you buried the bodies?" "yes, sir; found these papers on them." the lieutenant thrust these into his jacket pocket. "very well, hough. form the men into column. miss mcdonald, you will retain the horse you have, and i should be very glad to have you ride with me. oh, corporal, was everything in the coach destroyed? nothing saved belonging to this lady?" "only the ironwork is left, sir." "so i thought; exceedingly sorry, miss mcdonald. the ladies at dodge will have to fit you out when we get in. i am a bachelor, you know," he added, glancing aside into her face, "but can promise every attention." her eyes sought hamlin where he stood straight and motionless, respectfully waiting an opportunity to speak. "is--is this what i ought to do?" she questioned, leaning toward him. "i am so confused i hardly know what is best." "why, of course," broke in the lieutenant hastily. "you may trust me to advise." "but my question was addressed to sergeant hamlin," she interposed, never glancing aside. "he understands the situation better than you." the sergeant held his hat in his hand, his eyes meeting her own frankly, but with a new light in them. she had not forgotten now the danger was over; she meant him to realize her friendship. "it seems to me the only safe course for you to take, miss mcdonald," he said slowly, endeavoring to keep the note of triumph out of his voice. "your father is perfectly safe, and will join you within a few days. i would not dare attempt your protection farther west." "you are not going with us then?" she questioned in surprise. "not if lieutenant gaskins will furnish me with horse and rifle. i must report at union, and, on the way, tell your father where you are." "but the danger! oh, you mustn't attempt such a ride alone!" "that is nothing; the valley is swept clean, and i shall do most of my riding at night. any plainsman could do the trick--hey, sam?" wasson nodded, chewing solemnly on the tobacco in his cheek. "he 'll make the trip all right, miss," he drawled lazily. "wish i was goin' long. i 'm sure tired o' this sorter scoutin', i am. down below the cimarron is the only place ye 'll have ter watch out close, 'brick.' them comanches an' apaches are the worst lot." "i know--night riders themselves, but i know the trail. can you outfit me, lieutenant?" gaskins smiled grimly, but with no trace of humor. his eyes were upon the girl, still leaning over her pommel. "i 'll outfit you all right," he said brusquely, "and with no great regret, either. and i shall report finding you here in disobedience to orders." "very well, sir." molly's brown eyes swept to the lieutenant's face, her form straightening in the saddle, her lips pressed tightly together. gaskins fronted the sergeant, stung into anger by the man's quiet response. "i shall prefer charges, you understand," almost savagely. "helm, give this fellow that extra rifle, and ammunition belt. mcmasters, you will let him have your horse." wasson rolled out of his saddle, muttering something indistinctly, which might have been an oath. "i ain't goin' ter stand fer that, leftenant," he said defiantly. "bein' as i ain't no enlisted man, an' this yere is my hoss, 'brick' hamlin don't start on no such ride on that lame brute o' mcmasters'. here, you 'brick,' take this critter. oh, shut up! i'll git to dodge all right. won't hurt me none to walk." the eyes of the two men met understandingly, and hamlin took the rein in his hand. gaskins started to speak, but thought better of it. a moment he stood, irresolute, and then swung up into saddle, his glance ignoring the sergeant. "attention! company," he commanded sharply. "by column four--march!" the girl spurred her horse forward, and held out her hand. "good-bye," she said, falteringly, "you--will be careful." "of course," and he smiled up into her eyes. "don't worry about me--i am an old hand." "and i am to see you again?" "i shall never run away, surely, and i hope for the best--" "miss mcdonald," broke in gaskins impatiently, "the men are already moving." "yes," her eyes still upon the sergeant's uncovered face, "i am coming. don't imagine i shall ever forget," she murmured hastily, "or that i will not be glad to meet you anywhere." "some time i may put you to the test," he answered soberly. "if any trouble comes, trust wasson--he is a real man." he stood there, one arm thrown over the neck of the horse, watching them ride away up the trail. the lieutenant and the girl were together at the rear of the short column, and he seemed to be talking earnestly. hamlin never moved, or took his eyes from her until they disappeared over the ridge. just as they dipped down out of sight she turned and waved one hand. then the man's gaze swept over the débris of the burned stage, and the two mounds of earth. even these mute evidences of tragedy scarcely sufficed to make him realize all that had occurred in this lonely spot. he could not seem to separate his thought from the cavalcade which had just departed, leaving behind the memory of that farewell wave of the hand. to him it marked the end of a dream, the return to a life distasteful and lonely. mechanically the sergeant loaded his rifle, and strapped the old confederate haversack to his saddle pommel, staring again, half unbelieving, at the faded inscription underneath the flap. yet the sight of those letters awoke him, bringing to his bronzed face a new look of determination. he swung into the saddle, and, rifle across his knees, his eyes studying the desolate distance, rode westward along the deserted trail. chapter xiii back at fort dodge the swiftly speeding weeks of that war-summer on the plains had brought many changes to the hard-worked troops engaged in the campaign or garrisoning the widely scattered posts south of the platte. scouting details, although constantly in the saddle, failed to prevent continued indian depredations on exposed settlements. stage routes were deserted, and the toiling wagons of the freighters vanished from the trails. reports of outrages were continuous, and it became more and more evident that the various tribes were at length united in a desperate effort to halt the white advance. war parties broke through the wide-strung lines of guard, and got safely away again, leaving behind death and destruction. only occasionally did these indian raiders and the pursuing troops come into actual contact. the former came and went in swift forays, now appearing on the pawnee, again on the saline, followed by a wild ride down the valley of the arkansas. scattered in small bands, well mounted and armed, no one could guess where the next attack might occur. every day brought its fresh report of horror. from north and south, east and west, news of outrages came into sheridan's headquarters at fort wallace. denver, at the base of the mountains, was practically in state of siege, provisioned only by wagon trains sent through under strong guard; the fringe of settlement along the water ways was deserted, men and women fleeing to the nearest government posts for protection and food. the troops, few in number and widely scattered in small detachments, many being utilized as scouts and guards, were unequal to the gigantic task of protecting so wide a frontier. skirmishes were frequent, but the indians were wary and resourceful, and only once during the entire summer were they brought into real decisive battle. the last of august, major forsythe, temporarily commanding a company of volunteer scouts, was suddenly attacked by over a thousand warriors under command of roman nose. a four days' fight resulted, with heavy loss on both sides, the indians being finally driven from the field by the opportune arrival of fresh troops. the general condition of affairs is well shown by the reports reaching fort wallace in september. governor hunt wrote from denver: "just returned. fearful condition of things here. nine persons murdered by indians yesterday, within radius of nine miles." a few days later, acting governor hall reported: "the indians have again attacked our settlements in strong force, obtaining possession of the country to within twelve miles of denver. they are more bold, fierce, and desperate in their assaults than ever before. it is impossible to drive them out and protect the families at the same time, for they are better armed, mounted, disciplined, and better officered than our men. each hour brings intelligence of fresh barbarities, and more extensive robberies." this same month governor crawford, of kansas, telegraphed, "have just received a despatch from hays, stating that indians attacked, captured, and burned a train at pawnee fork; killed, scalped, and burned sixteen men; also attacked another train at cimarron crossing, which was defended until ammunition was exhausted, when the men abandoned the train, saving what stock they could. similar attacks are of almost daily occurrence." south of the cimarron all was desolation, and war raged unchecked from the platte to the pecos. sheridan determined upon a winter campaign, although he understood well the sufferings entailed upon the troops by exposure on the open plains at that season. yet he knew the habits of indians; that they would expect immunity from attack and would gather in villages, subject to surprise. he, therefore, decided that the result would justify the necessary hardships involved. to this end smaller posts were abandoned, and the widely scattered soldiers ordered to central points in preparation for the contemplated movement. devere had been deserted earlier, and major mcdonald had marched his men to dodge, where molly awaited his coming. retained there on garrison duty, the two occupied a one-story, yellow stone structure fronting the parade ground. in october, orders to march reached "m" troop, seventh cavalry, at fort union, and the ragged, bronzed troopers, who all summer long had been scouting the new mexican plains, turned their horses' heads to the northeast in hopefulness of action. with them up the deserted santa fé trail, past burned stations and wrecks of wagon trains, rode sergeant hamlin, silent and efficient, the old confederate haversack fastened to his saddle, and his mind, in spite of all effort, recurring constantly to the girl who had gone to dodge early in the summer. was she still there? if so, how would she greet him now after these months of absence? the little cavalry column, dust-covered and weary, seemed fairly to creep along, as day by day he reviewed every word, every glance, which had passed between them; and at night, under the stars, he lay with head on his saddle, endeavoring to determine his course of action, both as to their possible meeting, and with regard to the following of the clue offered by the haversack. the time he had hoped for was at hand, but he could not decide the best course of action. he could only wait, and permit fate to interfere. certain facts were, however, sufficiently clear, and the sergeant faced them manfully. not merely the fact that he was in the ranks, great as that handicap was, could have prevented an attempt at retaining the friendship of molly mcdonald. but he was in the ranks because of disgrace--hiding away from his own people, keeping aloof from his proper station in life, out of bitter shame. if he had felt thus before, he now felt it a thousand times more acutely in memory of the comradeship of her whose words had brought him a new gleam of hope. never before had loneliness seemed so complete, and never before had he realized how wide was the chasm between the old and the new life. this constantly recurrent memory embittered him, and made him restless. yet out of it all, there grew a firmer determination to win back his old position in the world, to stamp out the lie through which that confederate court-martial had condemned him. if le fevre were alive, he meant now to find him, face him, and compel him to speak the truth. the discovery of that haversack gave a point from which to start, and his mind centred there with a fixed purpose which obscured all else. it was after dark when "m" troop, wearied by their long day's march across the brown grass, rode slowly up the face of the bluff, and into the parade ground at fort dodge. the lights of the guard-house revealed the troopers' faces, while all about them gleamed the yellow lamps, as the garrison came forth to welcome their arrival. guided by a corporal of the guard the men led their horses to the stables, and, as they passed the row of officers' houses hamlin caught a furtive glimpse in a radius of light that gave his pulses a sudden throb. she was here then--here! he had hardly dared hope for this. they would meet again; that could scarcely be avoided in such narrow quarters. but how? on what terms? he ventured the one swift glimpse at her--a slender, white-robed figure, one among a group of both men and women before an open door, through which the light streamed--heard her ask, "who are they? what cavalry troop is that?" caught the response in a man's voice, "'m' of the seventh, from fort union," and then passed by, his eyes looking straight ahead, his hand gripping his horse's bit. thirty minutes later in the great barn-like barracks, he hung his accoutrements over the bed assigned him in the far corner, and, revolver belt still buckled about his waist, stood at the open window, striving to determine which of those winking lights shone from the house where he had seen her. there had been something in the eagerness of her voice which he could not forget, nor escape from. she had seemed to care, to feel an interest deeper than mere curiosity. the sergeant's heart beat rapidly, even while he sternly told himself he was a fool. a hand touched his shoulder, and he wheeled about to grip wasson's hand. "well, 'brick,' old boy," said the scout genially, although his thin face was as solemn as ever; "so you fellows have come back to be in the shindy?" "we 've been in it all summer, sam," was the reply. "it's been lively enough south of the cimarron, the lord knows. i 've been riding patrol for months now. but what's up? no one seems to know why we were ordered in." "it's all guess-work here," and wasson sat down on the narrow bed and lit his pipe. "but the 'old man' is getting something under way, consolidating troops. your regiment is going to be used, that's certain. i 've been carryin' orders between here an' wallace for three weeks now, an' i 've heard sheridan explode once or twice. he 's tired of this guerilla business, an' wants to have one good fight." "it is getting late." "that's the way he figures it out, accordin' to my notion. we 've always let those fellows alone during the bad weather, an' they 've got so they expect it. the 'old man' figures he 'll give 'em a surprise." "a winter campaign?" "why not? we can stand it if they can. o' course, i 'm just guessin'; there 's no leak at headquarters. but custer 's up there," with a wave of the hand to the north, "and they 've got the maps out." "what maps?" "i only got a glimpse of them out of the tail of my eye, but i reckon they was of the kintry south of the arkansas, along the canadian." hamlin sat down beside him, staring across the big room. "then it's black kettle; his band is down on the washita," he announced. "i hope it's true." "they 're arrangin' supply depots, anyhow; six companies of infantry are on monument creek, and five troops of cavalry on the north canadian a'ready. wagon trains have been haulin' supplies. there 's some stiff work ahead when the snow flies, or i miss my guess." hamlin sat silent, thinking, and the scout smoked quietly, occasionally glancing toward his companion. finally he spoke again, his voice barely audible. "that little girl you sent in with us is here yet." the sergeant was conscious that his cheeks flamed, but he never looked up. "yes, i saw her as we came in." "she 's asked me about you once or twice; don't seem to forget what you did for her." "sorry to hear that." "no, yer not; could n't no man be sorry to have a girl like that take an interest in him. 't ain't in human nature. what did yer tell her about me?" "tell her!" surprised. "why, i only advised her to hang close to you if anything happened. i didn't exactly like the style of the lieutenant." "thet's wat i thought. well, she's done it, though thet has n't pried her loose from gaskins. he 's hauntin' her like a shadow. it 's garrison talk they 're engaged, but i ain't so sure 'bout thet. she an' i hev got to be pretty good friends, though, o' course, it's strictly on the quiet. i ain't got no invite to officers' row yit. she 's asked me a lot 'bout you." "interesting topic." "well, i reckon as how she thinks it is, enyhow. yesterday she asked me 'bout thet scrimmage yer hed down on the canadian. she 'd heerd 'bout it somehow, an' wanted the story straight. so i told her all i knowed, an' yer oughter seed her eyes shine while i wus sorter paintin' it up." "oh, hell; let's drop it," disgustedly. "the lieutenant here yet?" "sure; his company is down on monument, but he got special detail. he 's got a pull, gaskins has." "how is that?" "his old man is senator, or something, an' they say, has scads o' money. enyway, the kid finds the army a soft snap. first scoutin' detail he ever had when you met him. did n't hunt no danger then, so fur as i could see. nice little dude, with a swelled head, but popular with the ladies. i reckon mcdonald ain't objectin' none to his chasin' after miss molly; thet's why he 's let her stay in this god-forsaken place so long. well, 'brick,' i reckon i 've told all the news, and hed better move 'long." "hold on a minute, sam," and hamlin, suddenly recalled to earth, reached for the haversack hanging on the iron bedpost. "moylan, the fellow who was killed in the coach with us, had this bag. according to miss mcdonald, he bought it here just before starting on the trip. see this inscription; those are the initials of an old acquaintance of mine i 'd like to trace. any idea where moylan found it?" wasson held the bag to the light studying the letters. "fourth texas--hey? that your regiment?" the sergeant nodded, his lips tightly pressed together. "must hev come from dutch charlie's outfit," the scout went on slowly. "he picks up all that sorter truck." "where is that?" "in town thar, under the bluff. we 'll look it up to-morrow." chapter xiv under arrest one by one the barrack lights went out as the tired troopers sought their beds. hamlin extinguished his also, and only one remained burning, left for emergency near the door, which flung a faint glow over the big room. but the sergeant's reflections kept him awake, as he sat on the foot of his bed, and stared out of the open window into the darkness. there was little upon which to focus his eyes, a few yellow gleams along officers' row, where callers still lingered, and the glow of a fire in front of the distant guard-house, revealing occasionally the black silhouette of a passing sentinel. few noises broke the silence, except the strains of some distant musical instrument, and a voice far away saying good-night. once he awoke from revery to listen to the call of the guards, as it echoed from post to post, ceasing with "all well, number nine," far out beyond the stables. the familiar sound served to recall him to the reality of his position. what was the use? what business had he to dream? for months now he had kept that girl's face before him, in memory of a few hours of happiness when he had looked into her dark eyes and heard her pleasant speech. yet from the first he had known the foolishness of it all. he was nothing to her, and could never become anything. even if he cleared his past record and stepped out of the ranks into his old social position, the chances were she would never overlook what he had been. her gratitude meant little, nor her passing interest in his army career. all that was the natural result of his having saved her life. he possessed no egotism which permitted him to think otherwise. years of discipline had drilled into him a consciousness of the impassable gulf between the private and the officer's daughter. the latter might be courteous, kindly disposed, even grateful for services rendered, but it must end there. the major would see that it did, would resent bitterly any presumption. no, there was nothing else possible. if they met--as meet they must in that contracted post--it would be most formal, a mere exchange of reminiscence, gratitude expressed by a smile and pleasant word. he could expect no more; might esteem himself fortunate, indeed, to receive even that recognition. meanwhile he would endeavor to strike le fevre's trail. there were other interests in the world to consider besides molly mcdonald, and his memory drifted away to a home he had not visited in years. but thought would not concentrate there, and there arose before him, as he lay there, the face of lieutenant gaskins, wearing the same expression of insolent superiority as when they had parted out yonder on the santa fé trail. "the cowardly little fool," he muttered bitterly under his breath, gripping the window frame. "it will require more than his money to bring her happiness, and i 'll never stand for that. lord! she 's too sensible ever to love him. good god--what's that!" it leaped out of the black night---three flashes, followed instantly by the sharp reports. then a fourth--this time unmistakably a musket--barked from behind officers' row. in the flare, hamlin thought he saw two black shadows running. a voice yelled excitedly, "post six! post six!" with a single leap the sergeant was across the sill, and dropped silently to the ground. still blinded by the light he ran forward, jerking his revolver from the belt. as he passed the corner of the barracks the sentry fired again, the red flash cleaving the night in an instant's ghastly vividness. it revealed a woman shrinking against the yellow stone wall, lighted up her face, then plunged her again into obscurity. the sergeant caught the glimpse, half believing the vision a phantasy of the brain; he had seen her face, white, frightened, agonized, yet it could not have been real. he tripped over the stone wall and half fell, but ran on, his mind in a turmoil, but certain some one was racing before him down the dark ravine. there had been a woman there! he could not quite blot that out--but not she; not molly mcdonald. if--if it were she; if he had really seen her face in the flare, if it was no dream, then what? why, he must screen her from discovery, give her opportunity to slip away. this was the one vague, dim thought which took possession of the man. it obscured all else; it sent him blindly crashing over the edge of the ravine. he heard the sentry at his right cry hoarsely, he heard excited shouts from the open windows of the barracks; then his feet struck a man's body, and he went down headlong. almost at the instant the sentry was upon him, a gun-muzzle pressing him back as he attempted to rise. "be still, ye hell hound," was the gruff order, "or i 'll blow yer to kingdom come! sergeant of the guard, quick here! post number six!" hamlin lay still, half stunned by the shock of his fall, yet conscious that the delay, this mistake of the sentry, would afford her ample chance for escape. he could hear men running toward them, and his eyes caught the yellow, bobbing light of a lantern. his hand reached out and touched the body over which he had fallen, feeling a military button, and the clasp of a belt--it was a soldier then who had been shot. could she have done it? or did she know who did? whatever the truth might be, he would hold his tongue; let them suppose him guilty for the time being; he could establish innocence easily enough when it came to trial. these thoughts flashed through his mind swiftly; then the light of the lantern gleamed in his eyes, and he saw the faces clustered about. "all right, mapes," commanded the man with the light. "let the fellow up until i get a look at him. who the hell are you?" "sergeant hamlin, seventh cavalry." "darned if it ain't. say, what does all this mean, anyhow? who's shot? turn the body over, somebody! by god! it's lieutenant gaskins!" hamlin's heart seemed to leap into his throat and choke him; for an instant he felt faint, dazed, staring down into the still face ghastly under the rays of the lantern. gaskins! then she was concerned in the affair; he really had seen her hiding there against the wall. and the man's eyes were open, were staring in bewilderment at the faces. the sergeant of the guard thrust the lantern closer. "lift his head, some o' yer, the man's alive. copley, get some water, an' two of yer run fer the stretcher--leg it now. we 'll have yer out o' here in a minute, lieutenant. what happened, sir? who shot yer?" gaskins' dulled eyes strayed from the speaker's face, until he saw hamlin, still firmly gripped by the sentry. his lips drew back revealing his teeth, his eyes narrowing. "that's the one," he said faintly. "you 've got him!" one hand went to his side in a spasm of pain, and he fainted. the sergeant laid him back limp on the grass, and stood up. "where is your gun, hamlin?" "i dropped it when i fell over the lieutenant's body. it must be back of you." some one picked the weapon up, and held it to the light, turning the chambers. "two shots gone, sergeant." "we heard three; likely the lieutenant got in one of them. sentry, what do you know about this?" mapes scratched his head, the fingers of his other hand gripping the prisoner's shoulder. "not so awful much," he replied haltingly, "now i come ter think 'bout it. 't was a mighty dark night, an' i never saw, ner heard, nuthin' till the shootin' begun. i wus back o' officers' row, an' them pistols popped up yere, by the corner o' the barracks. i jumped an' yelled; thought i heerd somebody runnin' an' let drive. then just as i got up yere, this feller come tearin' 'long, an' i naturally grabbed him. that's the whole of it." "what have you got to say, hamlin?" "nothing." "well, yer better. yer in a mighty bad box, let me tell yer," angered by the other's indifference. "what was the row about?" the cavalryman stood straight, his face showing white in the glow of the lantern. "i told you before i had nothing to say. i will talk to-morrow," he returned quietly. "i submit to arrest." "i reckon yer will talk to-morrow, and be damn glad o' the chance. corporal, take this fellow to the guard-house, an' stay there with him. here comes the stretcher, an' the doctor." hamlin marched off silently through the black night, surrounded by a detail of the guard. it had all occurred so suddenly that he was bewildered yet, merely retaining sufficient consciousness of the circumstances to keep still. if they were assured he was guilty, then no effort would be made to trace any others connected with the affair. why gaskins should have identified him as the assassin was a mystery--probably it was merely the delirium of a sorely wounded man, although the fellow may have disliked him sufficiently for that kind of revenge, or have mistaken him for another in the poor light. at any rate the unexpected identification helped him to play his part, and, if the lieutenant lived, he would later acknowledge his mistake. there was no occasion to worry; he could clear himself of the charge whenever the time came; half his company would know he was in barracks when the firing began. there were women out on the walk, their skirts fluttering as they waited anxiously to learn the news, but he could not determine if she was among them. voices asked questions, but the corporal hurried him along, without making any reply. then he was thrust roughly into a stone-lined cell, and left alone. outside in the corridor two guards were stationed. hamlin sat down on the iron bed, dazed by the silence, endeavoring to collect his thoughts. the nearest guard, leaning on his gun, watched carefully. voices reached him from outside, echoing in through the high, iron-barred window, but they were distant, the words indistinguishable. as his brain cleared he gave no further thought to his own predicament, only considering how he could best divert suspicion from her. it was all a confused maze, into the mystery of which he was unable to penetrate. that it was molly mcdonald shrinking there in the dark corner of the barracks wall he had no doubt. she might not have recognized him, or imagined that he saw her, but that spear of light had certainly revealed a face not to be mistaken. white as it was, haggard with terror, half concealed by straggling hair, the identification was nevertheless complete. the very piteousness of expression appealed to him. she was not a girl easily frightened; no mere promiscuous shooting, however startling, would have brought that look to her face. he had seen her in danger before, had tested her coolness under fire. this meant something altogether different. what? could it be that gaskins had wronged the girl, had insulted her, and that she, in response, had shot him down? in the darkness of conjecture there seemed no other adequate explanation. the two were intimate; the rumor of an engagement was already circulating about the garrison. and the stricken man had endeavored to shift the blame on him. hamlin could not believe this was done through any desire to injure; the lieutenant had no cause for personal dislike which would account for such an accusation. they had only met once, and then briefly. there was no rivalry between them, no animosity. to be sure, gaskins had been domineering, threatening to report a small breach of discipline, but in this his words and actions had been no more offensive than was common among young officers of his quality. the sergeant had passed all memory of that long ago. it never occurred to him now as of the slightest importance. far more probable did it appear that gaskins' only motive was to shield the girl from possible suspicion. when he had realized that hamlin was a prisoner, that for some reason he had been seized for the crime, he had grasped the opportunity to point him out as the assassin, and thus delay pursuit. the chances were the wounded man did not even recognize who the victim was--he had blindly grasped at the first straw. but suppose he had been mistaken? suppose that woman hiding there was some one else? suppose he had imagined a resemblance in that sudden flash of revealment? what then? would she care enough to come to him when she learned of the arrest? he laughed at the thought, yet it was a bitter laugh, for it brought back a new realization of the chasm between them. major mcdonald's daughter interesting herself in a guard-house prisoner! more than likely she would promptly forget that she had ever before heard his name. he must be growing crazy to presume that she permitted him to remain on her list of friendship. he got up and paced the cell, noting as he did so how closely he was watched by the guard. "have you heard how badly the lieutenant was hurt?" he asked, approaching the door. the sentry glanced down the corridor. "he 'll pull out, all right," he replied confidentially, his lips close to the door. "nothin' vital punctured. you better go to bed, an' forget it till mornin'." "all right, pardner," and hamlin returned to the cot. "turn the light down a little, will you? there, that's better. my conscience won't trouble me, but that glare did." with his face to the stone wall he fell asleep. chapter xv an old acquaintance it was late in the forenoon when the heavily armed guard marched hamlin across to the commandant's office. he had been surprised at the delay, but had enjoyed ample opportunity to plan a course of action, and decide how best to meet the questions which would be asked. he could clear himself without involving her, without even a mention of her presence, and this knowledge left him confident and at ease. there were half a dozen officers gathered in the small room, the gray-bearded colonel in command, sitting behind a table, with major mcdonald at his right, and the others wherever they could find standing room. hamlin saluted, and stood at attention, his gray eyes on the face of the man who surveyed him across the table. "sergeant," the colonel said rather brusquely, "you came in last night with 'm' troop, did you not?" "yes, sir." "had you ever met lieutenant gaskins before?" "once; he pulled me out of a bad scrape with a bunch of indians out on the trail a few months ago." "the same affair i spoke to you about," commented mcdonald quietly. "the attack on the stage." the colonel nodded, without removing his eyes from the sergeant's face. "yes, i know about that," he said. "and that was the only occasion of your meeting?" "yes, sir." "well, sergeant hamlin, i purpose being perfectly frank with you. there are two or three matters not easily explained about this affair. i am satisfied of your innocence; that you were not directly concerned in the shooting of lieutenant gaskins. men of your troop state that you were in barracks when the shots were fired, and the wound was not made by a service revolver, but by a much smaller weapon. yet there are circumstances which puzzle us, but which, no doubt, you can explain. two shots had been fired from your revolver," and he pushed the weapon across the table. "i rode ahead of the troop in march yesterday," hamlin explained, "and fired twice at a jack-rabbit. i must have neglected to replace the cartridges. private stone was with me." "why did you submit to arrest so easily, without any attempt to clear yourself?" the sergeant's gray eyes smiled, but his response was quietly respectful. "i was condemned before i really knew what had occurred, sir. the sentry, the sergeant of the guard, and the lieutenant all insisted that i was guilty. they permitted me no opportunity to explain. i thought it just as well to remain quiet, and let the affair straighten itself out." "yet your action threw us completely off the trail," broke in mcdonald impatiently. "it permitted the really guilty parties to escape. did you see any one?" "black smudges merely, major, apparently running toward the ravine. my eyes were blinded, leaping from a lighted room." mcdonald leaned forward eagerly, one hand tapping the table. "was one of them a woman?" he questioned sharply. hamlin's heart leaped into his throat, but he held himself motionless. "they were indistinguishable, sir; mere shadows. have you reason to suspect there may have been a woman involved?" the major leaned back in his chair, but the commandant, after a glance at his officer, answered: "the pistol used was a small one, such as a woman might carry, and there are marks of a woman's shoe plainly visible at the edge of the ravine. lieutenant gaskins was alone when he left the officers' club five minutes before the firing began. you are sure you have never had any controversy with this officer?" "perfectly sure, sir. we have never met except on the one occasion already referred to, and then scarcely a dozen words were exchanged." "how then, sergeant," and the colonel spoke very soberly, "do you account for his denouncing you as his assassin?" "i presumed he was influenced by my arrest, sir; that the shock had affected his brain." "that supposition will hardly answer. the lieutenant is not severely wounded, and this morning appears to be perfectly rational. yet he insists you committed the assault; even refers to you by name." the accused man pressed one hand to his forehead in bewilderment. "he still insists i shot him?" "yes; to be frank, he 's rather bitter about it, and no facts we have brought to bear have any apparent weight. he swears he recognized your face in the flare of the first discharge." the sergeant stood silent, motionless, his gaze on the colonel's face. "i do not know what to say, sir," he answered finally. "i was not there, and you all know it from the men of my troop. there has been no trouble between lieutenant gaskins and myself, and i can conceive of no reason why he should desire to involve me in this affair--unless," he paused doubtfully; "unless, sir, he really knows who shot him, and is anxious to shift the blame elsewhere to divert suspicion." "you mean he may be seeking to shield the real culprit?" "that is the only explanation that occurs to me, sir." the colonel stroked his beard nervously, his glance wandering to the faces of the other officers. "that might be possible," he acknowledged regretfully, "although i should dislike to believe any officer of my command would be deliberately guilty of so despicable an act. however, all we can do now is endeavor to uncover the truth. you are discharged from arrest, sergeant hamlin, and will return to your troop." hamlin passed out the door into the sunshine, dimly conscious that his guarded answers had not been entirely satisfactory to those left behind. yet he had said all he could say, all he dared say. more and more firmly there had been implanted in his mind a belief that molly mcdonald was somehow involved in this unfortunate affair, and that her name must be protected at all hazard. this theory alone would seem to account for gaskins' efforts to turn suspicion, and when this was connected with the already known presence of a woman on the scene, and the smallness of the weapon used, the evidence seemed conclusive. as far as his own duty was concerned, the sergeant felt no doubt. whatever might be the cause, there was no question in his mind but that she was fully justified in her action. disliking the lieutenant from the first, and as strongly attracted by the girl, his sympathies were now entirely with her. if she had shot him, then it was for some insult, some outrage, and he was ready to protect her with his life. he stopped, glancing back at the closed door, tempted to return and ask permission to interview gaskins personally. then the uselessness of such procedure recurred to him; the fact that nothing could result from their meeting but disappointment and recrimination. the man evidently disliked him, and would resent any interference; he had something to conceal, something at stake for which he would battle strenuously. it would be better to let him alone at present, and try to uncover a clue elsewhere. later, with more facts in his possession, he could face the lieutenant and compel his acknowledgment. these considerations caused him to turn sharply and walk straight toward the ravine. yet his investigations there brought few results. on the upper bank were the marks of a woman's shoe, a slender footprint clearly defined, but the lower portion of the ravine was rocky, and the trail soon lost. he passed down beyond the stables, realizing how easily the fugitives, under cover of darkness, could have escaped. the stable guard could have seen nothing from his station, and just below was the hard-packed road leading to the river and the straggling town. there was nothing to trace, and hamlin climbed back up the bluff completely baffled but desperately resolved to unlock the mystery. the harder the solution appeared, the more determined he became to solve it. as he came out, opposite the barrack entrance, a carriage drove in past the guard-house, the guard presenting arms, and circled the parade in the direction of officers' row. it contained a soldier driver and two ladies, and the sergeant's face blushed under its tan as he recognized miss mcdonald. would she notice him--speak to him? the man could not forbear lifting his eyes to her face as the carriage swept by. he saw her glance toward him, smile, with a little gesture of recognition, and stood there bareheaded, his heart throbbing wildly. with that look, that smile, he instantly realized two facts of importance--she was willing to meet him on terms of friendship, and she had not recognized him the evening previous as he ran past her in the dark. hamlin, his thoughts entirely centred upon miss mcdonald, had scarcely noted her companion, yet as he lingered while the carriage drew up before the major's quarters, he seemed to remember vaguely that she was a strikingly beautiful blonde, with face shadowed by a broad hat. although larger, and with light fluffy hair and blue eyes, the lady's features were strangely like those of her slightly younger companion. the memory of these grew clearer before the sergeant--the whiteness of the face, the sudden lowering of the head; then he knew her; across the chasm of years her identity smote him as a blow; his breath came quickly and his fingers clenched. "my god!" he muttered, unconsciously. "that was vera! she has changed, wonderfully changed, but--but she knew me. what, in heaven's name, can she be doing here, and--with molly?" with straining eyes he stared after them until they both disappeared together within the house. miss mcdonald glanced back toward him once almost shyly, but the other never turned her head. the carriage drove away toward the stables. feeling as though he had looked upon a ghost, hamlin turned to enter the barracks. an infantry soldier leaned negligently in the doorway smoking. "you 're the sergeant who saved that girl down the trail, ain't yer?" he asked indolently. "thought so; i was one o' gaskins' men." hamlin accepted the hand thrust forth, but with mind elsewhere. "do you happen to know who that was with miss mcdonald?" he asked. "did n't see 'em, only their backs as they went in--nice lookin' blonde?" "yes, rather tall, with very light hair." "oh, that's mrs. dupont." "mrs. dupont?" the name evidently a surprise; "wife of one of the officers?" "no, she 's no army dame. husband's a cattleman. got a range on the cowskin, south o' here, but i reckon the missus don't like that sorter thing much. lives in st. louis mostly, but has been stoppin' with the mcdonalds fer a month er two now. heerd she wus a niece o' the major's, an' reckon she must be, er thar 'd been a flare up long ago. she 's a high flyer, she is, an' she 's got the leftenant goin' all right." "gaskins?" "sure; he's a lady-killer, but thet 's 'bout all the kind o' killer he is, fer as i ever noticed--one o' yer he-flirts. thar ain't hardly an officer in this garrison thet ain't just achin' fer ter kick that squirt, but ther women--oh, lord; they think he's a little tin god on wheels. beats hell, don't it, what money will do fer a damn fool." hamlin stood a moment silent, half inclined to ask another question, but crushing back the inclination. then he walked down the hall to the quarters assigned "m" troop, and across to his own bed in the far corner. there were only a few of the men present, most of whom were busily engaged at a game of cards, and he sat down where he could gaze out the window and think. here was a new complication, a fresh puzzle to be unravelled. he had never expected this woman to come into his life again; she had become a blurred, unpleasant memory, a bit of his past which he had supposed was blotted out forever. mrs. dupont--then she had not married le fevre after all. he dully wondered why, yet was not altogether surprised. even as he turned this fact over and over in his mind, speculating upon it, he became aware of a man leaving the rear door of mcdonald's quarters, and advancing back of officers' row toward the barracks. as the fellow drew near, hamlin recognized the soldier who had been driving the carriage. a moment later the man entered the room, spoke to the group of card players, and then came straight across toward him. "sergeant hamlin?" "yes." "i was asked to hand you this note; there is no answer." hamlin held it unopened until the fellow disappeared, hesitating between hope and dread. which of the two women had ventured to write him? what could be the unexpected message? at last his eyes scanned the three short lines: "you recognized me, and we must understand each other. at ten to-night ask the clerk of the occidental--v." chapter xvi the meeting hamlin's first impulse was to ignore the note, trusting his position in the ranks would be sufficient barrier to prevent any chance meeting, and believing his stay at that garrison would be only a brief one. sheridan was evidently preparing for an early offensive campaign, and it was rumored on all sides that the seventh cavalry had been selected for active field service. indeed, the urgent orders for the consolidation of the regiment from scattered posts must mean this. any day might bring orders, and he could easily avoid this mrs. dupont until then. except for a faint curiosity, the sergeant felt no inclination to meet the woman. whatever influence she might have once exercised over him had been thoroughly overcome by years and absence. even the unexpected sight of her again--seemingly as beautiful as ever--had failed to awaken the spell of the past. it was almost with a thrill of delight that hamlin realized this--that he was in truth utterly free of her influence. there had been times when he had anticipated such a possible meeting with dread; when he had doubted his own heart, the strength of his will to resist. but now he knew he stood absolutely independent and could laugh at her wiles. she who had once been all--trusted, loved, worshipped with all the mad fervor of youth--had become only a dead memory. between them stretched a chasm never to be bridged. what could the woman possibly want of him? to explain the past? to justify herself? he knew enough already, and desired to know no more. could she hope--natural coquette that she was--to regain her hold upon him? the man smiled grimly, confident of his own strength. yet why should she care for such a conquest, the winning of a common soldier? there must be some better reason, some more subtle purpose. could it be that she feared him, that she was afraid that he might speak to her injury? this was by far the most likely supposition. molly mcdonald--the woman was aware of their acquaintance, and was already alarmed at its possible result. hamlin stood up resolved. he would meet the woman, not from any desire of his own, but to learn her purpose, and protect the girl. the meeting could not injure him, not even bring a swifter beating of the heart, but might give him opportunity to serve the other. and le fevre--surely she could tell him something of le fevre. leave was easily obtained, and the sergeant, rejoicing in a freshly issued uniform, dressed with all the care possible, his interest reviving at this new point of view. it was not far down the bluff road to the squalid little village which had naturally developed in close proximity to the fort--near enough for protection, yet far enough removed to be lawless--a rough frontier outpost town, of shacks and tents, most of these dispensing vile liquors. among these, more enterprising spirits--hopeful of future development--had erected larger buildings, usually barn-like, with false fronts facing the single main street, filled with miscellaneous stocks of goods or used for purposes not so legitimate. one of these housed the "poodle dog" saloon, with gambling rooms above, while a few doors below was a great dance hall, easily converted into a theatre if occasion arose,--a grotesque, one-storied monstrosity. below these was the stage office, built against the three-storied wooden hotel, which boasted of a wide porch on two sides, and was a picture of ugliness. by daylight all was squalor and dirt, dingy tents flapping in the ceaseless wind, unpainted shacks, wooden houses with boards warping under the hot sun, the single street deep in yellow dust, the surrounding prairie littered with tin cans, and all manner of débris. but with the coming of night much of this roughness departed. soldiers from the garrison on pass, idle plainsmen, bull-whackers, adventurers of all kinds stranded here because of indian activity, stray cowboys from the nearby valleys, thronged the numerous dives, seeking excitement. women, gaudy of dress, shrill of voice, flitted from door to door through the jostling crowds. lamps blazed over the motley assembly, loud-voiced barkers yelled, and a band added its discords to the din. the "poodle dog" glared in light, resounded with noise; lamps gleamed from the hotel windows, and the huge dance hall stood wide open. out from the shacks and tents crept the day's sleepers for a night of revelry; along the trails rode others eager for excitement; it was the harvest-time of those birds of prey in saloon and gambling hell. hamlin saw all this, but gave the surroundings little thought. he was of the west, of the frontier, and beheld nothing unique in the scene. moreover, the purpose for which he was there overshadowed all else, left him indifferent to the noise, the jostling, drunken crowd. some he met who knew him and called his name, but he passed them with a word, and pressed his way forward. at the hotel he mounted the steps and entered. the office was in one corner of the bar-room. the proprietor himself, a bald-headed irishman, sat with feet cocked up on the counter, smoking, and barely glancing up as the sergeant asked for mrs. dupont. "who are yer?" he asked. "my name is hamlin; i am here on the lady's invitation." "sure; thet 's ther name all right, me bhoy. yer ter go out on the east porch there, an' wait a bit whoile i sind her worrd yer here. oi 'm imaginin' she hed sum doubts about yer comin', the way she spoke." "how do i get there?" "through the winder of the parlur over thar--sure, it 's a noice quiet spot fer a tate-a-tate." he got up, and peered through his glasses across the room. "here, moike; damn thet slapy head. will one o' yer gents wake the lad--that's it. now come here, moike. you run over to the palace an' tell mrs. dupont the fellar is here waitin'. hold on now, not so fast; wait till oi 'm done tellin' yer. say thet to her alone--do yer moind thet, ye sap-head; nobody else is to hear whut yer say; stay there till yer git a chance ter whisper it to her. now skip." hamlin hesitated, watching the boy disappear. "at the palace--the dance hall across the street?" he asked incredulously. "sure," indifferently, relighting his pipe. "officers' ball; couldn't break in with a can-opener unless you had a invite. guards at both ends, sergeant taking tickets, an' third regiment band makin' music. hell of a swell affair; got guests here from leavenworth, wallace, and all around. every room i got is full an' runnin' over--say, there are fellars over thar in them fool swaller-tail coats; damned if there ain't. if the b'ys ever git sight of 'em on the street there 'll be a hot time. say, ain' that the limit? injuns out thar thick as fleas on a dog, an' them swells dancin' here in swaller-tails like this yere was boston." he was still talking when hamlin crossed the narrow hall and entered the dimly-lighted, unoccupied parlor. the side window was open, a slight breeze rustled the heavy curtain, and the sergeant stepped outside on to the dark porch. there was a bench close to the rail and he sat down to wait. a gleam of light from the palace fell across the western end, but the remainder of the porch lay in shadow, although he could look up the street, and see the people jostling back and forth in front of the poodle dog. the sound of mingled voices was continuous, occasionally punctuated by laughter, or an unrestrained outburst of profanity. once shots echoed from out the din, but created no apparent excitement, and a little later a dozen horsemen spurred recklessly through the street, scattering the crowd, their revolvers sputtering. some altercation arose opposite and a voice called loudly for the guard, but the trouble soon ceased with the clump of hoofs, dying away in the distance, the regimental band noisily blaring out a waltz. hamlin, immersed in his own thoughts, scarcely observed the turmoil, but leaned, arms on railing, gazing out into the darkness. something mysterious from out the past had gripped him; he was wondering how he should greet her when she came; speculating on her purpose in sending for him. it seemed as though he waited a long time before the curtain at the window was thrust aside and the lady emerged, the slight rustling of her dress apprising him of her presence. the curtain still held slightly back by her hand permitted the light from within to reflect over her figure, revealing in softened outline the beauty of her features, the flossy brightness of her hair. she was in evening dress, a light shawl draping her shoulders. an instant she paused in uncertainty, striving to distinguish his face; then stepped impulsively forward, and held out her hands. "i have kept you waiting, but you must forgive that, as i came as soon as i could manufacture an excuse. won't you even shake hands with me?" "is it necessary?" he asked, almost wearily. "you have come to me for some purpose surely, but it can hardly be friendship." "why should you say that?" reproachfully. "i have deserted a rather brilliant party to meet you here." "that, perhaps, is why i say it, mrs. dupont. if my memory serves, you would not be inclined to leave such friends as you have yonder to rendezvous with a common soldier, unless you had some special object in view. if you will inform me what it is, we can very quickly terminate the interview." she laughed, a little touch of nervousness in the voice, but drew her skirts aside, and sat down on the bench. "do you think you can deceive me by such play-acting?" she asked eagerly. "you are no man of wood. tell me, is there nothing you care to ask me, after--after all these years?" hamlin lifted his eyes and looked at her, stirred into sudden interest by the almost caressing sound of the soft voice. "yes," he said slowly, "there are some things i should like to know, if i thought you would answer frankly." "try me and see." "then why are you mrs. dupont, instead of mrs. le fevre?" "then my guess is true, and you are not so devoid of curiosity," she laughed. "my answer? why, it is simplicity itself--because i was never mrs. le fevre, but am rightfully mrs. dupont." "do you mean you were never married to le fevre?" "what else could i mean?" "then he lied." she shrugged her white shoulders. "that would not surprise me in the least. 't was a characteristic of the man you had ample reason to know. how came you to believe so easily?" "believe? what else could i believe? everything served to substantiate his boast. i was in disgrace, practically drummed out of camp. there was nothing left for me to live for, or strive after. i was practically dead. then your letter confessing came--" "wait," she interrupted, "that letter was untrue, false; it was penned under compulsion. i wrote you again, later, but you had gone, disappeared utterly. i wanted to explain, but your own people even did not know where you were--do not know yet." he leaned his body against the rail, and looked at her in the dim light. her face retained much of its girlish attractiveness, yet its undoubted charms no longer held the man captive. he smiled coldly. "the explanation comes somewhat late," he replied deliberately. "when it might have served me it was not offered--indeed, you had conveniently disappeared. but i am not here to criticise; that is all over with, practically forgotten. i came at your request, and presume you had a reason. may i again ask what it was?" chapter xvii at cross-purposes she sat for a moment silent, gazing up the street, but breathing heavily. this was not the reception she had anticipated, and it was difficult to determine swiftly what course she had best pursue. realizing the hold she had once had upon this man, it had never occurred to her mind that her influence had altogether departed. her beauty had never failed before to win such victory, and she had trusted now in reviving the old smouldering passion into sudden flame. yet already she comprehended the utter uselessness of such an expectation--there was no smouldering passion to be fanned; his indifference was not assumed. the discovery angered her, but long experience had brought control; it required only a moment to readjust her faculties, to keep the bitterness out of her voice. when she again faced him it was to speak quietly, with convincing earnestness. "yes, i realize it is too late for explanations," she acknowledged, "so i will attempt none. i wished you to know, however, that i did not desert you for that man. this was my principal purpose in sending for you." "do you know where he is?" she hesitated ever so slightly, yet he, watching her closely, noted it. "no; at the close of the war he came home, commanding the regiment which should have been yours. within three months he had converted all the family property into cash and departed. there was a rumor that he was engaged in the cattle business." "you actually expect me to believe all this--that you knew nothing of his plans--were not, indeed, a part of them?" "i am indifferent as to what you believe," she replied coldly. "but you are ungentlemanly to express yourself so freely. why should you say that?" "because i chance to know more than you suppose. never mind how the information reached me; had it been less authentic you might find me now more susceptible to your presence, more choice in my language. a carefully conceived plot drove me from the confederate service, in which you were as deeply involved as le fevre. its double object was to advance him in rank and get me out of the way. the plan worked perfectly; i could have met and fought either object alone, but the two combined broke me utterly. i had no spirit of resistance left. yet even then--in spite of that miserable letter--i retained faith in you. i returned home to learn the truth from your own lips, only to discover you had already gone. i was a month learning the facts; then i discovered you had married le fevre in richmond; i procured the affidavit of the officiating clergyman. will you deny now?" "no," changing her manner instantly--"what is the use? i married the man, but i was deceived, misled. there was no conspiracy in which i was concerned. i did not know where you were; from then until this afternoon i never saw or heard of you. molly told me of her rescue by a soldier named hamlin, but i never suspected the truth until we drove by the barracks. then i yielded to my first mad impulse and sent that note. if you felt toward me with such bitterness, why did you come here? why consent to meet me again?" "my yielding was to a second impulse. at first i decided to ignore your note; then came the second consideration--miss mcdonald." "oh," and she laughed, "at last i read the riddle. not satisfied with saving that young lady from savages, you would also preserve her youthful innocence from the contamination of my influence. quite noble of you, surely. are you aware of our relationship?" "i have heard it referred to--garrison rumor." "quite true, in spite of your source of information, which accounts, in a measure, for my presence here as well as my intimacy in the mcdonald household. and you propose interfering, plan to drive me forth from this pleasant bird's nest. really you amuse me, mr. sergeant hamlin." "but i have not proposed anything of that nature," the man said quietly, rising to his feet. "it is, of course, nothing to me, except that miss mcdonald has been very kind and seems a very nice girl. as i knew something of you and your past, i thought perhaps you might realize how much better it would be to retire gracefully." "you mean that as a threat? you intend to tell her?" "not unless it becomes necessary; i am not proud of the story myself." their eyes met, and there was no shadow of softness in either face. the woman's lips curled sarcastically. "really, you take yourself quite seriously, do you not? one might think you still major of the fourth texas, and heir to the old estate on the brazos. you talked that way to me once before, only to discover that i had claws with which to scratch. don't make that mistake again, mr. sergeant hamlin, or there will be something more serious than scratching done. i have learned how to fight in the past few years--heaven knows i have had opportunity--and rather enjoy the excitement. how far would your word go with molly, do you think? or with the major?" "that remains to be seen." "does it? oh, i understand. you must still consider yourself quite the lady-killer. well, let me tell you something--she is engaged to lieutenant gaskins." his hand-grip tightened on the rail, but there was no change in the expression of his face. "so i had heard. i presume that hardly would have been permitted to happen but for the existence of a mr. dupont. by the way, which one of you ladies shot the lieutenant?" it was a chance fire, and hamlin was not sure of its effect, although she drew a quick breath, and her voice faltered. "shot--lieutenant gaskins?" "certainly; you must be aware of that?" "oh, i knew he had some altercation, and was wounded; he accused you, did he not? but why bring us into the affair?" "because some woman was directly concerned in it. whoever she may be, the officers of the fort are convinced that she probably fired the shot; that the lieutenant knows her identity, and is endeavoring to shield her from discovery." "why do they think that? what reason can they have for such a conclusion? was she seen?" "her footprints were plainly visible, and the revolver used was a small one--a ' '--such as a woman alone would carry in this country. i have said so to no one else, but i saw her, crouching in the shadow of the barrack wall." "you--you saw her? recognized her?" "yes." "and made no attempt at arrest? have not even mentioned the fact to others? you must have a reason?" "i have, mrs. dupont, but we will not discuss it now. i merely wish you to comprehend that if it is to be war between us, i am in possession of weapons." she had not lost control of herself, yet there was that about her hesitancy of speech, her quick breathing, which evidenced her surprise at this discovery. it told him that he had played a good hand, had found a point of weakness in her armor. the mystery of it remained unsolved, but this woman knew who had shot gaskins; knew, and had every reason to guard the secret. he felt her eyes anxiously searching his face, and laughed a little bitterly. "you perceive, madam," he went on, encouraged by her silence, "i am not now exactly the same unsuspecting youth with whom you played so easily years ago. i have learned some of life's lessons since; among them how to fight fire with fire. it is a trick of the plains. do you still consider it necessary for your happiness to remain the guest of the mcdonalds?" she straightened up, turning her eyes away. "probably not for long, but it is no threat of yours which influences me. it does not even interest me to know who shot lieutenant gaskins. he is a vulgar little prig, only made possible by the possession of money. however, when i decide to depart, i shall probably do so without consulting your pleasure." she hesitated, her voice softening as though in change of mood. "yet i should prefer parting with you in friendship. in asking you to meet me to-night i had no intention of quarrelling; merely yielded to an impulse of regret for the past--" the heavy curtain draping the window was drawn aside, permitting the light from within to flash upon them, revealing the figure of a man in uniform. "pardon my interruption," he explained, bowing, "but you were gone so long, mrs. dupont, i feared some accident." she laughed lightly. "you are very excusable. no doubt i have been here longer than i supposed." the officer's eyes surveyed the soldier standing erect, his hand lifted in salute. the situation puzzled him. "sergeant hamlin, how are you here? on leave?" "yes, sir." "of course this is rather unusual, captain barrett," said the lady hastily, tapping the astonished officer lightly with her fan, "but i was once quite well acquainted with sergeant hamlin when he was a major of the fourth texas infantry during the late war. he and my husband were intimates. naturally i was delighted to meet with him again." the captain stared at the man's rigid figure. "good lord, i never knew that, hamlin," he exclaimed. "glad to know it, my man. you see," he explained lamely, "we get all kinds of fellows in the ranks, and are not interested in their past history. i 've had hamlin under my command for two years now, and hanged if i knew anything about him, except that he was a good soldier. were you ready to go, mrs. dupont?" "oh, yes; we have exhausted all our reminiscences. good-bye, sergeant; so glad to have met you again." she extended her ungloved hand, a single diamond glittering in the light. he accepted it silently, aware of the slight pressure of her fingers. then the captain assisted her through the window, and the falling curtain veiled them from view. chapter xviii another message hamlin sank back on the bench and leaned his head on his hand. had anything been accomplished by this interview? one thing, at least--he had thoroughly demonstrated that the charm once exercised over his imagination by this beautiful woman had completely vanished. he saw her now as she was--heartless, selfish, using her spell of beauty for her own sordid ends. if there had been left a shred of romance in his memory of her, it was now completely shattered. her coolness, her adroit changing of moods, convinced him she was playing a game. what game? nothing in her words had revealed its nature, yet the man instinctively felt that it must involve molly mcdonald. laboriously he reviewed, word by word, each sentence exchanged, striving to find some clue. he had pricked her in the gaskins affair, there was no doubt of that; she knew, or at least suspected, the party firing the shot. she denied at first having been married to le fevre, and yet later had been compelled to acknowledge that marriage. there then was a deliberate falsehood, which must have been told for a purpose. what purpose? did she imagine it would make any difference with him, or did she seek to shield le fevre from discovery? the latter reason appeared the more probable, for the man must have been in the neighborhood lately, else where did that haversack come from? so engrossed was hamlin with these thoughts that he hardly realized that some one had lifted the window curtain cautiously. the beam of light flashed across him, disappearing before he could lift his head to ascertain the cause. then a voice spoke, and he leaned back to listen. "not there; gone back to the dance likely, while we were at the bar." "nobody out there?" this fellow growled his words. "some soldier asleep with his head on the rail; drunk, i reckon. who was she with this time?" "barrett." "who? oh, yes, the fellow who brought in that troop of the seventh. lord, the old girl is getting her hooks into him early. well, as long as gaskins is laid up, she may as well amuse herself somewhere else. barrett is rather a good looker, isn't he? do you know anything about the man? has he got any stuff?" "don't know," answered the gruff voice. "he 's a west pointer. vera likes to amuse herself once in a while; that's the woman of it. heard from gaskins to-night?" "oh, he 's all right," the man laughed. "that little prick frightened him though. shut up like a clam." "so i heard. he 'll pay to keep the story quiet, all right. as soon as he is well enough to come down here, we 'll tap his bundle. swore he was shot by a cavalry sergeant, did n't he?" "and sticks to it like a mule. must have it in for that fellow. well, it helped our get-a-way." "yes, we 're safe enough, unless gaskins talks, and he 's so in love with the mcdonald girl he 'll spiel out big rather than have any scandal now. wish i could get a word with vera to-night; she ought to see him to-morrow--compassion, womanly sympathy, and all that rot, you know, helps the game. let's drift over toward the palace, dan, and maybe i can give her the sign." hamlin caught a glimpse of their backs as they passed out--one in infantry fatigue, the other, a heavier built man, fairly well dressed in citizen's clothes. inspired by a desire to see their features the sergeant swung himself over the rail, and dropped lightly to the ground. in another moment he was out on the street, in front of the hotel, watching the open door. the two passed within a few feet of him, clearly revealed in the light streaming from the dance hall. the soldier lagged somewhat behind, an insignificant, rat-faced fellow, but the larger man walked straight, with squared shoulders. he wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, and a black beard concealed the lower portion of his face. hamlin followed as the two pushed their way up among the idle crowd congregated on the wooden steps, and peered in through the wide doorway. satisfied that he would recognize both worthies when they met again, and realizing now something of the plot being operated, hamlin edged in closer toward the sergeant who was guarding the entrance. the latter recognized him with a nod. "pretty busy, masters?" "have been, but there will be a lull now; when they come back from supper there 'll be another rush likely. would you mind taking my job a minute while i go outside?" "not in the least; take your time. let me see what the tickets look like. that 's all right--say, masters, before you go, do you know that big duffer with a black beard in the front line?" the other gave a quick glance down the faces. "i've seen him before; dealt faro at the poodle dog a while; said to be a gun-man. never heard his name. oh, yes, come to think about it, they called him 'reb'--confed soldier, i reckon. ain't seen him before for a month. got into some kind off a shootin' scrap up at mike kelly's and skipped out ahead of the marshal. why?" "nothing particular--looks familiar, that 's all. who 's the soldier behind him--the thin-faced runt?" "connors. some river-rat the recruiting officers picked up in new york; in the guard-house most of the time; driver for major mcdonald when he happens to be sober enough." "that is where i saw him then, driving the ladies. knew i had seen that mug before." left alone, except for the infantry man at the other side of the entrance, and with nothing to do beyond keeping back the little crowd of curious watchers thronging the steps, hamlin interested himself in the assembly, although keenly conscious of those two men who continued to linger, staring into the brilliantly lighted room. that the two were closely involved with mrs. dupont in some money-making scheme, closely verging on crime, was already sufficiently clear to the sergeant's mind. he had overheard enough to grasp this fact, yet the full nature of the scheme was not apparent. without doubt it involved gaskins as a victim; possibly barrett also, but hamlin was not inclined to interfere personally for the protection of either of these officers. they could look after themselves, and, if they succumbed to the charms of the lady, and it cost something, why, that was none of his affair. but somehow the suspicion had come to him that he had accidentally stumbled upon a more complicated plot than mere blackmail. mrs. dupont's intimacy with molly, and the use she was making of her distant relationship with the major to further her ends, made him eager to delve deeper into her real purpose. at least these two, apparently ignorant of their guest's true character, should be warned, or, if that was impossible, protected from imposture. their open friendliness and social endorsement were the woman's stock in trade at dodge, and whatever the final _dénouement_ might be, mcdonald and his daughter would inevitably share in the ensuing disgrace of discovery. even if they were not also victimized, they would be held largely responsible for the losses of others. had hamlin been a commissioned officer he would have known what to do--his plain duty as a friend would have taken form in a frankly spoken warning. but, as it was, the chains of discipline, of social rank, made it seemingly impossible for him to approach either the major or his daughter openly. he did not actually know enough to venture such an interview, and mere suspicion, even though coupled with his former intimacy with the woman, was not sufficient excuse for his interference. the major would treat the revelation with indifference, even disbelief, and miss molly might even resent his meddling in the affair. besides he was not altogether convinced that the girl had not been actually present at, and in some manner connected with, the attack on gaskins. the memory of that face, shrinking behind the corner of the barrack wall, remained clear in his mind. he might be mistaken, but perhaps it would be best to go slow. it was a huge, bare hall, although the walls were concealed by flags, while other draperies were festooned along the rafters. the band was stationed upon a raised platform at the rear, and a hundred couples occupied the floor. the men present were largely officers attired in dress-uniforms, although there was a considerable sprinkling of civilians, a few conspicuous in garments of the latest cut and style. evidently invitations had been widely spread, and, considering time and place, liberally responded to. among the women present the sergeant saw very few he recognized, yet it was comparatively easy to classify the majority--officers' wives; the frontier helpmates of the more prominent merchants of the town; women from the surrounding ranches, who had deserted their homes until the indian scare ceased; a scattered few from pretentious small cities to the eastward, and, here and there, younger faces, representing ranchmen's daughters, with a school-teacher or two. altogether they made rather a brave show, occasionally exhibiting toilets worthy of admiring glances, never lacking ardent partners, and entering with unalloyed enthusiasm into the evening's pleasure. the big room presented a scene of brilliant color, of ceaselessly moving figures; the air was resonant with laughter and trembling to the dashing strains of the band. primitive as it was in many respects, to hamlin, long isolated in small frontier posts, the scene was strangely attractive, his imagination responding to the glow of color, the merry chime of voices, the tripping of feet. the smiling faces flashed past, his ears caught whispered words, his eyes followed the flying figures. for the moment the man forgot himself in this new environment of thoughtless pleasure. from among that merry throng of strangers, his eyes soon distinguished that one in whom he felt special interest--mrs. dupont, dancing now with mcdonald, the rather corpulent major exhibiting almost youthful agility under the inspiration of music. the lady talked with animation, as they circled among the others on the floor, her red lips close to her partner's ear, but hamlin, suspicious and watchful, noted that her eyes were busy elsewhere, scanning the faces. they swept over him apparently unseeing, but as the two circled swiftly by, the hand resting lightly on the major's shoulder was uplifted suddenly in a peculiar, suggestive movement. he stared after them until they were lost in the crowd, feeling confident that the motion of those white-gloved fingers was meant as a signal of warning. to whom was it conveyed? he glanced aside at the jam of figures in the doorway. both the black-whiskered man and connors had disappeared. it _was_ a signal then, instantly understood and obeyed. the sergeant had scarcely grasped this fact when his attention was diverted by the appearance of miss mcdonald. she was dancing with a civilian, an immaculately dressed individual with ruddy, boyish face. his intense admiration of his partner was plainly evident, and the girl, simply dressed in white, her cheeks flushed, her dark eyes bright with enjoyment, set hamlin's cool nerves throbbing. he could not resist gazing at her, and, as their eyes met, she bowed, the full red lips parting in a smile of recognition. there was no reservation, no restraint in that quick greeting, as she whirled by; he could not fail to comprehend its full significance--she had not forgotten, had no desire to forget. what he imagined he read in her face swept all else from his mind instantly, and, with eager eyes, he followed her slight, girlish figure as they circled the hall. the music ceased, and he still watched as the lad led her to a seat, himself sinking into a chair beside her. then the passing out of several men, who desired return checks, claimed his attention. when the last of these had disappeared, he glanced again in her direction. she was alone, and her young partner was walking toward him across the deserted floor. the lad came to the door, which by now contained few loiterers, and stood there a moment gazing out into the street. "are you sergeant hamlin?" he asked quietly. "yes." "miss mcdonald requested me to hand you this note unobserved. i have no knowledge of its contents." hamlin felt the flutter of the paper in his palm, and stood silent, clinging to it, as the other carelessly recrossed the room. she was looking toward him, but he made no motion to unfold the missive, until his eyes, searching the chairs, had located mrs. dupont. the very secret of delivery made him cautious, made him suspect it had to do with that woman. she was beside the band-stand, still conversing with the major, apparently oblivious to any other presence, her face turned aside. assured of this, he opened the paper, and glanced at the few hastily scribbled lines. "i trust you, and you must believe i do not do this without cause. during the intermission be in the hotel parlor." chapter xix a full confession there were two more dances scheduled on the program. the last of these had begun before the infantry sergeant returned, and, apologizing for his long absence, resumed his duties at the door. across the room, hamlin's eyes met those of miss mcdonald, where she danced with an unknown officer; then he turned and elbowed his way to the street. the hotel opposite was all bustle and confusion, the bar-room crowded with the thirsty emergency waiters who had rushed about the hall completing final preparations. the sergeant, intent on his purpose, and aware that the band had ceased playing, dodged past these and entered the parlor. it was already occupied by four men, who were playing cards at a small, round table and smoking vigorously, entirely engrossed in their game. none of them so much as glanced up, and the intruder hesitated an instant, quickly determining his course of action. there was little choice left. the girl would never make an appointment with him except through necessity, and it was manifestly his duty to protect her from observation. two of the men sitting there were strangers; the others he knew merely by sight, a tin-horn gambler called charlie, and a sutler's clerk. his decision was swift, and characteristic. "gents," he said, stepping up, and tapping the table sharply, "you 'll have to vamoose from here." "what the hell--" the gambler looked up into the gray eyes, and stopped. "that's all right, charlie," went on hamlin coolly, one hand at his belt. "those are my orders, and they go. hire a room upstairs if you want to keep on with the game. pick up the stuff, you fellows." "but see here," the speaker was upon his feet protesting. "the old man told us we could come in here." "the old man's word don't go for this floor to-night, partner. it's rented by the post officers. now mosey right along, and don't come back unless you are looking for trouble--you too, fatty." right or wrong there was plainly no use continuing the argument, for hamlin's fingers were upon the butt of his revolver, and his eyes hardened at the delay. the gambler's inclination was to oppose this summary dismissal, but a glance at his crowd convinced him he would have to play the hand alone, so he yielded reluctantly, swept the chips into the side pocket of his coat and departed, leaving behind a trail of profanity. the sergeant smiled, but remained motionless until they disappeared. "the bluff works," he thought serenely, "unless they make a kick at the office; some peeved, charlie was." he stepped over to the window, and held back the curtain. a burly figure occupied the bench, with feet upon the rail. even in that outside dimness could be distinguished a black beard. the very man, and the sergeant chuckled grimly with a swiftly born hope that the fellow might create a row. nothing at that moment could have pleased him more. he blew out the parlor light, partially closed the door, and stepped forth on to the porch. "say, you," he said gruffly, dropping one hand heavily on the other's shoulder. "did you hear what i said to those fellows inside? well, it goes out here the same. pack up, and clear the deck." "reb" dropped his feet to the floor and stood up, his bearded lips growling profanity, but hamlin gripped his wrist, and the man stopped, with mouth still open, staring into the sergeant's face. all bravado seemed to desert him instantly. "who--who says so?" and he stepped back farther into the shadow. "i do, if you need to know," pleasantly enough. "sergeant hamlin, seventh cavalry." "oh!" the exclamation came from between clenched teeth. "hell, man, you startled me." "so i see; nervous disposition, i reckon. well, are you going quietly, or shall i hoist you over the rail?" "i had an appointment here." "can't help that, partner. this porch is going to be vacant inside of one minute, or there is a declaration of war. your easiest way out is through that window, but you can go by rail if you prefer." the black beard wasted half his allowed time in an effort at bluster; then, to hamlin's utter disgust, slunk through the open window and across the darkened parlor. "the pusillanimous cuss," the latter muttered, "he 's worse than a cur dog. blamed if he was n't actually afraid of me. a gun-fighter--pugh!" he lifted his voice, as "reb" paused in the light of the hall beyond and glanced back, a fist doubled and uplifted. "oh, go on! sure, you 'll get me? you are the brave boy, now," and hamlin strode toward the door threateningly. "lope along, son, and don't turn around again until you face the bar." he drew the door partially to again, and sat down facing the opening, where a stray beam of light fell across the floor. thus far the adventure had scarcely proven interesting. the last encounter had been a distinct disappointment. the dispersal of the card-players was, as anticipated, easily managed, but the reputation of "reb" as killer and bad man had given him hope of resistance. but instead he had proven a perfect lamb. hamlin crossed his legs and waited, his mind divided in wonder between what miss mcdonald might want, and the cowardice of the fellow just driven out. the man was actually afraid--afraid to start a row. yet he had got to his feet with that intention; it was only after he had looked into hamlin's face and asked his name, that he began to hedge and draw back. could he have recognized him? could mrs. dupont have warned him of danger in his direction? that would seem impossible, for the woman had not been with him for even a minute since their conversation. she had given him a swift signal at the door of the dance hall, but that could scarcely account for his present desire to avoid trouble. an engagement? probably with mrs. dupont. but what was the use of speculating? perhaps when the girl came she would have some light to throw on these matters. surely her sudden determination to see him privately must have connection with this affair. these thoughts came swiftly, for his period of waiting proved to be but a short one. he heard the laughter and talk as the merry-makers came into the hotel from the dance hall, crowding the passage, and thronging in to where the tables were set. then a rattle of dishes, and the steady shuffling of waiters rushing back and forth. occasionally he could distinguish a shadow out in the hall, but never changed his motionless posture, or removed his eyes from the aperture, until she slipped noiselessly through and stood there panting slightly, her hand clasping the knob of the door. apparently in the semi-darkness of the room she was uncertain of his presence, while her white dress touched by the outside reflection made her clearly visible. "it is all right, miss mcdonald," he murmured hastily, arising. "there is nothing to fear." "you are here--alone?" "yes," smiling in memory. "there were occupants when i first arrived, but they were persuaded to depart. i had a suspicion you might prefer it that way." "yes," puzzled by his manner, yet softly pushing the door back so as to exclude the light. "i can see better now. are--are you sure no one can overhear? i have something to tell you--something important." "there is no one else here, yet some one might stumble into this room. it is not private, you know. we shall be safer on the porch outside. will you take my hand, and let me guide you?" she did so unhesitatingly, but her fingers were cold, and he could feel the twitching of her nerves. "you are frightened--not of me, surely?" "oh, no!" a slight catch in her voice, "but i am running such a risk venturing here. i--i had to pretend a sick-headache to get away. you must not condemn me until you hear why i came." "i condemn? hardly, miss mcdonald. i am merely a soldier receiving orders; 'mine not to question why.' here is the window; now sit down on this bench. i 'll keep guard, and listen." his voice sank lower, a little touch of tenderness in it impossible to disguise. "are you in trouble? is it something i can aid you to overcome?" she did not answer at once but rested her chin in one hand, and turned her eyes away. her breath came swiftly, as though she had not yet recovered from fright, and her face in the dim light looked white and drawn. "yes, you can," she began slowly, "i am sure you can. i--i came to you because there was no one else in whom i felt the same confidence. i know that sounds strange, but i cannot explain--only it seems natural to trust some people even when you do not know them very well. i do not suppose i know you very well; just those few hours we were together, but--somehow i think you are true." "i certainly hope so," he put in earnestly. "i couldn't very well help being--with you." "i believe that," and she lifted her eyes to his face. "yet i do not wish you to think me bold, or--or indiscreet. you do not think so, do you?" "that idea has never once occurred to me, miss mcdonald. i am only too glad to be of service." "it is good of you to say that; you see, there was no one else." "your father?" he suggested. "but that is the very trouble," she insisted, rejoicing that he had thus unconsciously opened the way to her confession. "it is because my father is involved, is completely in her toils, that i am compelled to appeal to you. he will not listen to a word against her." "her? you refer to mrs. dupont?" "of course; why, i hadn't mentioned her name! how did you guess?" "because i am not entirely ignorant of conditions," he answered soberly. "although i have only been at the post a short time, i have managed to see and hear a good deal. you know i chanced to become involved in the shooting of lieutenant gaskins, and then i saw you riding with mrs. dupont, and recognized her." "recognized?" in surprise. "do you actually mean you knew her before?" "not as mrs. dupont, but as vera carson, years ago. she knew me at once, and sent your driver over to the barracks with a note." "why, how strange. she asked me so many questions, i wondered at the interest shown. do you mind telling me what the note was about?" "not in the least. she referred to the past, and asked me to meet her." "were you--very intimate? great friends?" "we were engaged to be married," he acknowledged frankly, his eyes upon her face. "that was at the breaking out of the war, and i was in my senior college year. we met at school, and i was supposed to be the heir to a large property. she is a beautiful woman now, and she was a beautiful girl then. i thought her as good and true as she was charming. since then i have learned her selfishness and deceit, that it was my money which attracted her, and that she really loved another man, a classmate." she glanced up at him as he paused, but he resumed the story without being interrupted. "the war came, and i enlisted at once, and received a commission. almost our entire class went, and the man she really loved was next below me in rank." "eugene le fevre?" "yes; how did you know? oh, i told you of him out there in the sand-hills. well, i urged her to marry me before i went to the front, but she made excuses. later, i understood the reason--she was uncertain as to my inheriting the property of an uncle. we were ordered to the army of northern virginia. once i went home on furlough, severely wounded. we were to be married then, but i had not sufficiently recovered when i was suddenly ordered back to the front. i did suspect then, for the first time, that she was glad of the respite. i afterwards discovered that during all this time she was in correspondence with le fevre, who had been detailed on early's staff. it was his influence which brought about my sudden, unexpected recall to duty. a few months later i was promoted major, and, at fisher's hill, found myself commanding the regiment. early in the action le fevre brought me an order; it was delivered verbally, the only other party present a corporal named shultz, a german knowing little english. early's exact words were: 'advance at once across the creek, and engage the enemy fiercely; a supporting column will move immediately.' desperate as the duty involved appeared, there was nothing in the order as given to arouse suspicion. in obedience i flung my command forward, leading them on foot. we charged into a trap, and were nearly annihilated, and shultz was either killed, or made prisoner. two days later i was arrested under charges, was tried by court-martial, and dismissed from the service in disgrace. early produced a copy of his written order; it read 'cautiously feel the enemy's position,' and le fevre went on the stand, and swore the original had been delivered to me. i had no witnesses." she watched him with wide-open eyes, her lips parted. "and she--this vera carson?" the man laughed bitterly. "wrote him a letter, which the man actually had the nerve to show me when i was helpless, proving her falsity. i would not believe, and went back seeking her. but she had departed--no one knew where--but had first convinced herself that my name had been erased from my uncle's will. two months later i heard that she married le fevre in richmond." "and she--that woman--actually asked you to meet her again to-night?" "yes." "did you?" "i must plead guilty." "where?" "here; just where we are now; we were together half an hour." she half arose to her feet, her hand grasping the rail. "but i cannot understand. why should you? do you--" "no; wait," he interrupted, venturing to touch her arm. "i came, not because of any interest in her, miss molly--but for you." chapter xx molly tells her story her breath came in a little sob, and she sank back on the bench. "for me? how do you mean?" "surely i had every reason to distrust her, to question her character, and i could not believe you realized the sort of woman she is. i felt it my duty to discover her purpose here, and to warn you if possible." "and you have succeeded? you learned her purpose in your interview?" "not exactly," with regret. "my suspicion was merely stimulated. to tell the truth, we rather drifted into a renewal of our old quarrel. however, between what she said, and parts of another conversation overheard, i know there is a blackmailing conspiracy on foot in which you are involved. may i speak very frankly?" "i certainly desire it," proudly. "i am not aware that i have anything to conceal." "apparently the scheme these people have on foot originated about lieutenant gaskins. he is wealthy, i understand?" "i have been told so; yes, i know he is." "this knowledge, coupled with the fact of your engagement--" "my what?" "your engagement. i had heard it rumored before, and mrs. dupont assured me it was true." "but it is not true, sergeant hamlin"--indignantly. "i cannot imagine how such a report ever started. lieutenant gaskins has been very friendly; has--" her voice breaking slightly, "even asked me to marry him, but--but i told him that was impossible. he has been just as kind to me since, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing between us. i have never spoken about this before to any one." if hamlin's heart leaped wildly at this swift denial, there was no evidence of it in his quiet voice. "the point is, miss molly, that mrs. dupont, and those connected with her, think otherwise. they are presuming on gaskins' being in love with you. mrs. dupont can be very seductive. little by little she has drawn the lieutenant into her net. believing him engaged to you, they have him now where he must either pay money for silence or be exposed. just how it was worked, i do not know. the shooting last night was done to convince him they were serious. the fact that gaskins later denied knowing who his assailants were--even endeavored to accuse me--is abundant proof of their success." he hesitated, wondering at her silence. "what puzzles me most is why you were present." "present? where?" "at this quarrel with gaskins last evening. as i ran by toward the scene of the shooting i passed you hiding at the angle or the barrack wall. of course, i have mentioned the fact to no one. that was why i made no attempt to defend myself when arrested." she gasped for breath, scarcely able to articulate. "you believe that? you think that of me?" "i may have been deceived; i hope so; there was but little light, and i got merely a glimpse," he explained hastily. "you were deceived," impetuously. "i was not out of the house that evening. i was in the parlor with my father when those shots were fired. you are sure you saw a woman there--hiding?" "there is no doubt of that; her foot-prints were plainly to be seen in the morning. this discovery, together with the size of the weapon used, resulted in my immediate release. i saw her, and imagined her to be you. i cannot account for the mistake, unless you were in my mind, and--and possibly what i had heard of your connection with gaskins. then it must have been mrs. dupont. that looks reasonable. but she stays at your home, does she not?" "she makes our house her headquarters, but is absent occasionally. last night she was here at this hotel. well, we are getting this straightened out a little--that is, if you believe me." "of course." "then i am going to question you. you spoke of overhearing a conversation?" "yes; it was after mrs. dupont had left. captain barrett came, and took her away. i was sitting here thinking when two men came into the parlor." "who were they? do you know?" "one was the soldier who drives you about--connors; the other a black-bearded, burly fellow called 'reb.'" "mr. dupont." "what? is that dupont? lord! no wonder she 's gone bad. why, i thought her husband was a ranchman down south somewhere! this fellow is a tin-horn." "he did run cattle once, years ago. i think he was quite well off, but drank and gambled it away. papa told me all about it, but i found out he was the man by accident. he--is the one i am really afraid of." she stopped, her eyes deserting his face, and stared out into the darkness. he waited, feeling vaguely that he had not heard all she intended to say. "what more do you know?" he asked. "what was it you expected of me?" she turned again, aroused by the question. "yes, i must tell you as quickly as i can, before i am missed. i did not know about mrs. dupont and lieutenant gaskins. i realized there was something between them--a--a--slight flirtation, but scarcely gave that a thought. what brought me here was a much more serious matter, yet this new information helps me to comprehend the other--the motives, i mean. mrs. dupont's maiden name was vera carson?" "certainly; i knew her family well." "she came here, and was received into our family as a daughter of my father's sister. if true, her maiden name would have been sarah counts. papa had no reason to suspect the deceit. he does not now, and i doubt if even your word would convince him, for he seems thoroughly under her influence. there has been such a change in him since she came; not all at once, you know, but gradual, until now he scarcely seems like the same man. i--i do not dislike lieutenant gaskins; he has been pleasant and attentive, but i do not care for him in any other way. yet papa insists that i marry the man. lately he has been very unkind about it, and--and i am sure she is urging him on. what can i do? it is all so unpleasant." hamlin shook his head, but without reply. "you will not tell me! then i will tell you i shall say no! no! no! in spite of them; i shall refuse to be sold. but how does that woman control my father?" she leaned closer in her earnestness, lowering her voice. "she has not won him by charms; he is afraid of her." "afraid? are you certain of that?" "yes. i cannot tell you how i know; perhaps it is all womanly instinct, but i do know that he is terrorized; that he dare not oppose her wish. i have read the truth in his eyes, and i am sure he is harsh to me only because he is driven by some threat. what can it be?" "you have never spoken to him of your suspicions? asked him?" "yes and no. i tried once, and shall never forget the expression of his face. then he turned on me in a perfect paroxysm of anger. i never even dared hint at the matter again." the sergeant stared out into the street, not knowing what to say, or how to advise. almost unconscious of the action his hand stole along the rail until it touched hers. "if the woman has not ensnared him by her usual methods," he said soberly, "and i think myself you are right about that, for i watched them together in the dance hall--i did not comprehend what it meant then, but it seemed to me he actually disliked being in her company--then she has uncovered something in his past of which he is afraid, something unknown to you, which he does not desire you ever to know." "yes," softly, "that must be true." "no; it may not be true; it may all be a lie, concocted for a purpose. a clever woman might so manipulate circumstances as to convince him she held his fate in her hands. we must find that out in this case." "but how, sergeant hamlin? he will not tell me." "perhaps she will tell me if i can reach her alone," he said grimly, "or else that husband of hers--dupont. he 'll know the whole story. it would give me pleasure to choke it out of him--real pleasure. then there 's connors, just the sort of sneaking rat if he can be caught with the goods; only it is not likely he knows much. i shall have to think it all out, miss molly," he smiled at her confidently. "you see, i am a bit slow figuring puzzles, but i generally get them in time. you 've told me all you know?" "everything. it almost seems silly when i try to explain what i feel to another." "not to me. i knew enough before to understand. but, perhaps, you had better go--hush, some one is entering the parlor." she got to her feet in spite of his restraining hand, startled and unnerved. "oh, i must not be seen here. is there no other way?" "no; be still for a moment; step back there in the shadow, and let me go in alone." he stepped forward, his grasp already on the curtain, when a woman's voice spoke within: "yes, that was what i meant; he does not know you--yet. but you must keep away." chapter xxi molly disappears the speaker was mrs. dupont, but hamlin's one thought was to prevent any discovery of miss mcdonald. without an instant's hesitation he drew aside the curtain, and stepped into the room. "pardon me," he said quietly, as the two started back at his rather abrupt entrance, "but i did not care to overhear your conversation. no doubt it was intended to be private." [illustration: the two started back at his rather abrupt entrance.] the woman stepped somewhat in advance of her companion, as though to shield him from observation, instantly mastering her surprise. "nothing at all serious, mr. sergeant hamlin," she retorted scornfully. "don't be melodramatic, please; it gets on the nerves. if you must know, i was merely giving our ranch foreman a few final instructions, as he leaves to-morrow. have you objections?" "assuredly not--your ranch foreman, you say? met him before, i think. you are the fellow i ordered out of this room, are n't you?" the man growled something unintelligible, but mrs. dupont prevented any direct reply. "that's all right, john," she broke in impatiently. "you understand what i want now, and need not remain any longer. i have a word to say myself to this man." she waited an instant while he left the room; then her eyes defiantly met hamlin's. "i was told you had driven every one out of here," she said coldly. "what was the game?" "this room was reserved--" "pish! keep that explanation for some one else. you wanted the room for some purpose. who have you got out there?" she pointed at the window. "whether there be any one or not," he answered, leaning against the window frame, and thus barring the passage, "i fail to see wherein you are concerned." she laughed. "which remark is equivalent to a confession. dave," suddenly changing, "why should we quarrel, and misjudge each other? you cannot suppose i have forgotten the past, or am indifferent. cannot you forgive the mistake of a thoughtless girl? is there any reason why we should not be, at least, friendly?" there was an appeal in her voice, but the man's face did not respond. "i cannot say that i feel any bitterness over the past," he answered lightly. "i am willing enough to blot that out. what i am interested in is the present. i should like to understand your purpose here at dodge." "surely that is sufficiently clear. i am merely an exile from home, on account of indian depredations. what more natural than that i should take refuge in my uncle's house." "you mean major mcdonald?" "certainly--he was my mother's only brother." "i think i have heard somewhere that the major's only sister married a man named counts." she drew in her breath sharply. "yes, of course--her first husband." "you were a daughter then of her first marriage?" "of course." "but assumed the name of carson when she married again?" "that was when you met me." "the change was natural enough," he went on. "but why did you also become vera in place of sarah?" "oh, is that it? well, never attempt to account for the vagaries of a girl," she returned lightly, as though dismissing the subject. "i presume i took a fancy to the prettier name. but how did you know?" "garrison rumor picks up nearly everything, and it is not very kind to you, mrs. dupont. i hope i am doing you a favor in saying this. your rather open flirtation with lieutenant gaskins is common talk, even among enlisted men, and i have heard that your relations with major mcdonald are peculiar." "indeed!" with a rising inflection of the voice. "how kind of you, and so delicately expressed." she laughed. "and poor major mcdonald! really, that is ridiculous. could you imagine my flirting with him?" "i have no recollection of using that term in this connection. but you have strange influence over him. for some reason the man is apparently afraid of you." "afraid of me? oh, no! some one has been fooling you, dave. i am merely major mcdonald's guest. i wonder who told you that? shall i guess?" before he could realize her purpose the woman took a hasty step forward, and swept aside the curtain, thrusting her head past to where she could gain a view outside. hamlin pressed her back with one hand, planting himself squarely before the window. she met his eyes spitefully. "i was mistaken this time," she acknowledged, drawing away, "but i 'd like to know why you were so anxious to prevent my looking out. do you know whom i thought you had there?" "as you please," rejoicing that the girl had escaped notice. "that little snip of a molly. you made a hit with her all right, and she certainly don't like me. well, delightful as it is to meet you again, i must be going." she turned away, and then paused to add over her shoulder. "don't you think it would be just as safe for you to attend to your own business, sergeant hamlin?" "and let you alone?" "exactly; and let me alone. i am hardly the sort of woman it is safe to play with. it will be worth your while to remember that." he waited, motionless, until assured that she had passed down the hall as far as the door of the dining-room. the sound of shuffling chairs evidenced the breaking up of the party, in preparation to return to the ballroom. if miss mcdonald's absence were to escape observation, she would have to slip out now and rejoin the others as they left the house. he again turned down the light, and held back the curtain. "the way is clear now, miss molly." there was no response, no movement. he stepped outside, thinking the girl must have failed to hear him. the porch was empty. he stepped from one end to the other, making sure she was not crouching in the darkness, scarcely able to grasp the fact of her actual disappearance. this, then, was why mrs. dupont had failed to see any one when she glanced out. but where could the girl have gone? how gotten away? he had heard no sound behind him; not even the rustle of a skirt to betray movement. it was not far to the ground, five or six feet, perhaps; it would be perfectly safe for one to lower the body over the rail and drop. the matted prairie grass under foot would render the act noiseless. no doubt that was exactly the way the escape had been accomplished. alarmed by the presence of those others, suspecting that the woman within would insist on learning whom hamlin was attempting to conceal, possibly overhearing enough of their conversation to become frightened at the final outcome, miss mcdonald, in sudden desperation, had surmounted the rail, and dropped to the ground. the rest would be easy--to hasten around the side of the house, and slip in through the front door. assured that this must be the full explanation, the sergeant's cheerfulness returned. the company of officers and guests had already filed out through the hall; he could hear voices laughing and talking in the street, and the band tuning up their instruments across in the dance hall. he would go over and make certain of her presence, then his mind would be at ease. he passed out through the deserted hallway, and glanced in at the dining-room, where a number of men were gathering up the dishes. beyond this the barroom was crowded, a riffraff lined up before the sloppy bar, among these a number in uniform--unattached officers who had loitered behind to quench their thirst. hamlin drank little, but lingered a moment just inside the doorway, to observe who was present. unconsciously he was searching for dupont, half inclined to pick a quarrel deliberately with the fellow or with connors, determined if he found the little rat alone to frighten whatever knowledge he possessed out of him. but neither worthy appeared. having assured himself of their absence, hamlin turned to depart, but found himself facing a little man with long hair, roughly dressed, who occupied the doorway. the hooked nose, and bright eyes, peering forth from a mass of untrimmed gray whiskers, were familiar. "you keep the junk shop down by the express office, don't you?" "yep," briskly, scenting business in the question. "i 'm kaplan; vot could i do for you--hey?" "answer a question if you will, friend. do you recall selling a haversack to a traveller on the last stage out for santa fé in june?" "vel, i do' no; vas he a big fellow? maybe de von vat vas killed--hey?" "yes; his name was moylan, post-sutler at fort marcy." "maybe dot vos it. why you vant to know--hey?" "no harm to you, kaplan," the sergeant explained. "only i picked it up out there after moylan was killed, and discovered by some writing on the flap that it originally belonged to a friend of mine. i was curious to learn how it got into your hands." the trader shrugged his shoulders. "vud it be worth a drink?" he asked cannily. "of course. frank, give kaplan whatever he wants. now, fire away." "vel," and the fellow filled his glass deliberately, "it vas sold me six months before by a fellow vat had a black beard--" "dupont?" "dat vos de name ov de fellar, yes. now i know it. i saw him here again soon. you know him?" "by sight only; he is not the original owner, nor the man i am trying to trace. you know nothing of where he got the bag, i presume?" "i know notting more as i tell you alreatty," rather disconsolately, as he realized that one drink was all he was going to receive. hamlin elbowed his way out to the street. he had learned something, but not much that was of any value. undoubtedly the haversack had come into dupont's possession through his wife, but this knowledge yielded no information as to the present whereabouts of le fevre. when the latter had separated from the woman, this old army bag was left behind, and, needing money, dupont had disposed of it, along with other truck, seemingly of little value. the sergeant reached this conclusion quickly, and, satisfied that any further investigation along this line would be worthless, reverted to his earlier quest--the safety of miss mcdonald. merely to satisfy himself of her presence, he crossed the street and glanced in at the whirling dancers. there were few loiterers at the doorway and he stood for a moment beside the guard, where he was able to survey the entire room. mrs. dupont was upon the floor, and swept past twice, without lifting her eyes in recognition, but neither among the dancers, nor seated, could he discover miss molly. startled at not finding her present, hamlin searched anxiously for the major, only to assure himself of his absence also. could they have returned to the fort as early as this? if so, how did it happen their guest was still present, happily enjoying herself? of course she might be there under escort of some one else--captain barrett, possibly. he would ask the infantryman. "have you seen miss mcdonald since supper?" the soldier hesitated an instant, as though endeavoring to remember. "no, i ain't, now you speak of it. she went out with that kid over there, and he came back alone. don't believe he 's danced any since. the major was here, though; connors brought him a note a few minutes ago, and he got his hat and went out." hamlin drew a breath of relief. "girl must have sent for him to take her home," he said. "well, it 's time for me to turn in--good-night, old man." he tramped along the brightly illumined street, and out upon the dark road leading up the bluff to the fort, his mind occupied with the events of the evening, and those other incidents leading up to them. there was no doubt that miss mcdonald and her father had returned to their home. but what could he do to assist her? the very knowledge that she had voluntarily appealed to him, that she had come to him secretly with her trouble, brought strange happiness. moreover his former acquaintance with mrs. dupont gave him a clue to the mystery. yet how was he going to unravel the threads, discover the motive, find out the various conspirators? what were they really after? money probably, but possibly revenge. what did the woman know which enabled her to wield such influence over mcdonald? what was the trap they proposed springing? the sergeant felt that he could solve these problems if given an opportunity, but he was handicapped by his position; he could not leave his troop, could not meet or mingle with the suspected parties; was tied, hand and foot, by army discipline. he could not even absent himself from the post without gaining special permission. he swore to himself over the hopelessness of the situation, as he tramped through the blackness toward the guard-house. the sentinel glanced at his pass, scrutinizing it by the light of a fire, and thrust the paper into his pocket. hamlin advanced, and at the corner saluted the officer of the day, who had just stepped out of the guard-house door. "good evening, sergeant," the latter said genially. "just in from town? i expect they are having some dance down there to-night." "yes, sir," hesitatingly, and then venturing the inquiry. "may i ask if major mcdonald has returned to the post?" "mcdonald? no," he glanced at his watch. "he had orders to go east to ripley on the stage. that was due out about an hour ago." "to ripley? by stage?" the sergeant repeated the words, dazed. "why--why, what has become of miss mcdonald?" the officer smiled, shaking his head. "i 'm sure i don't know, my man," he returned carelessly. "come back with barrett and his lady-love, likely. why?" suddenly interested by the expression on the other's face. "what's happened? is there anything wrong?" chapter xxii a deepening mystery startled and bewildered as hamlin was by this sudden revealment, he at once comprehended the embarrassment of his own position. he could not confess all he knew, certainly not the fact that the girl had met him secretly and had vanished while he was endeavoring to turn aside mrs. dupont. he must protect her at all hazards. to gain time, and self-control, he replied with a question: "did not connors drive them down, sir?" "yes, the four of them." "and major mcdonald knew then that he was ordered east?" "no, the order came by telegram later. an orderly was sent down about ten o'clock. but, see here, sergeant, i am no bureau of information. if you have anything to report, make it brief." hamlin glanced at the face of the other. he knew little about him, except that he had the reputation of being a capable officer. "i will, sir," he responded quickly; "you may never have heard of the affair, but i was with miss mcdonald during a little indian trouble out on the trail a few months ago." the officer nodded. "i heard about that; gaskins brought her in." "well, ever since she has seemed grateful and friendly. you know how some women are; well, she is that kind. to-night she came to me, because she did n't seem to know whom else to go to, and told me of some trouble she was having. i realize, captain kane, that it may seem a bit strange to you that a young lady like miss mcdonald, an officer's daughter, would turn for help to an enlisted man, but i am telling you only the truth, sir. you see, she got it into her head somehow that i was square, and--and, well, that i cared enough to help her." "wait a minute, sergeant," broke in kane, kindly, realizing the other's embarrassment, and resting one hand on his sleeve. "you do not need to apologize for miss mcdonald. i know something of what is going on at this post, although, damn me if i 've ever got on to the straight facts. you mean that dupont woman?" "yes, she 's concerned in the matter, but there are others also." "why could n't the girl tell her father?" "that is where the main trouble lies, captain. major mcdonald seems to be completely under the control of mrs. dupont. he is apparently afraid of her for some reason. that is what miss molly spoke to me about. we were on the side porch at the hotel talking while the dancers were at supper--it was the only opportunity the girl had to get away--and mrs. dupont and her husband came into the parlor--" "her husband? good lord, i thought her husband was dead." "he is n't. he 's a tin-horn gambler, known in the saloons as 'reb,' a big duffer, wearing a black beard." "all right, go on; i don't know him." "well, i stepped into the room to keep the two apart, leaving the girl alone outside. we had a bit of talk before i got the room cleared, and when i went back to the porch, miss molly had gone." "dropped over the railing to the ground." "that's what i thought at the time, sir, but what happened to her after that? she did n't return to the hotel; she was not at the dance hall, and has n't come back to the post." "the hell you say! are you sure?" "i am; i searched for her high and low before i left, and she could not get in here without passing the guard-house." kane stared into the sergeant's race a moment, and then out across the parade ground. a yellow light winked in the colonel's office, occasionally blotted out by the passing figure of a sentry. the officer came to a prompt decision. "the 'old man' is over there yet, grubbing at some papers. come on over, and tell him what you have told me. i believe the lass will turn up all right, but it does look rather queer." the colonel and the post adjutant were in the little office, busy over a pile of papers. both officers glanced up, resenting the interruption, as kane entered, hamlin following. the former explained the situation briefly, while the commandant leaned back in his chair, his keen eyes studying the younger man. "very well, captain kane," he said shortly, as the officer's story ended. "we shall have to examine into this, of course, but will probably discover the whole affair a false alarm. there is, at present, no necessity for alarming any others. sergeant, kindly explain to me why miss mcdonald should have come to you in her distress?" hamlin stepped forward, and told the story again in detail, answering the colonel's questions frankly. "this, then, was the only time you have met since your arrival?" "yes, sir." "and this mrs. dupont? you have had a previous acquaintance with her?" "some years ago." "you consider her a dangerous woman?" "i know her to be utterly unscrupulous, sir. i am prepared to state that she is here under false pretences, claiming to be a niece of major mcdonald's. i do not know her real purpose, but am convinced it is an evil one." the colonel shook his head doubtfully, glancing at the silent adjutant. "that remains to be proven, sergeant. i have, of course, met the lady, and found her pleasant and agreeable as a companion. deuced pretty too; hey, benson? why do you say she masquerades as mcdonald's niece?" "because her maiden name was carson and the major's sister married a man named counts." "there might have been another marriage. surely mcdonald must know." "miss molly says not, colonel. he has known nothing of his sister for over twenty years, and accepted this woman on her word." "well, well! interesting situation; hey, benson? like to get to the bottom myself. damme if it don't sound like a novel. however, the thing before us right now is to discover what has become of miss mcdonald." he straightened up in his chair, then leaned across the table. "captain kane, make a thorough examination of mcdonald's quarters first. if the girl is not found there, detail two men to accompany sergeant hamlin on a search of the town." "very well, sir; come on, sergeant." "just a moment--if we find the trail leads beyond the town are we authorized to continue?" "certainly, yes. adjutant, write out the order. anything more?" "i should prefer two men of my own troop, sir, mounted." "very well; see to it, captain." the two men walked down past the dark row of officers' houses, the sergeant a step to the rear on the narrow cinder path. mcdonald's quarters were as black as the others, and there was no response from within when kane rapped at the door. they tried the rear entrance with the same result--the place was plainly unoccupied. "pick out your men, hamlin," the captain said sternly, "and i 'll call the stable guard." ten minutes later, fully equipped for field service, the three troopers circled the guard-house and rode rapidly down the dark road toward the yellow lights of the town. the sergeant explained briefly the cause of the expedition, and the two troopers, experienced soldiers, asked no unnecessary questions. side by side the three men rode silently into the town, and hamlin swung down from his saddle at the door of the dance hall. with a word to the guard he crossed the floor to intercept mrs. dupont. the latter regarded his approach with astonishment, her hand on captain barrett's blue sleeve. "certainly not," she replied rather sharply to his first question. "i am not in charge of miss mcdonald. she is no doubt amusing herself somewhere; possibly lying down over at the hotel; she complained of a headache earlier in the evening. why do you come to me?" "yes," broke in the captain, "that is what i wish to know, hamlin. by what authority are you here?" "the orders of the colonel commanding, sir," respectfully, yet not permitting his glance to leave the woman's face. "you insist then, madam, that you know nothing of the girl's disappearance?" "no!" defiantly, her cheeks red. "nor of what has become of connors, or your ranch manager?" she shrugged her shoulders, endeavoring to smile. "the parties mentioned are of very small interest to me." "and major mcdonald," he insisted, utterly ignoring the increasing anger of the officer beside her. "possibly you were aware of his departure?" "yes," more deliberately; "he told me of his orders, and bade me good-bye later. so far as connors is concerned, he was to have the carriage here for us at two o'clock. is that all, mr. sergeant hamlin?"' "you better make it all," threatened the captain belligerently, "before i lose my temper at this infernal impertinence." hamlin surveyed the two calmly, confident that the woman knew more than she would tell, and utterly indifferent as to the other. "very well," he said quietly, "i will learn what i desire elsewhere. i shall find miss mcdonald, and discover what has actually occurred." "my best wishes, i am sure," and the lady patted the captain's arm gently. "we are losing this waltz." there was but one course for hamlin to pursue. he had no trail to follow, only a vague suspicion that these plotters were in some way concerned in the mysterious disappearance. thus far, however, they had left behind no clue to their participation. moreover he was seriously handicapped by ignorance of any motive. why should they desire to gain possession of the girl? it could not be money, or the hope of ransom. what then? was it some accident which had involved her in the toils prepared for another? if so, were those unexpected orders for major mcdonald a part of the conspiracy, or had their receipt complicated the affair? the sergeant was a soldier, not a detective, and could only follow a straight road in his investigation. he must circle widely until he found some trail to follow as patiently as an indian. there would be tracks left somewhere, if he could only discover them. if this was a hasty occurrence, in any way an accident, something was sure to be left uncovered, some slip reveal the method. he would trace the movements of the father first, and then search the saloons and gambling dens for the two men. though unsuccessful with mrs. dupont, he knew how to deal with such as they. the stage agent was routed out of bed and came to the door, revolver in hand, startled and angry. "who?" he repeated. "major mcdonald? how the hell should i know? some officer went out--yes; heavy set man with a mustache. i did n't pay any attention to him; had government transportation. there were two other passengers, both men, ranchers, i reckon; none in the station at all. what's that, jane?" a woman's voice spoke from out the darkness behind. "was the soldier asking if major mcdonald went east on the coach, sam?" "sure; what do you know about it?" "why, i was outside when they started," she explained, "and the man in uniform was n't the major. i know him by sight, for he 's been down here a dozen times when i was at the desk. this fellow was about his size, but dark and stoop-shouldered." "and the others?" asked hamlin eagerly. "i did n't know either of them, only i noticed one had a black beard." "a very large, burly fellow?" "no, i don't think so. i did n't pay special attention to any of them, only to wonder who the officer was, 'cause i never remembered seein' him here before at dodge, but, as i recollect, the fellow with a beard was rather undersized; had a shaggy buffalo-skin cap on." plainly enough the man was not dupont, and mcdonald had not departed on the stage, while some other, pretending to be he, possibly wearing his clothes to further the deceit, had taken the seat reserved in the coach. baffled, bewildered by this unexpected discovery, the sergeant swung back into his saddle, not knowing which way to turn. chapter xxiii the dead body that both mcdonald and his daughter were involved in this strange puzzle was already clear. the disappearance of the one was as mysterious as that of the other. whether the original conspiracy had centred about the major, and miss molly had merely been drawn into the net through accident, or whether both were destined as victims from the first, could not be determined by theory. indeed the sergeant could evolve no theory, could discover no purpose in the outrage. convinced that dupont and his wife were the moving spirits, he yet possessed no satisfactory reason for charging them with the crime, for which there was no apparent object. nothing remained to be done but search the town, a blind search in the hope of uncovering some trail. that crime had been committed--either murder or abduction--was evident; the two had not dropped thus suddenly out of sight without cause. nor did it seem possible they could have been whisked away without leaving some trace behind. the town was accustomed to murder and sudden death; the echo of a revolver shot would create no panic, awaken no alarm, and yet the place was small, and there was little likelihood that any deed of violence would pass long unnoticed. with a few words of instruction, and hasty descriptions of both dupont and connors, hamlin sent his men down the straggling street to drag out the occupants of shack and tent, riding himself to the blazing front of the "poodle dog." late as the hour was, the saloon and the gambling rooms above were all crowded. hamlin plunged into the mass of men, pressing passage back and forth, his eyes searching the faces, while he eagerly questioned those with whom he had any acquaintance. few among these could recall to mind either "reb" or his boon companion, and even those who did retained no recollection of having seen the two lately. the bartenders asserted that neither man had been there that night, and the dealers above were equally positive. the city marshal, encountered outside, remembered dupont, and had seen him at the hotel three hours before, but was positive the fellow had not been on the streets since. connors he did not know, but if the man was major mcdonald's driver, then he was missing all right, for captain barrett had had to employ a livery-man to drive mrs. dupont back to the fort. no, there was no other lady with her; he was sure, for he had watched them get into the carriage. the two troopers were no more fortunate in their results, but had succeeded in stirring up greater excitement during their exploration, several irate individuals, roughly aroused from sleep, exhibiting fighting propensities, which had cost one a blackened eye, and the other the loss of a tooth. both, however, had enjoyed the occasion, and appeared anxious for more. having exhausted the possibilities of the town, the soldiers procured lanterns, and, leaving the horses behind, began exploring the prairie. in this labor they were assisted by the marshal, and a few aroused citizens hastily impressed into a posse. the search was a thorough one, but the ground nearby was so cut up by hoofs and wheels as to yield no definite results. hamlin, obsessed with the belief that whatever had occurred had been engineered by dupont, and recalling the fact that the man was once a ranchman somewhere to the southward, jumped to the conclusion that the fellow would naturally head in that direction, seeking familiar country in which to hide. with the two troopers he pushed on toward the river, choosing the upper ford as being the most likely choice of the fugitives. the trampled mud of the north bank exhibited fresh tracks, but none he could positively identify. however, a party on horseback had crossed within a few hours, and, without hesitation, he waded out into the stream. the gray of dawn was in the sky as the three troopers, soaked to the waist, crept up the south bank and studied the trail. behind them the yellow lanterns still bobbed about between the river and town, but there was already sufficient light to make visible the signs underfoot. horsemen had climbed the bank, the hoof marks yet damp where water had drained from dripping fetlocks, and had instantly broken into a lope. a moment's glance proved this to hamlin as he crept back and forth, scrutinizing each hoof mark intently. "five in the party," he said soberly. "three mustangs and two american horses, cavalry shod. about three hours ahead of us." he straightened up, his glance peering into the gray mists. "i reckon it's likely our outfit, but we 'll never catch them on foot. they 'll be behind the sand-dunes before this. before we go back, boys, we 'll see if they left the trail where it turns west." the three ran forward, paying little heed until they reached the edge of the ravine. here the beaten trail swerved sharply to the right. fifty feet beyond, the marks of horses' hoofs appeared on the sloping bank, and hamlin sprang down to where the marks disappeared around the edge of a large bowlder. his hand on the stone, he stopped suddenly with quick indrawing of breath, staring down at a motionless figure lying almost at his feet. the man, roughly dressed, lay on his face, a bullet wound showing above one ear, the back of his neck caked with blood. the sergeant, mastering his first sense of horror, turned him over and gazed upon the ghastly face of major mcdonald. "my god, they've murdered him here!" he exclaimed. "shot him down from behind. look, men. no; stand back, and don't muss up the tracks. there are foot-prints here--indians, by heaven! three of them indians!" "some plainsmen wear moccasins." "they don't walk that way--toes in; and see this hair in mcdonald's fingers--that's indian, sure. here is where a horse fell, and slid down the bank. is n't that a bit of broken feather caught in the bush, carroll? bring it over here." the three bent over the object. "well, what do you say? you men are both plainsmen." "cheyenne," returned carroll promptly. "but what the hell are they doing here?" hamlin shook his head. "it will require more than guessing to determine that," he said sternly. "and there is only one way to find out. that fellow was a cheyenne all right, and there were three of them and two whites in the party--see here; the prints of five horses ridden, and one animal led. that will be the one mcdonald had. they went straight up the opposite bank of the ravine. if they leave a trail like that we can ride after them full speed." carroll had been bending over the dead officer and now glanced up. "there's sand just below, sergeant," he said. "that's why they are so darn reckless here." "of course; they'll hide in the dunes, and the sooner we 're after them the better. wade, you remain with the body; carroll and i will return to the fort and report. we 'll have to have more men--wasson if i can get him--and equipment for a hard ride. come on, jack." they waded the river, and ran through the town, shouting their discovery to the marshal and his posse as they passed. twenty minutes later hamlin stood before the colonel, hastily telling the story. the latter listened intently, gripping the arms of his chair. "shot from behind, hey?" he ejaculated, "and his clothing stolen. looks like a carefully planned affair, sergeant; sending that fellow through to ripley was expected to throw us off the track. that 's why they were so careless covering their trail; expected to have several days' start. it is my notion they never intended to kill him; had a row of some kind, or else mac tried to get away. any trace of the girl?" "no; but she must have been there." "so i think; got mixed up in the affair some way, and they have been compelled to carry her off to save themselves. do you know why they were after mac?" "no, sir." "well, i do; he carried thirty thousand dollars." "what?" "he was acting paymaster. the money came in from wallace last evening, and he was ordered to take it to ripley at once." hamlin drew in his breath quickly in surprise. "who knew about that, sir?" "no one but the adjutant, and major mcdonald--not even the orderly." the eyes of officer and soldier met. "do you suppose he could have told _her_?" the former asked in sudden suspicion. "that would be my theory, sir. but it is useless to speculate. we have no proof, no means of forcing her to confess. the only thing for us to do is to trail those fugitives. i need another man--a scout--wasson, if he can be spared--and rations for three days." the colonel hesitated an instant, and then rose, placing a hand on hamlin's arm. "i 'll do it for miss mcdonald, but not for the money," he said slowly. "i expect orders every hour for your troop, and wasson is detailed for special service. but damn it, i 'll take the responsibility--go on, and run those devils down." hamlin turned to the door; then wheeled about. "you know this man dupont, colonel?" "only by sight." "any idea where he used to run cattle?" "wait a minute until i think. i heard mcdonald telling about him one night at the club, something mrs. dupont had let slip, but i did n't pay much attention at the time. seems to me, though, it was down on the canadian. no, i have it now--buffalo creek; runs into the canadian. know such a stream?" "i 've heard of it; in west of the north fork somewhere." "you think it was dupont, then?" "i have n't a doubt that he is in the affair, and that the outfit is headed for that section. i don't know, sir, where those indians came from, or how they happened to be up here, but i believe they belong to black kettle's band of cheyennes. his bunch is down below the canadian, is it not, sir?" "yes." "dupont must be friendly with them, and this coup has been planned for some time. last night was the chance they have been waiting for. the only mistake in their plans has been the early discovery because of miss molly's disappearance. they have gone away careless, expecting two or three days' start, and they will only have a few hours. we 'll run them down, with good luck, before they cross the cimarron. you have no further instructions, sir?" "no, nothing, sergeant. you 're an old hand, and know your business, and there is no better scout on the plains than sam wasson. good-bye, and good luck." chapter xxiv in pursuit the four men, heavily armed, and equipped for winter service, rode up the bank of the ravine to the irregularity of plain beyond. the trail, leading directly south into the solitudes, was easily followed, and wasson, slightly in advance of the others, made no attempt to check his horse, content to lean forward, his keen eyes marking every sign. scarcely a word was exchanged, since hamlin had explained what had occurred as they crossed the river. hardly less interested than the sergeant, the sober-faced scout concentrated every energy on the pursuit, both men realizing the necessity of haste. not only would the trail be difficult to follow after they attained the sand belt, but, if snow fell, would be utterly blotted out. and the dull, murky sky threatened snow, the sharp wind having already veered to the northwest. all about stretched a dull, dead picture of desolation, a dun-colored plain, unrelieved by vegetation, matching the skies above, extending in every direction through weary leagues of dismal loneliness. the searching eye caught no relief from desolate sameness, drear monotony. nowhere was there movement, or, any semblance of life. behind, the land was broken by ravines, but in every other direction it stretched level to the horizon, except that far off southward arose irregular ridges of sand, barren, ugly blotches, colorless, and forever changing formation under the beating of a ceaseless wind. it was desert, across which not even a snake crawled, and no wing of migrating bird beat the leaden sky above. the marks of their horses' hoofs cutting sharply into the soil, told accurately the fugitives' rate of progress, and the pursuers swept forward with caution, anxious to spare their mounts and to keep out of vision themselves until nightfall. their success depended largely on surprise, and the confidence of those ahead that they were unpursued. wasson expressed the situation exactly, as the four halted a moment at an unexpectedly-discovered water-hole. "i 'd think this yere plain trail was some injun trick, boys, if i did n't know the reason fur it. 't ain't injun nature, but thar 's a white man ahead o' that outfit, an' he 's cock-sure that nobody 's chasin' him yet. he 's figurin' on two or three days' get-a-way, and so don't care a tinker's dam 'bout these yere marks. once in the sand, an' thar won't be no trail anyhow. it's some kintry out thar, an' it would be like huntin' a needle in a haystack to try an' find them fellars after ter-night. this is my idea--we'll just mosey along slow, savin' the hosses an' keeping back out o' sight till dark. them fellars ain't many hours ahead, an' are likely ter make camp furst part o' ther night anyhow. they 'll feel safe onct hid in them sand-hills, an' if they don't git no sight of us, most likely they won't even post no guard. thet 's when we want ter dig in the spurs. ain't that about the right program, sergeant?" burning with impatience as hamlin was, fearful that every additional moment of delay might increase the girl's danger, he was yet soldier and plainsman enough to realize the wisdom of the old scout. there were at least four men in the party pursued, two of them indian warriors, the two whites, desperate characters. without doubt they would put up a fierce fight, or, if warned in time, could easily scatter and disappear. "of course you are right, sam," he replied promptly. "only i am so afraid of what may happen to miss molly." "forget it. thar's nuthin' goin' ter happen to her while the bunch is on the move. if that outfit was all injun, or all white, maybe thar might. but the way it is they'll never agree on nuthin', 'cept how to git away. 't ain't likely they ever meant ter kill the major, 'er take the girl erlong. them things just naturally happened, an' now they 're scared stiff. it 'll take a day er two for 'em to make up their minds what to do." "what do you imagine they will decide, sam?" "wall, thet 's all guesswork. but i reckon i know what i 'd do if i was in thet sort o' fix an' bein' chased fer murder an' robbery. i 'd take the easy way; make fer the nearest injun village, an' leave the girl thar." "you mean black kettle's camp?" "i reckon; he 's down thar on the canadian somewhar. you kin bet those fellars know whar, an' thet's whut they 're aimin' for, unless this yere dupont has some hidin' out scheme of his own. whar did you say he ranched?" "buffalo creek." "thet's the same neighborhood; must've been in cahoots with those red devils to have ever run cattle in thar. we 've got to head 'em off afore they git down into that kintry, er we won't have no scalps to go back home with. let's mosey erlong, boys." the day grew dark and murky as they moved steadily forward, the wind blew cold from out the northwest, the heavy canopy of cloud settled lower in a frosty fog, which gradually obscured the landscape. this mist became so thick that the men could scarcely see a hundred yards in any direction, and hamlin placed a pocket compass on his saddle-pommel. the trail was less distinct as they traversed a wide streak of alkali, but what few signs remained convinced wasson that the fugitives were still together, and riding southward. under concealment of the fog his previous caution relaxed, and he led the way at a steady trot, only occasionally drawing rein to make certain there was no division of the party ahead. the alkali powdered them from head to foot, clinging to the horses' hides, reddening and blinding the eyes, poisoning the lips dry and parched with thirst. the two troopers swore grimly, but the sergeant and scout rode in silence, bent low over their pommels, eyes strained into the mist ahead. it was not yet dark when they rode in between the first sand-dunes, and wasson, pulling his horse up short, checked the others with uplifted hand. "thar 'll be a camp here soon," he said, swinging down from the saddle, and studying the ground. "the wind has 'bout blotted it all out, but you kin see yere back o' this ridge whar they turned in, an' they was walkin' their horses. gittin' pretty tired, i reckon. we might as well stop yere too, sergeant, an' eat some cold grub. you two men spread her out, an' rub down the hosses, while hamlin an' i poke about a bit. better find out all we kin, 'brick,' 'fore it gits dark." he started forward on the faint trail, his rifle in the hollow of his arm, and the sergeant ranged up beside him. the sand was to their ankles, and off the ridge summit the wind whirled the sharp grit into their faces. "what's comin', sam; a storm?" "snow," answered the scout shortly, "a blizzard of it, er i lose my guess. 'fore midnight yer won't be able ter see yer hand afore yer face. i 've ben out yere in them things a fore, an' they're sure hell. if we don't git sight o' thet outfit mighty soon, 't ain't likely we ever will. i 've been expectin' that wind to shift nor'east all day--then we'll get it." he got down on his knees, endeavoring to decipher some faint marks on the sand. "two of 'em dismounted yere, an injun an' a white--a big feller by his hoof prints--an' they went on leadin' their hosses. goin' into camp, i reckon--sure, here's the spot now. well, i 'll be damned!" both men stood staring--under protection of a sand ridge was a little blackened space where some mesquite chips had been burned, and all about it freshly trampled sand, and slight impressions where men had outstretched themselves. almost at wasson's feet fluttered a pink ribbon, and beyond the fire circle lay the body of a man, face up to the sky. it was connors, a ghastly bullet hole between his eyes, one cheek caked black with blood. the sergeant sprang across, and bent over the motionless form. "pockets turned inside out," he said, glancing back. "the poor devil!" "had quite a row here," returned the scout. "that stain over thar is blood, an' it never come from him, fer he died whar he fell. most likely he shot furst, er used a knife. the girl's with 'em anyhow; i reckon this yere was her ribbon; that footprint is sure." he stirred up the scattered ashes, and then passed over and looked at the dead man. "what do yer think, sergeant?" "they stopped here to eat, maybe five hours ago," pushing the ashes about with his toe. "the fire has been out that long. then they got into a quarrel--connors and dupont--for he was shot with a colt ' '; no indian ever did that. then they struck out again with two led horses. i should say they were three or four hours ahead, travelling slow." "good enough," and wasson patted his arm. "you 're a plainsman all right, 'brick.' you kin sure read signs. thet 's just 'bout the whole story, as i make it. nuthin' fer us to do but snatch a bite an' go on. our hosses 're fresher 'n theirs. no sense our stoppin' to bury connors; he ain't worth it, an' the birds 'll take care o' him. the outfit was still a headin' south--see!" there could be no doubt of this, as the shelter of the sand ridge had preserved a plain trail, although a few yards beyond, the sweeping wind had already almost obliterated every sign of passage. the four men ate heartily of their cold provender, discussing the situation in a few brief sentences. wasson argued that dupont was heading for some indian winter encampment, thinking to shift responsibility for the crime upon the savages, thus permitting him to return once more to civilization, but hamlin clung to his original theory of a hide-out upon dupont's old cattle-range, and that a purpose other than the mere robbery of mcdonald was in view. all alike, however, were convinced that the fugitives were seeking the wild bluffs of the canadian river for concealment. it was not yet dark when they again picked up the trail, rode around the dead body of connors, and pushed forward into the maze of sand. for an hour the advance was without incident, the scout in the lead not even dismounting, his keen eyes picking up the faint "sign" unerringly. then darkness shut down, the lowering bank of clouds completely blotting the stars, although the white glisten of the sand under foot yielded a slight guidance. up to this time there had been no deviation in direction, and now when the trail could be no longer distinguished, the little party decided on riding straight southward until they struck the cimarron. an hour or two later the moon arose, hardly visible and yet brightening the cloud canopy, so that the riders could see each other and proceed more rapidly. suddenly wasson lifted his hand, and turned his face up to the sky. "snow," he announced soberly. "thought i felt it afore, and the wind 's changed." hamlin turned in the saddle, feeling already the sharp sting of snow pellets on his face. before he could even answer the air was full of whiteness, a fierce gust of wind hurling the flying particles against them. in another instant they were in the very heart of the storm, almost hurled forward by the force of the wind, and blinded by the icy deluge. the pelting of the hail startled the horses, and in spite of every effort of the riders, they drifted to the right, tails to the storm. the swift change was magical. the sharp particles of icy snow seemed to swirl upon them from every direction, sucking their very breath, bewildering them, robbing them of all sense of direction. within two minutes the men found it impossible to penetrate the wintry shroud except for a few feet ahead of them. the sergeant knew what it meant, for he had had experience of these plains storms before. "halt!" he cried, his voice barely audible in the blast. "close up, men; come here to me--lively now? that you, wade? wasson; oh, all right, sam. here, pass that lariat back; now get a grip on it, every one of you, and hold to it for your lives. let me take the lead, sam; we 'll have to run by compass. now then, are you ready?" the lariat rope, tied to hamlin's pommel, straightened out and was grasped desperately by the gloved hands of the men behind. the sergeant, shading his eyes, half smothered in the blast, could see merely ill-defined shadows. "all caught?" the answers were inaudible. "for the lord's sake, speak up; answer now--wasson." "here." "wade." "here." "carroll." "here." "good; now come on after me." he drove his horse forward, head bent low over the compass, one arm flung up across his mouth to prevent inhaling the icy air. he felt the tug of the line; heard the labored breathing of the next horse behind, but saw nothing except that wall of swirling snow pellets hurled against him by a pitiless wind, fairly lacerating the flesh. it was freezing cold; already he felt numb, exhausted, heavy-eyed. the air seemed to penetrate his clothing, and prick the skin as with a thousand needles. the thought came that if he remained in the saddle he would freeze stiff. again he turned, and sent the voice of command down the struggling line: "dismount; wind the rope around your pommels. sam. how far is it to the cimarron?" "more 'n twenty miles." "all right! we 've got to make it, boys," forcing a note of cheerfulness into his voice. "hang on to the bit even if you drop. i may drift to the west, but that won't lose us much. come on, now." "hamlin, let me break trail." "we 'll take it turn about, sam. it 'll be worse in an hour than it is now. all ready, boys." blinded by the sleet, staggering to the fierce pummelling of the wind, yet clinging desperately to his horse's bit, the sergeant struggled forward in the swirl of the storm. chapter xxv in the blizzard there was no cessation, no abatement. across a thousand miles of plain the ice-laden wind swept down upon them with the relentless fury of a hurricane, driving the snow crystals into their faces, buffeting them mercilessly, numbing their bodies, and blinding their eyes. in that awful grip they looked upon death, but struggled on, as real men must until they fall. breathing was agony; every step became a torture; fingers grasping the horses' bits grew stiff and deadened by frost; they reeled like drunken men, sightless in the mad swirl, deafened by the pounding of the blast against their ears. all consciousness left them; only dumb instinct kept them battling for life, staggering forward, foot by foot, odd phantasies of imagination beginning to beckon. in their weakness, delirium gripped their half-mad brains, yielding new strength to fight the snow fiend. aching in every joint, trembling from fatigue, they dare not rest an instant. the wind, veering more to the east, lashed their faces like a whip. they crouched behind the horses to keep out of the sting of it, crunching the snow, now in deep drifts, under their half-frozen feet. wade, a young fellow not overly strong, fell twice. they placed him in the centre, with carroll bringing up the rear. again he went down, face buried in the snow, crying like a babe. desperately the others lashed him into his saddle, binding a blanket about him, and went grimly staggering on, his limp figure rocking above them. hour succeeded hour in ceaseless struggle; no one knew where they were, only the leader staggered on, his eyes upon the compass. wasson and hamlin took their turns tramping a trail, the snow often to their knees. they had stopped speaking, stopped thinking even. all their movements became automatic, instinctive, the result of iron discipline. they realized the only hope--attainment of the cimarron bluffs. there was no shelter there in the open, to either man or horse; the sole choice left was to struggle on, or lie down and die. the last was likely to be the end of it, but while a drop of blood ran red and warm in their veins they would keep their feet and fight. carroll's horse stumbled and rolled, catching the numbed trooper under his weight. the jerk on the lariat flung wade out of the saddle, dangling head downward. with stiffened fingers, scarcely comprehending what they were about, the sergeant and wasson came to the rescue, helped the frightened horse struggle to its feet, and, totally blinded by the fury of the storm which now beat fairly in their eyes, grasped the dangling body, swaying back and forth as the startled animal plunged in terror. it was a corpse they gripped, already stiff with cold, the eyes wide-open and staring. carroll, bruised and limping, came to their help, groaning with pain, and the three men together managed to lift the dead weight to the horse's back, and to bind it safely with the turn of a rope. then, breathless from exhaustion, crouching behind the animals, bunched helplessly together, the howl of the wind like the scream of lost souls, the three men looked into each other's faces. "i reckon jim died without ever knowin' it," said the scout, breaking again the film of ice over his eyes, and thrashing his arms. "i allers heard tell it was an easy way o' goin'. looks to me he was better off than we are just now. hurt much, carroll?" "crunched my leg mighty bad; can't bear no weight on it. 't was darn near froze stiff before; thet 's why i could n't get out o' the way quick." "sure; well, ye 'll have ter ride, then. we 'll take the blanket off jim; he won't need it no more. 'brick' an' i kin hoof it yet awhile--hey, 'brick'?" hamlin lifted his head from the shelter of his horse's mane. "i reckon i can make my feet move," he asserted doubtfully, "but they don't feel as though there was any life left in them." he stamped on the snow. "how long do these blizzards generally last, sam?" "blow themselves out in about three days." "three days? god! we can never live it out here." his eyes ranged over the dim outline of wade stretched across the saddle, powdered with snow, rested an instant upon carroll who had sunk back upon the ground, nursing his injured limb, and then sought the face of wasson. "what the hell can we do?" "go on; thet's all of it; go on till we drop, lad. come, 'brick,' my boy," and the scout gripped the sergeant's shoulder, "you 're not the kind to lie down. we 've been in worse boxes than this and pulled out. it 's up to you and me to make good. let's crunch some hard-tack and go on, afore the whole three of us freeze stiff." the sergeant thrust out his hand. "that isn't what's taken the nerve out of me, sam," he said soberly. "it's thinking of the girl out in all this with those devils." "likely as not she ain't," returned the other, tramping the snow under his feet. "i 've been thinkin' 'bout thet too. thet outfit must hev had six hours the start o' us, didn't they?" hamlin nodded. "well, then, they could n't a ben far from the cimarron when the storm come. they 'd be safe enough under the bluffs; have wood fer a fire, and lay thar mighty comfortable. that's whar them bucks are, all right. why, damn it, man, we 've got to get through. 't ain't just our fool lives that's at stake. brace up!" "how far have we come?" "a good ten miles, an' the compass has kep' us straight." they drew in closer together, and munched a hard cracker apiece, occasionally exchanging a muttered word or two, thrashing their limbs about to keep up circulation, and dampening their lips with snow. they were but dim, spectral shapes in the darkness, the air filled with crystal pellets, swept about by a merciless wind, the horses standing tails to the storm and heads drooping. in spite of the light refraction of the snow the eyes could scarcely see two yards away through the smother. above, about, the ceaseless wind howled, its icy breath chilling to the bone. carroll clambered stiffly into his saddle, crying and swearing from weakness and pain. the others, stumbling about in the deep snow, which had drifted around them during the brief halt, stripped the blanket from wade's dead body, and tucked it in about carroll as best they could. "now keep kicking and thrashing around, george," ordered the sergeant sternly. "for god's sake, don't go to sleep, or you 'll be where jim is. we 'll haul you out of this, old man. sam, you take the rear, and hit carroll a whack every few minutes; i'll break trail. forward! now." they plunged into it, ploughing a way through the drifts, the reluctant horses dragging back at first, and drifting before the fierce sweep of the wind, in spite of every effort at guidance. it was an awful journey, every step torture, but hamlin bent to it, clinging grimly to the bit of his animal, his other arm protecting his eyes from the sting of the wind. behind, wasson wielded a quirt, careless whether its lash struck the horse's flank or carroll. and across a thousand miles of snow-covered plain, the storm howled down upon them in redoubled fury, blinding their eyes, making them stagger helplessly before its blasts. they were still moving, now like snails, when the pale sickly dawn came, revealing inch by inch the dread desolation, stretching white and ghastly in a slowly widening circle. the exhausted, struggling men, more nearly dead than alive from their ceaseless toil, had to break the film of ice from their eyes to perceive their surroundings. even then they saw nothing but the bare, snow-draped plain, the air full of swirling flakes. there was nothing to guide them, no mark of identification; merely lorn barrenness in the midst of which they wandered, dragging their half-frozen horses. the dead body of wade had stiffened into grotesque shape, head and feet dangling, shrouded in clinging snow, carroll had fallen forward across his saddle pommel, too weak to sit erect, but held by the taut blanket, and gripping his horse's ice-covered mane. wasson was ahead now, doggedly crunching a path with his feet, and hamlin staggered along behind. suddenly some awakened instinct in the numbed brain of the scout told him of a change in their surroundings. he felt rather than saw the difference. they had crossed the sand belt, and the contour of the prairie was rising. then the cimarron was near! even as the conviction took shape, the ghostly outline of a small elevation loomed through the murk. he stared at it scarce believing, imagining a delusion, and then sent his cracked voice back in a shout on the wind. "we 're thar, 'brick'! my god, lad, here 's the cimarron!" he wheeled about, shading his mouth, so as to make the words carry through the storm. "do you hear? we're within a half mile o' the river. stir carroll up! beat the life inter him! there 's shelter and fire comin'!" as though startled by some electric shock, hamlin sprang forward, his limbs strengthening in response to fresh hope, ploughed through the snow to carroll's side, and shook and slapped the fellow into semi-consciousness. "we 're at the river, george!" he cried, jerking up the dangling head. "wake up, man! wake up! do you hear? we 'll have a fire in ten minutes!" the man made a desperate effort, bracing his hands on the horse's neck and staring at his tormentor with dull, unseeing eyes. "oh, go to hell!" he muttered, and went down again. hamlin struck him twice, his chilled hand tingling to the blow, but the inert figure never moved. "no use, sam. we 've got to get on, and thaw him out. get up there, you pony!" the ghostly shape of the hill was to their right, and they circled its base almost waist-deep in drift. this brought the wind directly into their faces, and the horses balked, dragging back and compelling both men to beat them into submission. wasson was jerking at the bit, his back turned so that he could see nothing ahead, but hamlin, lashing the rear animal with his quirt, still faced the mound, a mere dim shadow through the mists of snow. he saw the flash of yellow flame that leaped from its summit, heard the sharp report of a gun, and saw wasson crumble up, and go down, still clinging to his horse's rein. it came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that the single living man left scarcely realized what had happened. yet dazed as he was, some swift impulse flung him, headlong, into the snow behind his pony, and even as he fell, his numbed fingers gripped for the revolver at his hip. the hidden marksman shot twice, evidently discerning only dim outlines at which to aim; the red flame of discharge cut the gloom like a knife. one ball hurtled past hamlin's head; the other found billet in wade's horse, and the stricken creature toppled over, bearing its dead burden with him. the sergeant ripped off his glove, found the trigger with his half-frozen fingers, and fired twice. then, with an oath, he leaped madly to his feet, and dashed straight at the silent hill. chapter xxvi unseen danger once he paused, blinded by the snow, flung up his arm, and fired, imagining he saw the dim shape of a man on the ridge summit. there was no return shot, no visible movement. reckless, mad with rage, he sprang up the wind-swept side, and reached the crest. it was deserted, except for tracks already nearly obliterated by the fierce wind. helpless, baffled, the sergeant stared about him into the driving flakes, his ungloved, stiffening hand gripping the cold butt of his colt, ready for any emergency. nothing but vacancy and silence encompassed him. at his feet the snow was still trampled; he could see where the man had kneeled to fire; where he had run down the opposite side of the hill. there had been only one--a white man from the imprint--and he had fled south, vanishing in the smother. it required an effort for the sergeant to recover, to realize his true position, and the meaning of this mysterious attack. he was no longer numb with cold or staggering from weakness. the excitement had sent the hot blood pulsing through his veins; had brought back to his heart the fighting instinct. every desire urged him forward, clamoring for revenge, but the aroused sense of a plainsman held him motionless, staring about, listening for any sound. behind him, down there in the hollow, were huddled the horses of his outfit, scarcely distinguishable from where he stood. if he should venture farther off, he might never be able to find a way back again. even in the gray light of dawn he could see nothing distinctly a dozen yards distant. and wasson had the compass. this was the thought which brought him tramping back through the drifts--wasson! wade was dead, carroll little better, but the scout might have been only slightly wounded. he waded through the snow to where the man lay, face downward, his hand still gripping the rein. before hamlin turned him over, he saw the jagged wound and knew death had been instantaneous. he stared down at the white face, already powdered with snow; then glared about into the murky distances, revolver ready for action, every nerve throbbing. god! if he ever met the murderer! then swift reaction came, and he buried his eyes on the neck of the nearest horse, and his body shook with half-suppressed sobs. the whole horror of it gripped him in that instant, broke his iron will, and left him weak as a child. but the mood did not last. little by little he gained control, stood up again in the snow, and began to think. he was a man, and must do a man's work. with an oath he forced himself to act; reloaded his revolver, thrust it back into the holster at his hip, and, with one parting glance at poor sam, ploughed across through the drifts to carroll. he realized now his duty, the thing he must strive to accomplish. wade and wasson were gone; no human effort could aid them, but carroll lived, and might be saved. and it was for him alone now to serve molly. the sudden comprehension of all this stung like the lash of a whip, transformed him again into a fighter, a soldier of the sort who refuses to acknowledge defeat. his eyes darkened, his lips pressed together in a straight line. carroll lay helpless, inert, his head hanging down against the neck of his horse. the sergeant jerked him erect, roughly beating him into consciousness; nor did he desist until the fellow's eyes opened in a dull stare. "i 'll pound the life out of you unless you brace up, george," he muttered. "that 's right--get mad if you want to. it will do you good. wait until i get that quirt; that will set your blood moving. no! wake up! die, nothing! see here, man, there 's the river just ahead." he picked up his glove, undid the reins from wasson's stiffened fingers, and urged the horses forward. carroll lurched drunkenly in the saddle, yet retained sufficient life to cling to the pommel, and thus the outfit plunged blindly forward into the storm, leaving the dead men where they lay. there was nothing else to do; hamlin's heart choked him as he ploughed his way past, but he had no strength to lift those heavy bodies. every ounce of power must be conserved for the preservation of life. little as he could see through the snow blasts there was but one means of passage, that along the narrow rift between the ridges. the snow lay deep here, but they floundered ahead, barely able to surmount the drifts, until suddenly they emerged upon an open space, sheltered somewhat by the low hills and swept clean by the wind. directly beneath, down a wide cleft in the bank, dimly visible, appeared the welcome waters of the cimarron. the stream was but partly frozen over, the dark current flowing in odd contrast between the banks of ice and snow. the sergeant halted, examining his surroundings cautiously, expecting every instant to be fired upon by some unseen foe. the violence of the storm prevented his seeing beyond a few yards, and the whirling snow crystals blinded him as he faced the fury of the wind sweeping down the valley. nothing met his gaze; no sound reached his ears; about him was desolation, unbroken whiteness. apparently they were alone in all that intense dreariness of snow. the solemn loneliness of it--the dark, silently flowing river, the dun sky, the wide, white expanse of plain, the mad violence of the storm beating against him--brought to him a feeling of helplessness. he was a mere atom, struggling alone against nature's wild mood. then the feeling clutched him that he was not alone; that from somewhere amid those barren wastes hostile eyes watched, skulking murderers sought his life. yet there was no sign of any presence. he could not stand there and die, nor permit carroll to freeze in his saddle. it would be better to take a chance; perhaps the assassins had fled, believing their work accomplished; perhaps they had become confused by the storm. foot by foot, feeling his passage, he advanced down the gully, fairly dragging his own horse after him. behind, held by the straining lariat, lurched the others, the soldier swaying on the back of the last, swearing and laughing in delirium, clutching at snowflakes with his hands. at the end of the ravine, under shelter of the bank, hamlin trampled back the snow, herding the animals close, so as to gain the warmth of their bodies. here they were well protected from the cruel lash of the wind and the shower of snow which blew over them and drifted higher and higher in the open space beyond. working feverishly, the blood again circulating freely through his veins, the sergeant hastily dragged blankets from the pack, and spread them on the ground, depositing carroll upon them. then he set about vigorously rubbing the soldier's exposed flesh with snow. the smart of it, together with the roughness of handling, aroused the latter from lethargy, but hamlin, ignoring his resentment, gripped the fellow with hands of iron, never ceasing his violent ministrations until his swearing ended in silence. then he wrapped him tightly in the blankets, and stood himself erect, glowing from the exercise. carroll glared up at him angrily out of red-rimmed eyes. "i 'll get you for that, you big boob!" he shouted, striving to release his arms from the clinging blankets. "you wait! i 'll get you!" "hush up, george, and go to sleep," the other retorted, poking the shapeless body with his foot, his thoughts already elsewhere. "don't be a fool. i 'll get a fire if i can, and something hot into you. within an hour you 'll be a man again. now see here--stop that! do you hear? you lie still right where you are, carroll, until i come back, or i 'll kick your ribs in!" he bent down menacingly, scowling into the upturned face. "will you mind, or shall i have to hand you one?" carroll shrank back like a whipped child, his lips muttering something indistinguishable. the sergeant, satisfied, turned and floundered through the drifts to the bank of the stream. he was alert and fearful, yet determined. no matter what danger of discovery might threaten, he must build a fire to save carroll's life. the raging storm was not over with; there was no apparent cessation of violence in the blasts of the icy wind, and the snow swept about him in blinding sheets. it would continue all day, all another night, perhaps, and they could never live through without food and warmth. he realized the risk fully, his gloved hand gripping the butt of his revolver, as he stared up and down the snow-draped bluffs. he wished he had picked up wasson's rifle. who was it that had shot them up, anyhow? the very mystery added to the dread. could it have been dupont? there was no other conception possible, yet it seemed like a miracle that they could have kept so close on the fellow's trail all night long through the storm. yet who else would open fire at sight? who else, indeed, would be in this god-forsaken country? and whoever it was, where had he gone? how had he disappeared so suddenly and completely? he could not be far away, that was a certainty. no plainsman would attempt to ford that icy stream, nor desert the shelter of these bluffs in face of the storm. it would be suicidal. and if dupont and his indians were close at hand, miss mcdonald would be with them. he had had no time in which to reason this out before, but now the swift realization of the close proximity of the girl came to him like an electric shock. whatever the immediate danger he must thaw out carroll, and thus be free himself. he could look back to where the weary horses huddled beneath the bank, grouped about the man so helplessly swaddled in blankets on the ground. they were dim, pitiable objects, barely discernible through the flying scud, yet hamlin was quick to perceive the advantage of their position--the overhanging bluff was complete protection from any attack except along the open bank of the river. two armed men could defend the spot against odds. and below, a hundred yards away, perhaps--it was hard to judge through that smother--the bare limbs of several stunted cottonwoods waved dismally against the gray sky. hesitating, his eyes searching the barrenness above to where the stream bent northward and disappeared, he turned at last and tramped downward along the edge of the stream. across stretched the level, white prairie, beaten and obscured by the storm, while to his left arose the steep, bare bluff, swept clear by the wind, revealing its ugliness through the haze of snow. not in all the expanse was there visible a moving object nor track of any kind. he was alone, in the midst of indescribable desolation--a cold, dead, dreary landscape. he came to the little patch of forest growth, a dozen gaunt, naked trees at the river's edge, stunted, two of them already toppling over the bank, apparently undermined by the water, threatening to fall before each blast that smote them. hoping to discover some splinters for a fire, hamlin kicked a clear space in the snow, yet kept his face always toward the bluff, his eyes vigilantly searching for any skulking figure. silent as those desert surroundings appeared, the sergeant knew he was not alone. he had a feeling that he was being watched, spied upon; that somewhere near at hand, crouching in that solitude, the eyes of murder followed his every movement. suddenly he straightened up, staring at the bluff nearly opposite where he stood. was it a dream, an illusion, or was that actually the front of a cabin at the base of the bank? he could not believe it possible, nor could he be sure. if so, then it consisted merely of a room excavated in the side of the hill, the opening closed in by cottonwood logs. it in no way extended outward beyond the contour of the bank, and was so plastered with snow as to be almost indistinguishable a dozen steps away. yet those were logs, regularly laid, beyond a doubt; he was certain he detected now the dim outlines of a door, and a smooth wooden shutter, to which the snow refused to cling, the size and shape of a small window. his heart throbbing with excitement, the sergeant slipped in against the bluff for protection, moving cautiously closer until he convinced himself of the reality of his strange discovery by feeling the rough bark of the logs. it was a form of habitation of some kind beyond question; apparently unoccupied, for there were no tracks in the snow without, and no smoke of a fire visible anywhere. chapter xxvii hughes' story hamlin thrust his glove into his belt, drew forth his revolver, and gripped its stock with bare hand. this odd, hidden dwelling might be deserted, a mere empty shack, but he could not disconnect it in his mind from that murderous attack made upon their little party two hours before. why was it here in the heart of this desert? why built with such evident intent of concealment? but for what had occurred on the plateau above, his suspicions would never have been aroused. this was already becoming a cattle country; adventurous texans, seeking free range and abundant water, had advanced along all these prominent streams with their grazing herds of long-horns. little by little they had gained precarious foothold on the indian domains, slowly forcing the savages westward. the struggle had been continuous for years, and the final result inevitable. yet this year the story had been a different one, for the united tribes had swept the invading stockmen back, had butchered their cattle, and once again roamed these plains as masters. hamlin knew this; he had met and talked with those driven out, and he was aware that even now black kettle's winter camp of hostiles was not far away. this hut might, of course, be the deserted site of some old cow camp, some outrider's shack, but--the fellow who fired on them! he was a reality--a dangerous reality--and he was hiding somewhere close at hand. the sergeant stole along the front to the door, listening intently for any warning sound from either without or within. every nerve was on edge; all else forgotten except the intensity of the moment. he could perceive nothing to alarm him, no evidence of any presence inside. slowly, noiselessly, his colt poised for instant action, he lifted the wooden latch, and permitted the door to swing slightly ajar, yielding a glimpse within. there was light from above, flittering dimly through some crevice in the bluff, and the darker shadows were reddened by the cheery glow of a fireplace directly opposite, although where the smoke disappeared was not at first evident. hamlin perceived these features at a glance, standing motionless. his quick eyes visioned the whole interior--a rude table and bench, a rifle leaning in one corner, a saddle and trappings hanging against the wall; a broad-brimmed hat on the floor, a pile of skins beyond. there was an appearance of neatness also, the floor swept, the table unlittered. yet he scarcely realized these details at the time so closely was his whole attention centred on the figure of a man. the fellow occupied a stool before the fireplace, and was bending slightly forward, staring down at the red embers, unconscious of the intruder. he was a thin-chested, unkempt individual with long hair, and shaggy whiskers, both iron gray. the side of his face and neck had a sallow look, while his nose was prominent. the sergeant surveyed him a moment, his cocked revolver covering the motionless figure, his lips set grimly. then he stepped within, and closed the door. [illustration: his colt poised for instant action, he lifted the wooden latch.] at the slight sound the other leaped to his feet, overturning the stool, and whirled about swiftly, his right hand dropping to his belt. "that will do, friend!" hamlin's voice rang stern. "stand as you are--your gun is lying on the bench yonder. rather careless of you in this country. no, i would n't risk it if i was you; this is a hair trigger." the fellow stared helpless into the sergeant's gray eyes. "who--who the hell are you?" he managed to articulate hoarsely, "a--a soldier?" hamlin nodded, willing enough to let the other talk. "you 're--you 're not one o' le fevre's outfit?" "whose?" "gene le fevre--the damn skunk; you know him?" startled as he was, the sergeant held himself firm, and laughed. "i reckon there is n't any one by that name a friend o' mine," he said coolly. "so you 're free to relieve your feelings as far as i 'm concerned. were you expecting that gent along this trail?" "yes, i was, an' 'twa'n't no pleasant little reception i 'lowed to give him neither. say! would n't yer just as soon lower thet shootin' iron? we ain't got no call to quarrel so fur as i kin see." "maybe not, stranger," and hamlin leaned back against the table, lowering his weapon slightly, as he glanced watchfully about the room, "but i 'll keep the gun handy just the same until we understand each other. anybody else in this neighborhood?" "not unless it's le fevre, an' his outfit." "then i reckon you did the shooting, out there a bit ago?" the man shuffled uneasily, but the sergeant's right hand came to a level. "did you?" "i s'pose thar ain't no use o' denyin' it," reluctantly, eyeing the gun in the corner, "but i did n't mean to shoot up no outfit but le fevre's. so help me, i did n't! the danged snow was so thick i could n't see nohow, and i never s'posed any one was on the trail 'cept him. thar ain't been no white man 'long yere in three months. didn't hit none of yer, did i?" "yes, you did," returned hamlin slowly, striving to hold himself in check. "you killed one of the best fellows that ever rode these plains, you sneaking coward, you. shot him dead, with his back to you. now, see here, it's a throw of the dice with me whether i fill you full of lead, or let you go. i came in here intending to kill you, if you were the cur who shot us up. but i 'm willing to listen to what you have got to say. i 'm some on the fight, but plain murder don't just appeal to me. how is it? are you ready to talk? spit it out, man!" "i 'll tell yer jest how it was." "do it my way then; answer straight what i ask you. who are you? what are you doing here?" "kin i sit down?" "yes; make it short now; all i want is facts." the man choked a bit, turned and twisted on the stool, but was helpless to escape. "wal, my name is hughes--jed hughes; i uster hang out round san antone, an' hev been mostly in the cow business. the last five years le fevre an' i hev been grazin' cattle in between yere an' buffalo creek." "partners?" "wal, by god! i thought so, till just lately," his voice rising. "anyhow, i hed a bunch o' money in on the deal, though i 'll be darned if i know just what's become o' it. yer see, stranger, gene hed the inside o' this injun business, bein' as he 's sorter squaw man--" "what!" interrupted the other sharply. "do you mean he married into one of the tribes?" "sorter left-handed--yep; a cheyenne woman. little thing like that did n't faze gene none, if he did have a white wife--a blamed good-looker she was too. she was out here onc't, three years ago, 'bout a week maybe. course she did n't know nothin' 'bout the squaw, an' the injuns was all huntin' down in the wichitas. but as i wus sayin', gene caught on to this yere injun war last spring--i reckon ol' koleta, his injun father-in-law, likely told him what wus brewin'--he's sorter a war-chief. anyhow he knew thet hell wus to pay, an' so we natch'ally gathered up our long-horns an' drove 'em east whar they would n't be raided. we did n't git all the critters rounded up, as we wus in a hurry, an' they wus scattered some 'cause of a hard winter. so i come back yere to round up the rest o' ther bunch." "and brand a few outsiders." he grinned. "maybe i was n't over-particular, but anyhow i got a thousand head together by the last o' june, an' hit the trail with 'em. then hell sure broke loose. 'fore we 'd got that bunch o' cattle twenty mile down the cimarron we wus rounded up by a gang o' cheyenne injuns, headed by that ornery koleta, and every horn of 'em drove off. thar wa'n't no fight; the damn bucks just laughed at us, an' left us sittin' thar out on the prairie. they hogged hosses an' all." he wiped his face, and spat into the fire, while hamlin sat silent, gun in hand. "i reckon now as how le fevre put ol' koleta wise to that game, but i was plum innocent then," he went on regretfully. "wall, we,--thar wus four o' us,--hoofed it east till we struck some ranchers on cow crick, and got the loan o' some ponies. then i struck out to locate the main herd. it didn't take me long, stranger, to discover thar wa'n't no herd to locate. but i struck their trail, whar le fevre had driven 'em up into missouri and cashed in fer a pot o' money. then the damn cuss just natch'ally vanished. i plugged 'bout fer two er three months hopin' ter ketch up with him, but i never did. i heerd tell o' him onc't or twice, an' caught on he was travellin' under 'nuther name--some durn french contraction--but thet's as much as i ever did find out. finally, up in independence i wus so durn near broke i reckoned i 'd better put what i hed left in a grub stake, an' drift back yere. i figgered thet maybe i could pick up some o' those injun cattle again, and maybe some mavericks, an' so start 'nuther herd. anyhow i could lie low fer a while, believin' le fevre wus sure ter come back soon as he thought the coast wus clear. i knew then he an' koleta was in cahoots an' he 'd be headin' this way after the stock. so i come down yere quiet, an' laid fer him to show up." "what then?" "nuthin' much, till yisterday. i got tergether some cows, herded down river a ways, out o' sight in the bluffs, but hev hed ter keep mighty quiet ter save my hair. them cheyennes are sure pisen this year, an' raisin' cain. i never see 'em so rambunctious afore. but i hung on yere, hidin' out, cause i didn't hev nowhar else ter go. an' yisterday, just ahead o' the blizzard, a kiowa buck drifted in yere. slipped down the bluff, an' caught me 'fore ever i saw him. never laid eyes on the red afore but he wus friendly 'nough, natch'ally mistakin' me fer one o' le fevre's herders. his name wus black smoke, an' he could n't talk no english worth mentionin', but we made out to understan' each other in mex. he wus too darn hungry and tired to talk much anyhow. but i got what i wanted to know out o' him." "well, go on, hughes; you are making a long story out of it." "the rest is short 'nough. it seems he an' ol' koleta, an' a young cheyenne buck, had been hangin' 'round across the river from dodge fer quite a while waitin' fer le fevre to pull off some sorter stunt. maybe i did n't get just the straight o' it, but anyhow they held up a paymaster, er something like that, fer a big boodle. they expected to do it quiet like, hold the off'cer a day er so out in the desert, an' then turn him loose to howl. but them plans did n't just exactly work. the fellow's daughter was with him, when the pinch was made, an' they hed to take her 'long too. then the officer man got ugly, an' had to be shot, an' le fevre quarrelled with the other white man in the outfit, an' killed him. that left the gal on their hands, an' them all in a hell of a fix if they wus ever caught. the young injuns wanted to kill the gal too, an' shet her mouth, but somehow le fevre an' koleta would n't hear to it--said she 'd be worth more alive than dead, an' that they could hide her whar she 'd never be heard of ag'in unless her friends put up money to buy her back." hamlin was leaning forward, watching the speaker intently, and it seemed to him his heart had stopped beating. this story had the semblance of truth; it _was_ the truth. so dupont and le fevre were one and the same. he could believe this now, could perceive the resemblance, although the man had grown older, taken on flesh, and disguised himself wonderfully by growing that black beard. yet, at the moment, he scarcely considered the man at all; his whole interest concentrated on the fate of the unfortunate girl. "where were they taking her, hughes--do you know?" "wa'n't but one place fer 'em to take her--the cheyennes hev got winter camp down yonder on the canadian--black kettle's outfit. onc't thar, all hell could n't pry her loose." "and le fevre dared go there? among those hostiles?" "him!" hughes laughed scornfully. "why, he's hand in glove with the whole bunch. he's raided with 'em, decked out in feathers an' war-paint." the sergeant thought rapidly and leaped to a sudden conclusion. "and you were trying to kill him when you shot us up?" "thet wus the idea, stranger; if i got a friend o' yourn, i 'm powerful sorry." chapter xxviii snowbound the gleam in hamlin's eyes impelled the other to go on, and explain fully. "lord, i know how yer feel, stranger, an', i reckon, if yer was to plug me right yere it would n't more 'n even matters up. but yer listen furst afore yer shoot. thet kiowa black smoke was sent on ahead, an' got yere afore the storm. he said them others wus 'bout four hours behind, an' headin' fer this yere cabin to make camp. they wa'n't hurryin' none, fer they did n't suspect they wus bein' tracked. well, thet was my chance; what i 'd been campin' out yere months a-waitin' fer. i did n't expect ter git nuthin' back, y' understand; all i wanted was ter kill that damn skunk, an' squar accounts. it looked ter me then like i hed him on the hip. he did n't know i was in the kintry; all i hed to do was lay out in the hills, an' take a pot-shot at him afore he saw me." "and get the girl and the money." "as god is my witness, i never thought 'bout thet. i jest wanted ter plug him. i know it sounds sorter cowardly, but that fellow 's a gun-fighter, an' he hed two injuns with him. anyhow that wus my notion, an' as soon as black smoke went lopin' up the valley, i loaded up, an' climbed them bluffs, to whar i hed a good look-out erlong the north trail. i laid out thar all night. the storm come up, an' i mighty nigh froze, but snuggled down inter ther snow an' stuck. when yer onc't get a killin' freak on, yer goin' through hell an' high water ter get yer man. thet's how i felt. well, just 'long 'bout daylight an outfit showed up. with my eyes half froze over, an' ther storm blowin' the snow in my face, i could n't see much--nuthin' but outlines o' hosses an' men. but thar was four o' 'em, an' a big fellow ahead breakin' trail. course i thought it was le fevre; i wa'n't lookin' fer no one else, an' soon as i dared, i let drive. he flopped over dead as a door nail, an' then i popped away a couple o' times at the others. one fell down, an' i thought i got him, but did n't wait to make sure; just turned and hoofed it fer cover, knowin' the storm would hide my trail. i 'd got the man i went after, an' just natch'ally did n't give er whoop what become o' the rest. as i went down the bank i heard 'em shootin' so i knowed some wus alive yet an' it would be better fer me to crawl inter my hole an' lie still." hamlin sat motionless, staring at the man, not quite able to comprehend his character. killing was part of the western code, and he could appreciate hughes' eagerness for revenge, but the underlying cowardice in the man was almost bewildering. finally he got up, swept the revolver on the bench into his pocket, walked over, and picked up the gun. "now, hughes," he said quietly. "i'll talk, and you listen. in my judgment you are a miserable sneaking cur, and i am going to trust you just so far as i can watch you. i suppose i ought to shoot you where you are, and have done with it. you killed one of the best men who ever lived, a friend of mine, sam wasson--" "who?" "sam wasson, a government scout." hughes dropped his face into his hands. "good lord! i knew him!" the sergeant drew a deep breath, and into his face there came a look almost of sympathy. "then you begin to realize the sort of fool you are," he went on soberly. "they don't make better men out here; his little finger was worth more than your whole body. but killing you won't bring sam back, and besides i reckon you 've told me the straight story, an' his shooting was an accident in a way. then you 're more useful to me just now alive than you would be dead. my name is hamlin, sergeant seventh cavalry, and i am here after that man le fevre. we trailed his outfit from dodge until the storm struck us, and then came straight through travelling by compass. i did not know the man's name was le fevre until you told me; up in kansas he is known as dupont." "that 's it; that's the name he took when he sold the cattle." "the officer robbed and killed was major mcdonald, and it is his daughter they hold. the fellow dupont quarrelled with and shot was a deserter named connors. we found the body. now where do you suppose le fevre is?" hughes stared into the fire, nervously pulling his beard. "wall, i 'd say in west yere somewhar along the cimarron. 't ain't likely he had a compass, an' the wind wus from the nor'east. best they could do, the ponies would drift. the injuns would keep the gineral direction, o' course, storm 'er no storm, an' gene is some plainsman himself, but thet blizzard would sheer 'em off all the same. i reckon they 're under the banks ten mile, er more, up thar. an' soon as there 's a change in weather, they 'll ride fer black kettle's camp. thet's my guess, mister." hamlin turned the situation over deliberately in his mind, satisfied that hughes had reviewed the possibilities correctly. if le fevre's party had got through at all, then that was the most likely spot for them to be hiding in. they would have drifted beyond doubt, farther than hughes supposed, probably, as he had been sheltered from the real violence of the wind as it raged on the open plain. they might be fifteen, even twenty miles away, and so completely drifted in as to be undiscoverable except through accident. what course then was best to pursue? the storm was likely to continue violent for a day, perhaps two days longer. his horses were exhausted, and carroll helpless. it might not even be safe to leave the latter alone. yet if the frozen man could be left in the hut to take care of himself and the ponies, would there be any hope of success in an effort to proceed up the river on foot? he could make hughes go--that was n't the difficulty--but probably they could n't cover five miles a day through the snowdrifts. and, even if they did succeed in getting through in time to intercept the fugitives, the others would possess every advantage--both position for defense, and horses on which to escape. hughes, lighting his pipe, confident now in his own mind that he was personally safe, seemed to sense the problem troubling the sergeant. "i reckon i know this yere kintry well 'nough," he said lazily, "ter give yer a pointer er two. i 've rounded up long-horns west o' yere. them fellers ain't goin' to strike out fer the canadian till after the storm quits. by thet time yer ponies is rested up in better shape than theirs will be, and we kin strike 'cross to the sou'west. we 're bound either to hit 'em, or ride 'cross thar trail." "but the woman!" protested hamlin, striding across the floor. "what may happen to her in the meanwhile? she is an eastern girl, unaccustomed to this life,--a--a lady." "yer don't need worry none 'bout thet. ef she 's the right kind she 'll stan' more 'n a man when she has to. i reckon it won't be none too pleasant 'long with gene an' them cheyenne bucks, but if she 's pulled through so far, thar ain't nuthin' special goin' ter happen till they git to the injun camp." "you mean her fate will be decided in council?" "sure; thet's cheyenne law. le fevre knows it, an' ol' koleta would knife him in a minute if he got gay. he's a devil all right--thet ol' buck--but he 's afraid of black kettle, an' thar won't be no harm done to the gal." the sergeant walked over to the fire, and stared down into the red embers, striving to control himself. he realized the truth of all hughes said, and yet had to fight fiercely his inclination to hasten to her rescue. the very thought of her alone in those ruthless hands was torture. there was no selfishness in the man's heart, no hope of winning this girl for himself, yet he knew now that he loved her; that for him she was the one woman in all the world. her face was in his memory; the very soughing of the wind seemed her voice calling him. but the real man in him--the plainsman instinct--conquered the impetuosity of the lover. there must be no mistake made--no rash, hopeless effort. better delay, than ultimate failure, and hughes' plan was the more practical way. he lifted his head, his lips set with decision. "you're right, old man. we'll wait," he said sternly. "now to get ready. have you a corral?" the other made a gesture with his hand. "twenty rod b'low, under the bluff." "we 'll drive the horses down, feed and water them. but first come with me; there is a half-frozen man up yonder." they ploughed through the snow together, choking and coughing in the thick swirl of flakes that beat against their faces. the three horses, powdered white, stood tails to the storm, with heads to the bluff, while the drifts completely covered carroll. he was sleeping, warm in the blankets, and the two men picked him up and stumbled along with their burden to the shelter of the cabin. then hughes faced the blizzard again, leading the horses to the corral, while hamlin ministered to the semi-conscious soldier, laying him out upon a pile of soft skins, and vigorously rubbing his limbs to restore circulation. the man was stupid from exposure, and in some pain, but exhibited no dangerous symptoms. when wrapped again in his blankets, he fell instantly asleep. hughes returned, mantled with snow, and, as the door opened, the howl of the storm swept by. "no better outside?" "lord, no! worse, if anything. wind more east, sweepin' the snow up the valley. we 'll be plum shet up in an hour, i reckon. hosses all right, though." in the silence they could hear the fierce beating against the door, the shrieking of the storm-fiend encompassing them about. chapter xxix the chase hamlin never forgot those two days and nights of waiting, while the storm roared without and the clouds of drifting snow made any dream of advance impossible. trained as he was to patience, the delay left marks in his face, and his nerves throbbed with pain. his mind was with her constantly, even in moments of uneasy sleep, picturing her condition unsheltered from the storm, and protected only by le fevre and his two indian allies. if he could only reach them, only strike a blow for her release, it would be such a relief. the uncertainty weighed upon him, giving unrestricted play to the imagination, and, incidentally awakening a love for the girl so overwhelming as almost to frighten him. he had fought this feeling heretofore, sternly, deliberately, satisfied that such ambition was hopeless. he would not attempt to lower her to his level, nor give her the unhappiness of knowing that he dared misconstrue her frank friendliness into aught more tender. but these misfortunes had changed the entire outlook. now he flung all pretence aside, eager to place his life on the altar to save her. even a dim flame of hope began blazing in his heart--hope that he might yet wring from le fevre a confession that would clear his name. he knew his man at last--knew him, and would track him now with all the pitiless ingenuity of a savage. once he could stand erect, absolved of disgrace, a man again among men, he would ignore the uniform of the ranks, and go to her with all the pride of his race. ay! and down in his heart he knew that she would welcome his coming; that her eyes would not look at the uniform, but down into the depths of his own. he thought of it all as he paced the floor, or stared into the fire, while outside the wind raged and howled, piling the snow against the cabin front, and whirling in mad bursts up the valley. it would be death to face the fury of it on those open plains. there was nothing left him but to swear, and pace back and forth. twice he and hughes fought their way to the corral, found the horses sheltered in a little cove, and brought them food and water. the struggle to accomplish this was sufficient proof of the impossibility of going farther. exhausted and breathless they staggered back into the quietness of the cabin, feeling as though they had been beaten by clubs. once, desperate to attempt something, hamlin suggested searching for the bodies of wasson and wade, but hughes shook his head, staring at the other as though half believing him demented. the sergeant strode to the door and looked out into the smother of snow; then came back without a word of protest. carroll improved steadily, complaining of pain where the frost had nipped exposed flesh, yet able to sit up, and eat heartily. there remained a numbness in his feet and legs, however, which prevented his standing alone, and both the others realized that he would have to be left behind when the storm abated. hughes would go without doubt; on this point the sergeant was determined. he did not altogether like or trust the man; he could not blot from memory the cowardly shot which had killed wasson, nor entirely rid himself of a fear that he, himself, had failed an old comrade, in not revenging his death; yet one thing was clear--the man's hatred for le fevre made him valuable. treacherous as he might be by nature, now his whole soul was bent on revenge. moreover he knew the lay of the land, the trail the fugitives would follow, and to some extent black kettle's camp. little by little hamlin drew from him every detail of le fevre's life in the cattle country, becoming more and more convinced that both men were thieves, their herds largely stolen through connivance with indians. undoubtedly le fevre was the bigger rascal of the two, and possessed greater influence because of his marriage into the tribe. it was the second midnight when the wind died down. hamlin, sleeping fitfully, seemed to sense the change; he rose, forced the door open, and peered out eagerly. there was lightness to the sky, and all about, the unbroken expanse of snow sparkled in cold crystals. nothing broke the white desolation but the dark waters of the river still unfrozen, and the gaunt limbs of the cottonwoods, now standing naked and motionless. the silence was profound, seeming almost painful after the wild fury of the past days. he could hear the soft purr of the water, and carroll's heavy breathing. and it was cold, bitterly cold, the chill of it penetrating to his very bones. but for that he had no care--his mind had absorbed the one important fact; the way was open, they could go. he shook hughes roughly into wakefulness, giving utterance to sharp, tense orders, as though he dealt with a man of his own troop. "turn out--lively, now. yes, the storm is over. it's midnight, or a little after, and growing cold. put on your heavy stuff, and bring up the two best horses. come, now; you 'll step off quicker than that, hughes, if you ride with me. i 'll have everything ready by the time you get here. eat! hell! we 'll eat in the saddle! what's that, carroll?' "ye ain't a-goin' to leave me yere alone, are ye, sergeant?" "no; there 'll be two horses to keep you company. you've got a snap, man; plenty to eat, and a good fire--what more do you want--a nurse? hughes, what, in the name of heaven, are you standing there for? perhaps you would like to have me stir you up. i will if those horses are not here in ten minutes." the cowman, muffled to the ears in a buffalo coat, plunged profanely into the drift, slamming the door behind him. hamlin hastily glanced over the few articles piled in readiness on the bench--ammunition, blankets, food--paying no heed to carroll's muttering of discontent. by the time hughes returned, he had everything strapped for the saddles. he thrust the cowman's rifle under his own flap, but handed the latter a revolver, staring straight into his eyes as he did so. "i reckon you and i have got enough in common in this chase to play square," he said grimly. "we 're both out after le fevre, ain't we?" "you bet." "all right, then; here 's your gun. if you try any trickery, hughes, i 'd advise that you get me the first shot, for if you miss you 'll never have another." the man drew the sleeve of his coat over his lips, his eyes shifting before the sergeant's steady gaze. "i ain't thet sort," he muttered uneasily. "yer don't need to think thet o' me." "maybe not," and hamlin swung into the saddle carelessly. "only i thought i 'd tell you beforehand what would happen if you attempt any fool gun-play. take the lead, you know the trail." carroll, supporting himself by the table, crept across to the door and watched them, reckless as to the entering cold. the glare of the white snow revealed clearly the outlines of the disappearing horsemen, as they rode cautiously down the bank. the thin fringe of shore ice broke under the weight of the ponies' hoofs, as the riders forced them forward into the icy water. a moment later the two crept up the sharp incline of the opposite shore, appearing distinct against the sky as they attained the summit. hamlin waved his hand, and then, on a lope, the figures vanished into the gloom. crying, and swearing at his helplessness, the deserted soldier closed the door, and crept back shivering into his blankets. hughes turned his horse's head to the southwest, and rode steadily forward, the buffalo overcoat giving him a shaggy, grotesque appearance in the spectral light reflected from the snow. without a word hamlin followed, a pace behind. their route lay for the first few miles across a comparatively level plateau, over which the fierce wind of the late storm had swept with such violence as to leave the surface packed firm. the night shut them in silently, giving to their immediate surroundings a mournful loneliness most depressing. there were no shadows, only the dull snow-gleam across which they passed like spectres, the only sound the crunching of their horses' hoofs on the crust. the sergeant, staring about, felt that he had never looked upon a more depressing spectacle than this gloomy landscape, desolate and wind-swept, still over-arched with low-lying storm clouds, black and ominous. they advanced thus for two hours, making no attempt to force their animals, and scarcely exchanging a word, both men watchful of the snow underfoot in search of a possible trail, when the character of the country began to change. the level plain broke into a series of ridges of irregular formation, all evidently heading toward some more southern valley. in the depressions the snow lay banked in deep drifts, and, after plunging desperately through two of these, unable to judge correctly in the dim light where to ride, hughes turned more to the south, skirting along the bare slope of a ridge, trusting some turn lower down would yield them the necessary westerning. "it's over the ponies' heads down thar, sergeant," he said, pointing sideways into the dark hollow, "an' we 're bound to strike a cross-ridge afore we come to the bluffs." "what bluffs? the canadian?" "yep; it 's badly broken kintry a long ways west o' yere. bad lands, mostly, an' a hell o' a place for cattle to hide out." "hughes, do you know where black kettle's camp is?" "well, no, not exactly. las' winter the cheyennes was settled 'bout opposite the mouth o' buffalo creek, an' thar 're down thar somewhar now. thar 's one thing sure--they ain't any east o' thet. as we ain't hit no trail, i reckon as how le fevre's outfit must hev drifted further then i calc'lated." "i thought so at the time," commented the other quietly. "however, we will have to make the circle, and, if the country out yonder is as you describe, they will be no better off. they 'll have to follow the ridges to get through. we may get a glimpse when daylight comes." they rode on steadily, keeping down below the crest of the hills, yet picking a passage where the snow had been swept clear. the slipperiness of the incline made their progress slow, as they dared not risk the breaking of a horse's leg in that wilderness, and the faint light glimmer was most confusing. the wind had ceased, the calm was impressive after the wild tumult, but the cold seemed to strengthen as the dawn advanced, viciously biting the exposed faces of the men. the straining ponies were white with frost. in the gray of a cheerless dawn they reached the first line of bluffs, and drew rein just below the summit, where they could look on across the lower ridges to the westward. it was a wild, desolate scene, the dull gray sky overhead, the black and white shading below. mile on mile the picture unrolled to the horizon, the vista widening slowly as the light increased, bringing forth the details of barren, wind-swept ridges and shallow valleys choked with snow. not a tree, not a shrub, not even a rock broke the dead monotony. all was loneliness and silence. the snow lay gleaming and untrampled, except as here and there a dull brown patch of dead grass darkened the side of a hill. hamlin shadowed his eyes with gloved hands, studying intently inch by inch the wide domain. suddenly he arose in his stirrups, bending eagerly forward. "by heaven! there they are, hughes," he exclaimed, feeling the hot blood course through his veins. "see, on the incline of that third ridge. there is a shadow there, and they are not moving. here; draw in back of me; now you can see. it looks as though they had a horse down." hughes stared long in the direction indicated, his eyes narrowed into mere slits. "ah! that's it," he said at last. "horse broke a leg; shot it jest then--i seen the flash. now they 're goin' on. see! one fellow climbin' up behind 'nother, an' the horse left lyin' thar on the snow." "how many people do you make out?" and hamlin's voice shook a little. "there's four, ain't there?" at that distance the fugitives looked like mere black dots. it could scarcely be determined that they moved, and yet their outlines were distinct against the background of white snow, while the two watchers possessed the trained vision of the plains. hughes answered after a deliberate inspection, without so much as turning his head. "thar's four; leastwise thar was four hosses, and two--the injuns likely--are ridin' double. thar animals are 'bout played, it looks ter me--just able ter crawl. ain't had no fodder is 'bout the size o' it. we ought to be able ter head thet bunch off 'fore they git to the canadian at thet rate o' travel--hey, sergeant?" hamlin's eyes followed the long sweep of the cross-ridge, studying its trend, and the direction of the intervening valleys. once down on the other slope all this extensive view would be hidden; they would have to ride blindly, guessing at the particular swale along which those others were advancing. to come to the summit again would surely expose them to those keen indian eyes. they would be searching the trail ahead ceaselessly, noting every object along the crests of the ridges. however, if the passage around was not blocked with snow, they ought to attain the junction in ample time. with twice as far to travel, their ponies were strong and fit, and should win out against le fevre's starved beasts. he waved his gloved hand. "we 'll try it," he said shortly; "come on, hughes." he led off along the steep side of the hill, and forcing his horse into a sharp trot, headed straight out into the white wilderness; hughes, without uttering a word, brought down his quirt on his pony's flank and followed. chapter xxx the fight in the snow the slope toward the south had not been swept clear by the wind, and the horses broke through the crust to their knees, occasionally stumbling into hollows where the drifts were deep. this made progress slow, although hamlin pressed forward recklessly, fully aware of what it would mean should the fugitives emerge first, and thus achieve a clear passage to the river. what was going on there to the right, behind the fringe of low hills, could not be conjectured, but to the left the riders could see clearly for a great distance over the desolate, snow-draped land, down to the dark waters of the canadian and the shore beyond. it was all a deserted waste, barren of movement, and no smoke bore evidence of any indian encampment near by. a mile or more to the west the river took a sharp bend, disappearing behind the bluffs, and on the open plain, barely visible against the unsullied mantle of snow, were dark specks, apparently moving, but in erratic fashion. the distance intervening was too great for either man to distinguish exactly what these might be, yet as they plunged onward their keen eyes searched the valley vigilantly through the cold clear air. "some of your long-horns, hughes?" asked the sergeant finally, pointing as he turned and glanced back. "quite a bunch of cattle, it looks to me." "them thar ain't cows," returned the other positively. "tha 're too closely bunched up. i reckon it 'll be black kettle's pony herd." "then his village will lie in beyond the big bend there," and hamlin rose in his stirrups, shading his eyes. "the herders have n't driven them far since the storm broke. you don't see any smoke, do you?" hughes shook his head. "you would n't likely see none against thet gray sky; them ponies is two er maybe three miles off, an' ther camp is likely a mile er so further. thar 's a big bend thar, as i remember; a sort o' level spot with bluff all 'round, 'cept on the side o' ther river. we hed a cattle corral thar onc't, durin' a round-up. most likely that's whar they are." "and le fevre is heading straight for the spot. well, he 'll have to come out on this bench first." "yep, there sure ain't no valleys lying between. how many o' these yere gulch openings have we got past already?" "three; there 's the fourth just ahead. that's the one they were trailing through. no doubt about that, is there?" "not 'less them injuns took to the ridge. they wus sure in the fourth valley when we fust sighted the outfit back thar. whatcher goin' ter do, sergeant? jump 'em a hoss-back, an' just pump lead?" hamlin had thought this over as he rode and already had planned his attack. the opening to the valley, along which le fevre's exhausted party were slowly advancing toward them, seemed favorable--it was narrow and badly choked with snow. it offered an ideal place for a surprise and was far enough away from the indian encampment--if the latter was situated as hughes believed, in the great bend above--so that no echo of shots would carry that distance, even through the crisp atmosphere. there were two things the sergeant had determined to accomplish if possible--the rescue of miss molly uninjured, and the capture of le fevre. no matter how deeply he despised the man he could not afford to have him killed. so far as the indians were concerned there would be no mercy shown, for if either one escaped he would carry the news to the village. with all this in his mind the sergeant swung out of the saddle, dropping the rein to the ground, confident that the tired cow-pony would remain quiet. his belt was buckled outside the army overcoat, and he drew his revolver, tested it, and slipped it back loosely into the holster. then he pulled out the rifle from under the flap of the saddle, grimly handling it in his gloved fingers. hughes, his head sunk into his fur collar, his hot breath steaming in the cold atmosphere, watched him curiously. "lookin' fer a right smart fight, i reckon," he said, a trifle uneasily. "believe me, yer ain't goin' ter find thet fellar no spring chicken. he 's some on ther gun play." "i hope he knows enough to quit when he 's cornered," returned the other pleasantly, sweeping his eyes to the opening in the hills, "for i 'm aiming to take him back to kansas alive." "the hell ye are!" "that 's the plan, pardner, and i 've got reason for it. i knew le fevre once, years ago, during the war, and i 've been some anxious to get my hands on him ever since. he 's worth far more to me alive than dead, just now, and, hughes," his voice hardening, "you 'll bear that fact in mind when the fracas begins. from now on this is my affair, not yours. you understand? you get busy with the two bucks, and leave the white man to me. come on now,--dismount." hughes came to the ground with evident reluctance, swearing savagely. "what do yer think i 'm yere for," he demanded roughly, "if it wa'n't to shoot that cuss?" hamlin strode swiftly over, and dropped a hand on the shaggy shoulder. "you are here because i ordered you to come with me; because if you hadn't i would have killed you back there in the shack, you red-handed murderer. now listen, hughes. i know what you are--a cattle thief. you and le fevre belong to the same outfit, only he was the smarter of the two. i have spared your life for a purpose, and if you fail me now i 'll shoot you down as i would a dog. don't try to threaten me, you cur, for i am not that kind. i am not trusting you; i have n't from the first, but you are going into this fight on my side, and under my orders." the two men glared into each other's eyes, silent, breathing hard, but there was a grim determination about the sergeant's set jaw that left hughes speechless. he grinned weakly, stamping down the snow under foot. hamlin's continued silence brought a protest to his lips. "damn if i know why you say that," he began. "haven't i been square?" "because i know your style, hughes. you hate le fevre for the dirty trick he played on you, but you 'd sell out to him again in five minutes if you thought there was any money in it. i don't propose giving you the chance. you 'll go ahead, and you are in more danger from me than that outfit yonder. now move, and we 'll take a look up the valley." they ploughed a way through the drifts to the mouth of the narrow opening between the hills, dropping to their knees in the snow, and cautiously creeping forward the last few yards. hamlin, convinced that fear alone could control the ex-cowthief, kept slightly to the rear. "now wait, hughes," he said, his voice lowered but still tense with command. "be careful, man. crawl up there in between those drifts, and look over. keep down low, you fool." the two men wriggled slowly forward, smothered in the snowdrift, until hughes' eyes barely topped the surface. hamlin lay outstretched a foot below, watchful for the slightest sign of treachery. the cowman stared up the depression, blinking his eyes in the snow glare. the impatient sergeant gripped his arm. "well, what is it? are they coming?" "you bet, an' about dead, from the looks of 'em. them fellars ain't lookin' fer nuthin'. i reckon i could stand up straight yere an' they 'd never see me. take a look yerself; it's safe 'nough." hamlin drew himself up, and peered out over the snow, but still gripped the other's arm. with his first glance up the valley there swept over him a strange feeling of sympathy for those he was hunting. it was a dismal, depressing picture--the bare, snow-covered hillsides, and between, floundering weakly through the drifts, the little party of fugitives, the emaciated ponies staggering with weakness, the men on foot, reeling as they tramped forward, their heads lowered in utter weariness. the girl alone was in saddle, so wrapped about in blankets as to be formless, even her face concealed. the manner in which she swayed to the movements of the pony, urged on by one of the indians, was evidence that she was bound fast, and helpless. at sight of her condition hamlin felt his old relentless purpose return. he was plainsman enough to realize what suffering those men had passed through before reaching such extremity, and was quick to appreciate the full meaning of their exhaustion, and to sympathize with it. he had passed through a similar baptism, and remembered the desperate clutch of the storm-king. but the sight of that poor girl swaying helplessly in the saddle, a bound prisoner in the midst of those ruffians, who had murdered her father before her eyes and who were bearing her to all the unspeakable horrors of indian captivity, instantly stifled within him every plea of mercy. no matter what they had suffered, they were a ruthless, merciless gang of cut-throats and thieves, fleeing from justice, deserving of no consideration. yet their distressed appearance, their lack of vigilance, rendered him careless. they seemed too weak to resist, too exhausted to fight; the cold plucking at their hearts had seemingly already conquered. it was this impression which caused him to act recklessly, rising to his feet, rifle in hand, directly in their track, halting their advance with stern command. "hands up! quick now, the three of you! don't wait, dupont; i 've got the drop!" the white man was in front, a huge, shapeless figure in his furs, his black beard frosted oddly. he stood motionless, astounded at this strange apparition in blue cavalry overcoat, which had sprung up so suddenly in that wilderness. for an instant he must have deemed the vision confronting him some illusion of the desert, for he never stirred except to rub a gloved hand across his eyes. "by all the gods, dupont," roared the sergeant impatiently, "do you want me to shoot? damn you, throw up your hands!" slowly, as though his mind was still in a dream, the man's hands were lifted above his head, one grasping a short, sawed-off gun. the expression upon his face was ugly, as he began to dimly understand what this unexpected hold-up meant. there followed an instant of silence, in which hamlin, forgetful of hughes, who still remained lying quiet in the snow, took a step or two forward, rifle at shoulder. the two indians, swathed in blankets, but with arms upraised, were in direct line, motionless as statues. he could see the gleam of their dark eyes, and even noticed the figure of the girl straighten in the saddle. dupont gave fierce utterance to an oath. apparently he failed to recognize the soldier, but as hughes rose to his knees, suspicion leaped instantly to his brain. "a hold-up, hey!" he said coolly. "hughes, you sneaking old coward, come out into the open once. what is it you want?" "nothing to that, dupont," returned the sergeant, glancing back questioningly toward his companion. "your old partner is here under my orders. i am sergeant hamlin, seventh cavalry. throw down that gun!" "what! you--" "yes, you are my prisoner, i 've followed you from dodge. throw down the gun!" it was dropped sullenly into the snow. "now, hughes, go ahead, and disarm those indians." the cowman shuffled forward, revolver in hand, circling to keep safely beyond reach of dupont, who eyed him maliciously. the latter was so buttoned up in a buffalo coat as to make it impossible for him to reach a weapon, and hamlin permitted his eyes to waver slightly, as he watched the indians. what occurred the next instant came so suddenly as scarcely to leave an impression. it was swift, instinctive action, primitive impulse. an indian hand fell beneath its blanket covering; there was a flash of flame across a pony's saddle; hughes sprang backward, and went reeling into the snow. hamlin fired, as the savage dodged between the horse's legs, sending him sprawling, and, ignoring the other indian, swung about to cover dupont. swift as he moved, he was too late. with one desperate spring backward the white man was behind the woman's pony, sheltered by her shapeless figure, gripping the animal's bit. the second indian dropped to his knees and opened fire. with a sudden lurch forward the sergeant plunged headlong in the snow. chapter xxxi the girl and the man as he went down, uninjured, but realizing now that this was to be a battle to the death, hamlin flung open his coat, and gripped his revolver. lying there on his face he fired twice, deliberately, choosing the exposed indian as a target. the latter, striving to mount his frightened pony, fell forward, grasping the mane desperately, a stream of blood dyeing his blanket as the animal dashed across the valley. dupont had whirled the girl's horse to the left, and, with her body as a shield, was attempting to escape. already he was too far away to make a revolver shot safe. hamlin arose to his knees, and picked up the dropped rifle. his lips were pressed tight; his eyes full of grim determination. why didn't dupont fire? could it be he was unarmed? or was he hoping by delay to gain a closer shot? keen-eyed, resolute, the sergeant determined to take no chances. the rifle came to a level,--a spurt of flame, a sharp report, and the pony staggered to its knees, and sank, bearing its helpless burden with it. dupont let go his grip on the rein, and stood upright, clearly outlined against the white hillside, staring back toward the kneeling sergeant, the faint smoke cloud whirling between. "all right--damn you!--you've got me!" he said sullenly. hamlin never moved, except to snap out the emptied cartridge. "unbutton that coat," he commanded tersely. "now turn around. no shooting iron, hey! that's rather careless of a gun-man." he dropped his rifle, and strode forward revolver in hand, glancing curiously at the dead indian as he passed. a riata hung to the pommel of a saddle, and he paused to shake it loose, uncoiling the thin rope, but with watchful eyes constantly on his prisoner. he felt no fear of dupont, now that he knew the fellow to be unarmed, and the wounded indian had vanished over the ridge. yet dupont was a powerful man, and desperate enough to accept any chance. something in the sullen, glowering face confronting him awoke the sergeant to caution. he seemed to sense the plan of the other, and stopped suddenly, slipping the rope through his fingers. he swung the coil about his head, measuring the distance, every faculty concentrated on the toss. he had forgotten hughes lying in the snow behind; he neither saw nor heard the fellow scramble weakly to his knees, revolver outstretched in a half-frozen hand. and hughes, his eyes already glazing in death, saw only the two figures. in that moment hate triumphed over cowardice; he could not distinguish which was dupont, which hamlin. in the madness of despair he cared little--only he would kill some one before he died. his weapon wavered frantically as he sought to aim, the man holding himself up by one hand. dupont, facing that way, saw this apparition, and leaped aside, stumbling over the dead pony. hughes' weapon belched, and hamlin, the lasso whirling above him in the air, pitched forward, and came crashing down into the snow. it was all the work of an instant, a wild, confused bit, so rapidly enacted as to seem unreal even to the participants. hamlin lay motionless, barely conscious of living, yet unable to stir a muscle. hughes, screaming out one oath, sank back into a heap, his frozen fingers still gripping his smoking weapon. then dupont rose cautiously to his knees, peering forth across the dead body of the pony. the man was unnerved, unable at first to comprehend what had occurred. he was saved as by a miracle, and his great form shook from head to foot. then, as his eyes rested on the outstretched body of the sergeant, hate conquered every other feeling; he staggered to his feet, picked up the gun lying in the snow, walked across, and brutally kicked the prostrate form. there was no response, no movement. "all i wish is that i 'd been the one to kill yer," he growled savagely, grinning down. "hell of a good shot, though i reckon the blame fool meant it for me." he threw the rifle forward, in readiness, and moved cautiously over toward hughes. "deader than a door-nail," he muttered, pressing back the buffalo coat, and staring contemptuously down into the white, staring face. "i wonder how that coward ever happened to be here--laying out for me, i reckon!" he straightened up and laughed, glancing furtively about. "some good joke that. the whole outfit cleaned out, and me twenty thousand to the good," feeling inside his coat to make sure. "it 's there all right. well, good-bye, boys, there don't seem to be nothing here for me to stay for." he caught the straying pony and swung up into the saddle, glanced about once more at the motionless figures, and finally rode off up the ridge, unconsciously following the tracks left by the fleeing indian. if the girl ever occurred to him, he gave no sign of remembrance, and she uttered no word. lying on her side, her eyes wide open, she watched him ride away, across the barren space, until the slow-moving pony topped the ridge, and disappeared on the other side. twice the man turned and glanced back into the valley, but saw nothing except the black blotches on the snow. molly made no motion, no outcry. she preferred death there alone, rather than rescue at his hands. scarcely conscious, feeling no strength in her limbs, no hope pulsing at her heart, she closed her eyes and lay still. yet wrapped about as she was, her young body remained warm, and the very disappearance of dupont yielded a sense of freedom, awoke a strong desire to live. her eyes opened again, despairingly, and gazed across the barren expanse. she could see hamlin lying face downward, the yellow lining of his cavalry cape over his head. it seemed to her the man's foot moved. could she be dreaming? no! he actually drew up one limb. this evidence that the sergeant still lived gave her fresh strength and renewed determination. she struggled to move her own feet; the left was free, but the right was caught firmly beneath the pony. she struggled desperately, forgetful of pain, in the faith that she might save hamlin. little by little she worked the imprisoned limb free, only to find it numb and helpless. she lay there breathless, conscious that she ached from head to foot. beyond her the sergeant groaned and turned partially over upon his side. tugging at the blanket she managed to free one arm, gripped the mane of the dead pony, and drew herself into a sitting posture. now the blood seemed to surge through her veins in new volume, and she labored feverishly to release the other hand. at last she undid a knot with her teeth, and slipped the blanket from her, beating her hands together to restore circulation. her right leg still was too numb to stand upon, but she crept forward, dragging it helplessly behind her over the snow, to where hamlin lay. the girl's heart seemed to stop beating as she looked at him--at the white, colorless face, the closed eyes, the discoloration of blood staining the temple. yet he lived; his faint breath was plainly perceptible in the frosty air. "o god!" she sobbed, "what can i do!" it was an unrestrained cry of anguish, yet there was no hesitation in action. she had forgotten everything except that helpless figure lying before her on the snow--her own danger, the surrounding desolation, the dead forms accentuating that wilderness tragedy. with bare hands she bathed his face in snow, rubbing the flesh until it flushed red, pressing her own warm body against his, her lips speaking his name again and again, almost hysterically, as though she hoped thus to call him back to consciousness. her exploring fingers told her that it was no serious wound which had creased the side of his head; if there was no other he would surely revive, and the discovery sent her blood throbbing through her veins. she lifted his head to her lap, chafing his cold wrists frantically, her eyes staring again out across the barren snow fields, with fresh realization of their intense loneliness. she choked back a sob of despair, and glanced down again into hamlin's face. he did not stir but his eyes were open, regarding her in bewilderment. "molly," he whispered, forgetting, "is this really you? what has happened?" the girl's eyes filled instantly with tears, but she did not move, except that the clasp of her hands grew stronger. "yes, i am molly; please do not move yet. you have been hurt, but it is all right now." "hurt!" he lifted his head slightly and stared about; then dropped it again with a sigh of content. "oh, yes, now i know. hughes shot me from behind." he struggled upright, in spite of her efforts at restraint, feeling beside him for the rifle. "dupont was there, behind that dead pony. what became of dupont?" she dropped her face in her hands, her form trembling. "he--he got away. he thought you were dead; to--to make sure he came over and kicked you. then he took your rifle, and the only pony left, and rode off." "and left you?" "yes--he--he never thought of me; only--only how he should escape with the money. i never moved, never opened my eyes; perhaps he believed me dead also, and--and i prayed he would. i would rather have died than have him touch me again. and--and i thought you were dead too. o god! it was so horrible!" the man's voice was soft and low, thrilling with the love that refused control. "i know, dear; i know it all, now," he said tenderly, clasping her hands. "but that is all over and gone." he put up one hand to his wound. "heavens, how my head aches! but that pain won't last long. i am a bit groggy yet, but will be on my feet pretty soon. you are a brave little girl. tell me how you got free?" she went over the short story slowly, not lifting her eyes to his, and he listened in silence, moving his limbs about, confident of the gradual return of strength. "but how did it happen?" he asked. "your capture? your father's death? it is all a mystery to me after i left you on the hotel balcony." the tears stood in her eyes suddenly uplifted to his, and impulsively the man encircled her with his arm. "you know i care, dear," he exclaimed recklessly. "you are not afraid to tell me." "no, no; you have been so kind, so true. i can tell you everything--only it is so hard to confess the truth about my father." "you suspect he was implicated?" he asked in astonishment, "that he actually had a part in the plot?" she looked at him gravely, down into his very soul. "yes, and--and that hurts more than all the rest." chapter xxxii words of love hamlin was silent for a moment, not knowing what to say that would comfort or help. he had never suspected this, and yet he could not refrain altogether from experiencing a feeling of relief. deeply as he sympathized with her in this trouble, still the man could not but be conscious of those barriers formerly existing between them which this discovery had instantly swept away. now they could meet upon a level, as man and woman. no longer could rank intervene; not even the stain of his own court-martial. possibly she dreamed of what was passing in his mind, for she suddenly lifted her eyes to his. "shall i tell you?" "no; not now; both your explanation and mine can wait," he replied quickly. "i can stand alone now--see," and he regained his feet, swaying slightly with dizziness, yet smiling down at her as he held forth a hand. "now you try it; take hold of me until you test your limbs--that was an ugly fall you got when i shot your pony." she straightened slowly, her cheeks flushing in the keen air, her eyes striving to smile back in response to his challenge. "that was nothing," she protested, tramping about. "i only went down into the snow, but my arms were bound, and the pony fell on my foot--it feels quite natural now." "good. we shall have to tramp a little way. in which direction did dupont go?" "across the ridge there; see, that is his trail." "then he never saw our horses out yonder. that is one piece or good luck, at least. the sooner we get to them the better. i have been guilty of enough foolishness to-day to be careful hereafter." he looked across at hughes' body. "i wonder if that fellow meant to hit me? i never trusted him much, but i did n't expect that. did you see him fire?" "yes, but it was so sudden i could not even cry out. he was upon one knee, and his revolver waved like this as he tried to aim. dupont saw it, and jumped just as he pulled the trigger." "i thought so. the poor devil got the wrong man." "why? were those two enemies?" "they had been partners, stealing and running cattle. dupont had cheated hughes out of his share, and there was bad blood between them. i ran across the fellow up on the cimarron, waiting for dupont to come back to his old range. did you ever hear dupont called by any other name?" she shook her head questioningly. "no; was n't that his real name? the woman back there--wasn't she his wife?" "she was his wife, yes; but their name was not dupont. that was assumed; the correct one was le fevre." "le fevre! why,--why, wasn't that the name of the man you told me about once?--the officer who brought you those orders?" "he is the same. i did not know him at dodge; not until hughes told me. he had changed greatly in appearance, and i only saw him at night. but it was because i knew that i failed to kill him here; i wanted him alive, so i could compel him to tell the truth." she gave a little sob, her hands clasped together. the man's voice softened, and he took a step nearer, bending above her. "and yet now i do not care quite as much as i did." she looked up quickly into his face, and as swiftly lowered her lashes. "you mean you have found other evidence?" "no, but i have found you, dear. you need not try, for i am not going to let you get away. it is not the officer's daughter and the enlisted man any more. those barriers are all gone. i do not mean that i am indifferent to the stain on my name, or any less desirous of wringing the truth from gene le fevre's lips, but even the memory of that past can keep me silent no longer. you are alone in the world now, alone and in the shadow of disgrace--you need me." he stopped, amazed at the boldness of his own words, and, in the silence of that hesitation, molly lifted her eyes to his face. "i think i have always needed you," she said simply. he did not touch her, except to clasp the extended hands. the loneliness of the girl, here, helpless, alone with him in that wilderness of snow, bore in upon his consciousness with a suddenness that robbed him of all sense of triumph. he had spoken passionately, recklessly, inspired by her nearness, her dependence upon him. he had faith that she cared; her eyes, her manner, had told him this, yet even now he could not realize all that was meant by that quiet confession. the iron discipline of years would not relax instantly; in spite of the boldness of his utterance, he was still the soldier, feeling the chasm of rank. her very confession, so simply spoken, tended to confuse, to mystify him. "do you mean," he asked eagerly, "that you love me?" "what else should i mean?" she said slowly. "it is not new to me; i have known for a long while." "that i loved you!" "yes," smiling now. "love is no mystery to a woman. i do not care because you are in the ranks; that is only a temporary condition. i knew you out there, at the very first, as a gentleman. i have never doubted you. here, in this wilderness, i am not afraid. it is not because my father is dead or because he has been guilty of crime, that i say this. i would have said it before, on the balcony there in dodge, had you asked me. it is not the uniform i love, but the man. can you not understand?" "will you marry me--a sergeant of cavalry?" she was still smiling, her eyes frankly looking into his own. "i will marry david hamlin," she answered firmly, "let him be what he may." the man let out his suppressed breath in a sob of relief, his eyes brightening with triumph. "oh, molly! molly!" he cried, "i cannot tell you what this all means to me. there is no past now to my life, but all future." "am i that to you?" "that! yes, and a thousand times more! i had ambition once, opportunity, even wealth. they were swept away by a man's lie, a woman's perfidy. out of that wreck, i crawled into the world again a mere thing. i lived simply because i must live, skulking in obscurity, my only inspiration the hope of an honorable death or an opportunity for vengeance. mine was the life of the ranks in the desert, associating with the lowest scum, in constant contact with savagery. i could not speak to a decent woman, or be a man among men. there was nothing left me but to brood over wrongs, and plot revenge. i became morose, savage, a mere creature of discipline, food for powder. it was no more when i first met you. but with that meeting the chains snapped, the old ambitions of life returned. you were a mere girl from the east; you did not understand, nor care about the snobbery of army life. no, it was not that--you were above it. you trusted me, treated me as a friend, almost as an equal. i loved you then, when we parted on the trail, but i went back to new mexico to fight fate. it was such a hopeless dream, yet all summer long i rode with memory tugging at my heart. i grew to hate myself, but could never forget you." she drew nearer, her hand upon his arm, her face uplifted. "and you thought i did not care?" "how could i dream you did?" almost bitterly. "you were gracious, kind--but you were a major's daughter, as far away from me as the stars. i never heard from you; not even a rumor of your whereabouts came to me across the plains. i supposed you had returned east; had passed out of my life forever. then that night when we rode into dodge i saw you again--saw you in the yellow lamp-light watching us pass, heard you ask what troops those were, and i knew instantly all my fighting out there in the desert had been vain--that you were forever the one, one woman." "i remained for that," she confessed softly, her lashes wet. "at dodge?" "yes, at dodge. i knew you would come, must come. some intuition seemed to tell me that we should meet again. oh, i was so happy the night you came! no one had told me your troop had been ordered in. it was like a dream come true. when i saw you leading your horse across the parade i could hardly refrain from calling out to you before them all. i did not care what they thought--for my soldier had come home from the wars." "sweetheart," the deep voice faltering, "may--may i kiss you?" "of course you may." their lips met, and she clung to him, as his arms held her closely. it was like a dream to him, this sudden, unexpected surrender. perhaps she read this in his eyes. "do not misunderstand," she urged softly. "i do not come to you because of what has happened, because i am alone and helpless. if you had stepped from the ranks that night at dodge, i would have answered even as i do now." "you love me?--love me?" he repeated. "yes." even as he looked down into her upturned face, there was borne back upon him a realization of their predicament. his eyes swept over the surrounding desolation, the two dead bodies lying motionless in the snow, the stiffening pony, the drear hillside which shut them in. the sight brought him back to consciousness with a shock. minutes might mean much now. dupont had disappeared over that ridge to the right, in the direction of black kettle's camp. how far away that might be was altogether guess-work, yet what would inevitably occur when the fugitive arrived among his friends, and told his story, could be clearly conceived. even if the man believed hamlin killed, he would recall to mind the girl, and would return to assure himself as to her fate. knowing her helplessness, the practical impossibility of her escape alone, a return expedition might not be hurried, yet, beyond doubt, this isolated valley would have indian visitors within a few hours. and when these discovered the truth they would be hot upon a trail where concealment was impossible. the only hope of escape, and that far from brilliant,--as he remembered the long desert ride from the distant cow-camp on the cimarron,--lay in immediate departure. every moment of delay served to increase their peril. even beyond the danger of dupont's report to black kettle, this snow-bound valley was not so far away from that chief's camp as to be safe from invasion by young warriors in search of game. all this flashed upon hamlin's consciousness instantly, even as his heart thrilled to her frank avowal. "this is so strange i can hardly realize the truth," he said gravely. "but, dear one, we must talk elsewhere, and not here. life was never before worth so much as it is now, and every instant we waste here may mean capture and death. come, there are two ponies at the mouth of the valley." he snatched up the blanket from the ground, and wrapped it about her in such manner as to enable her to walk; stooped over hughes, loosened the revolver from his stiffened fingers, and then came back to where she waited. "you can walk? it is not far." "yes, the numbness is all gone." he was all seriousness now, alert and watchful, the plainsman and the soldier. "then come; i'll break trail." "where is the indian village?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "beyond those bluffs; at least hughes thought so. we saw their pony herd in the valley below, mere dots against the snow." ten minutes later, ploughing through the intervening drifts, they came forth to the broad vista of the valley and the two patient ponies standing motionless. chapter xxxiii molly's story the two rode steadily, following the trail left by hamlin and hughes earlier in the morning. as there had been no wind, and the cold had crusted the snow, the tracks left by the two ponies were easily followed. as they skirted the ridge the indian pony herd could be distinguished, sufficiently close by this time to leave no doubt as to what they were. hamlin cautiously kept back out of sight in the breaks of the ridge, although his keen eyes, searching the upper valley, discovered no sign of pursuit. tired as dupont's horse undoubtedly was, he might not yet have attained the indian encampment, which, in truth, might be much farther away than hughes had supposed. the fact that no spirals of smoke were visible puzzled the sergeant, for in that frosty air they should naturally be perceived for a considerable distance. possibly, however, the bluffs were higher and more abrupt, farther up stream, affording better chances of concealment. indeed it was quite probable that the indians would seek the most sheltered spot available for their winter camp, irrespective of any possible fear of attack. reasonably safe from a winter campaign, the atrocities of the past summer would naturally tend to make them unusually cautious and watchful. molly, muffled to the eyes in her thick blanket, permitted her pony to follow the other without guidance, until they both dipped down into the hollow, safe from any possible observation. in some mysterious way the overpowering feeling of terror which had controlled her for days past had departed. the mere presence of hamlin was an assurance of safety. as she watched him, erect in saddle, his blue overcoat tightly buttoned, his revolver belt strapped outside, she no longer felt any consciousness of the surrounding desolation, or the nearness of savage foes. her heart beat fast and her cheeks flushed in memory of what had so swiftly occurred between them. without thought, or struggle, she gave herself unreservedly to his guidance, serenely confident in his power to succeed. he was a man so strong, so resourceful, so fitted to the environment, that her trust in him was unquestioned. she needed to ask nothing; was content to follow in silence. even as she realized the completeness of her surrender, the sergeant, relaxing none of his watchfulness, checked his pony so that they could ride onward side by side. "we will follow the trail back," he explained, glancing aside at her face. "it is easier to follow than to strike out for ourselves across the open." "where does it lead?" "to an old cow-camp on the cimarron. there is a trooper there waiting. shall i tell you the story?" "i wish you would." "and then i am to have yours in return--everything?" "yes," she said, and their eyes met. "there is nothing to conceal--from you." he told his tale simply, and in few words; how he had missed, and sought after her in dodge; how that searching had led directly to the discovery of crime, and finally the revealment of major mcdonald's body. he told of his efforts at organizing a party to follow the fugitives, inspired by a belief that she was a prisoner, of the trip through the blizzard, and of how he had succeeded in outstripping dupont in the race. the girl listened silently, able from her own experience to fill in the details of that relentless pursuit, which could not be halted either by storm or bullets. the strength, the determination of the man, appealed to her with new force, and tears welled into her eyes. "why, you are crying!" he exclaimed in surprise. "that is nothing," her lips smiling, as she loosened one hand from the blanket and reached across to clasp his. "you must know, dear, how happy i am to have found you. no one else could have done this." "oh, yes, little girl," soberly. "wasson would have gone on, if i had been the one to go down. the hardest part of it all was waiting for the storm to cease, not knowing where you were hidden--that nearly drove me insane." "i understand; uncertainty is harder to bear than anything else. shall i tell you now what happened to me?" "yes," tenderly, "as much, or as little as you please." "then it shall be everything, dear," her hand-grasp tightening. a moment she hesitated, looking out across the snow plains, and then back into his eyes. from their expression she gained courage to proceed, her voice low, yet clear enough to make every syllable distinctly audible. "i--i was frightened when you left me alone on the balcony, and went in to confront mrs. dupont. i knew the woman and suspected that she would only be too glad to find some indiscretion she could use against me. it occurred to me that possibly she had seen me enter the parlor and was there herself to make sure. if so, she would hesitate at no trick to verify her suspicions. this thought so took possession of me that i determined to escape if possible. and it appeared easy of accomplishment. there was but a short drop to the ground, while a few steps around the end of the hotel would bring me safely to the front entrance. the temptation to try was irresistible. i heard your voices within and thought i understood her game. it was dark below, yet i knew how close the earth was, and there was no sign of any one about. i clambered over the railing, let myself down as far as i could, and dropped. the slight fall did not even jar me, yet i was none too soon. as i crouched there in the darkness, she flung open the curtains, and looked out on to the vacant balcony. i saw the flash of light, and heard her laugh--it was not pleasant laughter, for she was disappointed not to find me there. after the curtains fell again i could no longer hear your voices, and my sole desire was to get back into the hotel unobserved. i was not afraid, only i dreaded to meet any one who might recognize me." she paused in her recital, as though to recall more clearly the exact facts, the two riding forward, hamlin leaning over toward her, occasionally glancing watchfully behind. "the guests were already beginning to straggle back to the dance hall from supper, and i waited in the shadow of the building for an opportunity to slip into the hotel unobserved. while i hid there a cavalry soldier from the fort rode up, swung down from his saddle, and ran up the steps. i heard him ask for major mcdonald. almost immediately he came out again, and i passed him on the porch. just inside the door i met my father. he was leaving the hotel with dupont, and the latter swore savagely when i caught my father's arm, asking what message the orderly had brought. he answered strangely, saying he had received orders to go at once to ripley on the stage; that he might be gone several days. there was nothing about all that to startle a soldier's daughter, but dupont kept his hand on my father's arm, urging him to hurry. the actions of the man aroused my suspicions. i knew my father was acting paymaster, and i could perceive the outlines of a leather bag bulging beneath his overcoat. if this contained money, then i grasped dupont's purpose. my plan of action occurred to me in a flash--i would accompany him until--until he was safely in the stage, and find opportunity to whisper warning. i remember asking him to wait a moment for me, and rushing to the cloak room after my coat. but when i returned they were gone. i ran out into the street, but they were not to be seen; they had not gone toward the stage office, for the lights revealed that distance clearly, and they had had no time in which to disappear within. with the one thought that dupont had lured my father out of sight for purposes of robbery, i started to run down the little alley-way next the hotel. i know now how foolish i was, but then i was reckless. it was dark and i saw and heard nothing to warn me of danger. it was in my mind that my father had been lured on to the open prairie behind the hotel. suddenly i was seized roughly, and a cloth whipped over my face before i could even scream. i heard a voice say: 'damned if it ain't the girl! what will we do with her?' and then dupont's voice answered gruffly: 'hell, there ain't anything to do, but take the little hussy along. she 'd queer the whole game, an' we 've got an extra horse. they jerked me forward so roughly, and i was so frightened that--that i must have fainted. at any rate i remember nothing more distinctly until we had crossed the river, and i was on horseback wrapped in a blanket, and tied to the saddle. some one was holding me erect; i could not move my arms, but could see and hear. it was dark, and we were moving slowly; there were two indians ahead, and a white man riding each side of me. they thought me unconscious still, and spoke occasionally; little by little i recognized their voices, and understood their words." her voice broke into a sob, but the sergeant's eyes were still gazing vigilantly out over the snow-clad hills. "it is hard to tell the rest," she said finally, "but i learned that it was not robbery, but the betrayal of trust. my father was guilty, and yet at the same time a victim. i only got the truth in snatches, which i had to piece together, although later i learned other details. mrs. dupont had bled my father through some knowledge she had gained of his sister's family. i cannot even imagine what this could have been, but it was sufficient for her purpose. he gave her all he had, and then--then she heard of this government money being sent to ripley. she had known about that for several days through the lieutenant, and had ample time to arrange the plot. my father must have been crazy to have entered into the scheme, but he did, he did. the woman compelled him to it." "i understand, molly," broke in hamlin, anxious to spare her the details. "they were to pretend robbery, but with the major's connivance. an officer impersonating him was despatched to ripley by stage. this would prevent any immediate pursuit. later the major was to be released, to return to dodge with his story. the projection of yourself into the affair disarranged the entire plot, and then a quarrel occurred, and your father was killed." "yes; it was over what should be done with me; although i believe now they intended to kill him, so as to retain all the money. the older indian fired the shot treacherously." "and connors?" "dupont killed him; they were both drunk, and the soldier fired first, but missed." "and after that?" she covered her face with her hands. "it was all a dream of continuous horror, yet through it all, i do not recall consciousness of physical torture. i seemed to be mentally numbed, my brain a blank. it was a realization of my father's guilt more than my own danger which affected me--that and his death. they were not unkind nor brutal. indeed i do not clearly recall that i was even spoken to, except when some necessary order was given. one night i heard them discuss what should be done with me; that i was to be hidden away in black kettle's camp. generally dupont spoke to the indians in their own tongue, but that night he thought me asleep. i--i had no hope left--not even faith that you could ever rescue me." hamlin's hand clasped hers firmly, but his eyes were riveted on something in the distance. "wait," he said, checking his horse, "what is that? see; down in the valley of the creek! is it not a moving body of men?" chapter xxxiv the advance of custer the sergeant swung down from the saddle and forced both ponies back below the crest of the hill, his swift glance sweeping back over their trail. then he gazed again searchingly into the valley below. "what is it?" she questioned. "a moving column of horsemen, soldiers from their formation, for indians never march in column of fours. they are too far away for me to be certain yet. what troops can be away out here?" "wasn't there to be a winter campaign against black kettle?" she questioned. "it was the rumor at dodge. perhaps--" "why, yes, that must be it," he interrupted eagerly. "custer and the seventh. what luck! and i'll be in it with the boys after all." "shall we not ride to meet them?" "soon, yes; only we need to be certain first." "are you not?" and she rose in her stirrups. "i am sure they are cavalrymen. now you can see clearly as they climb the hill." "there is no doubt," he admitted, "a single troop ahead of the main body; the others will be beyond the bend in the stream." he stepped back, where he could look directly into her face. "they are soldiers all right, but that was not what i wanted to be so certain about. when we ride down there, molly girl, we shall be swallowed up into the old life once more, the old army life." "yes." "perhaps you do not realize how different it will all be from out here alone together." "why should it be different?" "i shall be again a soldier in the ranks, under orders, and you major mcdonald's daughter." "but--but--" her eyes full of appeal. "no, little girl," he explained quickly, reaching up and touching her gently; "we are never going to say anything about that to those down there--his comrades in arms. it is going to be our secret. i am glad you told me; it has brought us together as, perhaps, nothing else could, but there is no reason why the world should ever know. let them think he died defending his trust. perhaps he did; what you overheard might have been said for a purpose, but, even if it were true, he had been driven to it by a merciless woman. it is ours to defend, not blacken his memory." she bent slowly down until her cheek touched his. "i--i thought you would say that," she returned slowly, "but what else you said is not so--there will never again be a barrier of rank between us." she straightened in the saddle, looking down into his eyes. "whoever the officer may be in command of that detachment, i want you to tell him all." "all?" "yes, that we are engaged; i am proud to have them know." the truth was shining in her eyes, glowing on her cheeks. she leaned forward. "kiss me, and believe!" "molly, molly," he whispered. "never will i doubt again." they could perceive the blue of the overcoats as they rode over the ridge, and at their sudden appearance the little column of horsemen came to a halt. hamlin flung up one hand in signal, and the two urged their ponies down the side of the hill. three men spurred forth to meet them, spreading out slightly as though still suspicious of some trick, but, as they drew near, the leader suddenly waved his hand, and they dashed forward. "hamlin! glad to see you again," the first rider greeted the sergeant cordially. "can this be major mcdonald's daughter." "yes, major elliott; i can repeat the story as we ride along, sir. you are the advance of custer's expedition, i presume?" "we are; the others are some miles behind, moving slowly so that the wagons can keep within touch. wonderful the way those wagons have pushed ahead over the rough country. have only missed camp twice since we left dodge." "when was that, sir?" "before the blizzard all except your troop were at camp supply; they had joined since, and it was then we heard about your trip down here. what became of your men, sergeant?" "wasson and one private were killed, sir; the other private was frozen so badly i had to leave him in shelter on the cimarron." "by gad, it sounds interesting; and so you tackled the villains alone, and had some fight at that before rescuing miss mcdonald. well, the story will keep until we make camp again. however," and he bent low over the lady's hand, "i must congratulate miss mcdonald on her escaping without any serious injury." "that is not all i should be congratulated upon, major elliott," she said quietly. "no--eh--perhaps i do not understand." "i desire that you shall; i refer to my engagement to sergeant hamlin." the officer glanced in some bewilderment from her face to that of the silent trooper. "you--you mean matrimonial?" he stammered, plainly embarrassed, unable so suddenly to grasp the peculiar situation. "hamlin, what--what does this mean?" "miss molly and i have known each other for some time," explained the sergeant bluntly. "out here alone we discovered we were more than friends. that is all, sir." for an instant elliott hesitated, held by the strange etiquette of rank, then the gentleman conquered the soldier, and he drew off his glove, and held out his hand. "i can congratulate you, miss mcdonald," he exclaimed frankly. "i have known sergeant hamlin for two years; he is a soldier and a gentleman." the red blood swept into her cheeks, her eyes brightening. "he is my soldier," she replied softly, "and the man i love." they rode together down the steep hillside covered with its mantle of snow to join the little body of troopers halted in the valley. only once did elliott speak. "you know black kettle's camp, sergeant?" "we were almost within sight of it, sir. i saw his pony herd distinctly." "where was that?" "on the canadian, close to the mouth of buffalo creek." "did you learn anything as to the number of indians with him?" "nothing definite, but it is a large encampment, not all cheyennes." "so we heard, but were unable to discover the exact situation. we have been feeling our way forward cautiously. i fear it is going to be my unpleasant duty to separate you and miss mcdonald. we shall need your services as guide, and the lady will be far better off with the main column. indeed some of the empty wagons are to be sent back to camp supply to-night, and probably custer will deem it best that she return with them. this winter campaigning is going to be rough work, outside of the fighting. you know custer, and his style; besides sheridan is himself at camp supply in command." "you hear, molly?" "yes; of course, i will do whatever general custer deems best. are there any women at camp supply, major?" "yes, a few; camp women mostly, although there may be also an officer's wife or two-- th kansas volunteers." "then it will be best for me to go there, if i can," she smiled. "i am desperately in need of clothes." "i suspected as much. i will arrange to give you a guard at once. and you, sergeant? as you are still under special orders, i presume i have no authority to detain you in my command." "i prefer to remain, sir," grimly. "dupont, miss mcdonald's captor, is alive and in black kettle's camp. we still have a feud to settle." "good; then that is arranged; ah, miss mcdonald, allow me to present lieutenant chambers. lieutenant, detail three men to guard the lady back to the main column. have her taken to general custer at once." "very well, sir; and the command?" elliott looked at the sergeant inquiringly. "that is for sergeant hamlin to determine; he has just been scouting through that country, and will act as guide." the sergeant stood for a moment motionless beside his horse studying the vista of snow-draped hillside. the region beyond the crest of the ridge unrolled before his memory. "then we will keep directly on up this valley, sir," he said at last. "it's wolf creek, is it not? we shall be safer to keep out of sight to-day, and this depression must lead toward the canadian. may i exchange mounts with one of those men going back, major? i fear my pony is about done." "certainly." there was no opportunity for anything save a simple grasp of the hand, ere molly rode away with her escort. then the little column of troopers moved on, and hamlin, glancing backward as he rode past, took his place in advance beside major elliott. chapter xxxv the indian trail the weather became colder as the day advanced. scattered pellets of snow in the air lashed the faces of the troopers, who rode steadily forward, the capes of their overcoats thrown over their heads for protection. the snow of the late storm lay in drifts along the banks of the narrow stream, and the horses picked their passage higher up where the wind had swept the brown earth clear, at the same time keeping well below the crest. as they thus toiled slowly forward, hamlin related his story to the major in detail, carefully concealing all suspicion of mcdonald's connection with the crime. it was growing dusk when the company emerged into the valley of the canadian. all about them was desolation and silence, and as they were still miles away from the position assigned for black kettle's encampment, the men were permitted to build fires and prepare a warm meal under shelter of the bluffs. two hours later the main column arrived and also went into camp. it was intensely cold but the men were cheerful as they ate their supper of smoky and half-roasted buffalo meat, bacon, hard-tack, and coffee. in response to orders the sergeant went down the line of tiny fires to report in person to custer. he found that commander ensconced in a small tent, hastily erected in a little grove of cottonwoods, which afforded a slight protection from the piercing wind. before him on the ground from which the snow had been swept lay a map of the region, while all about, pressed tightly into the narrow quarters, were his troop officers. as hamlin was announced by the orderly, conversation ceased, and custer surveyed the newcomer an instant in silence. "step forward, sergeant," he said quietly. "ah, yes; i had forgotten your name, but remember your face," he smiled about on the group. "we have been so scattered since our organization, gentlemen, that we are all comparative strangers." he stood up, lifting in one hand a tin cup of coffee. "gentlemen, all we of the seventh rejoice in the honor of the service, whether it be upheld by officer or enlisted man. i bid you drink a toast with me to sergeant hamlin." "but, general, i have done nothing to deserve--" "observe the modesty of a real hero. yet wait until i am through. with due regard for his achievements as a soldier, i propose this toast in commemoration of a greater deed of gallantry than those of arms--the capture of miss molly mcdonald!" there was a quick uplifting of cups, a burst of laughter, and a volley of questions, the sergeant staring about motionless, his face flushed. "what is it, general?" "tell us the story!" "give us the joke!" "but i assure you it is no joke. i have it direct from the fair lips of the lady. brace yourselves, gentlemen, for the shock. you young west pointers lose, and yet the honor remains with the regiment. miss molly mcdonald, the toast of old fort dodge, whose bright eyes have won all your hearts, has given hers to sergeant hamlin of the seventh. and now again, boys, to the honor of the regiment!" out of the buzz of conversation and the hearty words of congratulation, hamlin emerged bewildered, finding himself again facing custer, whose manner had as swiftly changed into the brusque note of command. "i have met you before, sergeant," he said slowly, "before your assignment to the seventh, i think. i am not sure where; were you in the shenandoah?" "i was, sir." "at winchester?" "i saw you first at cedar creek, general custer; i brought a flag." "that's it; i have the incident clearly before me now. you were a lieutenant-colonel?" "of the fourth texas, sir." "exactly; i think i heard later--but never mind that now. sheridan remembers you; he even mentioned your name to me a few weeks ago. no doubt that was what caused me to recognize your face again after all these years. how long have you been in our service?" "ever since the war closed." for a moment the two men looked into each others' faces, the commander smiling, the enlisted man at respectful attention. "i will talk with you at some future time, sergeant," custer said at last, resuming his seat on a log. "now we shall have to consider the to-morrow's march. were you within sight of black kettle's camp?" "no, sir; only of his pony herd out in the valley of the canadian." "where would you suppose the camp situated?" "above, behind the bluffs, about the mouth of buffalo creek." custer drew the map toward him, scrutinizing it carefully. "you may be right, of course," he commented, his glance on the faces of the officers, "but this does not agree with the understanding at camp supply, nor the report of our indian scouts. we supposed black kettle to be farther south on the washita. how large was the pony herd?" "we were not near enough to count the animals, sir, but there must have been two hundred head." "a large party then, at least. what do you say, corbin?" the scout addressed, conspicuous in his buffalo skin coat, leaned against the tent-pole, his black whiskers moving industriously as he chewed. "wal, gineral," he said slowly, "i know this yere 'brick' hamlin, an' he 's a right smart plainsman, sojer 'er no sojer. if he says he saw thet pony herd, then he sure did. thet means a considerable bunch o' injuns thar, er tharabouts. now i know black kettle's outfit is down on the washita, so the only conclusion is that this yere band thet the sergeant stirred up is some new tribe er other, a-driftin' down frum the north. i reckon if we ride up ther valley we 'll hit their trail, an' it 'll lead straight down to them cheyennes." custer took time to consider this explanation, spreading the field map out on his knees, and measuring the distance between the streams. no one in the little group spoke, although several leaned forward eagerly. the chief was not a man to ask advice; he preferred to decide for himself. suddenly he straightened up and threw back his head to look about. "in my judgment corbin is right, gentlemen," he said impetuously. "i had intended crossing here, but instead we will go further up stream. there is doubtless a ford near buffalo creek, and if we can strike an indian trail leading to the washita, we can follow easily by night, or day, and it is bound to terminate at black kettle's camp. return to your troops, and be ready to march at daybreak. major elliott, you will take the advance again, at least three hours ahead of the main column. move with caution, your flankers well out; both hamlin and corbin will go with you. are there any questions?" "full field equipment?" asked a voice. "certainly, although in case of going into action the overcoats will be discarded. look over your ammunition carefully to-night." they filed out of the tent one by one, some of the older officers pausing a moment to speak with hamlin, his own captain extending his hand cordially, with a warm word of commendation. the sergeant and major elliott alone remained. "if i strike a fresh trail, general," asked the latter, "am i to press forward or wait for the main body?" "send back a courier at once, but advance cautiously, careful not to expose yourselves. there is to be no attack except in surprise, and with full force. this is important, major, as we are doubtless outnumbered, ten to one. was there something else, sergeant?" "i was going to ask about miss mcdonald, sir." "oh, yes; she is safely on her way to camp supply, under ample guard. the convoy was to stop on the cimarron, and pick up the frozen soldier you left there, and if possible, find the bodies of the two dead men." long before daylight elliott's advance camp was under arms, the chilled and sleepy troopers moving forward through the drifted snow of the north bank; the wintry wind, sweeping down the valley, stung their faces and benumbed their bodies. the night had been cold and blustery, productive of little comfort to either man or beast, but hope of early action animated the troopers and made them oblivious to hardship. there was little grumbling in the ranks, and by daybreak the head of the long column came opposite the opening into the valley wherein hamlin had overtaken the fugitives. with corbin beside him, the sergeant spurred his pony aside, but there was little to see; the bodies of the dead lay as they had fallen, black blotches on the snow, but there were no fresh trails to show that either dupont, or any indian ally, had returned to the spot. "that's evidence enough, 'brick,'" commented the scout, staring about warily, "that thar wus no permanent camp over thar," waving his hand toward the crest of the ridge. "them redskins was on the march, an' that geezer had ter follow 'em, er else starve ter death. he 'd a bin back afore this, an' on yer trail with a bunch o' young bucks." from the top of the ridge they could look down on the toiling column of cavalrymen below in the bluff shadow, and gaze off over the wide expanse of valley, through which ran the half-frozen canadian. everywhere stretched the white, wintry desolation. "whar wus thet pony herd?" hamlin pointed up the valley to the place where the swerve came in the stream. "just below that point; do you see where the wind has swept the ground bare?" "sure they were n't buffalo?" "they were ponies all right, and herded." the two men spurred back across the hills, and made report to elliott. there was no hesitancy in that officer. the leading squadron was instantly swung into formation as skirmishers, and sent forward. from river-bank to crest of bluff they ploughed through the drifts, overcoats strapped behind and carbines flung forward in readiness for action, but as they climbed to that topmost ridge, eager, expectant, it was only to gaze down upon a deserted camp, trampled snow, and blackened embers of numerous fires. hamlin was the first to scramble down the steep bluff, dismount, and drag his trembling horse sliding after. behind plunged corbin and elliott, anxious to read the signs, to open the pages of this wilderness book. a glance here and there, a testing of the blackened embers, a few steps along the broad trail, and these plainsmen knew the story. the major straightened up, his hand on his horse's neck, his eyes sweeping those barren plains to the southward, and then turned to where his troopers were swarming down the bluff. "corbin," he said sharply, "ride back to general custer at top speed. tell him we have discovered a cheyenne camp here at the mouth of buffalo creek of not less than a hundred and fifty warriors, deserted, and not to exceed twenty-four horses. their trail leads south toward the washita. report that we shall cross the river in pursuit at once, and keep on cautiously until dark. take a man with you; no, not sergeant hamlin, i shall need him here." the scout was off like a shot, riding straight down the valley, a trooper pounding along behind him. major elliott ran his eyes over the little bunch of cavalrymen. "captain sparling, send two of your men to test the depth or water there where those indians crossed. as soon as ascertained we will ford the river." chapter xxxvi ready to attack there was a ford but it was rocky and dangerous, and so narrow that horse after horse slipped aside into the swift current, bearing his rider with him into the icy water. comrades hauled the unfortunate ones forth, and fires were hastily built under shelter of the south bank. those who reached the landing dry shared their extra clothing with those water-soaked, and hot coffee was hastily served to all alike. eager as the men were to push forward, more than an hour was lost in passage, for the stream was bank full, the current rapid and littered with quantities of floating ice. some of these ice cakes startled the struggling horses and inflicted painful wounds, and it was only by a free use of ropes and lariats that the entire command finally succeeded in attaining the southern shore. shivering with the cold, the troopers again found their saddles and pressed grimly forward on the trail. hamlin, with five others, led the way along a beaten track which had been trampled by the passing herd of indian ponies and plainly marked by the trailing poles of numerous wicky-ups. this led straight away into the south across the valley of the canadian, on to the plains beyond. the snow here was a foot deep on a level, and in places the going was heavy. as they advanced, the weather moderated somewhat, and the upper crust became soft. before them stretched the dreary level of the plains, broken by occasional ravines and little isolated patches of trees. no sign of indians was seen other than the-deserted trail, and confident that the band had had fully twenty-four hours' start their pursuers advanced as rapidly as the ground would permit. the very clearness of the trail was evidence that the indians had no conception that they were being followed. confident of safety in their winter retreat, they were making no effort to protect their rear, never dreaming there were soldiers within hundreds of miles. whatever report dupont had made, it had awakened no alarm. why should it? so far as he knew there were but two men pursuing him into the wilderness, and both of these he believed lying dead in the snow. steadily, mile after mile, they rode, and it was after dark when the little column was finally halted beside a stream, where they could safely hide themselves in a patch of timber. tiny fires were built under protection of the steep banks of the creek, and the men made coffee, and fed their hungry horses. the silence was profound. it was a dark night, although the surrounding snow plains yielded a spectral light. major elliott, drinking coffee and munching hard-tack with the troop captain, sent for sergeant hamlin. the latter advanced within the glow of the fire, and saluted. "we have been gaining on those fellows, sergeant," the major began, "and must be drawing close to the washita." "we are travelling faster than they did, sir," was the reply, "because they had to break trail, and there were some women and children with them. i have no knowledge of this region, but the creek empties into the washita without doubt." "that would be my judgment. sparling and i were just talking it over. i shall wait here until custer comes up; my force is too small to attack openly, and my orders are not to bring on an engagement. custer has some osage scouts with him who will know this country." "but, major," ventured hamlin, "if the general follows our trail it will be hours yet before he can reach here, and then his men will be completely exhausted." "he will not follow our trail. he has corbin and 'california joe' with him. they are plainsmen who know their business. he 'll cross the canadian, and strike out across the plains to intercept us. in that way he will have no farther to travel than we have had. in my judgment we shall not wait here long alone. have you eaten?" "no, sir; i have been stationing the guard." "then sit down here and share what little we have. we can waive formality to-night." it was after nine o'clock when the sentries challenged the advance of custer's column, as it stole silently out of the gloom. ten minutes later the men were hovering about the fires, absorbing such small comforts as were possible, while the general and major elliott discussed the situation and planned to push forward. an hour later the fires were extinguished, the horses quietly saddled, and noiselessly the tired cavalrymen moved out once more and took up the trail. the moon had risen, lighting up the desert, and the osage guides, together with the two scouts, led the way. at custer's request hamlin rode beside him in lead of the troopers. not a word was spoken above a whisper, and strict orders were passed down the line prohibiting the lighting of a match or the smoking of a pipe. canteens were muffled and swords thrust securely under saddle flaps. like a body of spectres they moved silently across the snow in the moonlight, cavalry capes drawn over their heads, the only sound the crunching of horses' hoofs breaking through the crust. the trail was as distinct as a road, and the guides pushed ahead as rapidly as by daylight, yet with ever increasing caution. suddenly one of the osages signalled for a halt, averring that he smelled fire. the scouts dismounted and crept forward, discovering a small campfire, deserted but still smouldering, in a strip of timber. careful examination made it certain that this fire must have been kindled by indian boys, herding ponies during the day, and probably meant that the village was very close at hand. the osage guides and the two white scouts again picked up the trail, the cavalry advancing slowly some distance behind. custer, accompanied by hamlin, rode a yard to the rear and joined the scouts, who were cautiously feeling their way up a slight declivity. the osage in advance crept through the snow to the crest of the ridge and looked carefully down into the valley below. instantly his hand went up in a gesture of caution and he hurriedly made his cautious way back to where custer sat his horse waiting. "what is it? what did you see?" "heap injuns down there!" the general swung down from his saddle, motioned the sergeant to follow, and the two men crept to the crest and looked over. the dim moonlight was confusing, while the shadow of timber rendered everything indistinct. yet they were able to make out a herd of ponies, distinguished the distant bark of a dog and the tinkle of a bell. without question this was the indians' winter camp, and they had reached it undiscovered. custer glanced at his watch--the hour was past midnight. he pressed hamlin's sleeve, his lips close to the sergeant's ear. "creep back, and bring my officers up here," he whispered. "have them take off their sabres." as they crept, one after the other, to where he lay in the snow, the general, whose eyes had become accustomed to the moon-gleam, pointed out the location of the village and such natural surroundings as could be vaguely distinguished. the situation thus outlined in their minds, they drew silently back from the crest, leaving there a single osage guide on guard, and returned to the waiting regiment, standing to horse less than a mile distant. custer's orders for immediate attack came swiftly, and hamlin, acting as his orderly, bore them to the several commands. the entire force was slightly in excess of eight hundred men, and there was every probability that the indians outnumbered them five to one. scouts had reported to sheridan that this camp of black kettle's was the winter rendezvous not only of cheyennes, but also of bands of fighting arapahoes, kiowas, comanches, and even some apaches, the most daring and desperate warriors of the plains. yet this was no time to hesitate, to debate; it was a moment for decisive action. the blow must be struck at once, before daylight, with all the power of surprise. the little body of cavalrymen was divided into four detachments. two of these were at once marched to the left, circling the village silently in the darkness, and taking up a position at the farther extremity. a third detachment moved to the right, and found their way down into the valley, where they lay concealed in a strip of timber. custer, with the fourth detachment under his own command, remained in position on the trail. the sleeping village was thus completely surrounded, and the orders were for those in command of the different forces to approach as closely as possible without running risk of discovery, and then to remain absolutely quiet until daybreak. not a match was to be lighted nor a shot fired until the charge was sounded by the trumpeter who remained with custer. then all were to spur forward as one man. chapter xxxvii the battle with the indians corbin had gone with the detachment circling to the left, and "california joe" was with the other in the valley, but hamlin remained with the chief. about them was profound silence, the men standing beside their horses. there was nothing to do but wait, every nerve at high tension. the wintry air grew colder, but the troopers were not allowed to make the slightest noise, not even to swing their arms or stamp their feet. after the last detachment swept silently out into the night, there still remained four hours until daylight. no one knew what had occurred; the various troops had melted away into the dark and disappeared. no word, no sound had come back. they could only wait in faith on their comrades. the men were dismounted, each one holding his own horse in instant readiness for action. not a few, wearied with the day's work, while still clinging to their bridles, wrapped the capes of their overcoats over their heads and threw themselves down in the snow, and fell asleep. at the first sight of dawn hamlin was sent down the line to arouse them. overcoats were taken off, and strapped to the saddles, carbines loaded and slung, pistols examined and loosened in their holsters, saddles recinched, and curb chains carefully looked after. this was the work of but a few moments, the half-frozen soldiers moving with an eagerness that sent the hot blood coursing fiercely through numbed limbs. to the whispered command to mount, running from lip to lip along the line, the men sprang joyously into their saddles, their quickened ears and eager eyes ready for the signal. slowly, at a walk, custer led them forward toward the crest of the hill, where the osage guide watched through the spectral light of dawn the doomed village beneath. to the uplift of a hand the column halted, and custer and his bugler went forward. a step behind crouched the sergeant, grasping the reins of three horses, while a little to the right, beyond the sweep of the coming charge, waited the regimental band. peering over the crest, the leader saw through the dim haze, scarcely five hundred yards distant, dotting the north bank of the washita for more than a quarter of a mile, the indian village. there was about it scarcely a sign of human life. from the top of two or three of the tepees light wreaths of smoke floated languidly out on the wintry air, and beyond the pony herd was restlessly moving. even as he gazed, half convinced that the indians had been warned, the village deserted, the sharp report of a rifle rang out in the distance. hamlin saw the general spring upright, his lips uttering the sharp command, "_sound the charge!_" even while the piercing blare of the bugle cut the frosty air, there was a jingle of steel as the troopers behind spurred forward. almost at the instant the three dismounted men were in saddle. custer waved his hand at the band, shouted "play!" and to the rollicking air of "garry owen," the eager column of horsemen broke into a mad gallop, and with ringing cheers and mighty rush, swept over the ridge straight down into the startled village. to hamlin, at custer's side, reins in his teeth, a revolver in either hand, what followed was scarcely a memory. it remained afterward as a blurred, indistinct picture of action, changing so rapidly as to leave no definite outlines. he heard the answering call of three bugles; the deafening thud of horses' hoofs; the converging cheers of excited troopers; the mingling ring of revolver shots; a sharp order cleaving the turmoil; the wild neigh of a stricken horse; the guttural yells of indians leaping from their tepees into the open. then he was in the heart of the village, firing with both hands; before him, about him, half-naked savages fighting desperately, striking at him with knives, firing from the shelter of tepees, springing at him with naked hands in a fierce effort to drag him from the saddle. it was all confusion, chaos, a babble of noise, his eyes blinded by glint of steel and glare of fire. the impetus of their rush carried them irresistibly forward; over and through tents they rode, across the bodies of living and dead; men reeled and fell from saddle; riderless horses swept on unguided; revolvers emptied were flung aside, and hands closed hard on sabre hilts. foot by foot, yard by yard, they drove the wedge of their charge, until they swept through the fringe of tepees, out into the stampeded pony herd. the bugle rang again, and they turned, facing back, and charged once more, no longer in close formation, but every trooper fighting as he could. complete as the surprise had been, the men of the seventh realized now the odds against them, the desperate nature of the fight. out from the sheltering tepees poured a flood of warriors; rifles in hand they fought savagely. the screams of women and children, the howling and baying of indian dogs, the crack of rifles, the wild war cries, all mingled into an indescribable din. black kettle was almost the first to fall, but other chiefs rallied their warriors, and fought like fiends, yielding ground only by inches, until they found shelter amid the trees, and under the river bank. in the cessation of hand to hand fighting the detachments came together, reforming their ranks, and reloading their arms. squads of troopers fired the tepees, and gathering their prisoners under guard, hastened back to the ranks again at the call of the bugle. by now custer comprehended his desperate position, and the full strength of his indian foes. fresh hordes were before him, already threatening attack. hamlin, bleeding from two flesh wounds, rode in from the left flank where he had been borne by the impetus of the last charge, with full knowledge of the truth. their attack had been centred on black kettle's village, but below, a mile or two apart, were other villages, representing all the hostile tribes of the southern plains. already these were hurrying up to join those rallying warriors under shelter of the river bank. even from where custer stood at the outskirts of the devastated village he could distinguish the warbonnets of cheyennes, arapahoes, kiowas and comanches mingled together in display of savagery. his decision was instant, that of the impetuous cavalry leader, knowing well the inherent strength and weakness of his branch of the service. he could not hope to hold his position before such a mass of the enemy, with the little force at his disposal. his only chance of escape, to come off victor, was to strike them so swiftly and with such force as to paralyze pursuit. already the reinforcing warriors were sweeping forward to attack, two thousand strong, led fiercely by little raven, an arapahoe; santanta, a kiowa, and little rock, a cheyenne. dismounting his men he prepared for a desperate resistance, although the troopers' ammunition was running low. suddenly, crashing through the very indian lines, came a four-mule wagon. the quartermaster was on the box, driving recklessly. only hamlin and a dozen other men were still in saddle. without orders they dashed forward, spurring maddened horses into the ranks of the indians, hurling them left and right, firing into infuriated red faces, and slashing about with dripping sabres. into the lane thus formed sprang the tortured mules, sweeping on with their precious load of ammunition. behind closed in the squad of rescuers, struggling for their lives amid a horde of savages. then, with one wild shout, the dismounted troopers leaped to the rescue, hurling back the disorganized indian mass, and dragging their comrades from the rout. it was hand to hand, clubbed carbine against knife and spear, a fierce, breathless struggle. behind eager hands ripped open the ammunition cases; cartridges were jammed into empty guns, and a second line of fighting men leaped forward, their front tipped with fire. dragged from his horse at the first fierce shock, his revolver empty, his broken sabre a jagged piece of steel, hamlin hacked his way through the first line of warriors, and found refuge behind a dead horse. here, with two others, he made a stand, gripping a carbine. it was all the work of a moment. about him were skurrying figures, infuriated faces, threatening weapons, yells of agony, cries of rage. the three fought like fiends, standing back to back, and striking blindly at leaping bodies and clutching hands. out of the mist, the mad confusion of breathless combat, one face alone seemed to confront the sergeant. at first it was a delirium; then it became a reality. he saw the shagginess of a buffalo coat, the gleam of a white face. all else vanished in a fierce desire to kill. he leaped forward, crazed with sudden hate, hurled aside the naked bodies in the path, and sent his whirling carbine stock crashing at dupont. even as it struck he fell, clutched by gripping hands, and over all rang out the cheer of the charging troopers. hamlin staggered to his knees, spent and breathless, and smiled grimly down at the dead white man in that ring of red. it was over, yet that little body of troopers dared not remain. about them still, although demoralized and defeated, circled an overwhelming mass of savages capable of crushing them to death, when they again rallied and consolidated. custer did the only thing possible. turning loose the pony herd, gathering his captives close, he swung his compact command into marching column. before the scattered tribes could rally for a second attack, with flankers out, and skirmishers in advance, the cavalrymen rode straight down the valley toward the retreating hostiles. it was a bold and desperate move, the commander's object being to impress upon the indian chiefs the thought of his utter fearlessness, and to create the impression that the seventh would never dare such a thing if they did not have a larger force behind. with flags unfurled, and the band playing, the troopers swept on. the very mad audacity of the movement struck terror into the hearts of the warriors, and they broke and fled. as darkness fell the survivors of the seventh rode alone, amid the silent desolation of the plains. halting a moment for rest under shelter of the river bank, custer hastily wrote his report and sent for hamlin. the latter approached and stood motionless in the red glare of the single camp-fire. the impetuous commander glanced up inquiringly. "sergeant, i must send a messenger to camp supply. are you fit to go?" "as much so as any one, general custer," was the quiet response. "i have no wounds of consequence." "very well. take the freshest horse in the command, and an osage guide. you know the country, but he will be of assistance. i have written a very brief report; you are to tell sheridan personally the entire story. we shall rest here two hours, and then proceed slowly along the trail. i anticipate no further serious fighting. you will depart at once." "very well, sir," the sergeant saluted, and turned away, halting an instant to ask, "you have reported the losses, i presume?" "yes, the dead and wounded. there are some missing, who may yet come in. major elliott and fourteen others are still unaccounted for." he paused. "by the way, sergeant, while you are with sheridan, explain to him who you are--he may have news for you. good-night, and good luck." he stood up and held out his hand. in surprise, his eyes suddenly filling with tears, hamlin felt the grip of his fingers. then he turned, unable to articulate a sentence, and strode away into the night. chapter xxxviii at camp supply there are yet living in that great southwest those who will retell the story of hamlin's ride from the banks of the washita to camp supply. it remains one of the epics of the plains, one of the proud traditions of the army. to the man himself those hours of danger, struggle and weariness, were more a dream than a reality. he passed through them almost unconsciously, a soldier performing his duty in utter forgetfulness of self, nerved by the discipline of years of service, by the importance of his mission, and by memory of molly mcdonald. love and duty held him reeling in the saddle, brought him safely to the journey's end. let the details pass unwritten. beneath the darkening skies of early evening, the sergeant and the osage guide rode forth into the peril and mystery of the shrouded desert. beyond the outmost picket, moving as silently as two spectres, they found at last a coulee leading upward from the valley to the plains above. to their left the indian fires swept in half circle, and between were the dark outlines of savage foes. from rock to rock echoed guttural voices, but, foot by foot, unnoted by the keen eyes, the two crept steadily on through the midnight of that sheltering ravine, dismounted, hands clasping the nostrils of their ponies, feeling through the darkness for each step, halting breathless at every crackle of a twig, every crunch of snow under foot. again and again they paused, silent, motionless, as some apparition of savagery outlined itself between them and the sky, yet slowly, steadily, every instinct of the plains exercised, they passed unseen. in the earliest gray of dawn the two wearied men crept out upon the upper plateau, dragging their horses. behind, the mists of the night still hung heavy and dark over the valley, yet with a new sense of freedom they swung into their saddles, faced sternly the chill wind of the north, and rode forward across the desolate snow fields. it was no boys' play! the tough, half-broken indian ponies kept steady stride, leaping the drifts, skimming rapidly along the bare hillsides. from dawn to dark scarcely a word was uttered. by turns they slept in the saddle, the one awake gripping the others' rein. once, in a strip of cottonwood, beside a frozen creek, they paused to light a fire and make a hasty meal. then they were off again, facing the frosty air, riding straight into the north. before them stretched the barren snow-clad steppes, forlorn and shelterless, with scarcely a mark of guidance anywhere, a dismal wilderness, intersected by gloomy ravines and frozen creeks. here and there a river, the water icy cold and covered with floating ice, barred their passage; down in the valleys the drifted snow turned them aside. again and again the struggling ponies floundered to their ears, or slid head-long down some steep declivity. twice hamlin was thrown, and once the osage was crushed between floating cakes and submerged in the icy stream. across the open barrens swept the wind into their faces, a ceaseless buffeting, chilling to the marrow; their eyes burned in the snow-glare. yet they rode on and on, voiceless, suffering in the grim silence of despair, fit denizens of that scene of utter desolation. at the cimarron the half-frozen indian collapsed, falling from his saddle into the snow utterly exhausted. staggering himself like a drunken man, the sergeant dragged the nerveless body into a crevice of the bluff out of the wild sweep of the wind, trampled aside the snow into a wall of shelter, built a hasty fire, and poured hot coffee between the shivering lips. with the earliest gray of another dawn, the white man caught the strongest pony, and rode on alone. he never knew the story of those hours--only that his trail led straight into the north. he rode erect at first, then leaning forward clinging to the mane; now and then he staggered along on foot dragging his pony by the rein. once he stopped to eat, breaking the ice in a creek for water. it began to snow, the thick fall of flakes blotting out the horizon, leaving him to stumble blindly through the murk. then darkness came, wrapping him in a cloak of silence in the midst of that unspeakable desert. his limbs stiffened, his brain reeled from intense fatigue. he dragged himself back into the saddle, pressing the pony into a slow trot. suddenly out of the wall of gloom sprang the yellow lights of camp supply. beneath these winking eyes of guidance there burst the red glare of a fire. even as he saw it the pony fell, but the exhausted man had forgotten now everything but duty. the knowledge that he had won the long struggle brought him new strength. he wrenched his feet free from the stirrups, and ran forward, calling to the guard. they met him, and he stood straight before them, every nerve taut--a soldier. "i bring despatches from custer," he said slowly, holding himself firm. "take me to general sheridan." the corporal walked beside him, down the trampled road, questioning eagerly as they passed the line of shacks toward the double log house where the commander was quartered. hamlin heard, and answered briefly, yet was conscious only of an effort to retain his strength. once within, he saw only the short, sturdy figure sitting behind a table, the shaggy gray beard, the stern, questioning eyes which surveyed him. he stood there straight, motionless, his uniform powdered with snow, his teeth clinched so as not to betray weakness, his face roughened by exposure, grimy with dirt, and disfigured by a week's growth of beard. sheridan stared at him, shading his eyes from the glow of the lamp. "you are from custer?" "yes, sir." he drew the papers from within his overcoat, stepped forward and laid them on the table. sheridan placed one hand upon them, but did not remove his gaze from hamlin's face. "when did you leave?" "the evening of the th, sir. i was sent back with an osage guide to bring you this report." "and the guide?" "he gave out on the cimarron and i came on alone." "and custer? did he strike black kettle?" "we found his camp the evening of the th, and attacked at daybreak the next morning. there were more indians with him than we expected to find--between two and three thousand, warriors from all the southern tribes. their tepees were set up for ten miles along the washita. we captured black kettle's village, and destroyed it; took his pony herd, and released a number of white prisoners, including some women and children. there was a sharp fight, and we lost quite a few men; i left too early to learn how many." "and the command--is it in any danger?" "i think not, sir. general custer was confident he could retire safely. the indians were thoroughly whipped, and apparently had no chief under whom they could rally." the general opened the single sheet of paper, and ran his eyes slowly down the lines of writing. hamlin, feeling his head reel giddily, reached out silently and grasped the back of a chair in support. sheridan glanced up. "general custer reports major elliott as missing and several officers badly wounded." "yes, sir." "what indians were engaged, and under what chiefs?" "mostly cheyennes, although there were bands of arapahoes, kiowas, comanches, and a few apaches. little rock was in command after black kettle was killed--that is of the cheyennes. little raven, and santanta led the others." "a fiend, that last. but, sergeant, you are exhausted. i will talk with you to-morrow. the officer of the day will assign you quarters." hamlin, still clinging to the chair with one hand, lifted the other in salute. "general sheridan," he said, striving to control his voice, "general custer's last words to me were that i was to tell you who i am. i do not know what he meant, but he said you would have news for me." "indeed!" in surprise, stiffening in his chair. "yes, sir--my name is hamlin." "hamlin! hamlin!" the general repeated the word. "i have no recollection--why, yes, by gad! you were a confederate colonel." "fourth texas infantry." "that's it! i have it now; you were court-martialed after the affair at fisher's hill, and dismissed from the service--disobedience of orders, or something like that. wait a minute." he rapped sharply on the table, and the door behind, leading into the other room, instantly opened to admit the orderly. in the dim light of the single lamp hamlin saw the short, stocky figure of a soldier, bearded, and immaculately clean. even as the fellow's gloved hand came sharply up to his cap visor, sheridan snapped out: "orderly, see if you recognize this man." erect, the very impersonation of military discipline, the soldier crossed the room, and stared into the unshaven face of the sergeant. suddenly his eyes brightened, and he wheeled about as if on a pivot, again bringing his gloved hand up in salute. "eet vas colonel hamlin, i tink ya," he said in strong german accent. "i know heem." the sergeant gripped his arm, bringing his face about once more. "you are shultz--sergeant-major shultz!" he cried. "what ever became of you? what is it you know?" "wait a minute, hamlin," said sheridan quickly, rising to his feet. "i can explain this much better than that dutchman. he means well enough, but his tongue twists. it seems custer met you once in the shenandoah, and later heard of your dismissal from the service. one night he spoke about the affair in my quarters. shultz was present on duty and overheard. he spoke up like a little man; said he was there when you got your orders, that they were delivered verbally by the staff officer, and he repeated them for us word for word. he was taken prisoner an hour later, and never heard of your court-martial. is that it, shultz?" "mine gott, ya; i sa dot alreatty," fervently. "he tell you not reconnoisance--_charge_! i heard eet twice. gott in himmel, vat a hell in der pines!" "hamlin," continued sheridan quietly, "there is little enough we can do to right this wrong. there is no way in which that confederate court-martial can be reconvened. but i shall have shultz's deposition taken and scattered broadcast. we will clear your name of stain. what became of that cowardly cur who lied?" hamlin pressed one hand against his throbbing temples, struggling against the faintness which threatened mastery. "he--he paid for it, sir," he managed to say. "he--he died three days ago in black kettle's camp." "you got him!" "yes--i--i got him." "i have forgotten--what was the coward's name?" "eugene le fevre, but in kansas they called him dupont." "dupont! dupont!" sheridan struck the table with his closed fist. "good lord, man! not the husband of that woman who ran off with lieutenant gaskins, from dodge?" "i--i never heard--" the room whirled before him in mist, the faces vanished; he heard an exclamation from shultz, a sharp command from sheridan, and then seemed to crumble up on the floor. there was the sharp rustle of a woman's skirt, a quick, light step, the pressure of an arm beneath his head. "quick, orderly, he 's fainted," it was the general's voice, sounding afar off. "get some brandy, shultz. here, miss mcdonald, let me hold the man's head." she turned slightly, her soft hand pressing back the hair from hamlin's forehead. "no," she protested firmly, "he is my soldier." and the sergeant, looking past the face of the girl he loved saw tears dimming the stern eyes of his commander. the end the girl of the golden west by david belasco "in those strange days, people coming from god knows where, joined forces in that far western land, and, according to the rude custom of the camp, their very names were soon lost and unrecorded, and here they struggled, laughed, gambled, cursed, killed, loved and worked out their strange destinies in a manner incredible to us of to-day. of one thing only are we sure--they lived!" _early history of california_ i. it was when coming back to the mines, after a trip to monterey, that the girl first met him. it happened, too, just at a time when her mind was ripe to receive a lasting impression. but of all this the boys of cloudy mountain camp heard not a word, needless to say, until long afterwards. lolling back on the rear seat of the stage, her eyes half closed,--the sole passenger now, and with the seat in front piled high with boxes and baskets containing _rebozos_, silken souvenirs, and other finery purchased in the shops of the old town,--the girl was mentally reviewing and dreaming of the delights of her week's visit there,--a visit that had been a revelation to one whose sole experience of the world had until now been derived from life in a rough mining camp. before her half-closed eyes still shimmered a vista of strange, exotic scenes and people, the thronging crowds of carnivals and fêtes; the mexican girls swaying through the movements of the fandango to the music of guitars and castanets; the great _rodeo_ with its hundreds of _vaqueros_, which was held at one of the ranchos just outside the town; and, lastly, and most vividly of all, the never-to-be-forgotten thrill of her first bull-fight. still ringing in her ears was the piercing note of the bugle which instantly silenced the expectant throng; the hoarse roar that greeted the entrance of the bull, and the thunder of his hoofs when he made his first mad charge. she saw again, with marvellous fidelity, the whole colour-scheme just before the death of the big, brave beast: the huge arena in its unrivalled setting of mountain, sea and sky; the eager multitude, tense with expectancy; the silver-mounted bridles and trappings of the horses; the many-hued capes of the _capadors_; the gaily-dressed _banderilleros_, poising their beribboned barbs; the red flag and long, slender, flashing sword of the cool and ever watchful _matador_; and, most prominent of all to her eyes, the brilliant, gold-laced packets of the gentlemen-_picadors_, who, after the mexican fashion,--so she had been told,--deemed it in nowise beneath them to enter the arena in person. and so it happened that now, as the stage swung round a corner, and a horseman suddenly appeared at a point where two roads converged, and was evidently spurring his horse with the intent of coming up with the stage, it was only natural that, even before he was near enough to be identified, the _caballero_ should already have become a part of the pageant of her mental picture. up to the moment of the stranger's appearance, nothing had happened to break the monotony of her long return journey towards cloudy mountain camp. far back in the distance now lay the mission where the passengers of the stage had been hospitably entertained the night before; still further back the red-tiled roofs and whitewashed walls of the little pueblo of san jose,--a veritable bower of roses; and remotest of all, the crosses of san carlos and the great pines, oaks and cypresses, which bordered her dream-memory of the white-beach crescent formed by the waves of monterey bay. the dawn of each day that swept her further from her week in wonderland had ushered in the matchless spring weather of california,--the brilliant sunshine, the fleecy clouds, the gentle wind with just a tang in it from the distant mountains; and as the stage rolled slowly northward through beautiful valleys, bright with yellow poppies and silver-white lupines, every turn of the road varied her view of the hills lying under an enchantment unlike that of any other land. yet strange and full of interest as every mile of the river country should have been to a girl accustomed to the great forest of the sierras, she had gazed upon it for the most part with unseeing eyes, while her thoughts turned, magnet-like, backward to the delights and the bewilderment of the old mexican town. so now, as the pursuing horseman swept rapidly nearer, each swinging stride of the powerful horse, each rhythmic movement of the graceful rider brought nearer and more vivid the vision of a handsome _picador_ holding off with his lance a thoroughly maddened bull until the crowd roared forth its appreciation. "see, señorita," said the horseman, at last galloping close to the coach and lifting his sombrero, "a beautiful bunch of syringa," and then, with his face bent towards her and his voice full of appeal, he added in lower tone: "for you!" for a brief second, the girl was too much taken back to find the adequate words with which to accept the stranger's offering. notwithstanding that in his glance she could read, as plainly as though he had spoken: "i know i am taking a liberty, but please don't be angry with me," there was something in his sweeping bow and grace of manner that, coupled with her vague sense of his social advantage, disconcerted her. a second more, however, and the embarrassment had passed, for on lifting her eyes to his again she saw that her memory had not played her false; beyond all chance of a mistake, he was the man who, ten days earlier, had peered into the stage, as she was nearing monterey, and later, at the bull-fight, had found time to shoot admiring glances at her between his daring feats of horsemanship. therefore, genuine admiration was in her eyes and extreme cordiality in her voice when, after a word or two of thanks, she added, with great frankness: "but it strikes me sort o' forcible that i've seen you before." then, with growing enthusiasm: "my, but that bull-fight was jest grand! you were fine! i'm right glad to know you, sir." the _caballero's_ face flushed with pleasure at her free-and-easy reception of him, while an almost inaudible "_gracias_" fell from his lips. at once he knew that his first surmise, that the girl was an american, had been correct. not that his experience in life had furnished him with any parallel, for the girl constituted a new and unique type. but he was well aware that no spanish lady would have received the advances of a stranger in like fashion. it was inevitable, therefore, that for the moment he should contrast, and not wholly to her advantage, the girl's unconventionality with the enforced reserve of the _dulcineas_ who, custom decrees, may not be courted save in the presence of _duennas_. but the next instant he recalled that there were, in sacramento, young women whose directness it would never do to mistake for boldness; and,--to his credit be it said,--he was quick to perceive that, however indifferent the girl seemed to the customary formality of introduction, there was no suggestion of indelicacy about her. all that her frank and easy manner suggested was that she was a child of nature, spontaneous and untrammelled by the dictates of society, and normally and healthily at home in the company of the opposite sex. "and she is even more beautiful than i supposed," was the thought that went through his mind. and yet, the girl was not beautiful, at least if judged by spanish or californian standards. unlike most of their women, she was fair, and her type purely american. her eyes of blue were lightly but clearly browed and abundantly fringed; her hair of burnished gold was luxuriant and wavy, and framed a face of singularly frank and happy expression, even though the features lacked regularity. but it was a face, so he told himself, that any man would trust,--a face that would make a man the better for looking at it,--a face which reflected a soul that no environment could make other than pure and spotless. and so there was, perhaps, a shade more of respect and a little less assurance in his manner when he asked: "and you like monterey?" "i love it! ain't it romantic--an', my, what a fine time the girls there must have!" the man laughed; the girl's enthusiasm amused him. "have you had a fine trip so far?" he asked, for want of something better to say. "mercy, yes! this 'ere stage is a pokey ol' thing, but we've made not bad time, considerin'." "i thought you were never going to get here!" the girl shot a coquettish glance at him. "how did you know i was comin' on this 'ere stage?" "i did not know,"--the stranger broke off and thought a moment. he may have been asking himself whether it were best for him to be as frank as she had been and admit his admiration for her; at last, encouraged perhaps by a look in the girl's blue eyes, he ventured: "but i've been riding along this road every day since i saw you. i felt that i must see you again." "you must like me powerful well . . .?" this remark, far from being a question, was accompanied with all the physiognomical evidences of an assertion. the stranger shot a surprised glance at her, out of the corner of his eye. then he admitted, in all truthfulness: "of course i do. who could help . . .?" "have you tried not to?" questioned the girl, smiling in his face now, and enjoying in the full this stolen intimacy. "ah, señorita, why should i . . .? all i know is that i do." the girl became reflective; presently she observed: "how funny it seems, an' yet, p'r'aps not so strange after all. the boys--all my boys at the camp like me--i'm glad you do, too." meanwhile the good-natured and loquaciously-inclined driver had turned his head and was subjecting the man cantering alongside of his stage to a rigid inspection. with his knowledge of the various types of men in california at that time, he had no difficulty in placing the status of this straight-limbed, broad-shouldered, young fellow as a native californian. moreover, it made no difference to him whether his passenger had met an old acquaintance or not; it was sufficient for him to observe that the lady, as well as himself--for the expression on her face could by no means be described as bored or scornful--liked the stranger's appearance; and so the better to take in all the points of the magnificent horse which the young californian was riding, not to mention a commendable desire to give his only passenger a bit of pleasant diversion on the long journey, he slowed his horse down to a walk. "but where do you live? you have a rancho near here?" the girl was now asking. "my father has--i live with him." "any sisters?" "no,--no sisters or brothers. my mother was an american; she died a few years ago." and so saying, his glance sought and obtained an answering one full of sympathy. "i'm downright sorry for you," said the girl with feeling; and then in the next breath she added: "but i'm pleased you're--you're half american." "and you, señorita?" "i'm an orphan--my family are all dead," replied the girl in a low voice. "but i have my boys," she went on more cheerfully, "an' what more do i need?" and then before he had time to ask her to explain what she meant by the boys, she cried out: "oh, jest look at them wonderful berries over yonder! la, how i wish i could pick 'em!" "perhaps you may," the stranger hastened to say, and instantly with his free hand he made a movement to assist her to alight, while with the other he checked his horse; then, with his eyes resting appealingly upon the driver, he inquired: "it is possible, is it not, señor?" curiously enough, this apparently proper request was responsible for changing the whole aspect of things. for, keenly desirous to oblige him, though she was, there was something in the stranger's eyes as they now rested upon her that made her feel suddenly shy; a flood of new impressions assailed her: she wanted to evade the look and yet foster it; but the former impulse was the stronger, and for the first time she was conscious of a growing feeling of restraint. indeed, some inner voice told her that it would not be quite right for her to leave the stage. true, she belonged to cloudy mountain camp where the conventions were unknown and where a rough, if kind, comradery existed between the miners and herself; nevertheless, she felt that she had gone far enough with a new acquaintance, whose accent, as well as the timbre of his voice, gave ample evidence that he belonged to another order of society than her own and that of the boys. so, hard though it was not to accede to his request and, at the same time, break the monotony of her journey with a few minutes of berry-picking with him in the fields, she made no move to leave the stage but answered the questioning look of the obliging driver with a negative one. whereupon, the latter, after declaring to the young californian that the stage was late as it was, called to his horses to show what they could do in the way of getting over the ground after their long rest. the young man's face clouded with disappointment. for two hundred yards or more he spoke not a word, though he spurred his horse in order to keep up with the now fast-moving stage. then, all of a sudden, as the silence between them was beginning to grow embarrassing, the girl made out the figure of a man on horseback a short distance ahead, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. the stranger followed the direction of the girl's eyes and, almost instantly, it was borne in upon them that the horseman awaited their coming. the girl turned to speak, but the tender, sorrowful expression that she saw on the young man's face kept her silent. "that is one of my father's men," he said, somewhat solemnly. "his presence here may mean that i must leave you. the road to our ranch begins there. i fear that something may be wrong." the girl shot him a look of sympathetic inquiry, though she said nothing. to tell the truth, the first thought that entered her mind at his words was one of concern that their companionship was likely to cease abruptly. during the silence that preceded his outspoken premonition of trouble, she had been studying him closely. she found herself admiring his aquiline features, his olive-coloured skin with its healthful pallor, the lazy, black spanish eyes behind which, however tranquil they generally were, it was easy for her to discern, when he smiled, that reckless and indomitable spirit which appeals to women all the world over. as the stage approached the motionless horseman, the young man cried out to the _vaquero_, for such he was, and asked in spanish whether he had a message for him; an answer came back in the same language, the meaning of which the girl failed to comprehend. a moment later her companion turned to her and said: "it is as i feared." once more a silence fell upon them. for a half-mile or so, apparently deep in thought, he continued to canter at her side; at last he spoke what was in his mind. "i hate to leave you, señorita," he said. in an instant the light went out of the girl's eyes, and her face was as serious as his own when she replied: "well, i guess i ain't particularly crazy to have you go neither." the unmistakable note of regret in the girl's voice flattered as well as encouraged him to go further and ask: "will you think of me some time?" the girl laughed. "what's the good o' my thinkin' o' you? i seen you talkin' with them gran' monterey ladies an' i guess you won't be thinkin' often o' me. like 's not by to-morrow you'll 'ave clean forgot me," she said with forced carelessness. "i shall never forget you," declared the young man with the intense fervour that comes so easily to the men of his race. at that a half-mistrustful, half-puzzled look crossed the girl's face. was this handsome stranger finding her amusing? there was almost a resentful glitter in her eyes when she cried out: "i 'mos' think you're makin' fun o' me!" "no, i mean every word that i say," he hastened to assure her, looking straight into her eyes where he could scarcely have failed to read something which the girl had not the subtlety to conceal. "oh, i guess i made you say that!" she returned, making a child-like effort to appear to disbelieve him. the stranger could not suppress a smile; but the next moment he was serious, and asked: "and am i never going to see you again? won't you tell me where i can find you?" once more the girl was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment. not that she was at all ashamed of being "the girl of the polka saloon," for that never entered her mind; but she suddenly realised that it was one thing to converse pleasantly with a young man on the highway and another to let him come to her home on cloudy mountain. only too well could she imagine the cool reception, if it stopped at that, that the boys of the camp there would accord to this stylish stranger. as a consequence, she was torn by conflicting emotions: an overwhelming desire to see him again, and a dread of what might happen to him should he descend upon cloudy mountain with all his fine airs and graces. "i guess i'm queer--" she began uncertainly and then stopped in sudden surprise. too long had she delayed her answer. already the stage had left him some distance behind. unperceived by her a shade of annoyance had passed over the californian's face at her seeming reluctance to tell him where she lived. the quick of his spanish pride was touched; and with a wave of his sombrero he had pulled his horse down on his haunches. of no avail now was her resolution to let him know the whereabouts of the camp at any cost, for already his "_adios, señorita_" was sounding faintly in her ears. with a little cry of vexation, scarcely audible, the young woman flung herself back on the seat. she was only a girl with all a girl's ways, and like most of her sex, however practical her life thus far, she was not without dreams of a romance. this meeting with the handsome _caballero_ was the nearest she had come to having one. true, there was scarcely a man at cloudy but what had tried at one time or another to go beyond the stage of good comradeship; but none of them had approached the idealistic vision of the hero that was all the time lying dormant in her mind. of course, being a girl, and almost a queen in her own little sphere, she accepted their rough homage in a manner that was befitting to such an exalted personage, and gave nothing in return. but now something was stirring within her of which she knew nothing; a feeling was creeping over her that she could not analyse; she was conscious only of the fact that with the departure of this attractive stranger, who had taken no pains to conceal his admiration for her, her journey had been robbed of all its joy. a hundred yards further on, therefore, she could not resist the temptation to put her head out of the stage and look back at the place where she had last seen him. he was still sitting quietly on his horse at the place where they had parted so unceremoniously, his face turned in her direction--horse and rider silhouetted against the western sky which showed a crimson hue below a greenish blue that was sapphire farther from the horizon. ii. not until a turn of the road hid the stage from sight did the stranger fix his gaze elsewhere. even then it was not easy for him, and there had been a moment when he was ready to throw everything to the winds and follow it. but when on the point of doing so there suddenly flashed through his mind the thought of the summons that he had received. and so, not unlike one who had come to the conclusion that it was indeed a farewell, he waved his hand resignedly in the direction that the stage had taken and, calling to his _vaquero_, he gave his horse a thrust of the long rowel of his spur and galloped off towards the foothills of the sierras. for some miles the riders travelled a road which wound through beautiful green fields; but master and man were wholly indifferent, seeing neither the wild flowers lining each side of the road nor the sycamores and live oaks which were shining overhead from the recent rains. in the case of the young man every foot of the way to his father's rancho was familiar. all hours of the day and night he had made the trip to the highway, for with the exception of the few years that had been given to his education in foreign lands, his whole life had been passed on the rancho. scarcely less acquainted with the road than his young master was the _vaquero_, so neither gave a glance at the country through which they were passing, but side by side took the miles in silence. an hour passed with the young man still wrapt in thought. the truth was, though he was scarcely ready to admit it, he had been hard hit. in more ways than one the girl had made a deep impression on him. not only had her appearance awakened his interest to the point of enthusiasm, but there was something irresistibly attractive to him in her lack of affectation and audacious frankness. over and over again he thought of her happy face, her straightforward way of looking at things and, last but not least, her evident pleasure in meeting him. and when he reflected on the hopelessness of their ever meeting again, a feeling of depression seized him. but his nature--always a buoyant one--did not permit him to remain downcast very long. by this time they were nearing the foothills. a little while longer and the road that they were travelling became nothing more than a bridle path. indeed, so dense did the _chaparral_ presently become that it would have been utterly impossible for one unacquainted with the way to keep on it. animal life was to be seen everywhere. at the approach of the riders innumerable rabbits scurried away; quail whirred from bush to bush; and, occasionally, a deer broke from the thickets. at the end of another hour of hard riding they were forced to slacken their pace. in front of them the ground could be seen, in the light of a fast disappearing moon, to be gradually rising. another mile or two and vertical walls of rock rose on each side of them; while great ravines, holding mountain torrents, necessitated their making a short detour for the purpose of finding a place where the stream could be safely forded. even then it was not an easy task on account of the boulder-enclosing whirlpools whose waters were whipped into foam by the wind that swept through the forest. at a point of the road where there was a break in the _chaparral_, a voice suddenly cried out in spanish: "who comes?" "follow us!" was the quick answer without drawing rein; and, instantly, on recognition of the young master's voice, a mounted sentinel spurred his horse out from behind an overhanging rock and closed in behind them. and as they were challenged thus several times, it happened that presently there was quite a little band of men pushing ahead in the darkness that had fallen. and so another hour passed. then, suddenly, there sprung into view the dark outlines of a low structure which proved to be a corral, and finally they made their way through a gate and came upon a long adobe house, situated in a large clearing and having a kind of courtyard in front of it. in the centre of this courtyard was what evidently had once been a fountain, though it had long since dried up. around it squatted a group of _vaqueros_, all smoking cigarettes and some of them lazily twisting lariats out of horsehair. close at hand a dozen or more wiry little mustangs stood saddled and bridled and ready for any emergency. in colour, one or two were of a peculiar cream and had silver white manes, but the rest were greys and chestnuts. it was evident that they had great speed and bottom. all in all, what with the fierce and savage faces of the men scattered about the courtyard, the remoteness of the adobe, and the care taken to guard against surprise, old bartolini's _hacienda_ was an establishment not unlike that of the feudal barons or a nest of banditti according to the point of view. at the sound of the fast galloping horses, every man on the ground sprang to his feet and ran to his horse. for a second only they stood still and listened intently; then, satisfied that all was well and that the persons approaching belonged to the rancho, they returned to their former position by the fountain--all save an indian servant, who caught the bridle thrown to him by the young man as he swung himself out of the saddle. and while this one led his horse noiselessly away, another of the same race preceded him along a corridor until he came to the _maestro's_ room. old ramerrez bartolini, or ramerrez, as he was known to his followers, was dying. his hair, pure white and curly, was still as luxuriant as when he was a young man. beneath the curls was a patrician, spanish face, straight nose and brilliant, piercing, black eyes. his gigantic frame lay on a heap of stretched rawhides which raised him a few inches from the floor. this simple couch was not necessarily an indication of poverty, though his property had dwindled to almost nothing, for in most spanish adobes of that time, even in some dwellings of the very rich, there were no beds. over him, as well as under him, were blankets. on each side of his head, fixed on the wall, two candles were burning, and almost within reach of his hand there stood a rough altar, with crucifix and candles, where a padre was making preparations to administer the last sacraments. in the low-studded room the only evidence remaining of prosperity were some fragments of rich and costly goods that once had been piled up there. in former times the old spaniard had possessed these in profusion, but little was left now. indeed, whatever property he had at the present time was wholly in cattle and horses, and even these were comparatively few. there had been a period, not so very long ago at that, when old ramerrez was a power in the land. in all matters pertaining to the province of alta california his advice was eagerly sought, and his opinion carried great weight in the councils of the spaniards. later, under the mexican regime, the respect in which his name was held was scarcely less; but with the advent of the _americanos_ all this was changed. little by little he lost his influence, and nothing could exceed the hatred which he felt for the race that he deemed to be responsible for his downfall. it was odd, in a way, too, for he had married an american girl, the daughter of a sea captain who had visited the coast, and for many years he had held her memory sacred. and, curiously enough, it was because of this enmity, if indirectly, that much of his fortune had been wasted. fully resolved that england--even france or russia, so long as spain was out of the question--should be given an opportunity to extend a protectorate over his beloved land, he had sent emissaries to europe and supplied them with moneys--far more than he could afford--to give a series of lavish entertainments at which the wonderful richness and fertility of california could be exploited. at one time it seemed as if his efforts in that direction would meet with success. his plan had met with such favour from the authorities in the city of mexico that governor pico had been instructed by them to issue a grant for several million of acres. but the united states government was quick to perceive the hidden meaning in the extravagances of these envoys in london, and in the end all that was accomplished was the hastening of the inevitable american occupation. from that time on it is most difficult to imagine the zeal with which he endorsed the scheme of the native californians for a republic of their own. he was a leader when the latter made their attack on the americans in sonoma county and were repulsed with the loss of several killed. one of these was ramerrez' only brother, who was the last, with the exception of himself and son, of a proud, old, spanish family. it was a terrible blow, and increased, if possible, his hatred for the americans. later the old man took part in the battle of san pasquale and the mesa. in the last engagement he was badly wounded, but even in that condition he announced his intention of fighting on and bitterly denounced his fellow-officers for agreeing to surrender. as a matter of fact, he escaped that ignominy. for, taking advantage of his great knowledge of the country, he contrived to make his way through the american lines with his few followers, and from that time may be said to have taken matters into his own hand. old ramerrez was conscious that his end was merely a matter of hours, if not minutes. over and over again he had had himself propped up by his attendants with the expectation that his command to bring his son had been obeyed. no one knew better than he how impossible it would be to resist another spasm like that which had seized him a little while after his son had ridden off the rancho early that morning. yet he relied once more on his iron constitution, and absolutely refused to die until he had laid upon his next of kin what he thoroughly believed to be a stern duty. deep down in heart, it is true, he was vaguely conscious of a feeling of dread lest his cherished revenge should meet with opposition; but he refused to harbour the thought, believing, not unnaturally, that, after having imposed his will upon others for nearly seventy years, it was extremely unlikely that his dying command should be disobeyed by his son. and it was in the midst of these death-bed reflections that he heard hurried footsteps and knew that his boy had come at last. when the latter entered the room his face wore an agonised expression, for he feared that he had arrived too late. it was a relief, therefore, to see his father, who had lain still, husbanding his little remaining strength, open his eyes and make a sign, which included the padre as well as the attendants, that he wished to be left alone with his son. "art thou here at last, my son?" said the old man the moment they were alone. "ay, father, i came as soon as i received your message." "come nearer, then, i have much to say to you, and i have not long to live. have i been a good father to you, my lad?" the young man knelt beside the couch and kissed his father's hand, while he murmured an assent. at the touch of his son's lips a chill struck the old man's heart. it tortured him to think how little the boy guessed of the recent history of the man he was bending over with loving concern; how little he divined of the revelation that must presently be made to him. for a moment the dying man felt that, after all, perhaps it were better to renounce his vengeance, for it had been suddenly borne in upon him that the boy might suffer acutely in the life that he intended him to live; but in another moment he had taken himself to task for a weakness that he considered must have been induced by his dying condition, and he sternly banished the thought from his mind. "my lad," he began, "you promise to carry out my wishes after i am gone?" "ay, father, you know that i will. what do you wish me to do?" the old man pointed to the crucifix. "you swear it?" "i swear it." no sooner had the son uttered the wished-for words than his father fell back on the couch and closed his eyes. the effort and excitement left him as white as a sheet. it seemed to the boy as if his father might be sinking into the last stupor, but after a while he opened his eyes and called for a glass of _aguardiente_. with difficulty he gulped it down; then he said feebly: "my boy, the only american that ever was good was your mother. she was an angel. all the rest of these cursed gringos are pigs;" and his voice growing stronger, he repeated: "ay, pigs, hogs, swine!" the son made no reply; his father went on: "what have not these devils done to our country ever since they came here? at first we received them most hospitably; everything they wanted was gladly supplied to them. and what did they do in return for our kindness? where now are our extensive ranchos--our large herds of cattle? they have managed to rob us of our lands through clever laws that we of california cannot understand; they have stolen from our people thousands and thousands of cattle! there is no infamy that--" the young man hastened to interrupt him. "you must not excite yourself, father," he said with solicitude. "they are unscrupulous--many of them, but all are not so." "bah!" ejaculated the old man; "the gringos are all alike. i hate them all, i--" the old man was unable to finish. he gasped for breath. but despite his son's entreaties to be calm, he presently cried out: "do you know who you are?" and not waiting for a reply he went on with: "our name is one of the proudest in spain--none better! the curse of a long line of ancestors will be upon you if you tamely submit--not make these americans suffer for their seizure of this, our rightful land--our beautiful california!" more anxiously than ever now the son regarded his father. his inspection left no doubt in his mind that the end could not be far off. with great earnestness he implored him to lie down; but the dying man shook his head and continued to grow more and more excited. "do you know who i am?" he demanded. "no--you think you do, but you don't. there was a time when i had plenty of money. it pleased me greatly to pay all your expenses--to see that you received the best education possible both at home and abroad. then the gringos came. little by little these cursed _americanos_ have taken all that i had from me. but as they have sown so shall they reap. i have taken my revenge, and you shall take more!" he paused to get his breath; then in a terrible voice he cried: "yes, i have robbed--robbed! for the last three years, almost, your father has been a bandit!" the son sprang to his feet. "a bandit? you, father, a ramerrez, a bandit?" "ay, a bandit, an outlaw, as you also will be when i am no more, and rob, rob, rob, these _americanos_. it is my command and--you--have-- sworn . . ." the son's eyes were rivetted upon his father's face as the old man fell back, completely exhausted, upon his couch of rawhides. with a strange conflict of emotions, the young man remained standing in silence for a few brief seconds that seemed like hours, while the pallor of death crept over the face before him, leaving no doubt that, in the solemnity of the moment his father had spoken nothing but the literal truth. it was a hideous avowal to hear from the dying lips of one whom from earliest childhood he had been taught to revere as the pattern of spanish honour and nobility. and yet the thought now uppermost in young ramerrez's mind was that oddly enough he had not been taken by surprise. never by a single word had any one of his father's followers given him a hint of the truth. so absolute, so feudal was the old man's mastery over his men that not a whisper of his occupation had ever reached his son's ears. nevertheless, he now told himself that in some curious, instinctive way, he had _known_,--or rather, had refused to know, putting off the hour of open avowal, shutting his eyes to the accumulating facts that day by day had silently spoken of lawlessness and peril. three years, his father had just said; well, that explained how it was that no suspicions had ever awakened until after he had completed his education and returned home from his travels. but since then a child must have noted that something was wrong: the grim, sinister faces of the men, constantly on guard, as though the old _hacienda_ were in a state of siege; the altered disposition of his father, always given to gloomy moods, but lately doubly silent and saturnine, full of strange savagery and smouldering fire. yes, somewhere in the back of his mind he had known the whole, shameful truth; had known the purpose of those silent, stealthy excursions, and equally silent returns,--and more than once the broken heads and bandaged arms that coincided so oddly with some new tale of a daring hold-up that he was sure to hear of, the next time that he chanced to ride into monterey. for three years, young ramerrez had known that sooner or later he would be facing such a moment as this, called upon to make the choice that should make or mar him for life. and now, for the first time he realised why he had never voiced his suspicions, never questioned, never hastened the time of decision,--it was because even now he did not know which way he wished to decide! he knew only that he was torn and racked by terrible emotions, that on one side was a mighty impulse to disregard the oath he had blindly taken and refuse to do his father's bidding; and on the other, some new and unguessed craving for excitement and danger, some inherited lawlessness in his blood, something akin to the intoxication of the arena, when the thunder of the bull's hoofs rang in his ears. and so, when the old man's lips opened once more, and shaped, almost inaudibly, the solemn words: "you have sworn,--" the scales were turned and the son bowed his head in silence. a moment later and the room was filled with men who fell on their knees. on every face, save one, there was an expression of overwhelming grief and despair; but on that one, ashen grey as it was with the agony of approaching death, there was a look of contentment as he made a sign to the padre that he was now ready for him to administer the last rites of his church. iii. the polka saloon! how the name stirs the blood and rouses the imagination! no need to be a forty-niner to picture it all as if there that night: the great high and square room lighted by candles and the warm, yellow light of kerosene lamps; the fireplace with its huge logs blazing and roaring; the faro tables with the little rings of miners around them; and the long, pine bar behind which a typical barkeeper of the period was busily engaged in passing the bottle to the men clamorous for whisky in which to drink the health of the girl. and the spirit of the place! when and where was there ever such a fine fellowship--transforming as it unquestionably did an ordinary saloon into a veritable haven of good cheer for miners weary after a long and often discouraging day in the gulches? in a word, the polka was a marvellous tribute to its girl-proprietor's sense of domesticity. nothing that could insure the comfort for her patrons was omitted. nothing, it would seem, could occur that would disturb the harmonious aspect of the scene. but alas! the night was yet young. now the moment for which not a few of that good-humoured and musically-inclined company were waiting arrived. clear above the babel of voices sounded a chord, and the poor old concertina player began singing in a voice that was as wheezy as his instrument: "camp town ladies sing this song dooda! dooda! camp town race track five miles long dooda! dooda! day!" throughout the solo nothing more nerve-racking or explosive than an occasional hilarious whoop punctuated the melody. for once, at any rate, it seemed likely to go the distance; but no sooner did the chorus, which had been taken up, to a man, by the motley crowd and was rip-roaring along at a great rate, reach the second line than there sounded the reports of a fusillade of gun-shots from the direction of the street. the effect was magical: every voice trailed off into uncertainty and then ceased. instantly the atmosphere became charged with tension; a hush fell upon the room, the joyous light of battle in every eye, if nothing else, attesting the approach of the foe; while all present, after listening contemptuously to a series of wild and unearthly yells which announced an immediate arrival, sprang to their feet and concentrated their glances on the entrance of the saloon through which there presently burst a party of lively boys from the ridge. a psychological moment followed, during which the occupants of the polka saloon glared fiercely at the newcomers, who, needless to say, returned their hostile stares. the chances of war, judging from past performances, far outnumbered those of peace. but as often happens in affairs of this kind when neither side is unprepared, the desire for gun-play gave way to mirthless laughter, and, presently, the hilarious crowd from the rival camp, turning abruptly on their heels, betook themselves en masse into the dance-hall. for the briefest of periods, there was a look of keen disappointment on the faces of the cloudy mountain boys as they gazed upon the receding figures of their sworn enemies; but almost in as little time as it takes to tell it there was a tumultuous lining up at the bar, the flat surface of which soon resounded with the heavy blows dealt it by the fists of the men desirous of accentuating the rhythm when roaring out: "gwine to run all night, gwine to run all day, bet my money on a bob-tail nag, somebody bet on the bay!" among those standing at the bar, and looking out of bleared eyes at a flashy lithograph tacked upon the wall which pictured a spanish woman in short skirts and advertised "espaniola cigaroos," were two miners: one with curly hair and a pink-and-white complexion; the other, tall, loose-limbed and good-natured looking. they were known respectively as handsome charlie and happy halliday, and had been arguing in a maudlin fashion over the relative merits of spanish and american beauties. the moment the song was concluded they banged their glasses significantly on the bar; but since it was an unbroken rule of the house that at the close of the musician's performance he should be rewarded by a drink, which was always passed up to him, they needs must wait. the little barkeeper paid no attention to their demands until he had satisfied the thirst of the old concertina player who, presently, could be seen drawing aside the bear-pelt curtain and passing through the small, square opening of the partition which separated the polka saloon from its dance-hall. "not goin', old dooda day, are you?" the question, almost a bellow, which, needless to say, was unanswered, came from sonora slim who, with his great pal trinidad joe, was playing faro at a table on one side of the room. apparently, both were losing steadily to the dealer whose chair, placed up against the pine-boarded wall, was slightly raised above the floor. this last individual was as fat and unctuous looking as his confederate, the look-out, was thin and sneaky; moreover, he bore the sobriquet of the sidney duck and, obviously, was from australia. "say, what did the last eight do?" sonora now asked, turning to the case-keeper. "lose." "well, let the tail go with the hide," returned sonora, resignedly. "and the ace--how many times did it win?" inquired trinidad. "four times," was the case-keeper's answer. all this time a full-blooded indian with long, blue-black hair, very thick and oily, had been watching the game with excited eyes. his dress was part indian and part american, and he wore all kinds of imitation jewelry including a huge scarf-pin which flashed from his vivid red tie. furthermore, he possessed a watch,--a large, brassy-looking article,-- which he brought out on every possible occasion. when not engaged in helping himself to the dregs that remained in the glasses carelessly left about the room, he was generally to be found squatted down on the floor and playing a solitaire of his own devising. but now he reached over sonora's shoulder and put some coins on the table in front of the dealer. "give billy jackrabbit fer two dolla' mexican chip," he demanded in a guttural voice. the sidney duck did as requested. while he was shuffling the cards for a new deal, the players beat time with their feet to the music that floated in from the dance-hall. the tune seemed to have an unusually exhilarating effect on happy halliday, for letting out a series of whoops he staggered off towards the adjoining room with the evident intention of getting his fill of the music, not forgetting to yell back just before he disappeared: "root hog or die, boys!" happy's boisterous exit caused a peculiar expression to appear immediately on handsome's face, which might be interpreted as one of envy at his friend's exuberant condition; at all events, he proceeded forthwith to order several drinks, gulping them down in rapid succession. meanwhile, at the faro table, the luck was going decidedly against the boys. in fact, so much so, that there was a dangerous note in sonora's voice when, presently, he blurted out: "see here, gambolier sid, you're too lucky!" "you bet!" approved trinidad, and then added: "more chips, australier!" but trinidad's comment, as well as his request, only brought forth the oily smile that the sidney duck always smiled when any reference was made to his game. it was his policy to fawn upon all and never permit himself to think that an insult was intended. so he gathered in trinidad's money and gave him chips in return. for some seconds the men played on without anything disturbing the game except the loud voice of the caller of the wheel-of-fortune in the dance-hall. but the boys were to hear something more from there besides, "round goes the wheel!" for, all at once there came to their ears the sounds of an altercation in which it was not difficult to recognise the penetrating voice of happy halliday. "now, git, you loafer!" he was saying in tones that left no doubt in the minds of his friends that happy was hot under the collar over something. a shot followed. "missed, by the lord harry!" ejaculated happy, deeply humiliated at his failure to increase the mortuary record of the camp. the incident, however, passed unnoticed by the faro players; not a man within sound of the shot, for that matter, inquired what the trouble was about; and even nick, picking up his tray filled with glasses and a bottle, walked straightway into the dance-hall looking as if the matter were not worth a moment's thought. at nick's going the indian's face brightened; it gave him the opportunity for which he had been waiting. nobly he maintained his reputation as a thief by quietly going behind the bar and lifting from a box four cigars which he stowed away in his pockets. but even that, apparently did not satisfy him, for when he espied the butt of a cigar, flung into the sawdust on the floor by a man who had just come in, he picked it up before squatting down again to resume his card playing. the newcomer, a man of, say, forty years, came slowly into the room without a word of salutation to anyone. in common with his fellow-miners, he wore a flannel shirt and boots. the latter gave every evidence of age as did his clothes which, nevertheless, were neat. his face wore a mild, gentle look and would have said that he was companionable enough; yet it was impossible not to see that he was not willingly seeking the cheer of the saloon but came there solely because he had no other place to go. in a word, he had every appearance of a man down on his luck. men were continually coming in and going out, but no one paid the slightest attention to him, even though a succession of audible sighs escaped his lips. at length he went over to the counter and took a sheet or two of the paper,--which was kept there for the few who desired to write home,--a quill-pen and ink; and picking up a small wooden box he seated himself upon it before a desk--which had been built from a rude packing-case--and began wearily and laboriously to write. "the lone star now rises!" it was the stentorian voice of the caller of the wheel-of-fortune. one would have thought that the sound would have had the effect of a thunder-clap upon the figure at the desk; but he gave no sign whatever of having heard it; nor did he see the suspicious glance which nick, entering at that moment, shot at billy jackrabbit who was stealing noiselessly towards the dance-hall where the whoops were becoming so frequent and evincing such exuberance of spirits that the ubiquitous, if generally unconcerned, nick felt it incumbent to give an explanation of them. "boys from the ridge cuttin' up a bit," he tendered apologetically, and took up a position at the end of the bar where he could command a view of both rooms. as a partial acknowledgment that he had heard nick's communication, sonora turned round slightly in his seat at the faro table and shot a glance towards the dance-hall. contempt showed on his rugged features when he turned round again and addressed the stocky, little man sitting at his elbow. "well, i don't dance with men for partners! when i shassay, trin, i want a feminine piece of flesh an' blood"--he sneered, and then went on to amplify--"with garters on." "you bet!" agreed his faithful, if laconic pal, on feeling the other's playful dig in his ribs. the subject of men dancing together was a never-ceasing topic of conversation between these two cronies. but whatever the attitude of others sonora knew that trinidad would never fail him when it came to nice discriminations of this sort. his reference to an article of feminine apparel, however, was responsible for his recalling the fact that he had not as yet received his daily assurance from the presiding genius of the bar that he stood well in the estimation of the only lady in the camp. therefore, leaving the table, he went over to nick and whispered: "has the girl said anythin' about me to-day, nick?" now the role of confidential adviser to the boys was not a new one to the barkeeper, nor was anyone in the camp more familiar than he with their good qualities as well as their failings. every morning before going to work in the placers it was their custom to stop in at the polka for their first drink--which was, generally, "on the house." invariably, nick received them in his shirt-sleeves,--for that matter he was the proud possessor of the sole "biled shirt" in the camp,--and what with his red flannel undershirt that extended far below the line of his cuffs, his brilliantly-coloured waistcoat and tie, and his hair combed down very low in a cow-lick over his forehead, he was indeed an odd little figure of a man as he listened patiently to the boys' grievances and doled out sympathy to them. on the other hand, absolutely devoted to the fair proprietress of the saloon,--though solely in the character of a good comrade,--he never ceased trying to advance her interests; and since one and all of her customers believed themselves to be in love with her, one of his most successful methods was to flatter each one in turn into thinking that he had made a tremendous impression upon her. it was not a difficult thing to do inasmuch as long custom and repetition had made him an adept at highly-coloured lying. "well, you got the first chance," asseverated nick, dropping his voice to a whisper. sonora grinned from ear to ear; he expanded his broad chest and held his head proudly; and waving his hand in lordly fashion he sung out: "cigars for all hands and drinks, too, nick!" the genial prevaricator could scarcely restrain himself from laughing outright as he watched the other return to his place at the faro table; and when, in due course, he served the concoctions and passed around the high-priced cigars, there was a smile on his face which said as plainly as if spoken that sonora was not the only person present that had reason to be pleased with himself. then occurred one of those terpsichorean performances which never failed to shock old sonora's sense of the fitness of things. for the next moment two ridge boys, dancing together, waltzed through the opening between the two rooms and, letting out ear-piercing whoops with every rotation, whirled round and round the room until they brought up against the bar where they, breathlessly, called for drinks. an angry lull fell upon the room; the card game stopped. however, before anyone seated there could give vent to his resentment at this boisterous intrusion of the men from the rival camp, the smooth, oily and inviting voice of the unprincipled sidney duck, scenting easy prey because of their inebriated condition, called out in its cockney accent: "'ello, boys--'ow's things at the ridge?" "wipes this camp off the earth!" returned a voice that was provocative in the extreme--a reply that instantly brought every man at the faro table to his feet. for a time, at least, it seemed as if the boys from the ridge would get the trouble they were looking for. a murmur of angry amazement arose, while sonora, his watery blue eyes glinting, followed up his explosive, "what!" with a suggestive movement towards his hip. but quick as he was nick was still quicker and had the ridge boy, as well as sonora, covered before their hands had even reached their guns. "you . . .!" the little barkeeper's sentence was bristled out and contained along with the expletives some comparatively mild words which gave the would-be combatants to understand that any such foolishness would not be tolerated in the polka unless he himself "'lowed it to be ne'ssary." not unnaturally the ridge boys failed to see anything offensive in language that had a gun behind it; and realising the futility of any further attempt to get away with a successful disturbance they wisely yielded to superior quickness at the draw. with a whoop of resignation they rushed back to the dance-hall where the voice of the caller was exhorting the gents--whose partners were mostly big, husky, hairy-faced men clumsily enacting parts generally assigned to members of the gentler sex--to swing: "with the right-hand gent, first partner swing with the left-hand gent, first partner swing with the right-hand gent; first partner swing with the left-hand gent, and the partner in the centre, and gents all around!" back at the faro table now,--the incident having passed quickly into oblivion,--sonora called to the dealer for "a slug's worth of chips"--a request that was promptly acceded to. but they had played only a few minutes when a thin but somewhat sweet tenor voice was heard singing: "wait for the waggon, wait for the waggon, wait for the waggon, and we'll all take a ride. wait for the waggon--" "here he is, gentlemen, just back from his triumphs of the ridge!" broke in nick, whose province it was to act as master of ceremonies; and coming forward as the singer emerged from the dance-hall he introduced him to the assembled company in the most approved music-hall manner: "allow me to present to you, jake wallace the camp favour-ite!" he said with an exaggeratedly low bow. "how-dy, jake! hello, jake, old man! how be you, jake!" were some of the greetings that were hurled at the minstrel who, robed in a long linen duster, his face half-blacked, and banjo in hand, acknowledged the words of welcome with a broad grin as he stood bowing in the centre of the room. that jake wallace was a typical camp minstrel from the top of his dusty stove-pipe hat to the sole of his flapping negro shoes, one could see with half an eye as he made his way to a small platform--a musician's stand--at one end of the bar; nor could there be any question about his being a prudent one, for the musician did not seat himself until he had carefully examined the sheet-iron shield inside the railing, which was attached in such a way that it could be sprung up by working a spring in the floor and render him fairly safe from a chance shot during a fracas. "my first selection, friends, will be 'the little--'," announced the minstrel with a smile as he begun to tune his instrument. "aw, give us 'old dog tray,'" cut in sonora, impatiently from his seat at the card table. jake bowed his ready acquiescence to the request and kept right on tuning up. "i say, nick, have you saw the girl?" asked trinidad in a low voice, taking advantage of the interval to stroll over to the bar. mysteriously, nick's eyes wandered about the room to see if anyone was listening; at length, with marvellous insincerity, he said: "you've got the first chance, trin; i gave 'er your message." trinidad joe fairly beamed upon him. "whisky for everybody, nick!" he ordered bumptuously; and as before the little barkeeper's face wore an expression of pleasure not a whit less than that of the man whom, presently, he followed to the faro table with a bottle and four glasses. as soon as trinidad had seated himself the minstrel struck a chord and announced impressively: "'old dog tray,' gents, 'or echoes from home'!" he cleared his throat, and the next instant in quavering tones he warbled: "how of-ten do i pic-ture the old folks down at home, and of-ten wonder if they think of me, would an-gel mother know me, if back there i did roam, would old dog tray re-member me." at the first few words of his song the man at the desk who, up to this time, had been wholly oblivious to what was taking place, arose from his seat, put the ink-bottle back on the bar, opened a cigar-box there and took from it a stamp, which he put on his letter. this he carried to a mail-box attached to the door; then, returning, he threw himself dejectedly down in a chair and put his head in his hands, where it remained throughout the song. at the conclusion of his solo, the minstrel's emotions were seemingly deeply stirred by his own melodious voice and he gasped audibly; whereupon, nick came to his relief with a stiff drink which, apparently, went to the right spot, for presently the singer's voice rang out vigorously: "now, boys!" no second invitation was needed, and the chorus was taken up by all, the singers beating time with their feet and chips. all. "oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin' there beside the lit-tle cottage on the lea--" jake. "on the lea--" all. "how of-ten would she bless me in all them days so fair-- would old dog tray re-member me--" sonora. "re-member me." all the while the miners had been singing, the sad and morose-looking individual had been steadily growing more and more disconsolate; and when sonora rumbled out the last deep note in his big, bass voice, he heaved a great sob and broke down completely. in surprised consternation everyone turned in the direction from whence had come the sound. but it was sonora who, affected both by the pathos of the song and the sight of the pathetic figure before them, quietly went over and laid a hand upon the other's arm. "why, larkins--jim--what's the trouble--what's the matter?" he asked, a thousand thoughts fluttering within his breast. "i wouldn't feel so bad." with a desperate effort larkins, his face twitching perceptibly, the lines about his eyes deepening, struggled to control himself. at last, after taking in the astonished faces about him, he plunged into his tale of woe. "say, boys, i'm homesick--i'm broke--and what's more, i don't care who knows it." he paused, his fingers opening and closing spasmodically, and for a moment it seemed as if he could not continue--a moment of silence in which the minstrel began to pick gently on his banjo the air of old dog tray. "i want to go home!" suddenly burst from the unfortunate man's lips. "i'm tired o' drillin' rocks; i want to be in the fields again; i want to see the grain growin'; i want the dirt in the furrows at home; i want old pensylvanny; i want my folks; i'm done, boys, i'm done, i'm done . . .!" and with these words he buried his face in his hands. "oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin'--" sang the minstrel, dolefully. men looked at one another and were distressingly affected; the polka had never witnessed a more painful episode. throwing a coin at the minstrel, sonora stopped him with an impatient gesture; the latter nodded understandingly at the same time that nick, apparently indifferent to larkin's collapse, began to dance a jig behind the bar. a look of scowling reproach instantly appeared on sonora's face. it was uncalled-for since, far from being heartless and indifferent to the man's misfortunes, the little barkeeper had taken this means to distract the miners' attention from the pitiful sight. "boys, jim larkins 'lows he's goin' back east," announced sonora. "chip in every mother's son o' you." immediately every man at the faro table demanded cash from the sidney duck; a moment later they, as well as the men who were not playing cards, threw their money into the hat which sonora passed around. it was indeed a well-filled hat that sonora held out to the weeping man. "here you are, jim," he said simply. the sudden transition from poverty to comparative affluence was too much for larkins! looking through tear-dimmed eyes at sonora he struggled for words with which to express his gratitude, but they refused to come; and at last with a sob he turned away. at the door, however, he stopped and choked out: "thank you, boys, thank you." the next moment he was gone. at once a wave of relief swept over the room. indeed, the incident was forgotten before the unfortunate man had gone ten paces from the polka, for then it was that trinidad suddenly rose in his seat, lunged across the table for the sidney duck's card-box, and cried out angrily: "you're cheatin'! that ain't a square deal! you're a cheat!" in a moment the place was in an uproar. every man at the table sprung to his feet; chairs were kicked over; chips flew in every direction; guns came from every belt; and so occupied were the men in watching the sidney duck that no one perceived the lookout sneak out through the door save nick, who was returning from the dance-hall with a tray of empty glasses. but whether or not he was aware that the australian's confederate was bent upon running away he made no attempt to stop him, for in common with every man present, including sonora and trinidad, who had seized the gambler and brought him out in front of his card-table, nick's eyes were fastened upon another man whom none had seen enter, but whose remarkable personality, now as often, made itself felt even though he spoke not a word. "lift his hand!" cried sonora, looking as if for sanction at the newcomer, who stood in the centre of the room, calmly smoking a huge cigar. forcing up the sidney duck's arms, trinidad threw upon the table a deck of cards which he had found concealed about the other's person, bursting out with: "there! look at that, the infernal, good-for-nothin' cheat!" "string 'im up!" suggested sonora, and as before he shot a questioning look at the man, who was regarding the scene with bored interest. "you bet!" shouted trinidad, pulling at the australian's arm. "for 'eaven's sake, don't, don't, don't!" wailed the sidney duck, terror-stricken. the sheriff of manzaneta county, for such was the newcomer's office, raised his steely grey eyes inquisitorially to nick's who, with a hostile stare at the australian, emitted: "chicken lifter!" "string 'im! string 'im!" insisted trinidad, at the same time dragging the culprit towards the door. "no, boys, no!" cried the unfortunate wretch, struggling uselessly to break away from his captors. at this stage the sheriff of manzaneta county took a hand in the proceedings, and drawled out: "well, gentlemen--" he stopped short and seemingly became reflective. instantly, as was their wont whenever the sheriff spoke, all eyes fixed themselves upon him. indeed, it needed but a second glance at this cool, deliberate individual to see how great was his influence upon them. he was tall,--fully six feet one,--thin, and angular; his hair and moustache were black enough to bring out strongly the unhealthy pallor of his face; his eyes were steel grey and were heavily fringed and arched; his nose straight and his mouth hard, determined, but just, the lips of which were thin and drawn tightly over brilliantly-white teeth; and his soft, pale hands were almost feminine looking except for the unusual length of his fingers. on his head was a black beaver hat with a straight brim; a black broadcloth suit--cut after the "'frisco" fashion of the day--gave every evidence that its owner paid not a little attention to it. from the bosom of his white, puffed shirt an enormous diamond, held in place by side gold chains, flashed forth; while glittering on his fingers was another stone almost as large. below his trousers could plainly be seen the highly-polished boots; the heels and instep being higher than those generally in use. in a word, it was impossible not to get the impression that he was scrupulously immaculate and careful about his attire. and his voice--the voice that tells character as nothing else does--was smooth and drawling, though fearlessness and sincerity could easily be detected in it. such was mr. jack rance, gambler and sheriff of manzaneta county. "this is a case for you, jack rance," suddenly spoke up sonora. "yes," chimed in trinidad; and then as he gave the australian a rough shake, he added: "here's the sheriff to take charge of you." but mr. jack rance, the sheriff of manzaneta county, was never known to move otherwise than slowly, deliberately. taking from his pocket a smoothly-creased handkerchief he proceeded to dust languidly first one and then the other of his boots; and not until he had succeeded in flicking the last grain of dust from them did he take up the business in hand. "gentlemen, what's wrong with the cyards?" he now began in his peculiar drawling voice. sonora pointed to the faro table. "the sidney duck's cheated!" he said--an accusation which was responsible for a renewal of outcries and caused a number of men to pounce upon the faro dealer. trinidad ran a significant hand around his collar. "string 'im! come on, you--!" once more he cried. but on seeing the sheriff raise a restraining hand he desisted from pulling the australian along. "wait a minute!" commanded the sheriff. the miners with the prisoner in their midst stood stock-still. now the sheriff's features lost some of their usual inscrutability and for a moment became hard and stern. slowly he let his eyes wander comprehensively about the saloon: first, they travelled to a small balcony--reached by a ladder drawn down or up at will--decorated with red calico curtains, garlands of cedar and bittersweet, while the railing was ornamented with a wildcat's skin and a stuffed fawn's head; from the ceiling with its strings of red peppers, onions and apples they fell on a stuffed grizzly bear, which stood at the entrance to the dance-hall, with a little green parasol in its paw and an old silk hat upon its head; from it they shifted to the gaudy bar with its paraphernalia of fancy glasses, show-cases of coloured liquors and its pair of scales for weighing the gold dust; and from that to a keg, the top of which could be withdrawn without engendering the slightest suspicion that it represented other than an ordinary receptacle for liquor. two notices tacked upon the wall also caught and held his glance, his eyes dwelling most affectionately on the one reading: "a real home for the boys." that there was such a thing as sentiment in the make-up of the sheriff of manzaneta county few people, perhaps, would have believed. nevertheless, at the thought that this placard inspired, he dismissed whatever inclination he might have had to deal leniently with the culprit, and calmly observed: "there is no reason, gentlemen, of being in a hurry. i've got something to say about this. i don't forget, although i am the sheriff of manzaneta county, that i'm running four games. but it's men like the sidney duck here that casts reflections on square-minded, sporting men like myself. and worse--far worse, gentlemen, he casts reflections on the polka, the establishment of the one decent woman in cloudy." "you bet!" affirmed nick, indignantly. "yes, a lady, d'you hear me?" stormed sonora, addressing the prisoner; then: "you lily-livered skunk!" "oh, let's string 'im up!" urged trinidad. "yes, come on, you . . .!" was handsome's ejaculation, contriving, at last, to get his hands on the faro dealer. but again the sheriff would have none of it. "hold on, hold on--" he began and paused to philosophise: "after all, gents, what's death? a kick and you're off;" and then went on: "i've thought of a worse punishment. give him his coat." surprised and perplexed at this order, handsome, reluctantly, assisted the culprit into his coat. "put him over there," the sheriff now ordered. whereupon, obedient to the instructions of that personage, the sidney duck was roughly put down into a chair; and while he was firmly held into it, rance strolled nonchalantly over to the faro table and picked out a card from the deck there. returning, he quickly plucked a stick-pin from the prisoner's scarf, saying, while he suited his action to his words: "see, now i place the deuce of spades over his heart as a warning. he can't leave the camp, and he never plays cyards again--see?" and while the men, awed to silence, stood looking at one another, he instructed handsome to pass the word through the camp. "ow, now, don't si that! don't si that!" bawled out the card sharp. the sentence met with universal approval. rance waved an authoritative hand towards the door; and the incident, a few seconds later, passed into its place in the camp records. albeit, in those seconds, and while the men were engrossed in the agreeable task of ejecting the sidney duck, the polka harboured another guest, no less unwelcome, who made his way unobserved through the saloon to become an unobtrusive spectator of the doings in the dance-hall. iv. in the space of six months one can do little or much harm. the young bandit,--for he had kept his oath to his father,--flattered himself that he had done much. in all the mining camps of the sierras the mere mention of the name of ramerrez brought forth execrations. not a stage started out with its precious golden freight without its passengers having misgivings that they would be held up before reaching sacramento. messengers armed with shotguns were always to be found at their post beside the drivers; yet, despite all precautions, not a week passed without a report that the stage out of this or that camp, had been attacked and the passengers forced to surrender their money and valuables. under no circumstances, however, were any of ramerrez's own countrymen molested. if, by any chance, the road agent made a mistake and stopped a party of native californians or mexicans, they were at once permitted to proceed on their way with the bandit-leader's profuse apologies. but it was altogether different with americans. the men of that race were compelled to surrender their gold; although so far as he was concerned, their women were exempt from robbery. as a matter of fact, he had few chances to show his chivalry, since few women were living, at that time, in the sierras. nevertheless, it happened in rare instances that a stage was held up which contained one or two of them, and they were never known to complain of his treatment. and so far, at least, he had contrived to avoid any serious bloodshed. two or three messengers, it is true, had been slightly wounded; but that was the most that his worst enemies could charge against him. as for ramerrez's own attitude towards the life he was leading, it must be confessed that, the plunge once taken, his days and nights were too full of excitement and adventure to leave him time to brood. somewhat to his own surprise, he had inherited his father's power of iron domination. young as he was, not one of his father's seasoned band of cut-throats ever questioned his right or his ability to command. at first, no doubt, they followed him through a rude spirit of loyalty; but after a short time it was because they had found in him all the qualities of a leader of men, one whose plans never miscarried. fully two-thirds of the present band were vassals, as it were, in his family, while all were of spanish or mexican descent. in truth, ramerrez himself was the only one among them who had any gringo blood in his veins. and hence not a tale of the outlaw's doings was complete without the narrator insisting upon it that the leader of the band--the road agent himself--closely resembled an american. one and all of his victims agreed that he spoke with an american accent, while the few who had been able to see his features on a certain occasion when the red bandanna, which he wore about his face, had fallen, never failed to maintain that he looked like an american. as a matter of fact, ramerrez not only bore the imprint of his mother's race in features and in speech, but the more he made war upon them, the more he realised that it was without any real feeling of hostility. in spite of his early training and in spite of his oath, he could not share his father's bitterness. true, the gringos had wrecked the fortunes of his house; it was due to them that his sole inheritance was an outlaw's name and an outlaw's leadership. and yet, despite it all, there was another fact that he could not forget,--the fact that he himself was one half gringo, one half the same race as that of the unforgotten girl whom he had met on the road to sacramento. indeed, it had been impossible to forget her, for she had stirred some depth in him, the existence of which he had never before suspected. he was haunted by the thought of her attractive face, her blue eyes and merry, contagious laugh. for the hundredth time he recalled his feelings on that glorious day when he had intercepted her on the great highway. and with this memory would come a sudden shame of himself and occupation,--a realisation of the barrier which he had deliberately put between the present and the past. up to the hour when he had parted from her, and had remained spellbound, seated on his horse at the fork of the roads, watching the vanishing coach up to the last minute, he was still a spanish gentleman, still worthy in himself,--whatever his father had done,--to offer his love and his devotion to a pure and honest girl. but now he was an outlaw, a road agent going from one robbery to another, likely at any time to stain his hand with the life-blood of a fellow man. and this pretence that he was stealing in a righteous cause, that he was avenging the wrongs that had been done to his countrymen,--why, it was the rankest hypocrisy! he knew in his heart that vengeance and race hatred had nothing whatever to do with it. it was because he loved it like a game, a game of unforeseen, unguessed danger. the fever of it was in his blood, like strong drink,-- and with every day's adventure, the thirst for it grew stronger. yet, however personally daring, ramerrez was the last person in the world to trust to chance for his operations, more than was absolutely necessary. he handled his men with shrewd judgment and strict discipline. furthermore, never was an attack made that was not the outcome of a carefully matured plan. a prime factor in ramerrez' success had from the first been the information which he was able to obtain from the mexicans, not connected with his band, concerning the places that the miners used as temporary depositories for their gold; and it was information of this sort that led ramerrez and his men to choose a certain mexican settlement in the mountains as a base of operations: namely, the tempting fact that a large amount of gold was stored nightly in the polka saloon, at the neighbouring camp on cloudy mountain. and there was still another reason. despite the fact that his heart had been genuinely touched by the many and unusual attractions of the girl, it is not intended to convey the idea that he was austere or incapable of passion for anyone else. for that was not so. although, to give the bandit his due, he had remained quite exemplary, when one considers his natural charm as well as the fascination which his adventurous life had for his country-women. unfortunately, however, in one of his weak moments, he had foolishly permitted himself to become entangled with a mexican woman--nina micheltoreña, by name--whose jealous nature now threatened to prove a serious handicap to him. it was a particularly awkward situation in which he found himself placed, inasmuch as this woman had furnished him with much valuable information. in fact, it was she who had called his attention to the probable spoils to be had in the american camp near by. it can readily be imagined, therefore, that it was not without a premonition of trouble to come that he sought the mexican settlement with the intention of paying her a hundred-fold for her valuable assistance in the past and then be through with her for good and all. the mexican or greaser settlements had little in them that resembled their american neighbours. in the latter there were few women, for the long distance that the american pioneers had to travel before reaching the gold-fields of california, the hardships that they knew had to be encountered, deterred them from bringing their wives and daughters. but with the mexicans it was wholly different. the number of women in their camps almost equalled that of the men, and the former could always be seen, whenever the weather permitted, strolling about or sitting in the doorways chatting with their neighbours, while children were everywhere. in fact, everything about the mexican settlements conveyed the impression that they had come to stay--a decided contrast to the transient appearance of the camps of the americans. it was one evening late in the fall that ramerrez and his band halted just outside of this particular mexican settlement. and after instructing his men where they should meet him the following day, he sent them off to enjoy themselves for the night with their friends. for, ramerrez, although exercising restraint over his band, never failed to see to it that they had their pleasures as well as their duties--a trait in his character that had not a little to do with his great influence over his men. and so it happened that he made his way alone up the main street to the hall where a dance was going on. the scene that met his eyes on entering the long, low room was a gay one. it was a motley crowd gathered there in which the mexicans, not unnaturally, predominated. here and there, however, were native californians, frenchmen, germans and a few americans, the latter conspicuous by the absence of colour in their dress; for with the exception of an occasional coatless man in a red or blue shirt, they wore faded, old, black coats,--frequently frock-coats, at that,--which certainly contrasted unfavourably, at least so far as heightening the gaiety of the scene was concerned, with the green velvet jackets, brilliant waistcoats with gold filigree and silver buttons and red sashes of the mexicans. that there was not a man present but what was togged out in his best and was armed, it goes without saying, even if the weapons of the mexicans were in the form of murderous knives concealed somewhere about their persons instead of belts with guns and knives openly displayed, as was the case with the americans. at the time of the outlaw's entrance into the dance-hall the fandango was over. but presently the fiddles, accompanied by guitars, struck up a waltz, and almost instantly some twenty or more men and women took the floor; those not engaged in dancing surrounding the dancers, clapping their hands and shouting their applause. in order to see if the woman he sought was present, it was necessary for ramerrez to push to the very front of the crowd of lookers-on, where he was not long in observing that nearly all the women present were of striking appearance and danced well; likewise, he noted, that none compared either in looks or grace with nina micheltoreña who, he had to acknowledge, even if his feelings for her were dead, was a superb specimen of a woman. good blood ran in the veins of nina micheltoreña. it is not in the province of this story to tell how it was that a favourite in the best circles of monterey came to be living in a mexican camp in the sierras. suffice it to say that her fall from grace had been rapid, though her dissolute career had in no way diminished her beauty. indeed, her features were well-nigh perfect, her skin transparently clear, if dark, and her form was suppleness itself as she danced. and that she was the undisputed belle of the evening was made apparent by the number of men who watched her with eyes that marvelled at her grace when dancing, and surrounded her whenever she stopped, each pleading with her to accept him as a partner. almost every colour of the rainbow had a place in her costume for the occasion: the bodice was of light blue silk; the skirt orange; encircling her small waist was a green sash; while her jet-black hair was fastened with a crimson ribbon. diamonds flashed from the earrings in her ears as well as from the rings on her fingers. all in all, it was scarcely to be wondered at that her charms stirred to the very depths the fierce passion of the desperate characters about her. that ramerrez dreaded the interview which he had determined to have with his confederate can easily be understood by anyone who has ever tried to sever his relations with an enamoured woman. in fact the outlaw dreaded it so much that he decided to postpone it as long as he could. and so, after sauntering aimlessly about the room, and coming, unexpectedly, across a woman of his acquaintance, he began to converse with her, supposing, all the time, that nina micheltoreña was too occupied with the worshippers at her shrine to perceive that he was in the dance-hall. but it was decidedly a case of the wish being father to the thought: not a movement had he made since he entered that she was not cognisant of it and, although she hated to acknowledge it to herself, deep down in her heart she was conscious that he was not as thoroughly under the sway of her dark eyes as she would have wished. something had happened in the last few weeks that had brought about a change in him, but just what it was she was unable to determine. there were moments when she saw plainly that he was much more occupied with his daring plans than he was with thoughts of her. so far, it was true, there had been no evidences on his part of any hesitation in confiding his schemes to her. of that she was positive. but, on the other hand, she had undoubtedly lost some of her influence over him. it did not lessen her nervousness to realise that he had been in the hall for some time without making any effort to see her. besides, the appointment had been of his own making, inasmuch as he had sent word by one of his band that she should meet him to-night in this place. furthermore, she knew that he had in mind one of the boldest projects he had yet attempted and needed, to insure success, every scrap of knowledge that she possessed. in the meantime, while she waited for him to seek her out, she resolved to show him the extent of her power to fascinate others; and from that moment never had she seemed more attractive and alluring to her admirers, in all of whom she appeared to excite the fiercest of passions. in fact, one word whispered in an ear by those voluptuous lips and marvellously sweet, musical voice, and the recipient would have done her bidding, even had she demanded a man's life as the price of her favour. it is necessary, however, to single out one man as proving an exception to this sweeping assertion, although this particular person seemed no less devoted than the other men present. he was plainly an american and apparently a stranger to his countrymen as well as to the mexicans. his hair was white and closely cropped, the eyebrows heavy and very black, the lips nervous and thin but denoting great determination, and the face was tanned to the colour of old leather, sufficiently so as to be noticeable even in a country where all faces were tanned, swarthy, and dark. one would have thought that this big, heavy, but extremely-active man whose clothes, notwithstanding the wear and tear of the road, were plainly cut on "'frisco patterns," was precisely the person calculated to make an impression upon a woman like nina micheltoreña; and, yet, oddly enough, he was the only man in the room whose attentions seemed distasteful to her. it could not be accounted for on the ground of his nationality, for she danced gladly with others of his race. nor did it look like caprice on her part. on the contrary, there was an expression on her face that resembled something like fear when she refused to be cajoled into dancing with him. at length, finding her adamant, the man left the room. but as time went by and still ramerrez kept aloof, nina micheltoreña's excitement began to increase immeasureably. to such a woman the outlaw's neglect could mean but one thing--another woman. and, finally, unable to control herself any longer, she made her way to where the woman with whom ramerrez had been conversing was standing alone. "what has the señor been saying to you?" she demanded, jealousy and ungovernable passion blazing forth from her eyes. "nothing of interest to you," replied the other with a shrug of her shoulders. "it's a lie!" burst from nina's lips. "i heard him making love to you! i was standing near and heard every tone, every inflection of his voice! i saw how he looked at you!" and so crazed was she by jealousy that her face became distorted and almost ugly, if such a thing were possible, and her great eyes filled with hatred. the other woman laughed scornfully. "make your man stay away from me then--if you can," she retorted. at that the infuriated nina drew a knife and cried: "swear to me that you'll not see him to-night, or--" the sentence was never finished. quick as lightning ramerrez stepped in and caught nina's up-raised arm. for one instant her eyes flashed fire at him; another, and submissive to his will, she slipped the knife somewhere in the folds of her dress and the attention that she had succeeded in attracting was diverted elsewhere. those who had rushed up expecting a tragedy returned, once more, to their dancing. "i have been looking for you, nina," he said, taking her to one side. "i want to speak with you." nina laughed airily, but only another woman would have been able to detect the danger lurking in that laugh. "have you just come in?" she inquired casually. "it is generally not difficult to find me when there is dancing." and then with a significant smile: "but perhaps there were so many men about me that i was completely hidden from the view of the señor." ramerrez bowed politely his belief in the truth of her words; then he said somewhat seriously: "i see a vacant table over in the corner where we can talk without danger of being overheard. come!" he led the way, the woman following him, to a rough table of pine at the farther end of the room where, immediately, a bottle and two glasses were placed before them. when they had pledged each other, ramerrez went on to say, in a low voice, that he had made the appointment in order to deliver to her her share for the information that led to his successful holdup of the stage at a place known as "the forks," a few miles back; and taking from his pocket a sack of gold he placed it on the table before her. there was a silence in which nina made no movement to pick up the gold; whereupon, ramerrez repeated a little harshly: "your share." slowly the woman rose, picking up the sack as she did so, and with a request that he await her, she made her way over to the bar where she handed it to the mexican in charge with a few words of instruction. in another moment she was again seated at the table with him. "why did you send for me to meet you here?" she now asked. "why did you not come to my room--surely you knew that there was danger here?" carelessly, ramerrez let his eyes wander about the room; no one was paying the slightest attention to them and, apparently, there being nothing to fear, he answered: "from whom?" for a brief space of time the woman looked at him as if she would ferret out his innermost thoughts; at length, she said with a shrug of the shoulders: "few here are to be thoroughly trusted. the woman you were with--she knows you?" "i never met her but once before," was his laconic rejoinder. nina eyed him suspiciously; at last she was satisfied that he spoke the truth, but there was still that cold, abstracted manner of his to be explained. however, cleverly taking her cue from him she inquired in business-like tones: "and how about the polka saloon--the raid on cloudy mountain camp?" a shade of annoyance crossed ramerrez' face. "i have decided to give that up--at least for a time." again nina regarded him curiously; when she spoke there was a suspicious gleam in her eyes, though she said lightly: "perhaps you're right--it will not be an easy job." "far from it," quickly agreed the man. "but the real reason is, that i have planned to go below for a while." the woman's eyes narrowed. "you are going away then?" "yes." "and what about me? do i go with you?" ramerrez laughed uneasily. "it is impossible. the fact is, it is best that this should be our last meeting." and seeing the change that came over her face he went on in more conciliatory tones: "now, nina, be reasonable. it is time that we understood each other. this interview must be final." "and you came here to tell me this?" blazed the woman, scowling darkly upon him. and for the moment she looked all that she was reputed to be--a dangerous woman! receiving no answer, she spoke again. "but you said that you would love me always?" the man flushed. "did i say that once? what a memory you have!" "and you never meant it?" "i suppose so--at the time." "then you don't love me any more?" ramerrez made no answer. for some moments nina sat perfectly still. her mind was busy trying to determine upon the best course to pursue. at length she decided to make one more attempt to see whether he was really in earnest. and if not . . . "but to-night," she hazarded, leaning far over the table and putting her face close to his, her eyes the while flooded with voluptuousness, "you will come with me to my room?" ramerrez shook his head. "no, nina, all that is over." the woman bit her lips with vexation. "are you made of stone? what is the matter with you to-night? is there anything wrong with my beauty? have you seen anyone handsomer than i am?" "no . . ." "then why not come? you don't hate?" "i don't hate you in the least, but i won't go to your room." "so!" there was a world of meaning in that one word. for a while she seemed to be reflecting; suddenly with great earnestness she said: "once for all, ramerrez, listen to me. rather than give you up to any other woman i will give you up to death. now do you still refuse me?" "yes . . ." answered ramerrez not unkindly and wholly unmoved by her threat. "we've been good pals, nina, but it's best for both that we should part." in the silence that ensued the woman did some hard thinking. that a man could ever tire of her without some other woman coming into his life never once entered into her mind. something told her, nevertheless, that the woman with whom he had been conversing was not the woman that she sought; and at a loss to discover the person to whom he had transferred his affections, her mind reverted to his avowed purpose of withdrawing from the proposed cloudy mountain expedition. the more nina reflected on that subject the more convinced she became that, for some reason or other, ramerrez had been deceiving her. it was made all the more clear to her when she recalled that when ramerrez' messenger had brought his master's message that she was to meet him, she had asked where the band's next rendezvous was to be, and that he, knowing full well that his countrywoman had ever been cognizant of his master's plans, had freely given the desired information. like a flash it came to her now that no such meeting-place would have been selected for any undertaking other than a descent upon cloudy mountain camp. nor was her intuition or reasoning at fault: ramerrez had not given up his intention of getting the miners' gold that he knew from her to be packed away somewhere in the polka saloon; but what she did not suspect, despite his peculiar behaviour, was that he had taken advantage of the proximity of the two camps to sever his relation, business and otherwise, with her. and yet, did he but know it, she was destined to play no small part in his life for the next few weeks! nina micheltoreña had now decided upon her future course of action: she would let him think that his desire to break off all relations with her would not be opposed. ever a keen judge of men and their ways, she was well aware that any effort to reclaim him to-night would meet with disaster. and so when ramerrez, surprised at her long silence, looked up, he was met with a smiling face and the words: "so be it, ramerrez. but if anything happens, remember you have only yourself to blame." ramerrez was astounded at her cool dismissal of the subject. to judge by the expression on his face he had indeed obtained his release far easier than he had deemed it possible. as a matter of fact, her indifference so piqued him that before he was conscious of his words he had asked somewhat lamely: "you wish me well? we part as friends?" nina regarded him with well-simulated surprise, and replied: "why, of course--the best of friends. good luck, _amigo_!" and with that she rose and left him. and so it was that later that evening after assuring herself that neither ramerrez nor any of his band remained in the dance-hall, nina, her face set and pale, exchanged a few whispered words with that same big man towards whom, earlier in the evening, she had shown such animosity. the effect of these words was magical; the man could not suppress a grunt of intense satisfaction. "she says i'm to meet her to-morrow night at the palmetto restaurant," said ashby to himself after the woman had lost herself in a crowd of her own countrymen. "she will tell where i can put my hands on this ramerrez. bah! it's too good to be true. nevertheless, i'll be on hand, my lady, for if anyone knows of this fellow's movements i'll wager you do." at that moment ashby, the wells fargo agent, was nearer than ever before to the most brilliant capture of all his career. late the following afternoon, some five miles from the mexican settlement, on a small tableland high above a black ravine which was thickly timbered with the giant trees of the sierras, ramerrez' band was awaiting the coming of the _maestro_. it was not to be a long wait and they stood around smoking and talking in low tones. suddenly, the sound of horses climbing was heard, and soon a horseman came in sight whose appearance had the effect of throwing them instantly into a state of excitement, one and all drawing their guns and making a dash for their horses, which were tied to trees. a moment later, however, another horseman appeared, and laughing boisterously at themselves they slid their guns back into their belts and retied their horses, for the man whom they recognised so quickly, the individual who saved the situation, as it were, was none other than jose castro, an ex-_padrona_ of the bull-fights and the second in command to ramerrez. he was a wiry, hard-faced and shifty-eyed mexican, but was as thoroughly devoted to ramerrez as he had been to the young leader's father. on the other hand, the man who had caused them to fear that a stranger had surprised them, and that they had been trapped, was ramerrez or johnson--the name that he had assumed for the dangerous work he was about to engage in--and they had failed to know him, dressed as he was in the very latest fashion prevailing among the americans in sacramento in ' . nor was it to be wondered at, for on his head was a soft, brown hat--large, but not nearly the proportions of a sombrero; a plain, rough tweed coat and a waistcoat of a darker tan, which showed a blue flannel shirt beneath it; and his legs were encased in boots topped by dark brown leggings. in a word, his get-up resembled closely the type of american referred to disdainfully by the miners of that time as a sacramento guy; whereas, the night before he had taken great pains to attire himself as gaudily as any of the mexicans at the dance, and he had worn a short black jacket of a velvety material that was not unlike corduroy and covered with braid; his breeches were of the same stuff; above his boots were leather gaiters; and around his waist was a red sash. it was now close to four o'clock in the afternoon and the band began their preparations for the raid. to the rear of the small, open space where they had been waiting was a fairly good-sized cave, in the opening of which they deposited various articles unnecessary for the expedition. it took only a short time to do this, and within half an hour from the time that their leader had so startled them by his strange appearance, the outlaws were ready to take the trail for cloudy mountain. one comprehensive glance the pseudo-american--and he certainly looked the part--shot at his picturesque, if rough-looking followers, not a few of whom showed red bandannas under their sombreros or around their necks-- and then with a satisfied expression on his face--for he had a leader's pride in his men--he gave the signal and led the way along and down the steep trail from the tableland. and as from time to time he glanced back over his shoulders to where the men were coming along in single file, he could see that in every eye was a glint of exultation at the prospect of booty. after they had gone about three miles they crossed the black ravine, and from there they began to ascend. up and up they went, the path very hard on the horses, until finally they came to the top of a pass where it had been arranged that the band should await further instructions, none going on further save the two leaders. here, saddle-girths and guns were inspected, the last orders given, and with a wave of the hand in response to the muttered wishes of good luck, johnson,--for as such he will be known from this time on,--followed by castro, made his way through the forest towards cloudy mountain. for an hour or so johnson rode along in that direction, checking the speed of his horse every time the sun came into view and showed that there was yet some time before sunset. presently, he made a sign to castro to take the lead, for he had never been in this locality before, and was relying on his subordinate to find a spot from which he could reconnoitre the scene of the proposed raid without the slightest danger of meeting any of the miners. at a very sharp turn of the road to the left castro struck off through the forest to the right and, within a few minutes, reached a place where the trees had thinned out and were replaced by the few scrubs that grew in a spot almost barren. a minute or so more and the two men, their horses tied, were able to get an uninterrupted view of cloudy mountain. the scene before them was one of grandeur. day was giving place to night, fall to winter, and yet at this hour all the winds were stilled. in the distance gleamed the snow-capped sierras, range after range as far as the eye could see to the northwest; in the opposite direction there stood out against the steel-blue of the sky a succession of wooded peaks ever rising higher and higher until culminating in the faraway white mountains of the south; and below, they looked upon a ravine that was brownish-green until the rays of the departing orb touched the leaves with opal tints. now the fast-falling sun flung its banner of gorgeous colours across the western sky. immediately a wonderful light played upon the fleecy cumuli gathered in the upper heavens of the east and changed them from pearl to brilliant scarlet. for a moment, also, the purple hills became wonderful piles of dull gold and copper; a moment more and the magic hand of the king of day was withdrawn. in front of them now, dark, gloomy and threatening rose cloudy mountain, from which the mining camp took its name; and on a plateau near its base the camp itself could plainly be seen. it consisted of a group of miners' cabins set among pines, firs and manzaneta bushes with two larger pine-slab buildings, and scattered around in various places were shafts, whose crude timber-hoists appeared merely as vague outlines in the fast-fading light. the distance to the camp from where they stood was not over three miles as the crow flies, but it appeared much less in the rarefied atmosphere. as the two bandits stood on the edge of the precipice looking across and beyond the intervening gulch or ravine, here and there a light twinkled out from the cabins and, presently, a much stronger illumination shot forth from one of the larger and more pretentious buildings. castro was quick to call his master's attention to it. "there--that place with the light is the palmetto hotel!" he exclaimed. "and over there--the one with the larger light is the polka saloon!" for even as he spoke the powerful kerosene lamp of the polka saloon, flanked by a composition metal reflector, flashed out its light into the gloom enveloping the desolate, ominous-looking mountains. johnson regarded this building long and thoughtfully. then his eyes made out a steep trail which zigzagged from the polka saloon up the barren slopes of the mountain until it reached a cabin perched on the very top, the steps and porch of which were held up by poles made of trees. there, also, a light could be seen, but dimly. it was a strange place for anyone to erect a dwelling-place, and he found himself wondering what manner of person dwelt there. of one thing he was certain: whoever it was the mountains were loved for themselves, for no mere digger of gold would think of erecting a habitation in view of those strange, vast, and silent heights! and as he meditated thus, he perceived that the far off sierras were forming a background for a sinuous coil of smoke from the cabin. for some time he watched it curling up into the great arch of sky. it was as if he were hypnotised by it and, in a vague, shadowy way, he had a sense of being connected, somehow, with the little cabin and its recluse. was this feeling that he had a premonition of danger? was this a moment of foreboding and distrust of the situation yet to be revealed? for like most venturesome men he always had a moment before every one of his undertakings in which his instinct either urged him forward or held him back. suddenly he became conscious that his eyes no longer saw the smoke. he stared hard to glimpse it, but it was gone. and with a supreme effort he wrenched himself free from a sort of paralysis which was stealing away his senses. now the light in the cabin disappeared, and since the shades of night, for which he had been waiting, had fallen, he called to the impatient and wondering castro, and together they went back to the trail. but even as they crossed the gulch and reached the outskirts of the camp a great white moon rose from behind the sierras. to castro, hidden now in the pines, it meant nothing so long as it did not interfere with his purpose. as a matter of fact he was already listening intently to the bursts of song and shouts of revelry that came every now and then from the nearby saloon. but his master, unaccountably under the spell of the moon's mystery and romance, watched it until it shed its silvery and magic light upon the lone cabin on the top of cloudy mountain, which fate had chosen for the decisive scene of his dramatic life. v. inside the polka, not a bit more, and not a bit less sardonic--it was this imperturbability which made him so resistless to most people--than he was prior to the banishment of the sidney duck, the sheriff of manzaneta county waited patiently until the returning puppets of his will had had time to compose themselves. it took them merely the briefest of periods, but it served to increase visibly the long ash at the end of rance's cigar. at length he shot a hawk-like glance at sonora and proposed a little game of poker. "this time, gentlemen--" he said, with a significant pause and accent-- "just for social recreation. what do you say?" "i'm your injun!" acquiesced sonora, rubbing his hands together gleefully at the prospect of winning from the sheriff, whom he liked none too well. "that's me, too!" concurred trinidad. "chips, then, nick!" called out the sheriff, quietly taking a seat at the table; while sonora, bubbling over with spirits, hitched up his trousers in sailor fashion and executed an impromptu hornpipe, bellowing in his deep, base voice: "i shipped aboard of a liner, boys--" "renzo, boys, renzo," finished trinidad, falling in place at the table. at this point the outside door was unexpectedly pushed open, inward, and the deputy-sheriff came into their midst. "ashby just rode in with his posse," he announced huskily to his superior. the sheriff flashed a look of annoyance and inquired of the gaunt, hollow-cheeked, muscular deputy whose beaver overcoat was thrown open so that his gun and powder-flask showed plainly in his belt: "why, what's he doing here?" "he's after ramerrez," answered the deputy, eyeing him intently. rance received this information in silence and went on with his shuffling of the cards; presently, unconcernedly, he remarked: "ramerrez--oh, that's the polite road agent who has been visiting the other camps?" "yes; he's just turned into your county," declared the deputy, meaningly. "what?" sonora looked dumbfounded. the deputy nodded and proceeded to the bar. and while he drained the contents of his glass, the minstrel played on his banjo, much to the amusement of the men, who showed their appreciation by laughing heartily, the last bars of, "pop goes the weasel." "hello, sheriff!" greeted ashby, coming in just as the merriment over the minstrel's little joke had died away. ashby's voice--quick, sharp and decisive was that of a man accustomed to ordering men, but his manner was suave, if a trifle gruff. moreover, he was a man of whom it could be said, paradoxical as it may seem, that he was never known to be drunk nor ever known to be sober. it was plain from his appearance that he had been some time on the road. rance rose and politely extended his hand. and, although the greeting between the two men was none too cordial, yet in their look, as they eyed each other, was the respect which men have for others engaged more or less in the same business and in whom they recognise certain qualities which they have in common. in point of age ashby was, perhaps, the senior. as far as reputation was concerned, both men were accounted nervy and square. rance introduced him to sonora and the others, saying: "boys, mr. ashby of wells fargo." the latter had a pleasant word or two for the men; then, turning to the deputy, he said: "and how are you these days?" "fit. and yourself?" "same here." turning now to the barkeeper, ashby, with easy familiarity, added: "say, nick, give us a drink." "sure!" came promptly from the little barkeeper. "everybody'll have the same?" inquired ashby, turning once more to the men. "the same!" returned the men in chorus. thereupon, nick briskly slapped down a bottle and four glasses before the sheriff, and leaving him to do the honours, disappeared into the dance-hall. "'well, i trust the girl who runs the polka is well?" inquired ashby, pushing his glass near the bottle. "fine as silk," vouched sonora, adding in the next breath: "but, say, mr. ashby, how long you been chasm' up this road agent?" "oh, he only took to the road a few months ago," was ashby's answer. "wells fargo have had me and a posse busy ever since. he's a wonder!" "must be to evade you," complimented sonora, much to the discomfort of the sheriff. "yes, i can smell a road agent in the wind," declared ashby somewhat boastfully. "but, rance, i expect to get that fellow right here in your county." the sheriff looked as if he scouted the idea, and was about to speak, but checked the word on his tongue. then followed a short silence in which the deputy, smiling a trifle derisively, went out of the saloon. "is this fellow a spaniard?" questioned the sheriff, drawling as usual, but at the same time jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards a placard on the wall, which read: "five thousand dollars reward for the road agent ramerrez, or information leading to his capture. (signed) wells fargo." "no--can't prove it. the fact of his leading a crew of greasers and spaniards signifies nothing. his name is assumed, i suppose." "they say he robs you like a gentleman," remarked rance with some show of interest. "well, look out for the greasers up the road!" was ashby's warning as he emptied his glass and put it down before him. "we don't let them pass through here," shrugged rance, likewise putting down his glass on the table. ashby now picked up the whisky bottle and carried it over to the deserted faro table before which he settled himself comfortably in a chair. "well, boys, i've had a long ride--wake me up when the pony express goes through!" he called over his shoulder as he put his coat over him. but no sooner was he comfortably ensconced for a snooze than nick came bustling in with a kettle of boiling water and several glasses half-filled with whisky and lemon. stopping before ashby he said in his best professional manner: "re-gards of the girl--hot whisky straight with lemming extract." ashby took up his glass, as did, in turn, the men at the other table. but it was rance who, with arm uplifted, toasted: "the girl, gentlemen, the only girl in camp, the girl i mean to make mrs. jack rance!" confident that neither would catch him in the act, nick winked first at sonora and then at trinidad. that the little barkeeper was successful in making the former, at least, believe that he possessed the girl's affections was manifested by the big miner's next remark. "that's a joke, rance. she makes you look like a chinaman." rance sprang to his feet, white with rage. "you prove that!" he shouted. "in what particular spot will you have it?" taunted sonora, as his hand crept for his gun. simultaneously, every man in the room made a dash for cover. nick ducked behind the bar, for, as he told himself when safely settled there, he was too old a bird to get anywhere near the line of fire when two old stagers got to making lead fly about. nor was trinidad slow in arriving at the other end of the bar where he caromed against jake, who had dropped his banjo and was frantically trying to kick the spring of the iron shield in an endeavour to protect himself--a feat which, at last, he succeeded in performing. but, fortunately, for all concerned, as the two men stood eyeing each other, their hands on their hips ready to draw, nick, from his position behind the bar, glimpsed through the window the girl on the point of entering the saloon. "here comes the girl!" he cried excitedly. "aw, leave your guns alone-- take your drinks, quick!" for a fraction of a second the men looked sheepishly at one another, even nick appearing a trifle uncomfortable, as he picked up the kettle and went off with it. "once more we're friends, eh, boys?" said rance, with a forced laugh; and then as he lifted his glass high in the air, he gave the toast: "the girl!" "the girl!" repeated all--all save ashby, whose snores by this time could be heard throughout the big room--and drained their glasses. vi. there was a general movement towards the bar when the fair proprietress of the polka, who had lingered longer than usual in her little cabin on top of the mountain, breezily entered the place by the main door. in a coarse, blue skirt, and rough, white flannel blouse, cut away and held in place at the throat by a crimson ribbon, the girl made a pretty picture; it was not difficult to see why the boys of cloudy mountain camp had a feeling which fell little short of adoration for this sun-browned maid, with the spirit of the mountain in her eyes. that each in his own way had given her to understand that he was desperately smitten with her, goes without saying. but, although she accepted their rough homage as a matter of course, such a thought as falling in love with anyone of them had never entered her mind. as far back, almost, as she could remember, the girl had lived among them and had ever been a true comrade, sharing their disappointments and thrilling with their successes. of a nature pure and simple, she was, nevertheless, frank and outspoken. moreover, she knew to a dot what was meant when someone--bolder than his mates--stretched out his arms to her. one such exhibition on a man's part she was likely to forgive and forget, but the wrath and scorn that had blazed forth from her blue eyes on such an occasion had been sufficient to prevent a repetition of the offence. in short, unspoiled by their coarse flattery, and, to all appearances, happy and care-free, she attended to the running of the polka wholly unsmirched by her environment. but a keen observer would not have failed to detect that the girl took a little less pleasure in her surroundings than she had taken in them before she had made the trip to monterey. downright glad, to use her own expression, as she had been on her return to see the boys of the camp and hear their boisterous shouts of welcome when the stage drew up in front of the polka, she had to acknowledge that her home-coming was not quite what she expected. it was as if she had suddenly been startled out of a beautiful dream wherein she had been listening to the soft music of her lover's voice and brought face to face with the actualities of life, which, in her case, to say the least, were very real. for hours after leaving her admirer sitting motionless on his horse on the great highway between monterey and sacramento, the girl had indulged in some pertinent thoughts which, if the truth were known, were anything but complimentary to her behaviour. and, however successful she was later on in persuading herself that he would eventually seek her out, there was no question that at first she felt that the chances of her ever setting eyes on him again were almost negligible. all the more bitterly, therefore, did she regret her folly in not having told him where she lived; particularly so since she assured herself that not only was he the handsomest man that she had ever seen, but that he was the only one who had ever succeeded in chaining her attention. that he had been making love to her with his eyes, if not with words, she knew only too well--a fact that had been anything but displeasing to her. indeed, far from having felt sorry that she had encouraged him, she, unblushingly, acknowledged to herself that, if she had the thing to do over again, she would encourage him still more. was she then a flirt? not at all, in the common acceptation of the word. all her knowledge of the ways of the world had been derived from mother nature, who had supplied her with a quick and ready wit to turn aside, with a smile, the protestations of the boys; had taught her how to live on intimate terms with them and yet not be intimate; but when it came to playing at love, which every city maid of the same age is an adept at, she was strangely ignorant. of a truth, then, it was something far broader and deeper that had entered into her heart--love. not infrequently love comes as suddenly as this to young women who live in small mining camps or out-of-the-way places where the men are practically of a type; it is their unfamiliarity with the class which a stranger represents when he makes his appearance in their midst that is responsible, fully as much as his own personality, for their being attracted to him. it is not impossible, of course, that if the girl had met him in cloudy,--say as a miner there,--the result would have been precisely the same. but it is much more likely that the attendant conditions of their meeting aided him in appealing to her imagination, and in touching a chord in her nature which, under other circumstances, would not have responded in as many months as there were minutes on that eventful day. little wonder then, that as each succeeding mile travelled by the stage took her further and further away from him, something which, as yet, she did not dare to name, kept tugging at her heartstrings and which she endeavoured to overcome by listening to the stage driver's long-winded reminiscences and anecdotes concerning the country through which they were passing. but, although she made a brave effort to appear interested, it did not take him long to realise that something was on his passenger's mind and, being a wise man, he gradually relapsed into silence, with the result that, before the long journey ended at cloudy mountain, she had deceived herself into believing that she was certain to see her admirer again. but as the days grew into weeks, the weeks into months, and the girl neither saw nor heard anything of him, it was inevitable that the picture that he had left on her mind should begin to grow dim. nevertheless, it was surprising what a knack his figure had of appearing before her at various times of the day and night, when she never failed to compare him with the miners in the camp, and, needless to say, unflatteringly to them. there came a time, it is true, when she was sorely tempted to tell one of them something of this new-found friend of hers; but rightly surmising the effect that her praising of her paragon would have upon the recipient of her confidences, she wisely resolved to lock up his image in her heart. of course, there were moments, too, when the girl regretted that there was no other woman--some friend of her own sex in the camp--to whom she could confide her little romance. but since that boon was denied her, she took to seeking out the most solitary places to dream of him. in such moods she would climb to a high crag, a few feet from her cabin, and with a reminiscent and far-away look in her eyes she would sit for hours gazing at the great canyons and gorges, the broad forests and wooded hillsides, the waterfalls flashing silver in the distance, and, above all, at the wonderously-grand and snow-capped peaks of the main range. at other times she would take the trail leading from the camp to the country below, and after wandering about aimlessly in the beautiful and mysterious forests, she would select some little glen through which a brook trickled and murmured underneath the ferns into a pool, and seating herself on a clump of velvet moss, the great sugar pines and firs forming a canopy over her head, she would whisper her secret thoughts and wild hopes to the gorgeously-plumed birds and saucy squirrels scampering all about her. the hours spent thus were as oases in her otherwise practical existence, and after a while she would return laden down with great bunches of ferns and wild flowers which, eventually, found a place on the walls of the polka. * * * * * * glancing at the bar to see that everything was to her satisfaction, the girl greeted the boys warmly, almost rapturously with: "hello, boys! how's everythin'? gettin' taken care of?" "hello, girl!" sang out sonora in what he considered was his most fetching manner. he had been the first to reach the coveted position opposite the girl, although handsome, who had followed her in, was leaning at the end of the bar nearest to the dance-hall. "hello, sonora!" returned the girl with an amused smile, for it was impossible with her keen sense of humour not to see sonora's attempts to make himself irresistible to her. nor did she fail to observe that trinidad, likewise, had spruced himself up a little more than usual, with the same purpose in mind. "hello, girl!" he said, strolling up to her with a ludicrous swagger. "hello, trin!" came from the girl, smilingly. there was an awkward pause in which both sonora and trinidad floundered about in their minds for something to say; at length, a brilliant inspiration came to the former, and he asked: "say, girl, make me a prairie oyster, will you?" "all, right, sonora, i'll fix you right up," returned the girl, smiling to herself at his effort. but at the moment that she was reaching for a bottle back of the bar, a terrific whoop came from the dance-hall, and ever-watchful lest the boys' fun should get beyond her control, she called to her factotum to quiet things down in the next room, concluding warningly: "they've had about enough." when the barkeeper had gone to do her bidding, the girl picked up an egg, and, poising it over a glass, she went on: "say, look 'ere, sonora, before i crack this 'ere egg, i'd like to state that eggs is four bits apiece. only two hens left--" she broke off short, and turning upon handsome, who had been gradually sidling up until his elbows almost touched hers, she repulsed him a trifle impatiently: "oh, run away, handsome!" a flush of pleasure at handsome's evident discomfiture spread over sonora's countenance, and comical, indeed, to the girl, was the majestic air he took on when he ordered recklessly: "oh, crack the egg--i'll stand for it." but sonora's fancied advantage over the others was of short duration, for the next instant nick, stepping quickly forward with a drink, handed it to the girl with the words: "regards of blonde harry." again sonora experienced a feeling akin to jealousy at what he termed blonde harry's impudence. it almost immediately gave way to a paroxysm of chuckling; for, the girl, quickly taking the glass from nick's hand, flung its contents into a nearby receptacle. "there--tell 'im that it hit the spot!" she laughed. nick roared with the others, but on the threshold of the dance-hall he paused, hesitated, and finally came back, and advised in a low tone: "throw around a few kind words, girl--good for the bar." the girl surveyed the barkeeper with playful disapproval in her eye. however advantageous might be his method of working up trade, she disdained to follow his advice, and her laughing answer was: "oh, you nick!" the peal of laughter that rung in nick's ears as he disappeared through the door, awakened ashby and brought him instantly to his feet. despite his size, he was remarkably quick in his movements, and in no time at all he was standing before the bar with a glass, which he had filled from the bottle that had stood in front of him on the table, and was saying: "compliments of wells fargo." "thank you," returned the girl; and then while she shook the prairie oyster: "you see we live high-shouldered here." "that's what!" put in sonora with a broad grin. "what cigars have you?" asked ashby, at the conclusion of his round of drinks. "regalias, auroras and eurekas," reeled off the girl with her eye upon billy jackrabbit, who had quietly come in and was sneaking about in an endeavour to find something worth pilfering. "oh, any will do," ashby told her, with a smile; and while he was helping himself from a box of regalias, nick suddenly appeared, calling out excitedly: "man jest come in threatenin' to shoot up the furniture!" "who is it?" calmly inquired the girl, returning the cigar-box to its place on the shelf. "old man watson!" "leave 'im shoot,--he's good for it!" "nick! nick!" yelled several voices in the dance-hall where old man watson was surely having the time of his life. and still the girl paid not the slightest attention to the shooting or the cries of the men; what did concern her, however, was the fact that the indian was drinking up the dregs in the whisky glasses on the faro table. "here, you, billy jackrabbit! what are you doin' here?" she exclaimed sharply, causing that generally imperturbable redskin to start perceptibly. "did you marry my squaw yet?" billy jackrabbit's face wore as stolid an expression as ever, when he answered: "not so much married squaw--yet." "not so much married . . ." repeated the girl when the merriment, which his words provoked, had subsided. "come 'ere, you thievin' redskin!" and when he had slid up to the bar, and she had extracted from his pockets a number of cigars which she knew had been pilfered, she added: "you git up to my cabin an' marry my squaw before i git there." and at another emphatic "git!" the indian, much to the amusement of all, started for the girl's cabin. "here--here's your prairie oyster, sonora," at last said the girl; and then turning to the sheriff and speaking to him for the first time, she called out gaily: "hello, rance!" "hello, girl!" replied the gambler without even a glance at her or ceasing to shuffle the cards. presently, sonora pulled out a bag of gold-dust and told the girl to clear the slate out of it. she was in the act of taking the sack when nick, rushing into the room and jerking his thumb over his shoulder, said: "say, girl, there's a fellow in there wants to know if we can help out on provisions." "sure; what does he want?" returned the girl with a show of willingness to accommodate him. "bread." "bread? does he think we're runnin' a bakery?" "then he asked for sardines." "sardines? great gilead! you tell 'im we have nothin' but straight provisions here. we got pickled oysters, smokin' tobacco an' the best whisky he ever saw," rapped out the girl, proudly, and turned her attention to the slate. "you bet!" vouched trinidad with a nod, as nick departed on his errand. finally, the girl, having made her calculations, opened the counter drawer and brought forth some silver mexican dollars, saying: "sonora, an' mr. ashby, your change!" ashby picked up his money, only to throw it instantly back on the bar, and say gallantly: "keep the change--buy a ribbon at the ridge--compliments of wells fargo." "thank you," smiled the girl, sweeping the money into the drawer, but her manner showed plainly that it was not an unusual thing for the patrons of the polka to refuse to accept the change. not to be outdone, sonora quickly arose and went over to the counter where, pointing to his stack of silver dollars, he said: "girl, buy two ribbons at the ridge;" and then with a significant glance towards ashby, he added: "fawn's my colour." and again, as before, the voice that said, "thank you," was colourless, while her eyes rested upon the ubiquitous nick, who had entered with an armful of wood and was intent upon making the room warmer. rance snorted disapprovingly at sonora's prodigality. that he considered that both his and ashby's attentions to the girl had gone far enough was made apparent by the severe manner in which he envisaged them and drawled out: "play cyards?" but to that gentleman's surprise the men did not move. instead, ashby raising a warning finger to the girl, went on to advise that she should bank with them oftener, concluding with: "and then if this road agent ramerrez should drop in, you won't lose so much--" "the devil you say!" cut in sonora; while trinidad broke out into a scornful laugh. "oh, go on, mr. ashby!" smilingly scoffed the girl. "i keep the specie in an empty keg now. but i've took to bankin' personally in my stockin'," she confided without the slightest trace of embarrassment. "but say, we've got an awful pile this month," observed nick, anxiously, leaving the fireplace and joining the little ring of men about her. "it makes me sort o' nervous--why, sonora's got ten thousand alone fer safe keepin' in that keg an'--" "--ramerrez' band's everywhere," completed ashby with a start, his quick and trained ear having caught the sound of horses' hoofs. "but if a road agent did come here, i could offer 'im a drink an' he'd treat me like a perfect lady," contended the girl, confidently. "you bet he would, the durned old halibut!" was sonora's comment, while nick took occasion to ask the girl for some tobacco. "solace or honeydew?" she inquired, her hands already on the assortment of tobacco underneath the bar. "dew," was nick's laconic answer. and then it was that the girl heard for the first time the sound of the galloping hoofs; startled for the moment, she inquired somewhat uneasily: "who's this, i wonder?" but no sooner were the words spoken than a voice outside in the darkness sung out sharply: "hello!" "hello!" instantly returned another voice, which the girl recognised at once as being that of the deputy. "big holdup last night at the forks!" the first voice was now saying. "holdup!" repeated several voices outside in tones of excitement. "ramerrez--" went on the first voice, at which ominous word all, including ashby, began to exchange significant glances as they echoed: "ramerrez!" the name had barely died on their lips, however, than nick precipitated himself into their midst and announced that the pony express had arrived, handing up to the girl, at the same time, a bundle of letters and one paper. "you see!" maintained ashby, stoutly, as he watched her sort the letters; "i was right when i told you . . ." "look sharp! there's a greaser on the trail!" rang out warningly the voice of the pony express. "a greaser!" exclaimed rance, for the first time showing any interest in the proceedings; and then without looking up and after the manner of a man speaking to a good dog, he told the deputy, who had followed nick into the room: "find him, dep." for some time the girl occupied herself with cashing in the chips which nick brought to her--a task which she performed with amazing correctness and speed considering that her knowledge of the science of mathematics had been derived solely from the handling of money at the polka. now she went over to sonora, who sat at a table reading. "you got the newspaper, i see," she observed. "but you, trin, i'm sorry you ain't got nothin'," she added, with a sad, little smile. "so long!" hollered the pony express at that moment; whereupon, ashby rushed over to the door and called after him: "pony express, i want you!" satisfied that his command had been heard he retraced his footsteps and found handsome peering eagerly over sonora's shoulder. "so, sonora, you've got a newspaper," handsome was saying. "yes, but the infernal thing's two months old," returned the other disgustedly. handsome laughed, and wheeling round was just in time to see the door flung open and a young fellow advance towards ashby. the pony express was a young man of not more than twenty years of age. he was smooth-faced and unshaven and, needless to say, was light of build, for these riders were selected for their weight as well as for their nerve. he wore a sombrero, a buckskin hunting-shirt, tight trousers tucked into high boots with spurs, all of which were weather-beaten and faded by wind, rain, dust and alkali. a pair of colt revolvers could be seen in his holsters, and he carried in his hands, which were covered with heavy gloves, a mail pouch--it being the company's orders not to let his _muchilo_ of heavy leather out of his hands for a second. "you drop mail at the greaser settlement?" inquired ashby in his peremptory and incisive manner. "yes, sir," quickly responded the young man; and then volunteered: "it's a tough place." ashby scrutinised the newcomer closely before going on with: "know a girl there named nina micheltoreña?" but before the pony express had time to reply the girl interposed scornfully: "nina micheltoreña? why, they all know 'er! she's one o' them cachuca girls with droopy, spanish eyes! oh, ask the boys about 'er!" and with that she started to leave the room, stopping on her way to clap both trinidad and sonora playfully on the back. "yes, ask the boys about 'er, they'll tell you!" and so saying she fled from the room, followed by the men she was poking fun at. "hold her letters, you understand?" instructed ashby who, with the sheriff, was alone now with the pony express. "yes, sir," he replied earnestly. a moment later there being no further orders forthcoming he hastily took his leave. ashby now turned his attention to rance. "sheriff," said he, "to-night i expect to see this nina micheltoreña either here or at the palmetto." rance never raised an eyebrow. "you do?" he remarked a moment later with studied carelessness. "well, the boys had better look to their watches. i met that lady once." ashby shot him a look of inquiry. "she's looking to that five thousand reward for ramerrez," he told him. rance's interest was growing by leaps and bounds though he continued to riffle the cards. "what? she's after that?" "sure thing. she knows something . . ." and having delivered himself of this ashby strode over to the opposite side of the room where his coat and hat were hanging upon an elk horn. while putting them on he came face to face with the girl who, having merely glanced in at the dance-hall, was returning to take up her duties behind the bar. "well, i'll have a look at that greaser up the road," he said, addressing her, and then went on half-jocularly, half-seriously: "he may have his eye on the find in that stocking." "you be darned!" was the girl's parting shot at him as he went out into the night. there was a long and impressive pause in which, apparently, the sheriff was making up his mind to speak of matters scarcely incident to the situation that had gone before; while fully conscious that she was to be asked to give him an answer--she whose answer had been given many times--the girl stood at the bar in an attitude of amused expectancy, and fussing with things there. at length, rance, glancing shyly over his shoulder to make sure that they were alone, became all at once grave and his voice fell soft and almost caressingly. "say, girl!" the young woman addressed stole a look at him from under her lashes, all the while smiling a wise, little smile to herself, but not a word did she vouchsafe in reply. again rance called to her over his shoulder: "i say, girl!" the girl took up a glass and began to polish it. at last she deigned to favour him with "hm?" which, apparently, he did not hear, for again a silence fell upon them. finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer, the sheriff threw down his cards on the table, and facing her he said: "say, girl, will you marry me?" "nope," returned the girl with a saucy toss of the head. rance rose and strode over to the bar. looking fixedly at her with his steely grey eyes he demanded the reason. "'cause you got a wife in noo orleans--or so the mountain breezes say," was her ready answer. rance gave no sign of having heard her. throwing away the cigar he was smoking he asked in the most nonchalant manner: "give me some of them cigars--my kind." reaching for a box behind her the girl placed it before him. "them's your kind, jack." from an inside pocket of his broadcloth coat rance took out an elaborate cigar-case, filled it slowly, leaving out one cigar which he placed between his lips. when he had this one going satisfactorily he rested both elbows on the edge of the bar, and said bluntly: "i'm stuck on you." the girl's lips parted a little mockingly. "thank you." rance puffed away for a moment or two in silence, and then with sudden determination he went on: "i'm going to marry you." "think so?" questioned the girl, drawing herself up proudly. and while rance proceeded to relight his cigar, it having gone out, she plumped both elbows on the bar and looked him straight in the eye, and announced: "they ain't a man here goin' to marry me." the scene had precisely the appearance of a struggle between two powerful wills. how long they would have remained with elbows almost touching and looking into each other's eyes it is difficult to determine; but an interruption came in the person of the barkeeper, who darted in, calling: "one good cigar!" instantly the girl reached behind her for the box containing the choicest cigars, and handing one to nick, she said: "here's your poison--three bits. why look at 'em," she went on in the next breath to rance; "there's handsome with two wives i know of somewhere east. and--" she broke off short and ended with: "nick, who's that cigar for?" "tommy," he told her. "here, give that back!" she cried quickly putting out her hand for it. "tommy don't know a good cigar when he's smokin' it." and so saying she put the choice cigar back in its place among its fellows and handed him one from another box with the remark: "same price, nick." nick chuckled and went out. "an' look at trin with a widow in sacramento. an' you--" the girl broke off short and laughed in his face. "oh, not one o' you travellin' under your own name!" "one whisky!" ordered nick, coming into the room with a rush. without a word the girl took down a bottle and poured it out for him while he stood quietly looking on, grinning from ear to ear. for rance's weakness was known to him as it was to every other man in manzaneta county, and he believed that the sheriff had taken advantage of his absence to press his hopeless suit. "here you be!" sang out the girl, and passed the glass over to him. "he wants it with water," returned nick, with a snicker. with a contemptuous gesture the girl put the bottle back on the shelf. "no--no you don't; no fancy drinks here!" she objected. "but he says he won't take it without water," protested nick, though there was a twinkle in his eye. "he's a fellow that's jest rode in from the crossin', so he says." the girl folded her arms and declared in a tone of finality: "he'll take it straight or git." "but he won't git," contended nick chuckling. there was an ominous silence. such behaviour was without a parallel in the annals of cloudy. for much less than this, as the little barkeeper very well knew, many a man had been disciplined by the girl. so, with his eyes fixed upon her face, he was already revelling in the situation by way of anticipation, and rejoicing in the coming requital for his own rebuff when the stranger had declined to leave as ordered. it was merely a question of his waiting for the words which would, as he put it, "take the fellow down a peg." they were soon forthcoming. "you jest send 'im to me," commanded the girl. "i'll curl his hair for him!" nick's face showed that the message was to his liking. it was evident, also, that he meant to lose no time in delivering it. a moment after he disappeared, rance, who had been toying with a twenty dollar gold piece which he took from his pocket, turned to the girl and said with great earnestness: "girl, i'll give you a thousand dollars on the spot for a kiss," which offer met with no response other than a nervous little laugh and the words: "some men invite bein' played." the gambler shrugged his shoulders. "well, what are men made for?" said he, flinging the gold piece down on the bar in payment for the cigar. "that's true," placidly commented the girl, making the change. rance tried another tack. "you can't keep on running this place alone; it's getting too big for you; too much money circulating through the polka. you need a man behind you." all this was said in short, jerky sentences; moreover, when she placed his change in front of him he pushed it back almost angrily. "come now, marry me," again he pleaded. "nope." "my wife won't know it." "nope." "now, see here, there's just one--" "nope--take it straight, jack, nope . . ." interrupted the girl. she had made up her mind that he had gone far enough; and firmly grabbing his hand she slipped his change into it. without a word the sheriff dropped the coins into the cuspidor. the girl saw the action and her eyes flashed with anger. the next moment, however, she looked up at him and said more gently than any time yet: "no, jack, i can't marry you. ah, come along--start your game again--go on, jack." and so saying she came out from behind the bar and went over to the faro table with: "whoop la! mula! go! good lord, look at that faro table!" but rance was on the verge of losing control of himself. there was passion in his steely grey eyes when he advanced towards her, but although the girl saw the look she did not flinch, and met it in a clear, straight glance. "look here, jack rance," she said, "let's have it out right now. i run the polka 'cause i like it. my father taught me the business an', well, don't you worry 'bout me--i can look after m'self. i carry my little wepping"--and with that she touched significantly the little pocket of her dress. "i'm independent, i'm happy, the polka's payin', an' it's bully!" she wound up, laughing. then, with one of her quick changes of mood, she turned upon him angrily and demanded: "say, what the devil do you mean by proposin' to me with a wife in noo orleans? now, this is a respectable saloon, an' i don't want no more of it." a look of gloom came into rance's eyes. "i didn't say anything--" he began. "push me that queen," interrupted the girl, sharply, gathering up the cards at the faro table, and pointing to one that was just beyond her reach. but when rance handed it to her and was moving silently away, she added: "ah, no offence, jack, but i got other idees o' married life from what you have." "aw, nonsense!" came from the sheriff in a voice that was not free from irritation. the girl glanced up at him quickly. her mind was not the abode of hardened convictions, but was tender to sentiment, and something in his manner at once softening her, she said: "nonsense? i dunno 'bout that. you see--" and her eyes took on a far away look--"i had a home once an' i ain't forgot it--a home up over our little saloon down in soledad. i ain't forgot my father an' my mother an' what a happy kepple they were. lord, how they loved each other--it was beautiful!" despite his seemingly callous exterior, there was a soft spot in the gambler's heart. every word that the girl uttered had its effect on him. now his hands, which had been clenched, opened out and a new light came into his eyes. suddenly, however, it was replaced by one of anger, for the door, at that moment, was hesitatingly pushed open, and the sidney duck stood with his hand on the knob, snivelling: "oh, miss, i--" the girl fairly flew over to him. "say, i've heard about you! you git!" she cried; and when she was certain that he was gone she came back and took a seat at the table where she continued, in the same reminiscent vein as before: "i can see mother now fussin' over father an' pettin' 'im, an' father dealin' faro--ah, he was square! an' me a kid, as little as a kitten, under the table sneakin' chips for candy. talk 'bout married life--that was a little heaven! why, mother tho't so much o' that man, she was so much heart an' soul with 'im that she learned to be the best case-keeper you ever saw. many a sleeper she caught! you see, when she played, she was playin' for the ol' man." she stopped as if overcome with emotion, and then added with great feeling: "i guess everybody's got some remembrance o' their mother tucked away. i always see mine at the faro table with her foot snuggled up to dad's, an' the light o' lovin' in her eyes. ah, she was a lady . . .!" impulsively she rose and walked over to the bar. "no," she went on, when behind it once more, "i couldn't share that table an' the polka with any man--unless there was a heap o' carin' back of it. no, i couldn't, jack, i couldn't . . ." by this time the sheriff's anger had completely vanished; dejection was plainly written on every line of his face. "well, i guess the boys were right; i am a chinaman," he drawled out. at once the girl was all sympathy. "oh, no you're not, jack!" she protested, speaking as tenderly as she dared without encouraging him. rance was quick to detect the change in her voice. now he leaned over the end of the bar and said in tones that still held hope: "once when i rode in here it was nothing but jack, jack, jack rance. by the eternal, i nearly got you then!" "did you?" the girl was her saucy self again. rance ignored her manner, and went on: "then you went on that trip to sacramento and monterey and you were different." in spite of herself the girl started, which rance's quick eye did not fail to note. "who's the man?" he blazed. for answer the girl burst out into a peal of laughter. it was forced, and the man knew it. "i suppose he's one o' them high-toned, sacramento shrimps!" he burst out gruffly; then he added meaningly: "do you think he'd have you?" at those words a wondering look shone in the girl's eyes, and she asked in all seriousness: "what's the matter with me? is there anythin' 'bout me a high-toned gent would object to?" and then as the full force of the insult was borne in upon her she stepped out from behind the bar, and demanded: "look here, jack rance, ain't i always been a perfect lady?" rance laughed discordantly. "oh, heaven knows your character's all right!" and so saying he seated himself again at the table. the girl flared up still more at this; she retorted: "well, that ain't your fault, jack rance!" but the words were hardly out of her mouth than she regretted having spoken them. she waited a moment, and then as he did not speak she murmured an "adios, jack," and took up her position behind the bar where, if rance had been looking, he would have seen her start on hearing a voice in the next room and fix her eyes in a sort of fascinated wonder, on a man who, after parting the pelt curtain, came into the saloon with just a suggestion of swagger in his bearing. vii. "where's the man who wanted to curl my hair?" incisive and harsh, with scarcely a trace of the musical tones she recollected so well, as was johnson's voice, it deceived the girl not an instant. even before she was able to get a glimpse of his face it did not fail to tell her that the handsome _caballero_, with whom she had ridden on that never-to-be-forgotten day on the monterey road, was standing before her. that his attire now, as might be expected, was wholly different from what it had been then, it never occurred to her to note; for, to tell the truth, she was vainly struggling to suppress the joy that she felt at seeing him again, and before she was aware of it there slipped through her lips: "why, howdy do, stranger!" at the sound of her voice johnson wheeled round in glad surprise and amazement; but the quick look of recognition that he flashed upon her wholly escaped the sheriff whose attitude was indicative of keen resentment at this intrusion, and whose eyes were taking in the newcomer from head to foot. "we're not much on strangers here," he blurted out at last. johnson turned on his heel and faced the speaker. an angry retort rose to his lips, but he checked it. although, perhaps, not fully appreciating his action, he was, nevertheless, not unaware that, from the point of view of the polka, his refusal to take his whisky straight might be regarded as nothing less than an insult. and now that it was too late he was inclined, however much he resented an attempt to interfere in a matter which he believed concerned himself solely, to regret the provocation and challenging words of his entrance if only because of a realisation that a quarrel would be likely to upset his plans. on the other hand, with every fraction of a second that passed he was conscious of becoming more and more desirous of humbling the man standing before him and scrutinising him so insolently; moreover, he felt intuitively that the eyes of the girl were on him as well as on the other principal to this silent but no less ominous conflict going on, and such being the case it was obviously impossible for him to withdraw from the position he had taken. as a sort of compromise, therefore, he said, tentatively: "i'm the man who wanted water in his whisky." "you!" exclaimed the girl; and then added reprovingly: "oh, nick, this gentleman takes his whisky as he likes it!" and this from the girl! the little barkeeper had all the appearance of a man who thought the world was coming to an end. he did not accept the girl's ultimatum until he had drawn down his face into an expression of mock solemnity and ejaculated half-aloud: "moses, what's come over 'er!" johnson took a few steps nearer the girl and bowed low. "in the presence of a lady i will take nothing," he said impressively. "but pardon me, you seem to be almost at home here." the girl leaned her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands, and answered with a tantalising little laugh: "who--me?" after a loud guffaw nick took it upon himself to explain matters; turning to johnson he said: "why, she's the girl who runs the polka!" johnson's face wore a look of puzzled consternation; he saw no reason for levity. "you . . .?" "yep," nodded the girl with a merry twinkle in her eyes. johnson's face fell. "she runs the polka," he murmured to himself. of all places to have chosen--this! so the thing he had dreaded had happened! for odd as it unquestionably seemed to him that she should turn up as the proprietress of a saloon after months of searching high and low for her, it was not this reflection that was uppermost in his mind; on the contrary, it was the deeply humiliating thought that he had come upon her when about to ply his vocation. regret came swiftly that he had not thought to inquire who was the owner of the polka saloon. bitterly he cursed himself for his dense stupidity. and yet, it was doubtful whether any of his band could have informed him. all that they knew of the place was that the miners of cloudy mountain camp were said to keep a large amount of placer gold there; all that he had done was to acquaint himself with the best means of getting it. but his ruminations were soon dissipated by rance, who had come so close that their feet almost touched, and was speaking in a voice that showed the quarrelsome frame of mind that he was in. "you're from the crossing, the barkeeper said--" he began, and then added pointedly: "i don't remember you." johnson slowly turned from the girl to the speaker and calmly corrected: "you're mistaken; i said i rode over from the crossing." and turning his back on the man he faced the girl with: "so, you run the polka?" "i'm the girl--the girl that runs the polka," she said, and to his astonishment seemed to glory in her occupation. presently, much to their delight, an opportunity came to them to exchange a word or two with each other without interruption. for, rance, as if revolving some plan of action in his mind, had turned on his heel and walked off a little way. a moment more, however, and he was back again and more malevolently aggressive than ever. "no strangers are allowed in this camp," he said, glowering at johnson; and then, his remark having passed unheeded by the other, he sneered: "perhaps you're off the road; men often get mixed up when they're visiting nina micheltoreña on the back trail." "oh, rance!" protested the girl. but johnson, though angered, let the insinuation pass unnoticed, and went on to say that he had stopped in to rest his horse and, perhaps, if invited, try his luck at a game of cards. and with this intimation he crossed over to the poker table where he picked up the deck that rance had been using. rance hesitated, and finally followed up the stranger until he brought up face to face with him. "you want a game, eh?" he drawled, coolly impudent. "i haven't heard your name, young man." "name," echoed the girl with a cynical laugh. "oh, names out here--" "my name's johnson--" spoke up the man, throwing down the cards on the table. "is what?" laughed the girl, saucily, and, apparently, trying to relieve the strained situation by her bantering tone. "--of sacramento," he finished easily. "of sacramento," repeated the girl in the same jesting manner as before; then, quickly coming out from behind the bar, she went over to him and put out her hand, saying: "i admire to know you, mr. johnson o' sacramento." johnson bowed low over her hand. "thank you," he said simply. "say, girl, i--" began rance, fuming at her behaviour. "oh, sit down, rance!" the interruption came from the girl as she pushed him lightly out of her way; then, perching herself up on one end of the faro table, at which johnson had taken a seat, she ventured: "say, mr. johnson, do you know what i think o' you?" johnson eyed her uncertainly, while rance's eyes blazed as she blurted out: "well, i think you staked out a claim in a etiquette book." and then before johnson could answer her, she went on to say: "so you think you can play poker?" "that's my conviction," johnson told her, smilingly. "out o' every fifty men who think they can play poker one ain't mistaken," was the girl's caustic observation. the next instant, however, she jumped down from the table and was back at her post, where, fearful lest he should think her wanting in hospitality, she proposed: "try a cigar, mr. johnson?" "thank you," he said, rising, and following her to the bar. "best in the house--my compliments." "you're very kind," said johnson, taking the candle that she had lighted for him; then, when his cigar was going, and in a voice that was intended for her alone, he went on: "so you remember me?" "if you remember me," returned the girl, likewise in a low tone. "what the devil are they talking about anyway?" muttered rance to himself as he stole a glance at them over his shoulder, though he kept on shuffling the cards. "i met you on the road to monterey," said johnson with a smile. "yes, comin' an' goin'," smiled back the girl. "you passed me a bunch o' wild syringa over the wheel; you also asked me to go a-berryin'--" and here she paused long enough to glance up at him coquettishly before adding: "but i didn't see it, mr. johnson." "i noticed that," observed johnson, laughing. "an' when you went away you said--" the girl broke off abruptly and replaced the candle on the bar; then with a shy, embarrassed look on her face she ended with: "oh, i dunno." "yes, you do, yes, you do," maintained johnson. "i said i'll think of you all the time--well, i've thought of you ever since." there was a moment of embarrassment. then: "somehow i kind o' tho't you might drop in," she said with averted eyes. "but as you didn't--" she paused and summoned to her face a look which she believed would adequately reflect a knowledge of the proprieties. "o' course," she tittered out, "it wa'n't my place to remember you--first." "but i didn't know where you lived--you never told me, you know," contended the road agent, which contention so satisfied the girl--for she remembered only too well that she had not told him--that she determined to show him further evidences of her regard. say, i got a special bottle here--best in the house. will you . . .?" "why--" the girl did not wait for him to finish his sentence, but quickly placed a bottle and glass before him. "my compliments," she whispered, smiling. "you're very kind--thanks," returned the road agent, and proceeded to pour out a drink. meanwhile, little of what was taking place had been lost on jack rance. as the whispered conversation continued, he grew more and more jealous, and at the moment that johnson was on the point of putting the glass to his lips, rance, rising quickly, went over to him and deliberately knocked the glass out of his hand. with a crash it fell to the floor. "look here, mr. johnson, your ways are offensive to me!" he cried; "damned offensive! my name is rance--jack rance. your business here--your business?" and without waiting for the other's reply he called out huskily: "boys! boys! come in here!" at this sudden and unexpected summons in the sheriff's well-known voice there was a rush from the dance-hall; in an instant the good-natured, roistering crowd, nosing a fight, crowded to the bar, where the two men stood glaring at each other in suppressed excitement. "boys," declared the sheriff, his eye never leaving johnson's face, "there's a man here who won't explain his business. he won't tell--" "won't he?" cut in sonora, blusteringly. "well, we'll see--we'll make 'im!" there was a howl of execration from the bar. it moved the girl to instant action. quick as thought she turned and strode to where the cries were the most menacing--towards the boys who knew her best and ever obeyed her unquestioningly. "wait a minute!" she cried, holding up her hand authoritatively. "i know the gent!" the men exchanged incredulous glances; from all sides came the explosive cries: "what's that? you know him?" "yes," she affirmed dramatically; and turning now to rance with a swift change of manner, she confessed: "i didn't tell you--but i know 'im." the sheriff started as if struck. "the sacramento shrimp by all that is holy!" he muttered between his teeth as the truth slowly dawned upon him. "yes, boys, this is mr. johnson o' sacramento," announced the girl with a simple and unconscious dignity that did not fail to impress all present. "i vouch to cloudy for mr. johnson!" consternation! and then the situation vaguely dawning upon them there ensued an outburst of cheering compared to which the previous howl of execration was silence. johnson smiled pleasantly at the girl in acknowledgment of her confirmation of him, then shot a half-curious, half-amused look at the crowd surrounding him and regarding him with a new interest. apparently what he saw was to his liking, for his manner was most friendly when bowing politely, he said: "how are you, boys?" at once the miners returned his salutation in true western fashion: every man in the place, save rance, taking off his hat and sweeping it before him in an arc as they cried out in chorus: "hello, johnson!" "boys, rance ain't a-runnin' the polka yet!" observed sonora with a mocking smile on his lips, and gloating over the opportunity to give the sheriff a dig. the men shouted their approval of this jibe. indeed, they might have gone just a little too far with their badgering of the sheriff, considering the mood that he was in; so, perhaps, it was fortunate that nick should break in upon them at this time with: "gents, the boys from the ridge invites you to dance with them." no great amount of enthusiasm was evinced at this. nevertheless, it was a distinct declaration of peace; and, taking advantage of it, johnson advanced toward the girl, bowed low, and asked with elaborate formality: "may i have the honour of a waltz?" flabbergasted and awed to silence by what they termed johnson's "style," happy and handsome stood staring helplessly at one another; at length happy broke out with: "say, handsome, ain't he got a purty action? an' ornamental sort o' cuss, ain't he? but say, kind o' presumin' like, ain't it, for a fellow breathin' the obscurity o' the crossin' to learn gents like us how to ketch the ladies pronto?" "which same," allowed handsome, "shorely's a most painful, not to say humiliatin' state o' things." and then to the girl he whispered: "it's up to you--make a holy show of 'im." the girl laughed. "me waltz? me?" she cried, answering johnson at last. "oh, i can't waltz but i can polky." once more johnson bent his tall figure to the ground, and said: "then may i have the pleasure of the next polka?" by this time sonora had recovered from his astonishment. after giving vent to a grunt expressive of his contempt, he blurted out: "that fellow's too flip!" but the idea had taken hold of the girl, though she temporised shyly: "oh, i dunno! makes me feel kind o' foolish, you know, kind o' retirin' like a elk in summer." johnson smiled in spite of himself. "elks are retiring," was his comment as he again advanced and offered his arm in an impressive and ceremonious manner. "well, i don't like everybody's hand on the back o' my waist," said the girl, running her hands up and down her dress skirt. "but, somehow--" she stopped, and fixing her eyes recklessly on rance, made a movement as if about to accept; but another look at johnson's proffered arm so embarrassed her that she sent a look of appeal to the rough fellows, who stood watching her with grinning faces. "oh, lord, must i?" she asked; then, hanging back no longer, she suddenly flung herself into his arms with the cry: "oh, come along!" promptly johnson put his arm around the girl's waist, and breaking into a polka he swung her off to the dance-hall where their appearance was greeted with a succession of wild whoops from the men there, as well as from the hilarious boys, who had rushed pell-mell after them. left to himself and in a rage rance began to pace the floor. "cleaned out--cleaned out for fair by a high-toned, fine-haired dog named johnson! well, i'll be--" the sentence was never finished, his attention being caught and held by something which nick was carrying in from the dance-hall. "what's that?" he demanded brusquely. nick's eyes were twinkling when he answered: "johnson's saddle." rance could control himself no longer; with a sweep of his long arm he knocked the saddle out of the other's hand, saying: "nick, i've a great notion to walk out of this door and never step my foot in here again." nick did not answer at once. while he did not especially care for rance he did not propose to let his patronage, which was not inconsiderable, go elsewhere without making an effort to hold it. therefore, he thought a moment before picking up the saddle and placing it in the corner of the room. "aw, what you givin' us, rance! she's only a-kiddin' 'im," at last he said consolingly. the sheriff was about to question this when a loud cry from outside arrested him. "what's that?" he asked with his eyes upon the door. "why that's--that's ashby's voice," the barkeeper informed him; and going to the door, followed by rance, as well as the men who, on hearing the cry, had rushed in from the dance-hall, he opened it, and they heard again the voice that they all recognised now as that of the wells fargo agent. "come on!" he was saying gruffly. "what the deuce is up?" inquired trinidad simultaneously with the deputy's cry of "bring him in!" and almost instantly the deputy, followed by ashby and others, entered, dragging along with him the unfortunate jose castro. the rough handling that he had received had not improved his appearance. his clothing, half mexican, the rest of odds and ends, had been torn in several places. he looked oily, greasy and unwashed, while the eyes that looked around in affright had lost none of their habitual trickiness and sullenness. and precisely as castro appeared wholly different than when last seen in the company of his master, so, too, was ashby metamorphosed. his hat was on the back of his head; his coat looked as if he had been engaged in some kind of a struggle; his hair was ruffled and long locks straggled down over his forehead; while his face wore a brutal, savage, pitiless, nasty look. by this time all the regular habitués of the saloon had come in and were crowding around the greaser with scowling, angry faces. "the greaser on the trail!" gurgled ashby in his glass, having left his prisoner for a moment to fortify himself with a drink of whisky. whereupon, the sheriff advanced and, with rough hands, jerked the prisoner's head brutally. "here you," he said, "give us a look at your face." but the sheriff had never seen him before. and in obedience to his commands to "tie him up!" the deputy and billy jackrabbit took a lariat from the wall and proceeded to bind their prisoner fast. when this was done ashby called to nick to serve him another drink, adding: "come on, boys!" instantly there was an exclamatory lining up at the bar, only sonora, apparently, seeming disinclined to accept, which ashby was quick to note. turning to him quickly, he inquired: "say, my friend, don't you drink?" but no insult had been intended by sonora's omission; it was merely most inconsiderate on his part of the feelings of others; and, therefore, there was a note of apology in the voice that presently said: "oh, yes, mr. ashby, i'm with you all right." during this conversation the eyes of the greaser had been wandering all over the room. but as the men moved away from him to take their drinks he started violently and an expression of dismay crossed his features. "ramerrez' saddle!" he muttered to himself. "_the maestro_--he is taken!" just then there came a particularly loud burst of approval from the spectators of the dancing going on in the adjoining room, and instinctively the men at the bar half-turned towards the noise. the prisoner's eyes followed their gaze and a fiendish grin replaced the look of dismay on his face. "no, he is there dancing with a girl," he said under his breath. a moment later nick let down the bearskin curtain, shutting off completely the mexican's view of the dance-hall. "come, now, tell us what your name is?" the voice was ashby's who, together with the others, now surrounded the prisoner. "speak up--who are you?" "my name ees jose castro;" and then he added with a show of pride: "_ex-padrona_ of the bull-fights." "but the bull-fights are at monterey! why do you come to this place?" all eyes instantly turned from the prisoner to rance, who had asked the question while seated at the table, and from him they returned to the prisoner, most of the men giving vent to exclamations of anger in tones that made the greaser squirm, while trinidad expressed the prevailing admiration of the sheriff's poser by crying out: "that's the talk--you bet! why do you come here?" castro's face wore an air of candour as he replied: "to tell the señor sheriff i know where ees ramerrez." rance turned on the prisoner a grim look. "you lie!" he vociferated, at the same time raising his hand to check the angry mutterings of the men that boded ill for the greaser. "nay," denied castro, strenuously, "pleanty mexican _vaquero_--my friend peralta, weelejos all weeth ramerrez--so i know where ees." rance advanced and shot a finger in his face. "you're one of his men yourself!" he cried hotly. but if he had hoped by his accusation to take the man off his guard, it was eminently unsuccessful, for the look on the greaser's face was innocence itself when he declared: "no, no, señor sheriff." rance reflected a moment; suddenly, then, he took another tack. "you see that man there?" he queried, pointing to the wells fargo agent. "that is ashby. he is the man that pays out that reward you've heard of." then after a pause to let his words sink in, he demanded gruffly: "where is ramerrez' camp?" at once the prisoner became voluble. "come with me one mile, señor," he said, "and by the soul of my mother, the blessed maria saltaja, we weel put a knife into hees back." "one mile, eh?" repeated rance, coolly. the miners looked incredulous. "if i tho't--" began sonora, but rance rudely cut in with: "where is this trail?" "up the madrona canyada," was the greaser's instant reply. at this juncture a ridge boy, who had pushed aside the bear-skin curtain and was gazing with mouth wide open at the proceedings, suddenly cried out: "why, hello, boys! what's the--" he got no further. in a twinkling and with cries of "shut up! git!" the men made for the intruder and bodily threw him out of the room. when quiet was restored rance motioned to the prisoner to proceed. "ramerrez can be taken--too well taken," declared the mexican, gaining confidence as he went on, "if many men come with me--in forty minutes there--back." rance turned to ashby and asked him what he thought about it. "i don't know what to think," was the wells fargo agent's reply. "but it certainly is curious. this is the second warning--intimation that we have had that he is somewhere in this vicinity." "and this nina micheltoreña--you say she is coming here to-night?" ashby nodded assent. "all the same, rance," he maintained, "i wouldn't go. better drop in to the palmetto later." "what? risk losin' 'im?" exclaimed sonora, who had been listening intently to their conversation. "we'll take the chance, boys, in spite of ashby's advice," rance said decisively. it was with not a little surprise that he heard the shouts with which his words were approved by all save the wells fargo agent. now the miners made a rush for their coats, hats and saddles, while from all sides came the cries of, "come on, boys! careful--there! ready--sheriff!" gladly, cheerfully, nick, too, did what he could to get the men started by setting up the drinks for all hands, though he remarked as he did so: "it's goin' to snow, boys; i don't like the sniff in the air." but even the probability of encountering a storm--which in that altitude was something decidedly to be reckoned with--did not deter the men from proceeding to make ready for the road agent's capture. in an incredibly short space of time they had loaded up and got their horses together, and from the harmony in their ranks while carrying out orders, it was evident that not a man there doubted the success of their undertaking. "we'll git this road agent!" sung out trinidad, going out through the door. "right you are, pard!" agreed sonora; but at the door he called back to the greaser: "come on, you oily, garlic-eatin', red-peppery, dog-trottin', sunbaked son of a skunk!" "come on, you . . .!" came simultaneously from the deputy, now untying the rope which bound the prisoner. the greaser's teeth were chattering; he begged: "one dreenk--i freeze . . ." turning to nick the deputy told him to give the man a drink, adding as he left the room: "watch him--keep your eye on him a moment for me, will you?" nick nodded; and then regarding the mexican with a contemptuous look, he asked: "what'll you have?" the mexican rose to his feet and began hesitatingly: "geeve me--" he paused; and then, starting with the thought that had come to him, he shot a glance at the dance-hall and called out loudly, rolling his r's even more pronouncedly than is the custom with his race: "aguardiente! aguardiente!" "sit down!" ordered nick, vaguely conscious that there was something in the greaser's voice that was not there before. the greaser obeyed, but not until he knew for a certainty that his voice had been heard by his master. "so you did bring in my saddle, eh, nick?" asked the road agent, coming quickly, but unconcernedly into the room and standing behind his man. up to this time, nick's eyes had not left the prisoner, but with the appearance on the scene of johnson, he felt that his responsibility ceased in a measure. he turned and gave his attention to matters pertaining to the bar. as a consequence, he did not see the look of recognition that passed between the two men, nor did he hear the whispered dialogue in spanish that followed. "_maestro! ramerrez!_" came in whispered tones from castro. "speak quickly--go on," came likewise in whispered tones from the road agent. "i let them take me according to your bidding," went on castro. "careful, jose, careful," warned his master while stooping to pick up his saddle, which he afterwards laid on the faro table. it was while he was thus engaged that nick came over to the prisoner with a glass of liquor, which he handed to him gruffly with: "here!" at that moment several voices from the dance-hail called somewhat impatiently: "nick, nick!" "oh, the ridge boys are goin'!" he said, and seeming intuitively to know what was wanted he made for the bar. but before acceding to their wishes, he turned to johnson, took out his gun and offered it to him with the words: "say, watch this greaser for a moment, will you?" "certainly," responded johnson, quickly, declining the other's pistol by touching his own holster significantly. "tell the girl you pressed me into service," he concluded with a smile. "sure." but on the point of going, the little barkeeper turned to him and confided: "say, the girl's taken an awful fancy to you." "no?" deprecated the road agent. "yes," affirmed nick. "drop in often--great bar!" johnson smiled an assent as the other went out of the room leaving master and man together. "now, then, jose, go on," he said, when they were alone. "_bueno!_ our men await the signal in the bushes close by. i will lead the sheriff far off--then i will slip away. you quietly rob the place and fly--it is death for you to linger--ashby is here." "ashby!" the road agent started in alarm. "ashby--" reiterated castro and stopped on seeing that nick had returned to see that all was well. "all right, nick, everything's all right," johnson reassured him. the outlaw's position remained unchanged until nick had withdrawn. from where he stood he now saw for the first time the preparations that were being made for his capture: the red torchlights and white candle-lighted lanterns which were reflected through the windows; and a moment more he heard the shouts of the miners calling to one another. of a sudden he was aroused to a consciousness, at least, of their danger by castro's warning: "by to-morrow's twilight you must be safe in your rancho." the road agent shook his head determinedly. "no, we raid on." castro was visibly excited. "there are a hundred men on your track." johnson smiled. "oh, one minute's start of the devil does me, jose." "ah, but i fear the woman--nina micheltoreña--i fear her terribly. she is close at hand--knowing all, angry with you, and jealous--and still loving you." "loving me? oh, no, jose! nina, like you, loves the spoils, not me. no, i raid on . . ." a silence fell upon the two men, which was broken by sonora calling out: "bring along the greaser, dep!" "all right!" answered the loud voice of the deputy. "you hear--we start," whispered castro to his master. "give the signal." and notwithstanding, the miners were coming through the door for him and stood waiting, torches in hand, he contrived to finish: "antonio awaits for it. only the woman and her servant will stay behind here." "adios!" whispered the master. "adios!" returned his man simultaneously with the approach of the deputy towards them. it was then that the girl's gay, happy voice floated in on them from the dance-hall; she cried out: "good-night, boys, good-night! remember me to the ridge!" "you bet we will! so long! whoop! whooppee!" chorussed the men, while the deputy, grabbing the mexican by the collar, ordered him to, "come on!" the situation was not without its humorous side to the road agent; he could not resist following the crowd to the door where he stood and watched his would-be captors silently mount; listened to the sheriff give the word, which was immediately followed by the sound of horses grunting as they sprang forward into the darkness in a desperate effort to escape the maddening pain of the descending quirts and cruel spurs. it was a scene to set the blood racing through the veins, viewed in any light; and not until the yells of the men had grown indistinct, and all that could be heard was the ever-decreasing sound of rushing hoofs, did the outlaw turn back into the saloon over which there hung a silence which, by contrast, he found strangely depressing. viii. there was a subtle change, an obvious lack of warmth in johnson's manner, which the girl was quick to feel upon returning to the now practically deserted saloon. "don't it feel funny here--kind o' creepy?" she gave the words a peculiar emphasis, which made johnson flash a quick, inquisitorial look at her; and then, no comment being forthcoming, she went on to explain: "i s'pose though that's 'cause i don't remember seein' the bar so empty before." a somewhat awkward silence followed, which at length was broken by the girl, who ordered: "lights out now! put out the candle here, too, nick!" but while the little barkeeper proceeded to carry out her instructions she turned to johnson with an eager, frank expression on her face, and said: "oh, you ain't goin', are you?" "no--not yet--no--" stammered johnson, half-surprisedly, half-wonderingly. the girl's face wore a pleased look as she answered: "oh, i'm so glad o' that!" another embarrassing silence followed. at last nick made a movement towards the window, saying: "i'm goin' to put the shutters up." "so early? what?" the girl looked her surprise. "well, you see, the boys are out huntin' ramerrez, and there's too much money here . . ." said nick in a low tone. the girl laughed lightly. "oh, all right--cash in--but don't put the head on the keg--i ain't cashed in m'self yet." rolling the keg to one side of the room, nick beckoned to the girl to come close to him, which she did; and pointing to johnson, who was strolling about the room, humming softly to himself, he whispered: "say, girl, know anythin' about--about him?" but very significant as was nick's pantomime, which included the keg and johnson, it succeeded only in bringing forth a laugh from the girl, and the words: "oh, sure!" nevertheless, the faithful guardian of the girl's interests sent a startled glance of inquiry about the room, and again asked: "all right, eh?" the girl ignored the implication contained in the other's glance, and answered "yep," in such a tone of finality that nick, reassured at last, began to put things ship-shape for the night. this took but a moment or two, however, and then he quietly disappeared. "well, mr. johnson, it seems to be us a-keepin' house here to-night, don't it?" said the girl, alone now with the road agent. her observation might easily have been interpreted as purposely introductory to an intimate scene, notwithstanding that it was made in a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone and without the slightest trace of coquetry. but johnson did not make the mistake of misconstruing her words, puzzled though he was to find a clue to them. his curiosity about her was intense, and it showed plainly in the voice that said presently: "isn't it strange how things come about? strange that i should have looked everywhere for you and in the end find you here--at the polka." johnson's emphasis on his last words sent a bright red rushing over her, colouring her neck, her ears and her broad, white forehead. "anythin' wrong with the polka?" johnson was conscious of an indiscreet remark; nevertheless he ventured: "well, it's hardly the place for a young woman like you." the girl made no reply to this but busied herself with the closing-up of the saloon. johnson interpreted her silence as a difference of opinion. nevertheless, he repeated with emphasis: "it is decidedly no place for you." "how so?" "well, it's rather unprotected, and--" "oh, pshaw!" interrupted the girl somewhat irritably. "i tol' ashby only to-night that i bet if a rud agent come in here i could offer 'im a drink an' he'd treat me like a perfect lady." she stopped and turned upon him impulsively with: "say, that reminds me, won't you take somethin'?" before answering, johnson shot her a quick look of inquiry to see whether there was not a hidden meaning in her words. of course there was not, the remark being impelled by a sudden consciousness that he might consider her inhospitable. nevertheless, her going behind the bar and picking up a bottle came somewhat as a relief to him. "no, thank you," at last he said; and then as he leaned heavily on the bar: "but i would very much like to ask you a question." instantly, to his great surprise, the girl was eyeing him with mingled reproach and coquetry. so he was going to do it! was it possible that he thought so lightly of her, she wondered. with all her heart she wished that he would not make the same mistake that others had. "i know what it is--every stranger asks it--but i didn't think you would. you want to know if i am decent? well, i am, you bet!" she returned, a defiant note creeping into her voice as she uttered the concluding words. "oh, girl, i'm not blind!" his eyes quailed before the look that flamed in hers. "and that was not the question." instinctively something told the girl that the man spoke the truth, but notwithstanding which, she permitted her eyes to express disbelief and "dear me suz!" fell from her lips with an odd little laugh. on the other hand, johnson declined to treat the subject other than seriously. he had no desire, of course, to enlarge upon the unconventionality of her attitude, but he felt that his feelings towards her, even if they were only friendly, justified him in giving her a warning. moreover, he refused to admit to himself that this was a mere chance meeting. he had a consciousness, vague, but nevertheless real that, at last, after all his searching, fate had brought him face to face with the one woman in all the world for him. unknown to himself, therefore, there was a sort of jealous proprietorship in his manner towards her as he now said: "what i meant was this: i am sorry to find you here almost at the mercy of the passer-by, where a man may come, may drink, may rob you if he will--" and here a flush of shame spread over his features in spite of himself--"and where, i daresay, more than one has laid claim to a kiss." the girl turned upon him in good-natured contempt. "there's a good many people claimin' things they never git. i've got my first kiss to give." once more a brief silence fell upon them in which the girl busied herself with her cash box. she was not unaware that his eyes were upon her, but she was by no means sure that he believed her words. nor could she tell herself, unfortunately for her peace of mind, that it made no difference to her. "have you been here long?" suddenly he asked. "yep." "lived in the polka?" "nope." "where do you live?" "cabin up the mountain a little ways." "cabin up the mountain a little ways," echoed johnson, reflectively. the next instant the little figure before him had faded from his sight and instead there appeared a vision of the little hut on the top of cloudy mountain. only a few hours back he had stood on the precipice which looked towards it, and had felt a vague, indefinable something, had heard a voice speak to him out of the vastness which he now believed to have been her spirit calling to him. "you're worth something better than this," after a while he murmured with the tenderness of real love in his voice. "what's better'n this?" questioned the girl with a toss of her pretty blonde head. "i ain't a-boastin' but if keepin' this saloon don't give me sort of a position 'round here i dunno what does." but the next moment there had flashed through her mind a new thought concerning him. she came out from behind the bar and confronted him with the question: "look 'ere, you ain't one o' them exhorters from the missionaries' camp, are you?" the road agent smiled. "my profession has its faults," he acknowledged, "but i am not an exhorter." but still the girl was nonplussed, and eyed him steadily for a moment or two. "you know i can't figger out jest exactly what you are?" she admitted smilingly. "well, try . . ." he suggested, slightly colouring under her persistent gaze. "well, you ain't one o' us." "no?" "oh, i can tell--i can spot my man every time. i tell you, keepin' saloon's a great educator." and so saying she plumped herself down in a chair and went on very seriously now: "i dunno but what it's a good way to bring up girls--they git to know things. now," and here she looked at him long and earnestly, "i'd trust you." johnson was conscious of a guilty feeling, though he said as he took a seat beside her: "you would trust me?" the girl nodded an assent and observed in a tone that was intended to be thoroughly conclusive: "notice i danced with you to-night?" "yes," was his brief reply, though the next moment he wondered that he had not found something more to say. "i seen from the first that you were the real article." "i beg your pardon," he said absently, still lost in thought. "why, that was a compliment i handed out to you," returned the girl with a pained look on her face. "oh!" he ejaculated with a faint little smile. now the girl, who had drawn up her chair close to his, leaned over and said in a low, confidential voice: "your kind don't prevail much here. i can tell--i got what you call a quick eye." as might be expected johnson flushed guiltily at this remark. no different, for that matter, would have acted many a man whose conscience was far clearer. "oh, i'm afraid that men like me prevail--prevail, as you say,--almost everywhere," he said, laying such stress on the words that it would seem almost impossible for anyone not to see that they were shot through with self-depreciation. the girl gave him a playful dig with her elbow. "go on! what are you givin' me! o' course they don't . . .!" she laughed outright; but the next instant checking herself, went on with absolute ingenuousness: "before i went on that trip to monterey i tho't rance here was the genuine thing in a gent, but the minute i kind o' glanced over you on the road i--i seen he wasn't." she stopped, a realisation having suddenly been borne in upon her that perhaps she was laying her heart too bare to him. to cover up her embarrassment, therefore, she took refuge, as before, in hospitality, and rushing over to the bar she called to nick to come and serve mr. johnson with a drink, only to dismiss him the moment he put his head through the door with: "never mind, i'll help mr. johnson m'self." turning to her visitor again, she said: "have your whisky with water, won't you?" "but i don't--" began johnson in protest. "say," interrupted the girl, falling back into her favourite position of resting both elbows on the bar, her face in her hands, "i've got you figgered out. you're awful good or awful bad." a remark which seemed to amuse the man, for he laughed heartily. "now, what do you mean by that?" presently he asked. "well, i mean so good that you're a teetotaller, or so bad that you're tired o' life an' whisky." johnson shook his head. "on the contrary, although i'm not good, i've lived and i've liked life pretty well. it's been bully!" surprised and delighted with his enthusiasm, the girl raised her eyes to his, which look he mistook--not unnaturally after all that had been said--for one of encouragement. a moment more and the restraint that he had exercised over himself had vanished completely. "so have you liked it, girl," he went on, trying vainly to get possession of her hand, "only you haven't lived, you haven't lived--not with your nature. you see i've got a quick eye, too." to johnson's amazement she flushed and averted her face. following the direction of her eyes he saw nick standing in the door with a broad grin on his face. "you git, nick! what do you mean by . . .?" cried out the girl in a tone that left no doubt in the minds of her hearers that she was annoyed, if not angry, at the intrusion. nick disappeared into the dance-hall as though shot out of a gun; whereupon, the girl turned to johnson with: "i haven't lived? that's good!" johnson's next words were insinuating, but his voice was cold in comparison with the fervent tones of a moment previous. "oh, you know!" was what he said, seating himself at the poker table. "no, i don't," contradicted the girl, taking a seat opposite him. "yes, you do," he insisted. "well, say it's an even chance i do an' an even chance i don't," she parried. once more the passion in the man was stirring. "i mean," he explained in a voice that barely reached her, "life for all it's worth, to the uttermost, to the last drop in the cup, so that it atones for what's gone before, or may come after." the girl's face wore a puzzled look as she answered: "no, i don't believe i know what you mean by them words. is it a--" she cut her sentence short, and springing up, cried out: "oh, lord--oh, excuse me, i sat on my gun!" johnson looked at her, genuine amusement depicted on his face. "look here," said the girl, suddenly perching herself upon the table, "i'm goin' to make you an offer." "an offer?" johnson fairly snatched the words out of her mouth. "you're going to make me an offer?" "it's this," declared the girl with a pleased look on her face. "if ever you need to be staked--" johnson eyed her uncomprehendingly. "which o' course you don't," she hastened to add. "name your price. it's yours jest for the style i git from you an' the deportment." "deportment? me?" a half-grin formed over johnson's face as he asked the question; then he said: "well, i never heard before that my society was so desirable. apart from the financial aspect of this matter, i--" "say," broke in the girl, gazing at him in helpless admiration, "ain't that great? ain't that great? oh, you got to let me stand treat!" "no, really i would prefer not to take anything," responded johnson, putting a restraining hand on her as she was about to leap from the table. at that moment nick's hurried footsteps reached their ears. turning, the girl, with a swift gesture, waved him back. there was a brief silence, then johnson spoke: "say, girl, you're like finding some new kind of flower." a slight laugh of confusion was his answer. the next moment, however, she went on, speaking very slowly and seriously: "well, we're kind o' rough up here, but we're reachin' out." johnson noted immediately the change in her voice. there was no mistaking the genuineness of her emotion, nor the wistful look in her eyes. it was plain that she yearned for someone who would teach her the ways of the outside world; and when the man looked at the girl with the lamp-light softening her features, he felt her sincerity and was pleased by her confidence. "now, i take it," continued the girl with a vague, dreamy look on her face, "that's what we're all put on this earth for--everyone of us--is to rise ourselves up in the world--to reach out." "that's true, that's true," returned johnson with gentle and perfect sympathy. "i venture to say that there isn't a man who hasn't thought seriously about that. i have. if only one knew how to reach out for something one hardly dares even hope for. why, it's like trying to catch the star shining just ahead." the girl could not restrain her enthusiasm. "that's the cheese! you've struck it!" at this juncture nick appeared and refused to be ordered away. at length, the girl inquired somewhat impatiently: "well, what is it, nick?" "i've been tryin' to say," announced the barkeeper, whose face wore an expression of uneasiness as he pointed to the window, "that i have seen an ugly-lookin' greaser hanging around outside." "a greaser!" exclaimed the girl, uneasily. "let me look." and with that she made a movement towards the window, but was held back by johnson's detaining hand. all too well did he know that the mexican was one of his men waiting impatiently for the signal. so, with an air of concern, for he did not intend that the girl should run any risk, however remote, he said authoritatively: "don't go!" "why not?" demanded the girl. johnson sat strangely silent. "i'll bolt the windows!" cried nick. hardly had he disappeared into the dance-hall when a low whistle came to their ears. "the signal--they're waiting," said johnson under his breath, and shot a quick look of inquiry at the girl to see whether she had heard the sound. a look told him that she had, and was uneasy over it. "don't that sound horrid?" said the girl, reaching the bar in a state of perturbation. "say, i'm awful glad you're here. nick's so nervous. he knows what a lot o' money i got. why, there's a little fortune in that keg." johnson started; then rising slowly he went over to the keg and examined it with interest. "in there?" he asked, with difficulty concealing his excitement. "yes; the boys sleep around it nights," she went on to confide. johnson looked at her curiously. "but when they're gone--isn't that rather a careless place to leave it?" quietly the girl came from behind the bar and went over and stood beside the keg; when she spoke her eyes flashed dangerously. "they'd have to kill me before they got it," she said, with cool deliberation. "oh, i see--it's your money." "no, it's the boys'." a look of relief crossed johnson's features. "oh, that's different," he contended; and then brightening up somewhat, he went on: "now, i wouldn't risk my life for that." "oh, yes, you would, yes, you would," declared the girl with feeling. a moment later she was down on her knees putting bag after bag of the precious gold-dust and coins into the keg. when they were all in she closed the lid, and putting her foot down hard to make it secure, she repeated: "oh, yes, you would, if you seen how hard they got it. when i think of it, i nearly cry." johnson had listened absorbedly, and was strangely affected by her words. in her rapidly-filling eyes, in the wave of colour that surged in her cheeks, in the voice that shook despite her efforts to control it, he read how intense was her interest in the welfare of the miners. how the men must adore her! unconsciously the girl arose, and said: "there's somethin' awful pretty in the way the boys hold out before they strike it, somethin' awful pretty in the face o' rocks, an' clay an' alkali. oh, lord, what a life it is anyway! they eat dirt, they sleep in dirt, they breathe dirt 'til their backs are bent, their hands twisted an' warped. they're all wind-swept an' blear-eyed i tell you, an' some o' them jest lie down in their sweat beside the sluices, an' they don't never rise up again. i've seen 'em there!" she paused reminiscently; then, pointing to the keg, she went on haltingly: "i got some money there of ol' brownie's. he was lyin' out in the sun on a pile o' clay two weeks ago, an' i guess the only clean thing about him was his soul, an' he was quittin', quittin', quittin', right there on the clay, an' quittin' hard. oh, so hard!" once more she stopped and covered her face with her hands as if to shut out the horror of it all. presently she had herself under control and resumed: "yes, he died--died jest like a dog. you wanted to shoot 'im to help 'im along quicker. before he went he sez to me: 'girl, give it to my ol' woman.' that was all he said, an' he went. she'll git it, all right." with every word that the girl uttered, the iron had entered deeper into johnson's soul. up to the present time he had tried to regard his profession, if he looked at it at all, from the point of view which he inherited from his father. it was not, in all truthfulness, what he would have chosen; it was something that, at times, he lamented; but, nevertheless, he had practised it and had despoiled the miners with but few moments of remorse. but now, he was beginning to look upon things differently. in a brief space of time a woman had impelled him to see his actions in their true light; new ambitions and desires awakened, and he looked downward as if it were impossible to meet her honest eye. "an' that's what aches you," the girl was now saying. "there ain't one o' them men workin' for themselves alone--the lord never put it into no man's heart to make a beast or a pack-horse o' himself, except for some woman or some child." she halted a moment, and throwing up her hands impulsively, she cried: "ain't it wonderful--ain't it wonderful that instinct? ain't it wonderful what a man'll do when it comes to a woman--ain't it wonderful?" once more she waited as if expecting him to corroborate her words; but he remained strangely silent. a moment later when he raised his troubled eyes, he saw that hers were dry and twinkling. "well, the boys use me as a--a sort of lady bank," presently she said; and then added with another quick change of expression, and in a voice that showed great determination: "you bet i'll drop down dead before anyone'll get a dollar o' theirs outer the polka!" impulsively the road agent's hand went out to her, and with it went a mental resolution that so far as he was concerned no hard-working miner of cloudy mountain need fear for his gold! "that's right," was what he said. "i'm with you--i'd like to see anyone get that." he dropped her hand and laid his on the keg; then with a voice charged with much feeling, he added: "girl, i wish to heaven i could talk more with you, but i can't. by daybreak i must be a long ways off. i'm sorry--i should have liked to have called at your cabin." the girl shot him a furtive glance. "must you be a-movin' so soon?" she asked. "yes; i'm only waiting till the posse gets back and you're safe." and even as he spoke his trained ear caught the sound of horses hoofs. "why, they're coming now!" he exclaimed with suppressed excitement, and his eyes immediately fastened themselves on his saddle. the girl looked her disappointment when she said: "i'm awfully sorry you've got to go. i was goin' to say--" she stopped, and began to roll the keg back to its place. now she took the lantern from the bar and placed it on the keg; then turning to him once more she went on in a voice that was distinctly persuasive: "if you didn't have to go so soon, i would like to have you come up to the cabin to-night an' we would talk o' reachin' out up there. you see, the boys will be back here--we close the polka at one--any time after . . ." hesitatingly, helplessly, johnson stared at the girl before him. his acceptance, he realised only too well, meant a pleasant hour or two for him, of which there were only too few in the mad career that he was following, and he wanted to take advantage of it; on the other hand, his better judgment told him that already he should be on his way. "why, i--i should ride on now." he began and then stopped, the next moment, however, he threw down his hat on the table in resignation and announced: "i'll come." "oh, good!" cried the girl, making no attempt to conceal her delight. "you can use this," she went on, handing him the lantern. "it's the straight trail up; you can't miss it. but i say, don't expect too much o' me--i've only had thirty-two dollars' worth o' education." despite her struggle to control herself, her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears. "p'r'aps if i'd had more," she kept on, regretfully, "why, you can't tell what i might have been. say, that's a terrible tho't, ain't it? what we might a been--an' i know it when i look at you." johnson was deeply touched at the girl's distress, and his voice broke, too, as he said: "yes, what we might have been is a terrible thought, and i know it, girl, when i look at you--when i look at you." "you bet!" ejaculated the girl. and then to johnson's consternation she broke down completely, burying her face in her hands and sobbing out: "oh, 'tain't no use, i'm rotten, i'm ignorant, i don't know nothin' an' i never knowed it 'till to-night! the boys always tol' me i knowed so much, but they're such damn liars!" in an instant johnson was beside her, patting her hand caressingly; she felt the sympathy in his touch and was quick to respond to it. "don't you care, girl, you're all right," he told her, choking back with difficulty the tears in his own voice. "your heart's all right, that's the main thing. and as for your looks? well, to me you've got the face of an angel--the face--" he broke off abruptly and ended with: "oh, but i must be going now!" a moment more and he stood framed in the doorway, his saddle in one hand and the girl's lantern in the other, torn by two emotions which grappled with each other in his bosom. "johnson, what the devil's the matter with you?" he muttered half-aloud; then suddenly pulling himself together he stumbled rather than walked out of the polka into the night. motionless and trying to check her sobs, the girl remained where he had left her; but a few minutes later, when nick entered, all trace of her tears had disappeared. "nick," said she, all smiles now, "run over to the palmetto restaurant an' tell 'em to send me up two charlotte rusks an' a lemming turnover--a good, big, fat one--jest as quick as they can--right up to the cabin for supper." "he says i have the face of an angel," is what the girl repeated over and over again to herself when perched up again on the poker table after the wondering barkeeper had departed on her errand, and for a brief space of time her countenance reflected the joy that johnson's parting words had imprinted on her heart. but in the girl's character there was an element too prosaic, and too practical, to permit her thoughts to dwell long in a region lifted far above the earth. it was inevitable, therefore, that the notion should presently strike her as supremely comic and, quickly leaping to the floor, she let out the one word which, however adequately it may have expressed her conflicting emotions, is never by any chance to be found in the vocabulary of angels in good standing. ix. notwithstanding that the palmetto was the most pretentious building in cloudy, and was the only rooming and eating house that outwardly asserted its right to be called an hotel, its saloon contrasted unfavourably with its rival, the polka. there was not the individuality of the girl there to charm away the impress of coarseness settled upon it by the loafers, the habitual drunkards and the riffraff of the camp, who were not tolerated elsewhere. in short, it did not have that certain indefinable something which gave to the polka saloon an almost homelike appearance, but was a drab, squalid, soulless place with nothing to recommend it but its size. in a small parlour pungent at all times with the odour of liquor,--but used only on rare occasions, most of the palmetto's patrons preferring the even more stifling atmosphere of the bar-room,--the wells fargo agent had been watching and waiting ever since he had left the polka saloon. on a table in front of him was a bottle, for it was a part of ashby's scheme of things to solace thus all such weary hours. although a shrewd judge of women of the nina micheltoreña type and by no means unmindful of their mercurial temperament, ashby, nevertheless, had felt that she would keep her appointment with him. in the mexican camp he had read the wild jealousy in her eyes, and had assumed, not unnaturally, that there had been scarcely time for anything to occur which would cause a revulsion of feeling on her part. but as the moments went by, and still she did not put in an appearance, an expression of keen disappointment showed itself on his face and, with mechanical regularity, he carried out the liquid programme, shutting his eyes after each drink for moments at a time yet, apparently, in perfect control of his mind when he opened them again; and it was in one of these moments that he heard a step outside which he correctly surmised to be that of the sheriff. without a word rance walked into the room and over to the table and helped himself to a drink from the bottle there, which action the wells fargo agent rightly interpreted as meaning that the posse had failed to catch their quarry. at first a glint of satisfaction shone in ashby's eyes: not that he disliked rance, but rather that he resented his egotistical manner and evident desire to overawe all who came in contact with him; and it required, therefore, no little effort on his part to banish this look from his face and make up his mind not to mention the subject in any manner. for some time, therefore, the two officers sat opposite to each other inhaling the stale odour of tobacco and spirits peculiar to this room, with little or no ventilation. it was enough to sicken anyone, but both men, accustomed to such places in the pursuit of their calling, apparently thought nothing of it, the sheriff seemingly absorbed in contemplating the long ash at the end of his cigar, but, in reality, turning over in his mind whether he should leave the room or not. at length, he inaugurated a little contest of opinion. "this woman isn't coming, that's certain," he declared, impatiently. "i rather think she will; she promised not to fail me," was the other's quiet answer; and he added: "in ten minutes you'll see her." it was a rash remark and expressive of a confidence that he by no means felt. as a matter of fact, it was induced solely by the cynical smile which he perceived on the sheriff's face. "you, evidently, take no account of the fact that the lady may have changed her mind," observed rance, lighting a fresh cigar. "the nina micheltoreñas are fully as privileged as others of their sex." as he drained his glass ashby gave the speaker a sharp glance; another side of rance's character had cropped out. moreover, ashby's quick intuition told him that the other's failure to catch the outlaw was not troubling him nearly as much as was the blow which his conceit had probably received at the hands of the girl. it was, therefore, in an indulgent tone that he said: "no, rance, not this one nor this time. you mark my words, the woman is through with ramerrez. at least, she is so jealous that she thinks she is. she'll turn up here, never fear; she means business." the shoulders of mr. jack rance strongly suggested a shrug, but the man himself said nothing. they were anything but sympathetic companions, these two officers, and in the silence that ensued rance formulated mentally more than one disparaging remark about the big man sitting opposite to him. it is possible, of course, that the sheriff's rebuff by the girl, together with the wild goose chase which he had recently taken against his better judgment, had something to do with this bitterness; but it was none the less true that he found himself wondering how ashby had succeeded in acquiring his great reputation. among the things that he held against him was his everlasting propensity to boast of his achievements, to say nothing of the pedestal upon which the boys insisted upon placing him. was this wells fargo's most famous agent? was this the man whose warnings were given such credence that they stirred even the largest of the gold camps into a sense of insecurity? and at this rance indulged again in a fit of mental merriment at the other's expense. but, although he would have denied it in toto, the truth of the matter was that the sheriff was jealous of ashby. witty, generous, and a high liver, the latter was generally regarded as a man who fascinated women; moreover, he was known to be a favourite--and here the shoe pinched--with the girl. true, the demands of his profession were such as to prevent his staying long in any camp. nevertheless, it seemed to rance that he contrived frequently to turn up at the polka when the boys were at the diggings. after ashby's observation the conversation by mutual, if unspoken, consent, was switched into other channels. but it may be truthfully said that rance did not wholly recover his mental equilibrium until a door was heard to open noiselessly and some whispered words in spanish fell upon their ears. now the sheriff, as well as ashby, had the detective instinct fully developed; moreover, both men knew a few words of that language and had an extreme curiosity to hear the conversation going on between a man and a woman, who were standing just outside in a sort of hallway. as a result, therefore, both officers sprang to the door with the hope--if indeed it was nina micheltoreña as they surmised--that they might catch a word or two which would give them a clue to what was likely to take place at the coming interview. it came sooner than they expected. ". . . ramerrez--five thousand dollars!" reached their ears in a soft, spanish voice. ashby needed nothing more than this. in an instant, much to the sheriff's astonishment, and moving marvellously quick for a man of his heavy build, he was out of the room, leaving rance to face a woman with a black mantilla thrown over her head who, presently, entered by another door. nina micheltoreña, for it was she, did not favour him with as much as an icy look. nor did the sheriff give any sign of knowing her; a wise proceeding as it turned out, for a quick turn of the head and a subtle movement of the woman's shoulders told him that she was in anything but a quiet state of mind. one glance towards the door behind him, however, and the reason of her anger was all too plain: a mexican was vainly struggling in the clutches of ashby. "why are you dragging him in?" far from quailing before him as did her confederate, she confronted ashby with eyes that flashed fire. "he came with me--" ashby cut her short. "we don't allow greasers in this camp and--" he began in a throaty voice. "but he is waiting to take me back!" she objected, and then added: "i wish him to wait for me outside, and unless you allow him to i'll go at once." and with these words she made a movement towards the door. ashby laid one restraining hand upon her, while with the other he held on to the mexican. of a sudden there had dawned upon him the conviction that for once in his life he had made a grievous mistake. he had thought, by the detention of her confederate, to have two strings to his bow, but one glance at the sneeringly censorious expression on the sheriff's face convinced him that no information would be forthcoming from the woman while in her present rebellious mood. "all right, my lady," he said, for the time being yielding to her will, "have your way." and turning now to the mexican, he added none too gently: "here you, get out!" whereupon the mexican slunk out of the room. "there's no use of your getting into a rage," went on ashby, turning to the woman in a slightly conciliatory manner. "i calculated that the greaser would be in on the job, too." all through this scene rance had been sitting back in his chair chewing his cigar in contemptuous silence, while his face wore a look of languid insolence, a fact which, apparently, did not disturb the woman in the least, for she ignored him completely. "it was well for you, señor ashby, that you let him go. i tell you frankly that in another moment i should have gone." and now throwing back her mantilla she took out a cigarette from a dainty, little case and lit it and coolly blew a cloud of smoke in rance's face, saying: "it depends on how you treat me--you, mr. jack rance, as well as señor ashby--whether we come to terms or not. perhaps i had better go away anyway," she concluded with a shrug of admirably simulated indifference. this time ashby sat perfectly still. it was not difficult to perceive that her anger was decreasing with every word that she uttered; nor did he fail to note how fluently she spoke english, a slight spanish accent giving added charm to her wonderfully soft and musical voice. how gloriously beautiful, he told himself, she looked as she stood there, voluptuous, compelling, alluring, the expression that had been almost diabolical, gradually fading from her face. was it possible, he asked himself, that all this loveliness was soiled forever? he felt that there was something pitiful in the fact that the woman standing before him represented negotiable property which could be purchased by any passer-by who had a few more nuggets in his possession than his neighbour; and, perhaps, because of his knowledge of the piteous history of this former belle of monterey he put a little more consideration into the voice that said: "all right, nina, we'll get down to business. what have you to say to us?" by this time nina's passionate anger had burned itself out. in anticipation, perhaps, of what she was about to do, she looked straight ahead of her into space. it was not because she was assailed by some transient emotion to forswear her treacherous desire for vengeance; she had no illusion of that kind. too vividly she recalled the road agent's indifferent manner at their last interview for any feeling to dwell in her heart other than hatred. it was that she was summoning to appear a vision scarcely less attractive, however pregnant with tragedy, than that of seeing herself avenged: a gay, extravagant career in mexico or spain which the reward would procure for her. that was what she was seeing, and with a pious wish for its confirmation she began to make herself a fresh cigarette, rolling it dexterously with her white, delicate fingers, and not until her task was accomplished and her full, red lips were sending forth tiny clouds of smoke did she announce: "ramerrez was in cloudy mountain to-night." but however much of a surprise this assertion was to both men, neither gave vent to an exclamation. instead rance regarded his elegantly booted feet; ashby looked hard at the woman as if he would read the truth in her eyes; while as for nina, she continued to puff away at her little cigarette after the manner of one that has appealed not in vain to the magic power which can paint out the past and fill the blank with the most beautiful of dreams. the wells fargo man was the first to make any comment; he asked: "you know this?" and then as she surveyed them through a scented cloud and bowed her head, he added: "how do you know it?" "that i shall not tell you," replied the woman, firmly. ashby made an impatient movement towards her with the question: "where was he?" "oh, come, ashby!" put in rance, speaking for the first time. "she's putting up a game on us." in a flash nina wheeled around and with eyes that blazed advanced to the table where the sheriff was sitting. indeed, there was something so tigerish about the woman that the sheriff, in alarm, quickly pushed back his chair. "i am not lying, jack rance." there was an evil glitter in her eye as she watched a sarcastic smile playing around his lips. "oh, yes, i know you--you are the sheriff," and so saying a peal of contemptuous merriment burst from her, "and ramerrez was in the camp not less than two hours ago." ashby could hardly restrain his excitement. "and you saw him?" came from him. "yes," was her answer. both men sprang to their feet; it was impossible to doubt any longer that she spoke the truth. "what's his game?" demanded rance. the woman answered his question with a question. "how about the reward, señor ashby?" "you needn't worry about that--i'll see that you get what's coming to you," replied the wells fargo agent already getting into his coat. "but how are we to know?" inquired rance, likewise getting ready to leave. "is he an american or a mexican?" "to-night he's an american, that is, he's dressed and looks like one. but the reward--you swear you're playing fair?" "on my honour," ashby assured her. the woman's face stood clear--cruelly clear in the light of the kerosene lamp above her head. about her mouth and eyes there was a repellent expression. her mind, still working vividly, was reviewing the past; and a bitter memory prompted the words which were said however with a smile that was still seductive: "try to recall, señor ashby, what strangers were in the polka to-night?" at these ominous words the men started and regarded each other questioningly. their keen and trained intelligences were greatly distressed at being so utterly in the dark. for an instant, it is true, the thought of the greaser that ashby had brought in rose uppermost in their minds, but only to be dismissed quickly when they recalled the woman's words concerning the way that the road agent was dressed. a moment more, however, and a strange thought had fastened itself on one of their active minds--a thought which, although persisting in forcing itself upon the sheriff's consideration, was in the end rejected as wholly improbable. but who was it then? in his intensity rance let his cigar go out. "ah!" at last he cried. "johnson, by the eternal!" "johnson?" echoed ashby, wholly at sea and surprised at the look of corroboration in nina's eyes. "yes, johnson," went on rance, insistently. why had he not seen at once that it was johnson who was the road agent! there could be no mistake! "you weren't there," he explained hurriedly, "when he came in and began flirting with the girl and--" "ramerrez making love to the girl?" broke in ashby. "ye gods!" "the girl? so that's the woman he's after now!" nina laughed bitterly. "well, she's not destined to have him for long, i can tell you!" and with that she reached out for the bottle on the table and poured herself a small glass of whisky and swallowed it. when she turned her lips were tightly shut over her brilliant teeth, a thousand thoughts came rushing into her brain. there was no longer any compunction--she would strike now and deep. through her efforts alone the man would be captured, and she gloried in the thought. "here--here is something that will interest you!" she said; and putting her hand in her bosom drew out a soiled, faded photograph. "there--that will settle him for good and all! never again will he boast of trifling with nina micheltoreña--with me, a micheltoreña in whose veins runs the best and proudest blood of california!" ashby fairly snatched the photograph out of her hand and, after one look at it, passed it over to the sheriff. "good of him, isn't it?" sneered nina; and then seemingly trying by her very vehemence to impress upon herself the impossibility of his ever being anything but an episode in her life, she added: "i hate him!" the picture was indeed an excellent one. it represented ramerrez in the gorgeous dress of a _caballero_--and the outlaw was a fine specimen of that spectacular class of men. but rance studied the photograph only long enough to be sure that no mistake was possible. with a quick movement he put it away in his pocket and looked long and hard at the figure of the degraded woman standing before him and revelling in her treachery. in that time he forgot that anyone had ever entertained a kind thought about her; he forgot that she once was respected as well as admired; he was conscious only of regarding her with a far deeper disgust and repugnance than he held towards others much her inferior in birth and education. but, presently, his face grew a shade whiter, if that were possible, and he cursed himself for not having thought of the danger to which the girl might even now be exposed. in less than a minute, therefore, both men stood ready for the work before them. but on the threshold just before going out into the fierce storm that had burst during the last few minutes, he paused and called back: "you mexican devil! if any harm comes to the girl, i'll strangle you with my own hands!" and not waiting to hear the woman's mocking laughter he passed out, followed by ashby, into the storm. x. in the still black night and with no guide other than the dimly-lighted lantern which she carried, the girl had started for home--a bit of shelter in the middle of a great silence, a little fortress in the wilderness, as it were, with its barred doors and windows--on the top of cloudy mountain. to be sure, it was not the first time that she had followed the trail alone: day and night, night and day, for as long, almost, as she could remember, she had been doing it; indeed, she had watched the alders, oaks and dwarf pines, that bordered the trail, grow year by year as she herself had grown, until now the whispering of the mountain's night winds spoke a language as familiar as her own; but never before had she climbed up into the clean, wide, free sweep of this unbounded horizon, the very air untainted and limitless as the sky itself, with so keen and uncloying a pleasure. but there was a new significance attached to her home-coming to-night: was she not to entertain there her first real visitor? at the threshold of her cabin the girl, her cheeks aglow and eyes as bright, almost, as the red cape that enveloped her lithe, girlish figure, paused, and swinging her lantern high above her head so that its light was reflected in the room, she endeavoured to imagine what would be the impression that a stranger would receive coming suddenly upon these surroundings. and well might she have paused, for no eye ever rested upon a more conglomerate ensemble! yet, withal, there was a certain attractiveness about this log-built, low, square room, half-papered with gaudy paper--the supply, evidently, having fallen short,--that was as unexpected as it was unusual. upon the floor, which had a covering of corn sacks, were many beautiful bear and wolf skins, indian rugs and navajo blankets; while overhead--screening some old trunks and boxes neatly piled up high in the loft, which was reached by a ladder, generally swung out of the way--hung a faded, woollen blanket; from the opposite corner there fell an old, patchwork, silk quilt. dainty white curtains in all their crispness were at the windows, and upon the walls were many rare and weird trophies of the chase, not to mention the innumerable pictures that had been taken from "godey's lady book" and other periodicals of that time. a little book-shelf, that had been fashioned out of a box, was filled with old and well-read books; while the mantel that guarded the fireplace was ornamented with various small articles, conspicuous among which were a clock that beat loud, automatic time with a brassy resonance, a china dog and cat of most gaudy colours, a whisky bottle and two tumblers, and some winter berries in a jar. there were two pieces of furniture in the room, however, which were placed with an eye to attract attention, and these the girl prized most highly: one was a homemade rocking-chair that had been made out of a barrel and had been dyed, unsuccessfully, with indigo blue, and had across its back a knitted tidy with a large, upstanding, satin bow; the other was a homemade, pine wardrobe that had been rudely decorated by one of the boys of the camp and in which the girl kept her dresses, and was piled up high towards the ceiling with souvenirs of her trip to monterey, including the hat-boxes and wicker basket that had come well nigh to loading down the stage on that memorable journey. but it was upon her bed and bedroom fixings that the greatest attempt at decoration had been made; partitioning off the room, as it were, and at the same time forming a canopy about the bed, were curtains of cheap, gaudy material, through the partings of which there was to be had a glimpse of a daintily-made-up bed, whose pillows were made conspicuous by the hand-made lace that trimmed their slips, as was the bureau-cover, and upon which, in charming disarray, were various articles generally included in a woman's toilet, not to mention the numberless strings of coloured beads and other bits of feminine adornment. a table standing in the centre of the room was covered with a small, white cloth, while falling in folds from beneath this was a faded, red cotton cover. the table was laid for one, the charlotte "rusks" and "lemming" turn-over--each on a separate plate--which nick had been commissioned to procure, earlier in the evening, from the palmetto restaurant, looming up prominently in the centre; and on another plate were some chipped beef and biscuits. a large lamp was suspended from the ceiling in the centre of the room and was quaintly, if not grotesquely, shaded; while other lamps flanked by composition metal reflectors concentrated light upon the girl's bureau, the book-shelf and mantel, leaving the remainder of the room in variant shadow. all in all, what with the fire that was burning cheerily in the grate and the strong odour of steaming coffee, the room had a soft glow and home-like air that was most inviting. in that brief moment that the girl stood in the doorway reviewing her possessions, a multitude of expressions drifted across her countenance, a multitude of possibilities thrilled within her bosom. but however much she would have liked to analyse these strange feelings, she resisted the inclination and gave all her attention to the amusing scene that was being enacted before her eyes. for some time billy jackrabbit had been standing by the table looking greedily down upon the charlotte russes there. he was on the point of putting his finger through the centre of one of them when wowkle--the indian woman-of-all-work of the cabin, who sat upon the floor before the fire singing a lullaby to the papoose strapped to its cradle on her back--turning suddenly her gaze in his direction, was just in time to prevent him. "charlotte rusk--palmetto rest'rant--not take," were her warning words. jackrabbit drew himself up quickly, but he was furious at interference from a source where it was wholly unexpected. "hm--me honest," he growled fiercely, flashing her a malignant look. "huh?" was wowkle's monosyllabic observation delivered in a guttural tone. all of a sudden, jackrabbit's gaze was arrested by a piece of paper which lay upon the floor and in which had been wrapped the charlotte russes; he went over to it quickly, picked it up, opened it and proceeded to collect on his finger the cream that had adhered to it. "huh!" he growled delightedly, holding up his finger for wowkle's inspection. the next instant, however, he slumped down beside her upon the floor, where both the man and the woman sat in silence gazing into the fire. the man was the first to speak. "send me up--polka. say, p'haps me marry you--huh?" he said, coming to the point bluntly. wowkle's eyes were glued to the fire; she answered dully: "me don't know." there was a silence, and then: "me don't know," observed jackrabbit thoughtfully. a moment later, however, he added: "me marry you--how much me get give fatha--huh?" wowkle raised her narrowing eyes to his and told him with absolute indifference: "huh--me don't know." jackrabbit's face darkened. he pondered for a long time. "me don't know--" suddenly he began and then stopped. they had been silent for some moments, when at last he ventured: "me give fatha four dolla"--and here he indicated the number with his two hands, the finger with the cream locking those of the other hand--"and one blanket." wowkle's eyes dilated. "better keep blanket--baby cold," was her ambiguous answer. whereupon jackrabbit emitted a low growl. presently he handed her his pipe, and while she puffed steadily away he fondled caressingly the string of beads which she wore around her neck. "you sing for get those?" he asked. "me sing," she replied dully, beginning almost instantly in soft, nasal tones: "my days are as um grass"-- jackrabbit's face cleared. "huh!" he growled in rejoicement. immediately wowkle edged up close to him and together they continued in chorus: "or as um faded flo'r, um wintry winds sweep o'er um plain, we pe'ish in um ho'r." "but gar," said the man when the song was ended, at the same time taking his pipe away from her, "to-morrow we go missionary--sing like hell--get whisky." but as wowkle made no answer, once more a silence fell upon them. "we pe'ish in um ho'r," suddenly repeated jackrabbit, half-singing, half-speaking the words, and rising quickly started for the door. at the table, however, he halted and inquired: "all right--go missionary to-morrow--get marry--huh?" wowkle hesitated, then rose, and finally started slowly towards him. half-way over she stopped and reminded him in a most apathetic manner: "p'haps me not stay marry to you for long." "huh--seven monse?" queried jackrabbit in the same tone. "six monse," came laconically from the woman. in nowise disconcerted by her answer, the indian now asked: "you come soon?" wowkle thought a moment; then suddenly edging up close to him she promised to come to him after the girl had had her supper. "huh!" fairly roared the indian, his coal-black eyes glowing as he looked at her. it was at this juncture that the girl, after hanging up her lantern on a peg on the outer door, broke in unexpectedly upon the strange pair of lovers. dumbfounded, the woman and the man stood gaping at her. wowkle was the first to regain her composure, and bending over the table she turned up the light. "hello, billy jackrabbit!" greeted the girl, breezily. "fixed it?" "me fix," he grunted. "that's good! now git!" ordered the girl in the same happy tone that had characterised her greeting. slowly, stealthily, jackrabbit left the cabin, the two women, though for different reasons, watching him go until the door had closed behind him. "now, wowkle," said the girl, turning to her with a smile, "it's for two to-night." wowkle's eyelashes twinkled up inquisitorially. "huh?" "yep." wowkle's eyes narrowed to pin-points. "come anotha? never before come anotha," was her significant comment. "never you mind." the girl voiced the reprimand without the twitching of an eyelid; and then as she hung up her cape upon the wardrobe, she added: "pick up the room, wowkle!" the big-hipped, full-bosomed woman did not move but stood in all her stolidness gazing at her mistress like one in a dream; whereupon the girl, exasperated beyond measure at the other's placidity, rushed over to her and shook her so violently that she finally awakened to the importance of her mistress' request. "he's comin' now, now; he's comin'!" the girl was saying, when suddenly her eyes were attracted to a pair of stockings hanging upon the wall; quickly she released her hold on the woman and with a hop, skip and a jump they were down and hid away in her bureau drawer. "my roses--what did you do with them, wowkle?" she asked a trifle impatiently as she fumbled in the drawer. "ugh!" grunted wowkle, and pointed to a corner of the bureau top. "good!" cried the girl, delightedly, as she spied them. the next instant she was busily engaged in arranging them in her hair, pausing only to take a pistol out of her pocket, which she laid on the edge of the bureau. "no offence, wowkle," she went on thoughtfully, a moment later, "but i want you to put your best foot forward when you're waitin' on table to-night. this here company o' mine's a man o' idees. oh, he knows everythin'! sort of a damme style." wowkle gave no sign of having heard her mistress' words, but kept right on tidying the room. now she went over to the cupboard and took down two cups, which she placed on the fireplace base. it was while she was in the act of laying down the last one that the girl broke in suddenly upon her thoughts with: "say, wowkle, did billy jackrabbit really propose to you?" "yep--get marry," spoke up jackrabbit's promised wife without looking up. for some moments the girl continued to fumble among her possessions in the bureau drawer; at last she brought forth an orange-coloured satin ribbon, which she placed in the indian woman's hands with her prettiest smile, saying: "here, wowkle, you can have that to fix up for the weddin'." wowkle's eyes glowed with appreciation. "huh!" she ejaculated, and proceeded to wind the ribbon about the beads around her neck. turning once more to the bureau, the girl took out a small parcel done up in tissue paper and began to unwrap it. "i'm goin' to put on them, if i can git 'em on," she said, displaying a pair of white satin slippers. the next instant she had plumped herself down upon the floor and was trying to encase her feet in a pair of slippers which were much too small for them. "remember what fun i made o' you when you took up with billy jackrabbit?" suddenly she asked with a happy little smile. "what for? sez i. well, p'r'aps you was right. p'r'aps it's nice to have someone you really care for--who belongs to you. p'r'aps they ain't so much in the saloon business for a woman after all, and you don't know what livin' really is until--" she stopped abruptly and threw upon the floor the slipper that refused to give to her foot. "oh, wowkle," she went on, taking up the other slipper, "it's nice to have someone you can talk to, someone you can turn your heart inside out to." at last she had succeeded in getting into one slipper and, rising, tried to stand in it; but it hurt her so frightfully that she immediately sank down upon the floor and proceeded to pat and rub and coddle her foot to ease the pain. it was while she was thus engaged that a knock came upon her cabin door. "oh, lord, here he is!" she cried, panic-stricken, and began to drag herself hurriedly across the room with the intention of concealing herself behind the curtain at the foot of the bed; while wowkle, with unusual celerity, made for the fire-place, where she stood with her back to the door, gazing into the fire. the girl had only gotten half-way across the room, however, when a voice assailed her ears. "miss, miss, kin i--" came in low, subdued tones. "what? the sidney duck?" she cried, turning and seeing his head poked through the window. "beg pardon, miss; i know men ain't lowed up here nohow," humbly apologised that individual; "but, but--" vexed and flustered, the girl turned upon him a trifle irritably with: "git! git, i tell you!" "but i'm in grite trouble, miss," began the sidney duck, tearfully. "the boys are back--they missed that road agent ramerrez and now they're taking it out of me. if--if you'd only speak a word for me, miss." "no--" began the girl, and stopped. the next instant she ordered wowkle to shut the window. "oh, don't be 'ard on me, miss," whimpered the man. the girl flashed him a scornful look. "now, look here, sidney duck, there's one kind o' man i can't stand, an' that's a cheat an' a thief, an' you're it," said the girl, laying great stress upon her words. "you're no better'n that road agent ramerrez, an'--" "but, miss--" interrupted the man. "miss nothin'!" snapped back the girl, tugging away at the slippers; in desperation once more she ordered: "wowkle, close the winder! close the winder!" the sidney duck glowered at her. he had expected her intercession on his behalf and could not understand this new attitude of hers toward him. "public 'ouse jide!" he retorted furiously, and slammed the window. "ugh!" snarled wowkle, resentfully, her eyes full of fire. now at any other time, the sidney duck would have been made to pay dearly for his words, but either the girl did not hear him, or if she did she was too engrossed to heed them; at any rate, the remark passed unnoticed. "i got it on!" presently exclaimed the girl in great joy. nevertheless, it was not without several ouches and moans that, finally, she stood upon her feet. "say, wowkle, how do you think he'll like 'em? how do they look? they feel awful!" she rattled on with a pained look on her face. but whatever would have been the indian woman's observation on the subject of tight shoes in general and those of her mistress in particular, she was not permitted to make it, for the girl, now hobbling over towards the bureau, went on to announce with sudden determination: "say, wowkle, i'm a-goin' the whole hog! yes, i'm a-goin' the whole hog," she repeated a moment later, as she drew forth various bits of finery from a chest of drawers, with which she proceeded to adorn herself before the mirror. taking out first a lace shawl of bold design, she drew it over her shoulders with the grace and ease of one who makes it an everyday affair rather than an occasional undertaking; then she took from a sweet-grass basket a vividly-embroidered handkerchief and saturated it with cologne, impregnating the whole room with its strong odour; finally she brought forth a pair of long, white gloves and began to stretch them on. "does it look like an effort, wowkle?" she asked, trying to get her hands into them. "ugh!" was the indian woman's comment at the very moment that a knock came upon the door. "two plates," she added with a groan, and started for the cupboard. meanwhile the girl continued with her primping and preening, her hands flying back and forth like an automaton from her waist-line to her stockings. suddenly another knock, this time more vigorous, more insistent, came upon the rough boards of the cabin door, which, finally, was answered by the girl herself. xi. "hello!" sang out johnson, genially, as he entered the girl's cabin. at once the girl's audacity and spirit deserted her, and hanging her head she answered meekly, bashfully: "hello!" the man's eyes swept the girl's figure; he looked puzzled, and asked: "are you--you going out?" the girl was plainly embarrassed; she stammered in reply: "yes--no--i don't know--oh, come on in!" "thank you," said johnson in his best manner, and put down his lantern on the table. turning now with a look of admiration in his eyes, at the same time trying to embrace her, he went on: "oh, girl, i'm so glad you let me come . . ." his glance, his tone, his familiarity sent the colour flying to the girl's cheeks; she flared up instantly, her blue eyes snapping with resentment: "you stop where you are, mr. johnson." "ugh!" came from wowkle, at that moment closing the door which johnson had left ajar. at the sound of the woman's voice johnson wheeled round quickly. and then, to his great surprise, he saw that the girl was not alone as he had expected to find her. "i beg your pardon; i did not see anyone when i came in," he said in humble apology, his eyes the while upon wowkle who, having blown out the candle and removed the lantern from the table to the floor, was directing her footsteps towards the cupboard, into which she presently disappeared, closing the door behind her. "but seeing you standing there," went on johnson in explanation, "and looking into your lovely eyes, well, the temptation to take you in my arms was so great that i, well, i took--" "you must be in the habit o' takin' things, mr. johnson," broke in the girl. "i seen you on the road to monterey, goin' an' comin', an' passed a few words with you; i seen you once since, but that don't give you no excuse to begin this sort o' game." the girl's tone was one of reproach rather than of annoyance, and for the moment the young man was left with a sense of having committed an indiscretion. silently, sheepishly, he moved away, while she quietly went over to the fire. "besides, you might have prospected a bit first anyway," presently she went on, watching the tips of her slender white fingers held out transparent towards the fire. just at that moment a log dropped, turning up its glowing underside. wheeling round with a smile, johnson said: "i see how wrong i was." and then, seeing that the girl made no move in his direction, he asked, still smiling: "may i take off my coat?" the girl remained silent, which silence he interpreted as an assent, and went on to make himself at home. "thank you," he said simply. "what a bully little place you have here! it's awfully snug!" he continued delightedly, as his eyes wandered about the room. "and to think that i've found you again when i--oh, the luck of it!" he went over to her and held out his hands, a broad, yet kindly smile lighting up his strong features, making him appear handsomer, even, than he really was, to the girl taking in the olive-coloured skin glowing with healthful pallor. "friends?" he asked. nevertheless the girl did not give him her hand, but quickly drew it away; she answered his question with a question: "are you sorry?" "no, i'm not sorry." to this she made no reply but quietly, disappointedly returned to the fireplace, where she stood in contemplative silence, waiting for his next words. but he did not speak; he contented himself with gazing at the tender girlishness of her, the blue-black eyes, and flesh that was so bright and pure that he knew it to be soft and firm, making him yearn for her. involuntarily she turned towards him, and she saw that in his face which caused her eyes to drop and her breath to come more quickly. "that damme style just catches a woman!" she ejaculated with a little tremour in her voice. then her mood underwent a sudden change in marked contrast to that of the moment before. "look here, mr. johnson," she said, "down at the saloon to-night you said you always got what you wanted. o' course i've got to admire you for that. i reckon women always do admire men for gettin' what they want. but if huggin' me's included, jest count it out." for a breathing space there was a dead silence. "that was a lovely day, girl, on the road to monterey, wasn't it?" of a sudden johnson observed dreamily. the girl's eyes opened upon him wonderingly. "was it?" "well, wasn't it?" the girl thought it was and she laughed. "say, take a chair and set down for a while, won't you?" was her next remark, she herself taking a chair at the table. "thanks," he said, coming slowly towards her while his eyes wandered about the room for a chair. "say, look 'ere!" she shot out, scrutinising him closely; "i ben thinkin' you didn't come to the saloon to see me to-night. what brought you?" "it was fate," he told her, leaning over the table and looking down upon her admiringly. she pondered his answer for a moment, then blurted out: "you're a bluff! it may have been fate, but i tho't you looked kind o' funny when rance asked you if you hadn't missed the trail an' wa'n't on the road to see nina micheltoreña--she that lives in the greaser settlement an' has the name o' shelterin' thieves." at the mention of thieves, johnson paled frightfully and the knife which he had been toying with dropped to the floor. "was it fate or the back trail?" again queried the girl. "it was fate," calmly reiterated the man, and looked her fairly in the eye. the cloud disappeared from the girl's face. "serve the coffee, wowkle!" she called almost instantly. and then it was that she saw that no chair had been placed at the table for him. she sprang to her feet, exclaiming: "oh, lordy, you ain't got no chair yet to--" "careful, please, careful," quickly warned johnson, as she rounded the corner of the table upon which his guns lay. but fear was not one of the girl's emotions. at the display of guns that met her gaze she merely shrugged and inquired placidly: "oh, how many guns do you carry?" not unnaturally she waited for his answer before starting in quest of a chair for him; but instead johnson quietly went over to the chair near the door where his coat lay, hung it up on the peg with his hat, and returning now with a chair, he answered: "oh, several when travelling through the country." "well, set down," said the girl bluntly, and hurried to his side to adjust his chair. but she did not return to her place at the table; instead, she took the barrel rocker near the fireplace and began to rock nervously to and fro. in silence johnson sat studying her, looking her through and through, as it were. "it must be strange living all alone way up here in the mountains," he remarked, breaking the spell of silence. "isn't it lonely?" "lonely? mountains lonely?" the girl's laugh rang out clearly. "besides," she went on, her eyes fairly dancing with excitement, "i got a little pinto an' i'm all over the country on 'im. finest little horse you ever saw! if i want to i can ride right down into the summer at the foothills with miles o' injun pinks jest a-laffin' an' tiger lilies as mad as blazes. there's a river there, too--the injuns call it a water-road--an' i can git on that an' drift an' drift an' smell the wild syringa on the banks. an if i git tired o' that i can turn my horse up-grade an' gallop right into the winter an' the lonely pines an' firs a-whisperin' an' a-sighin'. lonely? mountains lonely, did you say? oh, my mountains, my beautiful peaks, my sierras! god's in the air here, sure! you can see him layin' peaceful hands on the mountain tops. he seems so near you want to let your soul go right on up." johnson was touched at the depth of meaning in her words; he nodded his head in appreciation. "i see, when you die you won't have far to go," he quietly observed. minutes passed before either spoke. then all at once the girl rose and took the chair facing his, the table between them as at first. "wowkle, serve the coffee!" again she called. immediately, wowkle emerged from the cupboard, took the coffee-pot from the fire and filled the cups that had been kept warm on the fireplace base, and after placing a cup beside each plate she squatted down before the fire in watchful silence. "but when it's very cold up here, cold, and it snows?" queried johnson, his admiration for the plucky, quaint little figure before him growing by leaps and bounds. "oh, the boys come up an' digs me out o' my front door like--like--" she paused, her sunny laugh rippling out at the recollection of it all, and johnson noted the two delightful dimples in her rounded cheeks. indeed, she had never appeared prettier to him than when displaying her two rows of perfect, dazzling teeth, which was the case every time that she laughed. "--like a little rabbit, eh?" he supplemented, joining in the laugh. she nodded eagerly. "i get digged out near every day when the mine's shet down an' academy opens," went on the girl in the same happy strain, her big blue eyes dancing with merriment. johnson looked at her wonderingly; he questioned: "academy? here? why, who teaches in your academy?" "me--i'm her--i'm teacher," she told him with not a little show of pride. with difficulty johnson suppressed a smile; nevertheless he observed soberly: "oh, so you're the teacher?" "yep--i learn m'self an' the boys at the same time," she hastened to explain, and dropped a heaping teaspoon of coarse brown sugar into his cup. "but o' course academy's suspended when ther's a blizzard on 'cause no girl could git down the mountain then." "is it so very severe here when there's a blizzard on?" johnson was saying, when there came to his ears a strange sound--the sound of the wind rising in the canyon below. the girl looked at him in blank astonishment--a look that might easily have been interpreted as saying, "where do you hail from?" she answered: "is it . . .? oh, lordy, they come in a minute! all of a sudden you don't know where you are--it's awful!" "not many women--" digressed the man, glancing apprehensively towards the door, but she cut him short swiftly with the ejaculation: "bosh!" and picking up a plate she raised it high in the air the better to show off its contents. "charlotte rusks an' lemming turnover!" she announced, searching his face for some sign of joy, her own face lighting up perceptibly. "well, this is a treat!" cried out johnson between sips of coffee. "have one?" "you bet!" he returned with unmistakable pleasure in his voice. the girl served him with one of each, and when he thanked her she beamed with happiness. "let me send you some little souvenir of to-night"--he said, a little while later, his admiring eyes settled on her hair of burnished gold which glistened when the light fell upon it--"something that you'd just love to read in your course of teaching at the academy." he paused to search his mind for something suitable to suggest to her; at length he questioned: "now, what have you been reading lately?" the girl's face broke into smiles as she answered: "oh, it's an awful funny book about a kepple. he was a classic an' his name was dent." johnson knitted his brows and thought a moment. "he was a classic, you say, and his name was--oh, yes, i know--dante," he declared, with difficulty controlling the laughter that well-nigh convulsed him. "and you found dante funny, did you?" "funny? i roared!" acknowledged the girl with a frankness that was so genuine that johnson could not help but admire her all the more. "you see, he loved a lady--" resumed the girl, toying idly with her spoon. "--beatrice," supplemented johnson, pronouncing the name with the italian accent which, by the way, was not lost on the girl. "how?" she asked quickly, with eyes wide open. johnson ignored the question. anxious to hear her interpretation of the story, he requested her to continue. "he loved a lady--" began the girl, and broke off short. and going over to the book-shelf she took down a volume and began to finger the leaves absently. presently she came back, and fixing her eyes upon him, she went on: "it made me think of it, what you said down to the saloon to-night about livin' so you didn't care what come after. well, he made up his min', this dent--dantes--that one hour o' happiness with her was worth the whole da--" she checked the word on her tongue, and concluded: "outfit that come after. he was willin' to sell out his chances for sixty minutes with 'er. well, i jest put the book down an' hollered." and once more she broke into a hearty laugh. "of course you did," agreed johnson, joining in the laugh. "all the same," he presently added, "you knew he was right." "i didn't!" she contradicted with spirit, and slowly went back to the book-shelf with the book. "you did." "didn't!" "you did." "didn't! didn't!" "i don't--" "you do, you do," insisted the girl, plumping down into the chair which she had vacated at the table. "do you mean to say--" johnson got no further, for the girl, with a naïveté that made her positively bewitching to the man before her, went on as if there had been no interruption: "that a feller could so wind h'ms'lf up as to say, 'jest give me one hour o' your sassiety; time ain't nothin', nothin' ain't nothin' only to be a da--darn fool over you!' ain't it funny to feel like that?" and then, before johnson could frame an answer: "yet, i s'pose there are people that love into the grave an' into death an' after." the girl's voice lowered, stopped. then, looking straight ahead of her, her eyes glistening, she broke out with: "golly, it jest lifts you right up by your bootstraps to think of it, don't it?" johnson was not smiling now, but sat gazing intently at her through half-veiled lids. "it does have that effect," he answered, the wonder of it all creeping into his voice. "yet, p'r'aps he was ahead o' the game. p'r'aps--" she did not finish the sentence, but broke out with fresh enthusiasm: "oh, say, i jest love this conversation with you! i love to hear you talk! you give me idees!" johnson's heart was too full for utterance; he could only think of his own happiness. the next instant the girl called to wowkle to bring the candle, while she, still eager and animated, her eyes bright, her lips curving in a smile, took up a cigar and handed it to him, saying: "one o' your real havanas!" "but i"--began johnson, protestingly. nevertheless the girl lit a match for him from the candle which wowkle held up to her, and, while the latter returned the candle to the mantel, johnson lighted his cigar from the burning match between her fingers. "oh, girl, how i'd love to know you!" he suddenly cried with the fire of love in his eyes. "but you do know me," was her answer, as she watched the smoke from his cigar curl upwards toward the ceiling. "not well enough," he sighed. for a brief second only she was silent. whether she read his thoughts it would be difficult to say; but there came a moment soon when she could not mistake them. "what's your drift, anyway?" she asked, looking him full in the face. "to know you as dante knew the lady--'one hour for me, one hour worth the world,'" he told her, all the while watching and loving her beauty. at the thought she trembled a little, though she answered with characteristic bluntness: "he didn't git it, mr. johnson." "all the same there are women we could die for," insisted johnson, dreamily. the girl was in the act of carrying her cup to her mouth but put it down on the table. leaning forward, she inquired somewhat sneeringly: "mr. johnson, how many times have you died?" johnson did not have to think twice before answering. with wide, truthful eyes he said: "that day on the road to monterey i said just that one woman for me. i wanted to kiss you then," he added, taking her hand in his. and, strange to say, she was not angry, not unwilling, but sweetly tender and modest as she let it lay there. "but, mr. johnson, some men think so much o' kisses that they don't want a second kiss from the same girl," spoke up the girl after a moment's reflection. "doesn't that depend on whether they love her or not? now all loves are not alike," reasoned the man in all truthfulness. "no, but they all have the same aim--to git 'er if they can," contended the girl, gently withdrawing her hand. silence filled the room. "ah, i see you don't know what love is," at length sighed johnson, watching the colour come and go from her face. the girl hesitated, then answered in a confused, uneven voice: "nope. mother used to say, 'it's a tickling sensation at the heart that you can't scratch,' an' we'll let it go at that." "oh, girl, you're bully!" laughed the man, rising, and making an attempt to embrace her. but all of a sudden he stopped and stood with a bewildered look upon his face: a fierce gale was sweeping the mountain. it filtered in through the crevices of the walls and doors; the lights flickered; the curtains swayed; and the cabin itself rocked uncertainly until it seemed as if it would be uprooted. it was all over in a minute. in fact, the wind had died away almost simultaneously with the girl's loud cry of "wowkle, hist the winder!" it is not to be wondered at, however, that johnson looked apprehensively about him with every fresh impulse of the gale. the girl's description of the storms on the mountain was fresh in his mind, and there was also good and sufficient reason why he should not be caught in a blizzard on the top of cloudy mountain! nevertheless, as before, the calm look which he saw on the girl's face reassured him. advancing once more towards her, he stretched out his arms as if to gather her in them. "look out, you'll muss my roses!" she cried, waving him back and dodging wowkle who, having cleared the table, was now making her last trip to the cupboard. "well, hadn't you better take them off then?" suggested johnson, still following her up. "give a man an inch an' he'll be at sank hosey before you know it!" she flung at him over her shoulder, and made straightway for the bureau. but although johnson desisted, he kept his eyes upon her as she took the roses from her hair, losing none of the picture that she made with the light beating and playing upon her glimmering eyes, her rosy cheeks and her parted lips. "is there--is there anyone else?" he inquired falteringly, half-fearful lest there was. "a man always says, 'who was the first one?' but the girl says, 'who'll be the next one?'" she returned, as she carefully laid the roses in her bureau drawer. "but the time comes when there never will be a next one." "no?" "no." "i'd hate to stake my pile on that," observed the girl, drily. she blew up each glove as it came off and likewise carefully laid them away in the bureau drawer. by this time wowkle's soft tread had ceased, her duties for the night were over, and she stood at the table waiting to be dismissed. "wowkle, git to your wigwam!" suddenly ordered her mistress, watching her until she disappeared into the cupboard; but she did not see the indian woman's lips draw back in a half-grin as she closed the door behind her. "oh, you're sending her away! must i go, too?" asked johnson, dismally. "no--not jest yet; you can stay a--a hour or two longer," the girl informed him with a smile; and turning once more to the bureau she busied herself there for a few minutes longer. johnson's joy knew no bounds; he burst out delightedly: "why, i'm like dante! i want the world in that hour, because, you see, i'm afraid the door of this little paradise might be shut to me after-- let's say this is my one hour--the hour that gave me--that kiss i want." "go long! you go to grass!" returned the girl with a nervous little laugh. johnson made one more effort and won out; that is, he succeeded, at last, in getting her in his grasp. "listen," said the determined lover, pleading for a kiss as he would have pleaded for his very life. it was at this juncture that wowkle, silently, stealthily, emerged from the cupboard and made her way over to the door. her feet were heavily moccasined and she was blanketed in a stout blanket of gay colouring. "ugh--some snow!" she muttered, as a gust of wind beat against her face and drove great snow-flakes into the room, fairly taking her breath away. but her words fell on deaf ears. for, oblivious to the storm that was now raging outside, the youthful pair of lovers continued to concentrate their thoughts upon the storm that was raging within their own breasts, the girl keeping up the struggle with herself, while the man urged her on as only he knew how. "why, if i let you take one you'd take two," denied the girl, half-yielding by her very words, if she but knew it. "no, i wouldn't--i swear i wouldn't," promised the man with great earnestness. "ugh--very bad!" was the indian woman's muffled ejaculation as she peered out into the night. but she had promised her lover to come to him when supper was over, and she would not break faith with him even if it were at the peril of her life. the next moment she went out, as did the red light in the girl's lantern hanging on a peg of the outer door. "oh, please, please," said the girl, half-protestingly, half-willingly. but the man was no longer to be denied; he kept on urging: "one kiss, only one." here was an appeal which could no longer be resisted, and though half-frightened by the tone of his voice and the look in his eye, the girl let herself be taken into his arms as she murmured: "'tain't no use, i lay down my hands to you." and so it was that, unconscious of the great havoc that was being wrought by the storm, unconscious of the danger that momentarily threatened their lives, they remained locked in each other's arms. the girl made no attempt to silence him now or withdraw her hands from his. why should she? had he not come to cloudy mountain to woo her? was she not awaiting his coming? to her it seemed but natural that the conventions should be as nothing in the face of love. his voice, low and musical, charged with passion, thrilled through her. "i love you," said the man, with a note of possession that frightened her while it filled her with strange, sweet joy. for months she had dreamed of him and loved him; no wonder that she looked upon him as her hero and yielded herself entirely to her fate. she lifted her eyes and he saw the love in them. she freed her hands from his grasp, and then gave them back to him in a little gesture of surrender. "yes, you're mine, an' i'm yours," she said with trembling lips. "i have lived but for this from the moment that i first saw you," he told her, softly. "me, too--seein' that i've prayed for it day an' night," she acknowledged, her eyes seeking his. "our destinies have brought us together; whatever happens now i am content," he said, pressing his lips once more to hers. a little while later he added: "my darkest hour will be lightened by the memory of you, to-night." xii. the clock, striking the hour of two, filled in a lull that might otherwise have seemed to require conversation. for some minutes, johnson, raised to a higher level of exaltation, even, than was the girl, had been secretly rejoicing in the fate that had brought them together. "it's wonderful that i should have found her at last and won her love," he soliloquised. "we must be fortune's children--she and i." the minutes ticked away and still they were silent. then, of a sudden, with infinite tenderness in his voice, johnson asked: "what is your name, girl--your real name?" "min--minnie; my father's name was smith," she told him, her eyes cast down under delicately tremulous lids. "oh, minnie sm--" "but 'twa'n't his right name," quickly corrected the girl, and unconsciously both rose to their feet. "his right name was falconer." "minnie falconer--well, that is a pretty name," commented johnson; and raising her hand to his lips he pressed them against it. "i ain't sure that's what he said it was--i ain't sure o' anythin' only jest you," she said coyly, burying her face in his neck. "you may well be sure of me since i've loved--" johnson's sentence was cut short, a wave of remorse sweeping over him. "turn your head away, girl, and don't listen to me," he went on, gently putting her away from him. "i'm not worthy of you. don't listen but just say no, no, no, no." the girl, puzzled, was even more so when johnson began to pace the floor. "oh, i know--i ain't good enough for you !" she cried with a little tremour in her voice. "but i'll try hard, hard . . . if you see anythin' better in me, why don't you bring it out, 'cause i've loved you ever since i saw you first, 'cause i knowed that you--that you were the right man." "the right man," repeated johnson, dismally, for his conscience was beginning to smite him hard. "don't laugh!" "i'm not laughing," as indeed he was not. "o' course every girl kind o' looks ahead," went on the girl in explanation. "yes, i suppose," he observed seriously. "an' figgers about bein'--well, oh, you know--about bein' settled. an' when the right man comes, why, she knows 'im, you bet! jest as we both knowed each other standin' on the road to monterey. i said that day, he's good, he's gran' an' he can have me." "i could have you," murmured johnson, meditatively. the girl nodded eagerly. there was a long silence in which johnson was trying to make up his mind to tear himself away from her,--the one woman whom he loved in the world,--for it had been slowly borne in upon him that he was not a fit mate for this pure young girl. nor was his unhappiness lessened when he recalled how she had struggled against yielding to him. at last, difficult though it was, he took his courage in both hands, and said: "girl, i have looked into your heart and my own and now i realise what this means for us both--for you, girl--and knowing that, it seems hard to say good-bye as i should, must and will . . ." at those clear words spoken by lips which failed so utterly to hide his misery, the girl's face turned pale. "what do you mean?" she asked. johnson coloured, hesitated, and finally with a swift glance at the clock, he briefly explained: "i mean it's hard to go and leave you here. the clock reminded me that long before this i should have been on my way. i shouldn't have come up here at all. god bless you, dear," and here their eyes came together and seemed unable to part,--"i love you as i never thought i could . . ." but at johnson's queer look she hastened to inquire: "but it ain't for long you're goin'?" for long! then she had not understood that he meant to go for all time. how tell her the truth? while he pondered over the situation there came to him with great suddenness the thought that, perhaps, after all, life never intended that she should be given to him only to be taken away almost as suddenly; and seized with a desire to hold on to her at any cost, he sprang forward as if to take her in his arms, but before he reached her, he stopped short. "such happiness is not for me," he muttered under his breath; and then aloud he added: "no, no, i've got to go now while i have the courage, i mean." he broke off as suddenly as he had begun, and taking her face in his hands he kissed her good-bye. now, accustomed as was the girl to the strange comings and goings of the men at the camp, it did not occur to her to question him further when he told her that he should have been away before now. moreover, she trusted and loved him. and so it was without the slightest feeling of misgiving that she watched her lover quickly take down his coat and hat from the peg on the wall and start for the door. on the other hand, it must have required not a little courage on the man's part to have torn himself away from this lovely, if unconventional, creature, just as he was beginning to love truly and appreciate her. but, then, johnson was a man of no mean determination! not daring to trust himself to words, johnson paused to look back over his shoulder at the girl before plunging forth into the night. but on opening the door all the multitudinous wild noises of the forests reached his ears: sounds of whispering and rocking storm-tossed pines, sounds of the wind making the rounds of the deep canyon below them, sounds that would have made the blood run cold of a man more daring, even, than himself. like one petrified he stood blinded, almost, by the great drifts of snow that were being driven into the room, while the cabin rocked and shook and the roof cracked and snapped, the lights flickered, smoked, or sent their tongues of fire upward towards the ceiling, the curtains swayed like pendants in the air, and while baskets, boxes, and other small furnishings of the cabin were blown in every direction. but it was the girl's quick presence of mind that saved them from being buried, literally, under the snow. in an instant she had rushed past him and closed both the outer and inner doors of the cabin; then, going over to the window, she tried to look through the heavily frosted panes; but the falling of the sleet and snow, striking the window like fine shot, made it impossible for her to see more than a few inches away. "why, it's the first time i knew that it--" she cut her sentence short and ended with: "that's the way we git it up here! look! look!" whereupon, johnson went over to the window and put his face close to hers on the frosted panes; a great sea of white snow met his gaze! "this means--" he said, turning away from the window and meeting her glance--"surely it doesn't mean that i can't leave cloudy to-night?" "it means you can't get off the mountain to-night," calmly answered the girl. "good lord!" fell from the man's lips. "you can't leave this room to-night," went on the girl, decidedly. "why, you couldn't find your way three feet from this door--you a stranger! you don't know the trail anyway unless you can see it." "but i can't stay here?" incredulously. "why not? why, that's all right! the boys'll come up an' dig us out to-morrow or day after. there's plenty o' wood an' you can have my bed." and with no more ado than that, the girl went over to the bed to remove the covers and make it ready for his occupancy. "i wouldn't think of taking that," protested the man, stoutly, while his face clouded over. the girl felt a thrill at the note of regard in his voice and hastened to explain: "i never use it cold nights; i always roll up in my rug in front of the fire." all of a sudden she broke out into a merry little laugh. "jest think of it stormin' all this time an' we didn't know it!" but johnson was not in a laughing mood. indeed, he looked very grave and serious when presently he said: "but people coming up here and finding me might--" the girl looked up at him in blank amazement. "might what?" and then, while she waited for his answer, two shots in close succession rang out in the night with great distinctness. there was no mistaking the nearness of the sound. instantly scenting trouble and alert at the possibility of danger, johnson inquired: "what's that? what's that?" "wait! wait!" came back from the girl, unconsciously in the same tone, while she strained her ears for other sounds. she did not have long to wait, however, before other shots followed, the last ones coming from further away, so it seemed, and at greater intervals. "they've got a road agent--it's the posse--p'r'aps they've got ramerrez or one o' his band!" suddenly declared the girl, at the same time rushing over to the window for some verification of her words. but, as before, the wind was beating with great force against the frosted panes, and only a vast stretch of snow met her gaze. turning away from the window she now came towards him with: "you see, whoever it is, they're snowed in--they can't get away." johnson knitted his brows and muttered something under his breath which the girl did not catch. again a shot was fired. "another thief crep' into camp," coldly observed the girl almost simultaneously with the report. johnson winced. "poor devil!" he muttered. "but of course, as you say, he's only a thief." in reply to which the girl uttered words to the effect that she was glad he had been caught. "well, you're right," said johnson, thoughtfully, after a short silence; then determinedly and in short jerky sentences, he went on: "i've been thinking that i must go--tear myself away. i have very important business at dawn--imperative business . . ." the girl, who now stood by the table folding up the white cloth cover, watched him out of the corner of her eye, take down his coat from the peg on the wall. "ever sample one o' our mountain blizzards?" she asked as he slipped on his coat. "in five minutes you wouldn't know where you was. your important business would land you at the bottom of a canyon 'bout twenty feet from here." johnson cleared his throat as if to speak but said nothing; whereupon the girl continued: "you say you believe in fate. well, fate has caught up with you--you got to stay here." johnson was strangely silent. he was wondering how his coming there to-night had really come about. but he could find no solution to the problem unless it was in response to that perverse instinct which prompts us all at times to do the very thing which in our hearts we know to be wrong. the girl, meanwhile, after a final creasing of the neatly-folded cover, started for the cupboard, stopping on the way to pick up various articles which the wind had strewn about the room. flinging them quickly into the cupboard she now went over to the window and once more attempted to peer out into the night. but as before, it was of no avail. with a shrug she straightened the curtains at the windows and started for the door. her action seemed to quicken his decision, for, presently, with a gesture of resignation, he threw down his hat and coat on the table and said as if speaking to himself: "well, it is fate--my fate that has always made the thing i shouldn't do so easy." and then, turning to the girl, he added: "come, girl, as you say, if i can't go, i can't. but i know as i stand here that i'll never give you up." the girl looked puzzled. "why, what do you mean?" "i mean," began johnson, pacing the floor slowly. now he stopped by a chair and pointed as though to the falling snow. "suppose we say that's an omen--that the old trail is blotted out and there is a fresh road. would you take it with me a stranger, who says: from this day i mean to be all you'd have me. would you take it with me far away from here and forever?" it did not take the girl long to frame an answer. taking johnson's hand she said with great feeling: "well, show me the girl that would want to go to heaven alone! i'll sell out the saloon--i'll go anywhere with you, you bet!" johnson bent low over her hand and kissed it. the girl's straightforward answer had filled his heart to overflowing with joy. "you know what that means, don't you?" a moment later he asked. sudden joy leapt to her blue eyes. "oh, yes," she told him with a world of understanding in her voice. there was a silence; then she went on reminiscently: "there's a little spanish mission church--i pass it 'most every day. i can look in an' see the light burnin' before the virgin an' see the saints standin' round with glassy eyes an' faded satin slippers. an' i often tho't what they'd think if i was to walk right in to be made--well, some man's wife. it makes your blood like pin-points thinkin' about it. there's somethin' kind o' holy about love, ain't they?" johnson nodded. he had never regarded love in that light before, much less known it. for many moments he stood motionless, a new problem of right and wrong throbbing in his bosom. at last, it being settled that johnson was to pass the night in the girl's cabin, she went over to the bed and, once more, began to make it ready for his occupancy. meanwhile, johnson, seated in the barrel rocker before the fire, watched her with a new interest. the girl had not gone very far with her duties, however, when she suddenly came over to him, plumping herself down on the floor at his feet. "say, did you ever ask any other woman to marry you?" she asked as she leaned far back in his arms. "no," was the man's truthful answer. "oh, how glad i am! take me--ah, take me i don't care where as long as it is with you!" cried the girl in an ecstasy of delight. "so help me, god, i'm going to . . .!" promised johnson, his voice strained, tense. "you're worth something better than me, girl," he added, a moment later, "but they say love works miracles every hour, that it weakens the strong and strengthens the weak. with all my soul i love you, with all my soul i--" the man let his voice die out, leaving his sentence unfinished. suddenly he called: "why, min-minnie!" "i wasn't really asleep," spoke up the girl, blinking sleepily. "i'm jest so happy an' let down, that's all." the next moment, however, she was forced to acknowledge that she was awfully sleepy and would have to say good-night. "all right," said johnson, rising, and kissed her good-night. "that's your bed over there," she told him, pointing in the direction of the curtains. "but hadn't you better take the bed and let me sleep over here?" "not much!" "you're sure you would be more comfortable by the fire--sure, now?" "yes, you bet!" and so it was that johnson decided to pass the night in the girl's canopied bed while she herself, rolled up in a blanket rug before the fire, slept on the floor. "this beats a bed any time," remarked the girl, spreading out the rug smoothly; and then, reaching up for the old patchwork, silk quilt that hung from the loft, she added: "there's one thing--you don't have to make it up in the mornin'." "you're splendid, girl!" laughed johnson. presently, he saw her quietly closet herself in the cupboard, only to emerge a few minutes later dressed for the night. over her white cambric gown with its coarse lace trimming showing at the throat, she wore a red woollen blanket robe held in at the waist by a heavy, twisted, red cord which, to the man who got a glimpse of her as she crossed the room, made her prettier, even, than she had seemed at any time yet. quietly, now, the girl began to put her house in order. all the lights, save the quaintly-shaded lamp that was suspended over the table, were extinguished; that one, after many unsuccessful attempts, was turned down so as to give the right minimum of light which would not interfere with her lover's sleep. then she went over to the door to make sure that it was bolted. outside the wind howled and shrieked and moaned; but inside the cabin it had never seemed more cosey and secure and peaceful to her. "now you can talk to me from your bunk an' i'll talk to you from mine," she said in a sleepy, lazy voice. except for a prodigious yawn which came from the girl there was an ominous quiet hanging over the place that chilled the man. sudden sounds startled him, and he found it impossible to make any progress with his preparations for the night. he was about to make some remark, however, when to his well-attuned ears there came the sound of approaching footsteps. in an instant he was standing in the parting made by the curtains, his face eager, animated, tense. "what's that?" he whispered. "that's snow slidin'," the girl informed him without the slightest trace of anxiety in her voice. "god bless you, girl," he murmured, and retreated back of the curtains. it was only an instant before he was back again with: "why, there is something out there--sounded like people calling," he again whispered. "that's only the wind," she said, adding as she drew her robe tightly about her: "gettin' cold, ain't it?" but, notwithstanding her assurances, johnson did not feel secure, and it was with many misgivings that he now directed his footsteps towards the bed behind the curtains. "good-night!" he said uneasily. "good-night!" unconsciously returned the girl in the same tone. taking off her slippers the girl now put on a pair of moccasins and quietly went over to her bed, where she knelt down and made a silent prayer. "good-night!" presently came from a little voice in the rug. "good-night!" answered the man now settled in the centre of the much-befrilled bed. there was a silence; then the little voice in the rug called out: "say, what's your name?" "dick," whispered the man behind the curtains. "so long, dick!" drowsily. "so long, girl!" dreamily. there was a brief silence; then, of a sudden, the girl bolted upright in bed, and asked: "say, dick, are you sure you don't know that nina micheltoreña?" "sure," prevaricated the man, not without some compunction. whereupon the girl fell back on her pillows and called out contentedly a final "good-night!" xiii. there was no mistaking then--no need to contrast her feeling of anxiety of a few moments ago lest some other woman had preceded her in his affections, with her indifference on former occasions when her admirers had proved faithless, to make the girl realise that she was experiencing love and was dominated by a passion for this man. so that, with no reason whatever in her mind to question the sincerity of johnson's love for her, it would seem as if nothing were wanting to make the girl perfectly happy; that there could be no room in her heart for any feeling other than elation. and yet, curiously enough, the girl could not doze off to sleep. some mysterious force--a vague foreboding of something about to happen--impelled her to open her eyes again and again. it was an odd and wholly new sensation, this conjuring up of distressing spectres, for no girl was given less to that sort of thing; all the same, it was with difficulty that she checked an impulse to cry out to her lover--whom she believed to be asleep--and make him dissipate, by renewed assurances, the mysterious barrier which she felt was hemming her in. as for johnson, the moment that his head had touched the pillows, he fell to thinking of the awkward situation in which he was placed, the many complications in which his heart had involved him and, finally, he found himself wondering whether the woman whom he loved so dearly was also lying sleepless in her rug on the floor. and so it was not surprising that he should spring up the moment that he heard cries from outside. "who's that knockin', i wonder?" although her voice showed no signs of distress or annoyance, the question coming from her in a calm tone, the girl was upon her feet almost before she knew it. in a trice she removed all evidences that she had been lying upon the floor, flinging the pillows and silk coverlet to the wardrobe top. in that same moment johnson was standing in the parting of the curtains, his hand raised warningly. in another moment he was over to the door where, after taking his pistols from his overcoat pockets, he stood in a cool, determined attitude, fingering his weapons. "but some one's ben callin'," the girl was saying, at the very moment when above the loud roaring of the wind another knock was heard on the cabin door. "who can it be?" she asked as if to herself, and calmly went over to the table, where she took up the candle and lit it. springing to her side, johnson whispered tensely: "don't answer--you can't let anyone in--they wouldn't understand." the girl eyed him quizzically. "understand what?" and before he had time to explain, much less to check her, she was standing at the window, candle in hand, peering out into the night. "why, it's the posse!" she cried, wheeling round suddenly. "how did they ever risk it in this storm?" at these words a crushed expression appeared on johnson's countenance; an uncanny sense of insecurity seized him. once more the loud, insistent pounding was repeated, and as before, the outlaw, his hands on his guns, commanded her not to answer. "but what on earth do the boys want?" inquired the girl, seemingly oblivious to what he was saying. indeed, so much so that as the voice of nick rose high above the other sounds of the night, calling, "min-minnie-girl, let us in!" she hurriedly brushed past him and yelled through the door: "what do you want?" again johnson's hand went up imperatively. "don't let him come in!" he whispered. but even then she heard not his warning, but silently, tremulously listened to sonora, who shouted through the door: "say, girl, you all right?" and not until her answering voice had called back her assurance that she was safe did she turn to the man at her side and whisper in a voice that showed plainly her agitation and fear: "jack rance is there! if he was to see you here--he's that jealous i'd be afraid--" she checked her words and quickly put her ear close to the door, the voices outside having become louder and more distinct. presently she spun round on her heel and announced excitedly: "ashby's there, too!" and again she put her ear to the door. "ashby!" the exclamation fell from johnson's lips before he was aware of it. it was impossible to deceive himself any longer--the posse had tracked him! "we want to come in, girl!" suddenly rang out from the well-known voice of nick. "but you can't come in!" shouted back the girl above the noise of the storm; then, taking advantage of a particularly loud howl of the blast, she turned to johnson and inquired: "what will i say? what reason will i give?" serious as was johnson's predicament, he could not suppress a smile. in a surprisedly calm voice he told her to say that she had gone to bed. the girl's eyes flooded with admiration. "why, o' course--that's it," she said, and turned back to the door and called through it: "i've gone to bed, nick! i'm in bed now!" the barkeeper's answer was lost in another loud howl of the blast. soon afterwards, however, the girl made out that nick was endeavouring to convey to her a warning of some kind. "you say you've come to warn me?" she cried. "yes, ramerrez . . .!" "what? say that again?" "ramerrez is on the trail--" "ramerrez's on the trail!" repeated the girl in tones of alarm; and not waiting to hear further she motioned to johnson to conceal himself behind the curtains of the bed, muttering the while: "i got to let 'em in--i can't keep 'em out there on such a night . . ." he had barely reached his place of concealment when the girl slid back the bolts and bade the boys to come in. headed by rance, the men quickly filed in and deposited their lanterns on the floor. it was evident that they had found the storm most severe, for their boots were soaked through and their heavy buffalo overcoats, caps and ear-muffs were covered with snow, which all, save rance, proceeded to remove by shaking their shoulders and stamping their feet. the latter, however, calmly took off his gloves, pulled out a beautifully-creased handkerchief from his pocket, and began slowly to flick off the snow from his elegant mink overcoat before hanging it carefully upon a peg on the wall. after that he went over to the table and warmed his hands over the lighted candle there. meanwhile, sonora, his nose, as well as his hands which with difficulty he removed from his heavy fur mittens, showing red and swollen from the effects of the biting cold, had gone over to the fire, where he ejaculated: "ouf, i'm cold! glad you're safe, girl!" "yes, girl, the polka's had a narrow squeak," observed nick, stamping his feet which, as well as his legs, were wrapped with pieces of blankets for added warmth. unconsciously, at his words, the girl's eyes travelled to the bed; then, drawing her robe snugly about her, and seating herself, she asked with suppressed excitement: "why, nick, what's the matter? what's--" rance took it upon himself to do the answering. sauntering over to the girl, he drawled out: "it takes you a long time to get up, seems to me. you haven't so much on, either," he went on, piercing her with his eyes. smilingly and not in the least disconcerted by the sheriff's remark, the girl picked up a rug from the floor and wound it about her knees. "well?" she interrogated. "well, we was sure that you was in trouble," put in sonora. "my breath jest stopped." "me? me in trouble, sonora?" a little laugh that was half-gay, half-derisive, accompanied her words. "see here, that man ramerrez--" followed up rance with a grim look. "--feller you was dancin' with," interposed sonora, but checked himself instantly lest he wound the girl's feelings. whereupon, rance, with no such compunctions, became the spokesman, a grimace of pleasure spreading over his countenance as he thought of the unpleasant surprise he was about to impart. stretching out his stiffened fingers over the blaze, he said in his most brutal tones: "your polkying friend is none other than ramerrez." the girl's eyes opened wide, but they did not look at the sheriff. they looked straight before her. "i warned you, girl," spoke up ashby, "that you should bank with us oftener." the girl gave no sign of having heard him. her slender figure seemed to have shrunken perceptibly as she stared stupidly, uncomprehendingly, into space. "we say that johnson was--" repeated rance, impatiently. "--what?" fell from the girl's lips, her face pale and set. "are you deaf?" demanded rance; and then, emphasising every word, he rasped out: "the fellow you've been polkying with is the man that has been asking people to hold up their hands." "oh, go on--you can't hand me out that!" nevertheless the girl looked wildly about the room. angrily rance strode over to her and sneered bitingly: "you don't believe it yet, eh?" "no, i don't believe it yet!" rapped out the girl, laying great stress upon the last word. "i know he isn't." "well, he _is_ ramerrez, and he _did_ come to the polka to rob it," retorted the sheriff. all at once the note of resentment in the girl's voice became positive; she flared back at him, though she flushed in spite of herself. "but he didn't rob it!" "that's what gits me," fretted sonora. "he didn't." "i should think it would git you," snapped back the girl, both in her look and voice rebuking him for his words. it was left to ashby to spring another surprise. "we've got his horse," he said pointedly. "an' i never knowed one o' these men to separate from his horse," commented sonora, still smarting under the girl's reprimand. "right you are! and now that we've got his horse and this storm is on, we've got him," said rance, triumphantly. "but the last seen of johnson," he went on with a hasty movement towards the girl and eyeing her critically, "he was heading this way. you seen anything of him?" the girl struggled hard to appear composed. "heading this way?" she inquired, reddening. "so nick said," declared sonora, looking towards that individual for proof of his words. but nick had caught the girl's lightning glance imposing silence upon him; in some embarrassment he stammered out: "that is, he was--sid said he saw 'im take the trail, too." "but the trail ends here," pointed out rance, at the same time looking hard at the girl. "and if she hasn't seen him, where was he going?" at this juncture nick espied a cigar butt on the floor; unseen by the others, he hurriedly picked it up and threw it in the fire. "one o' our dollar havanas! good lord, he's here!" he muttered to himself. "rance is right. where was he goin'?" was the question with which he was confronted by sonora when about to return to the others. "well, i tho't i seen him," evaded nick with considerable uneasiness. "i couldn't swear to it. you see it was dark, an'--moses but the sidney duck's a liar!" at length, ashby decided that the man had in all probability been snowed under, ending confidently with: "something scared him off and he lit out without his horse." which remark brought temporary relief to the girl, for nick, watching her, saw the colour return to her face. unconsciously, during this discussion, the girl had risen to her feet, but only to fall back in her chair again almost as suddenly, a sign of nervousness which did not escape the sharp eye of the sheriff. "how do you know the man's a road agent?" a shade almost of contempt was in the girl's question. sonora breathed on his badly nipped fingers before answering: "well, two greasers jest now were pretty positive before they quit." instantly the girl's head went up in the air. "greasers!" she ejaculated scornfully, while her eyes unfalteringly met rance's steady gaze. "but the woman knew him," was the sheriff's vindictive thrust. the girl started; her face went white. "the woman--the woman d'you say?" "why, yes, it was a woman that first tol' them that ramerrez was in the camp to rob the polka," sonora informed her, though his tone showed plainly his surprise at being compelled to repeat a thing which, he wrongly believed, she already knew. "we saw her at the palmetto," leered rance. "and we missed the reward," frowned ashby; at which rance quickly turned upon the speaker with: "but ramerrez is trapped." there was a moment's startled pause in which the girl struggled with her passions; at last, she ventured: "who's this woman?" the sheriff laughed discordantly. "why, the woman of the back trail," he sneered. "nina micheltoreña! then she does know 'im--it's true--it goes through me!" unwittingly burst from the girl's lips. the sheriff, evidently, found the situation amusing, for he laughed outright. "he's the sort of a man who polkas with you first and then cuts your throat," was his next stab. the girl turned upon him with eyes flashing and retorted: "well, it's my throat, ain't it?" "well i'll be!--" the sheriff's sentence was left unfinished, for nick, quickly pulling him to one side, whispered: "say, rance, the girl's cut up because she vouched for 'im. don't rub it in." notwithstanding, rance, to the girl's query of "how did this nina micheltoreña know it?" took a keen delight in telling her: "she's his girl." "his girl?" repeated the girl, mechanically. "yes. she gave us his picture," went on rance; and taking the photograph out of his pocket, he added maliciously, "with love written on the back of it." a glance at the photograph, which she fairly snatched out of his hands, convinced the girl of the truthfulness of his assertion. with a movement of pain she threw it upon the floor, crying out bitterly: "nina micheltoreña! nina micheltoreña!" turning to ashby with an abrupt change of manner she said contritely: "i'm sorry, mr. ashby, i vouched for 'im." the wells fargo agent softened at the note in the girl's voice; he was about to utter some comforting words to her when suddenly she spoke again. "i s'pose they had one o' them little lovers' quarrels an' that made 'er tell you, eh?" she laughed a forced little laugh, though her heart was beating strangely as she kept on: "he's the kind o' man who sort o' polkas with every girl he meets." and at this she began to laugh almost hysterically. rance, who resented her apologising to anyone but himself, stood scowling at her. "what are you laughing at?" he questioned. "oh, nothin', jack, nothin'," half-cried, half-laughed the girl. "only it's kind o' funny how things come out, ain't it? took in! nina micheltoreña! nice company he keeps--one o' them cachuca girls with eyelashes at half-mast!" once more, she broke out into a fit of laughter. "well, well," she resumed, "an' she sold 'im out for money! ah, jack rance, you're a better guesser'n i am!" and with these words she sank down at the table in an apathy of misery. horror and hatred and hopelessness had possession of her. a fierce look was in her eyes when a moment later she raised her head and abruptly dismissed the boys, saying: "well, boys, it's gittin' late--good-night!" sonora was the first to make a movement towards the door. "come on, boys," he growled in his deep bass voice; "don't you intend to let a lady go to bed?" one by one the men filed through the door which nick held open for them; but when all but himself had left, the devoted little barkeeper turned to the girl with a look full of meaning, and whispered: "do you want me to stay?" "me? oh, no, nick!" and with a "good-night, all! good-night, sonora, an' thank you! good-night, nick!" the girl closed the door upon them. the last that she heard from them was the muffled ejaculation: "oh, lordy, we'll never git down to cloudy to-night!" now the girl slid the bolts and stood with her back against the door as if to take extra precautions to bar out any intrusion, and with eyes that blazed she yelled out: "come out o' that, now! step out there, mr. johnson!" slowly the road agent parted the curtains and came forward in an attitude of dejection. "you came here to rob me," at once began the girl, but her anger made it impossible for her to continue. "i didn't," denied the road agent, quietly, his countenance reflecting how deeply hurt he was by her words. "you lie!" insisted the girl, beside herself with rage. "i don't--" "you do!" "i admit that every circumstance points to--" "stop! don't you give me any more o' that webster unabridged. you git to cases. if you didn't come here to steal you came to the polka to rob it, didn't you?" johnson, his eyes lowered, was forced to admit that such were his intentions, adding swiftly: "but when i knew about you--" he broke off and took a step towards her. "wait! wait! wait where you are! don't you take a step further or i'll--" she made a significant gesture towards her bosom, and then, laughing harshly, went on denouncingly: "a road agent! a road agent! well, ain't it my luck! wouldn't anybody know to look at me that a gentleman wouldn't fall my way! a road agent! a road agent!" and again she laughed bitterly before going on: "but now you can git--git, you thief, you imposer on a decent woman! i ought to have tol' 'em all, but i wa'n't goin' to be the joke o' the world with you behind the curtains an' me eatin' charlotte rusks an' lemming turnovers an' a-polkyin' with a road agent! but now you can git--git, do you hear me?" johnson heard her to the end with bowed head; and so scathing had been her denunciations of his actions that the fact that pride alone kept her from breaking down completely escaped his notice. with his eyes still downcast be said in painful fragments: "one word only--only a word and i'm not going to say anything in defence of myself. for it's all true--everything is true except that i would have stolen from you. i _am_ called ramerrez; i _have_ robbed; i _am_ a road agent--an outlaw by profession. yes, i'm all that--and my father was that before me. i was brought up, educated, thrived on thieves' money, i suppose, but until six months ago when my father died, i did not know it. i lived much in monterey--i lived there as a gentleman. when we met that day i wasn't the thing i am to-day. i only learned the truth when my father died and left me with a rancho and a band of thieves--nothing else--nothing for us all, and i--but what's the good of going into it--the circumstances. you wouldn't understand if i did. i was my father's son; i have no excuse; i guess, perhaps, it was in me--in the blood. anyhow, i took to the road, and i didn't mind it much after the first time. but i drew the line at killing--i wouldn't have that. that's the man that i am, the blackguard that i am. but--" here he raised his eyes and said with a voice that was charged with feeling--"i swear to you that from the moment i kissed you to-night i meant to change, i meant to--" "the devil you did!" broke from the girl's lips, but with a sound that was not unlike a sob. "i did, believe me, i did," insisted the man. "i meant to go straight and take you with me--but only honestly--when i could honestly. i meant to work for you. why, every word you said to me to-night about being a thief cut into me like a knife. over and over again i have said to myself, she must never know. and now--well, it's all over--i have finished." "an' that's all?" questioned the girl with averted face. "no--yes--what's the use . . .?" the girl's anger blazed forth again. "but there's jest one thing you've overlooked explainin', mr. johnson. it shows exactly what you are. it wasn't so much your bein' a road agent i got against you. it's this:" and here she stamped her foot excitedly. "you kissed me--you got my first kiss." johnson hung his head. "you said," kept on the girl, hotly, "you'd ben thinkin' o' me ever since you saw me at monterey, an' all the time you walked straight off an' ben kissin' that other woman." she shrugged her shoulder and laughed grimly. "you've got a girl," she continued, growing more and more indignant. "it's that i've got against you. it's my first kiss i've got against you. it's that nina micheltoreña that i can't forgive. so now you can git--git!" and with these words she unbolted the door and concluded tensely: "if they kill you i don't care. do you hear, i don't care . . ." at those bitter words spoken by lips which failed so utterly to hide their misery, the girl's face became colourless. with the instinct of a brave man to sell his life as dearly as possible, johnson took a couple of guns from his pocket; but the next moment, as if coming to the conclusion that death without the girl would be preferable, he put them back, saying: "you're right, girl." the next instant he had passed out of the door which she held wide open for him. "that's the end o' that--that's the end o' that," she wound up, slamming the door after him. but all the way from the threshold to the bureau she kept murmuring to herself: "i don't care, i don't care . . . i'll be like the rest o' the women i've seen. i'll give that nina micheltoreña cards an' spades. there'll be another hussy around here. there'll be--" the threat was never finished. instead, with eyes that fairly started out of their sockets, she listened to the sound of a couple of shots, the last one exploding so loud and distinct that there was no mistaking its nearness to the cabin. "they've got 'im!" she cried. "well, i don't care--i don't--" but again she did not finish what she intended to say. for at the sound of a heavy body falling against the cabin door she flew to it, opened it and, throwing her arms about the sorely-wounded man, dragged him into the cabin and placed him in a chair. quick as lightning she was back at the door bolting it. with his eyes johnson followed her action. "don't lock that door--i'm going out again--out there. don't bar that door," he commanded feebly, struggling to his feet and attempting to walk towards it; but he lurched forward and would have fallen to the floor had she not caught him. vainly he strove to break away from her, all the time crying out: "don't you see, don't you see, girl--open the door." and then again with almost a sob: "do you think me a man to hide behind a woman?" he would have collapsed except for the strong arms that held him. "i love you an' i'm goin' to save you," the girl murmured while struggling with him. "you asked me to go away with you; i will when you git out o' this. if you can't save your own soul--" she stopped and quickly went over to the mantel where she took down a bottle of whisky and a glass; but in the act of pouring out a drink for him there came a loud rap on the window, and quickly looking round she saw rance's piercing eyes peering into the room. for an instant she paled, but then there flashed through her mind the comforting thought that the sheriff could not possibly see johnson from his position. so, after giving the latter his drink, she waited quietly until a rap at the door told her that rance had left the window when, her eye having lit on the ladder that was held in place on the ceiling, she quickly ran over to it and let it down, saying: "go up the ladder! climb up there to the loft you're the man that's got my first kiss an' i'm goin' to save you . . ." "oh, no, not here," protested johnson, stubbornly. "do you want them to see you in my cabin?" she cried reproachfully, trying to lift him to his feet. "oh, hurry, hurry . . .!" with the utmost difficulty johnson rose to his feet and catching the rounds of the ladder he began to ascend. but after going up a few rounds he reeled and almost fell off, gasping: "i can't make it--no, i can't . . ." "yes, you can," encouraged the girl; and then, simultaneously with another loud knock on the door: "you're the man i love an' you must--you've got to show me the man that's in you. oh, go on, go on, jest a step an' you'll git there." "but i can't," came feebly from the voice above. nevertheless, the next instant he fell full length on the boarded floor of the loft with the hand outstretched in which was the handkerchief he had been staunching the blood from the wound in his side. with a whispered injunction that he was all right and was not to move on any account, the girl put the ladder back in its place. but no sooner was this done than on looking up she caught sight of the stained handkerchief. she called softly up to him to take it away, explaining that the cracks between the boards were wide and it could plainly be seen from below. "that's it!" she exclaimed on observing that he had changed the position of his hand. "now, don't move!" finally, with the lighted candle in her hand, the girl made a quick survey of the room to see that nothing was in sight that would betray her lover's presence there, and then throwing open the door she took up such a position by it that it made it impossible for anyone to get past her without using force. "you can't come in here, jack rance," she said in a resolute voice. "you can tell me what you want from where you are." roughly, almost brutally, rance shoved her to one side and entered. "no more jack rance. it's the sheriff coming after mr. johnson," he said, emphasizing each word. the girl eyed him defiantly. "yes, i said mr. johnson," reiterated the sheriff, cocking the gun that he held in his hand. "i saw him coming in here." "it's more 'n i did," returned the girl, evenly, and bolted the door. "do you think i'd want to shield a man who tried to rob me?" she asked, facing him. ignoring the question, rance removed the glove of his weaponless hand and strode to the curtains that enclosed the girl's bed and parted them. when he turned back he was met by a scornful look and the words: "so, you doubt me, do you? well, go on--search the place. but this ends your acquaintance with the polka. don't you ever speak to me again. we're through." suddenly there came a smothered groan from the man in the loft; rance wheeled round quickly and brought up his gun, demanding: "what's that? what's that?" leaning against the bureau the girl laughed outright and declared that the sheriff was becoming as nervous as an old woman. her ridicule was not without its effect, and, presently, rance uncocked his gun and replaced it in its holster. advancing now to the table where the girl was standing, he took off his cap and shook it before laying it down; then, pointing to the door, his eyes never leaving the girl's face, he went on accusingly: "i saw someone standing out there against the snow. i fired. i could have sworn it was a man." the girl winced. but as she stood watching him calmly remove his coat and shake it with the air of one determined to make himself at home, she cried out tauntingly: "why do you stop? why don't you go on--finish your search--only don't ever speak to me again." at that, rance became conciliatory. "say, min, i don't want to quarrel with you." turning her back on him the girl moved over to the bureau where she snapped out over her shoulder: "go on with your search, then p'r'aps you'll leave a lady to herself to go to bed." the sheriff followed her up with the declaration: "i'm plumb crazy about you, min." the girl shrugged her shoulder. "i could have sworn i saw--i--oh, you know it's just you for me--just you, and curse the man you like better. i--i--even yet i can't get over the queer look in your face when i told you who that man really was." he stopped and flung his overcoat down on the floor, and fixing her with a look he demanded: "you don't love him, do you?" again the girl sent over her shoulder a forced little laugh. "who--me?" the sheriff's face brightened. taking a few steps nearer to her, he hazarded: "say, girl, was your answer final to-night about marrying me?" without turning round the girl answered coyly: "i might think it over, jack." instantly the man's passion was aroused. he strode over to her, put his arms around her and kissed her forcibly. "i love you, i love you, minnie!" he cried passionately. in the struggle that followed, the girl's eyes fell on the bottle on the mantel. with a cry she seized it and raised it threateningly over her head. another second, however, she sank down upon a chair and began to sob, her face buried in her hands. rance regarded her coldly; at last he gave vent to a mirthless laugh, the nasty laugh of a man whose vanity is hurt. "so, it's as bad as that," he sneered. "i didn't quite realise it. i'm much obliged to you. good-night." he snatched up his coat, hesitated, then repeated a little less angrily than before: "good-night!" but the girl, with her face still hidden, made no answer. for a moment he watched the crouching form, the quivering shoulders, then asked, with sudden and unwonted gentleness: "can't you say good-night to me, girl!" slowly the girl rose to her feet and faced him, aversion and pity struggling for mastery. then, as she noted the spot where he was now standing, his great height bringing him so near to the low boards of the loft where her lover was lying that it seemed as though he must hear the wounded man's breathing, all other feelings were swept away by overwhelming fear. with the one thought that she must get rid of him,--do anything, say anything, but get rid of him quickly, she forced herself forward, with extended hand, and said in a voice that held out new promise: "good-night. jack rance,--good-night!" rance seized the hand with an almost fierce gladness in both his own, his keen glance hungrily striving to read her face. then, suddenly, he released her, drawing back his hand with a quick sharpness. "why, look at my hand! there's blood on it!" he said. and even as he spoke, under the yellow flare of the lamp, the girl saw a second drop of blood fall at her feet. like a flash, the terrible significance of it came upon her. only by self-violence could she keep her glance from rising, tell-tale, to the boards above. "oh, i'm so sorry," she heard herself saying contritely, all the time desperately groping to invent a reason; at length, she added futilely: "i must have scratched you." rance looked puzzled, staring at the spatter of red as though hypnotised. "no, there's no scratch there," he contended, wiping off the blood with his handkerchief. "oh, yes, there is," insisted the girl tremulously; "that is, there will be in the mornin'. you'll see in the mornin' that there'll be--" she stopped and stared in frozen terror at the sinister face of the sheriff, who was coolly watching his handkerchief turn from white to red under the slow rain of blood from the loft above. "oho!" he emitted sardonically, stepping back and pointing his gun towards the loft. "so, he's up there!" the girl's fingers clutched his arm, dragging desperately. "no, he isn't, jack--no, he isn't!" she iterated in blind, mechanical denial. with an abrupt movement, rance flung her violently from him, made a grab at the suspended ladder and lowered it into position; then, deaf to the girl's pleadings, harshly ordered johnson to come down, meanwhile covering the source of the blood-drops with his gun. "oh, wait,--wait a minute!" begged the girl helplessly. what would happen if he couldn't obey the summons? he had spent himself in his climb to safety. perhaps he was unconscious, slowly bleeding to death! but even as she tortured herself with fears, the boards above creaked as though a heavy body was dragging itself slowly across them. johnson was evidently doing his best to reach the top of the ladder; but he did not move quickly enough to suit the sheriff. "come down, or i'll--" "oh, just a minute, jack, just a minute!" broke in the girl frantically. "don't shoot!--don't you see he's tryin' to--?" "come down here, mr. johnson!" reiterated the sheriff, with a face inhuman as a fiend. the girl clenched her hands, heedless of the nails cutting into her palms: "won't you wait a moment,--please, wait, jack!" "wait? what for?" the sheriff flung at her brutally, his finger twitching on the trigger. the girl's lips parted to answer, then closed again dumbly,--for it was then that she saw the boots, then the legs of the road agent slide uncertainly through the open trap, fumble clumsily for the rungs of the ladder, then slip and stumble as the weight of the following body came upon them while the weak fingers strained desperately for a hold. the whole heart and soul and mind of the girl seemed to be reaching out impotently to give her lover strength, to hurry him down fast enough to forestall a shot from the sheriff. it seemed hours until the road agent reached the bottom of the ladder, then lurched with unseeing eyes to a chair and, finally, fell forward limply, with his arms and head resting on the table. still dumb with dread, the girl watched rance slowly circle round the wounded man; it was not until the sheriff returned his pistol to its holster that she breathed freely again. "so, you dropped into the polka to-night to play a little game of poker? funny how things change about in an hour or two!" rance chuckled mirthlessly; it seemed to suit his sardonic humour to taunt his helpless rival. "you think you can play poker,--that's your conviction, is it? well, you can play freeze-out as to your chances, mr. johnson of sacramento. come, speak up,--it's shooting or the tree,--which shall it be?" goaded beyond endurance by rance's taunting of the unconscious man, the girl, fumbling in her bosom for her pistol, turned upon him in a sudden, cold fury: "you better stop that laughin', jack rance, or i'll send you to finish it in some place where things ain't so funny." something in the girl's altered tone so struck the sheriff that he obeyed her. he said nothing, but on his lips were the words, "by heaven, the girl means it!" and his eyes showed a smouldering admiration. "he doesn't hear you,--he's out of it. but me--me--i hear you--i ain't out of it," the girl went on in compelling tones. "you're a gambler; he was, too; well, so am i." she crossed deliberately to the bureau, and laid her pistol away in the drawer, rance meanwhile eyeing her with puzzled interest. returning, she went on, incisively as a whip lash: "i live on chance money, drink money, card money, saloon money. we're gamblers,--we're all gamblers!" she paused, an odd expression coming over her face,--an expression that baffled rance's power to read. presently she resumed: "now, you asked me to-night if my answer was final,--well, here's your chance. i'll play you the game,--straight poker. it's two out o' three for me. hatin' the sight o' you, it's the nearest chance you'll ever get for me." "do you mean--" began rance, his hands resting on the table, his hawk-like glance burning into her very thoughts. "yes, with a wife in noo orleans all right," she interrupted him feverishly. "if you're lucky,--you'll git 'im an' me. but if you lose,--this man settin' between us is mine--mine to do with as i please, an' you shut up an' lose like a gentleman." "you must be crazy about him!" the words seemed wrung from the sheriff against his will. "that's my business!" came like a knife-cut from the girl. "do you know you're talkin' to the sheriff?" "i'm talkin' to jack rance, the gambler," she amended evenly. "you're right,--and he's just fool enough to take you up," returned rance with sudden decision. he looked around him for a chair; there was one near the table, and the girl handed it to him. with one hand he swung it into place before the table, while with the other he jerked off the table-cover, and flung it across the room. johnson neither moved nor groaned, as the edge slid from beneath his nerveless arms. "you and the cyards have got into my blood. i'll take you up," he said, seating himself. "your word," demanded the girl, leaning over the table, but still standing. "i can lose like a gentleman," returned rance curtly; then, with a swift seizure of her hand, he continued tensely, in tones that made the girl shrink and whiten, "i'm hungry for you, min, and if i win, i'll take it out on you as long as i have breath." a moment later, the girl had freed her hand from his clasp, and was saying evenly, "fix the lamp." and while the sheriff was adjusting the wick that had begun to flare up smokily, she swiftly left the room, saying casually over her shoulder that she was going to fetch something from the closet. "what you goin' to get?" he called after her suspiciously. the girl made no reply. rance made no movement to follow her, but instead drew a pack of cards from his pocket and began to shuffle them with practiced carelessness. but when a minute had passed and the girl had not returned, he called once more, with growing impatience, to know what was keeping her. "i'm jest gettin' the cards an' kind o' steadyin' my nerves," she answered somewhat queerly through the doorway. the next moment she had returned, quickly closing the closet door behind her, blew out her candle, and laying a pack of cards upon the table, said significantly: "we'll use a fresh deck. there's a good deal depends on this, jack." she seated herself opposite the sheriff and so close to the unconscious form of the man she loved that from time to time her left arm brushed his shoulder. rance, without protest other than a shrug, took up his own deck of cards, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and stowed them away in his pocket. it was the girl who spoke first: "are you ready?" "ready? yes. i'm ready. cut for deal." with unfaltering fingers, the girl cut. of the man beside her, dead or dying, she must not, dared not think. for the moment she had become one incarnate purpose: to win, to win at any cost,--nothing else mattered. rance won the deal; and taking up the pack he asked, as he shuffled: "a case of show-down?" "show-down." "cut!" once more peremptorily from rance; and then, when she had cut, one question more: "best two out of three?" "best two out of three." swift, staccato sentences, like the rapid crossing of swords, the first preliminary interchange of strokes before the true duel begins. rance dealt the cards. before either looked at them, he glanced across at the girl and asked scornfully, perhaps enviously: "what do you see in him?" "what do you see in me?" she flashed back instantly, as she picked up her cards; and then: "what have you got?" "king high," declared the gambler. "king high here," echoed the girl. "jack next," and he showed his hand. "queen next," and the girl showed hers. "you've got it," conceded the gambler, easily. then, in another tone, "but you're making a mistake--" "if i am, it's my mistake! cut!" rance cut the cards. the girl dealt them steadily. then, "what have you got?" she asked. "one pair,--aces. what have you?" "nothing," throwing her cards upon the table. with just a flicker of a smile, the sheriff once more gathered up the pack, saying smoothly: "even now,--we're even." "it's the next hand that tells, jack, ain't it?" "yes." "it's the next hand that tells me,--i'm awfully sorry,--" the words seemed to come awkwardly; her glance was troubled, almost contrite, "at any rate, i want to say jest now that no matter how it comes out--" "cut!" interjected rance mechanically. "--that i'll always think of you the best i can," completed the girl with much feeling. "an' i want you to do the same for me." silently, inscrutably, the gambler dealt the ten cards, one by one. but as the girl started to draw hers toward her, his long, thin fingers reached across once more and closed not ungently upon hand and cards. "the last hand, girl!" he reminded her. "and i've a feeling that i win,--that in one minute i'll hold you in my arms." and still covering her fingers with his own, he stole a glance at his cards. "i win," he announced, briefly, his eyes alone betraying the inward fever. he dropped the cards before her on the table. "three kings,--and the _last hand_!" suddenly, as though some inward cord had snapped under the strain, the girl collapsed. limply she slid downward in her chair, one groping hand straying aimlessly to her forehead, then dropping of its own weight. "quick, jack,--i'm ill,--git me somethin'!" the voice trailed off to nothingness as the drooping eyelids closed. in real consternation, the sheriff sprang to his feet. in one sweeping glance his alert eye caught the whisky bottle upon the mantel. "all right, girl, i'll fix you in no time," he said cheeringly over his shoulder. but where the deuce did she keep her tumblers? the next minute he was groping for them in the dark of the adjoining closet and softly cursing himself for his own slowness. instantaneously, the girl came to life. the unturned cards upon the table vanished with one lightning movement; the girl's hand disappeared beneath her skirts, raised for the moment knee-high; then the same, swift reverse motion, and the cards were back in place, while the girl's eyes trembled shut again, to hide the light of triumph in them. a smile flickered on her lips as the sheriff returned with the glass and bottle. "never mind,--i'm better now," her lips shaped weakly. the sheriff set down the bottle, and put his arm around the girl with a rough tenderness. "oh, you only fainted because you lost," he told her. averting her gaze, the girl quietly disengaged herself, rose to her feet and turned her five cards face upwards. "no, jack, it's because i've won,--three aces and a pair." the sheriff shot one glance at the girl, keen, searching. then, without so much as the twitch of an eyelid, he accepted his defeat, took a cigar from his pocket and lit it, the flame of the match revealing no expression other than the nonchalance for which he was noted; then, picking up his hat and coat he walked slowly to the door. here he halted and wished her a polite good-night--so ceremoniously polite that at any other time it would have compelled her admiration. pale as death and almost on the point of collapse, the girl staggered back to the table where the wounded road agent was half-sitting, half-lying. thrusting her hand now into the stocking from which she had obtained the winning, if incriminating, cards, she drew forth those that remained and scattered them in the air, crying out hysterically: "three aces an' a pair an' a stockin' full o' pictures--but his life belongs to me!" xiv. conscious-stricken at the fraud that she had imposed upon the gambler, the girl lived a lifetime in the moments that followed his departure. with her face buried in her hands she stood lost in contemplation of her shameful secret. a sound--the sound of a man in great pain checked her hysterical sobs. dazed, she passed her hand over her face as if to clear away the dark shades that were obstructing her vision. another groan--and like a flash she was down on her knees lavishing endearments upon the road agent. never before, it is true, had the girl had any experience in gun-shot wounds. she had played the part of nurse, however, more than once when the boys met with accidents at the mines. for the women of the california camps at that time had endless calls upon them. it was a period for sacrifices innumerable, and help and sympathy were never asked that they were not freely given. so, if the girl did not know the very best thing to do, she knew, at least, what not to do, and it was only a few minutes before she had cut the coat from his back. the next thing to be done--the dragging of the unconscious man to the bed--was hard work, of course, but being strong of arm, as well as stout of heart, she at last accomplished it. now she cut away his shirt in order to find the wound, which proved to be in his breast. quickly then she felt with her fingers in an endeavour to find the ball, but in this she was unsuccessful. so after a moment's deliberation she made up her mind that the wound was a flesh one and that the ball was anywhere but in the man's body--a diagnosis that was largely due to the cheerful optimism of her nature and which, fortunately, proved to be true. presently she went to a corner of the room and soon returned with a basin of water and some hastily torn bandages. for a good fifteen minutes after that she washed the gash and, finally, bandaged it as well as she knew how. and now, having done all that her knowledge or instinct prompted, she drew up a chair and prepared to pass the rest of the night in watching by his side. for an hour or so he slept the sleep of unconsciousness. in the room not a sound could be heard, but outside the storm still roared and raged. it was anything but an easy or cheerful situation: here she was alone with a wounded, if not dying, man; and she well knew that, unless there came an abatement in the fury of the storm, it might be days before anyone could climb the mountain. true, the indians were not far off, but like as not they would remain in their wigwam until the sun came forth again. in the matter of food there was a scant supply, but probably enough to tide them over until communication could be had with the polka. for three days she watched over him, and all the time the storm continued. on the third day he became delirious, and that was the night of her torture. despite a feeling that she was taking an unfair advantage of him, the girl strained her ears to catch a name which, in his delirium, was constantly on his lips; but she could not make it out. all that she knew was that it was not her name that he spoke, and it pained her. she had given him absolute faith and trust and, already, she was overwhelmed with the fierce flames of jealousy. it was a new sensation, this being jealous of anyone, and it called forth a passionate resentment. in such moments she would rise and flee to the other end of the room until the whispered endearments had ceased. then she would draw near again with flushes of shame on her cheeks for having heeded the sayings of an irresponsible person, and she would take his head in her lap and, caressing him the while, would put cold towels on his heated brow. dawn of the fourth day saw the girl still pale and anxious, though despair had entirely left her; for the storm was over and colour and speech had come back to the man early that morning. love and good nursing, not to speak of some excellent whisky that she happened to have stored away in her cabin, had pulled him through. with a sigh of relief she threw herself down on the rug for a much-needed rest. the man woke just before the sun rose. his first thought, that he was home in the foothills, was dissipated by the sight of the snow ranges. through the window of the cabin, as far as the eye could see, nothing of green was visible. snow was everywhere; everything was white, save at the eastern horizon where silver was fast changing into rose and rose to a fiery red as the fast-rising sun sent its shafts over the snow-coated mountains. and now there came to him a full realisation of what had happened and where he was. to his amazement, though, he was almost without pain. that his wound had been dressed he was, of course, well aware for when he attempted to draw back still further the curtain at the window the movement strained the tight bandage, and he was instantly made conscious of a twinge of pain. nevertheless, he persevered, for he wisely decided that it would be well to reconnoitre, to familiarise himself, as much as possible, with the lay of the land and find out whether the trail that he had followed to reach the cabin which, he recalled, was perched high up above a ravine, was the only means of communication with the valley below. it was a useless precaution, for the snow would have wholly obliterated any such trail had there been one and, soon realising the fact, he fell back exhausted by his effort on the pillows. a half hour passed and the man began to grow restless. he had, of course, no idea whatever of the length of time he had been in the cabin, and he knew that he must be thinking of an immediate escape. in desperation, he tried to get out of bed, but the task was beyond his power. at that a terrible feeling of hopelessness assailed him. his only chance was to reach the valley where he had little fear of capture; but wounded, as he was, that seemed out of the question, and he saw himself caught like a rat in a trap. in an access of rage at the situation in which he was placed he made another effort to raise himself up on his elbow and peer through the window at the sierras. the noise that he made, slight though it was, awoke the girl. in an instant she was at his bedside drawing the curtain over the window. "what you thinkin' of?" she asked. "at any moment--jest as soon as the trail can be cleared--there'll be someone of the boys up here to see how i've pulled through. they mustn't see you . . ." forcibly, but with loving tenderness, she put him back among his pillows and seated herself by the bed. an awkward silence followed. for now that the man was in his right senses it was borne in upon her that he might remember that she had fed him, given him drink and fondled him. it was a situation embarrassing to both. neither knew just what to say or how to begin. at length, the voice from the bed spoke: "how long have i been here?" "three days." "and you have nursed me all that--" "you mustn't talk," warned the girl. "it's dangerous in more ways than one. but if you keep still no one'll suspect that you're here." "but i must know what happened," he insisted with increasing excitement. "i remember nothing after i came down the ladder. the sheriff--rance-- what's become . . .?" the girl chided him with gentle authority. "you keep perfectly still--you mustn't say nothin' 'til you've rested. everythin's all right an' you needn't worry a bit." but then seeing that he chafed at this, she added: "well, then, i'll tell you all there is to know." and then followed an account of the happenings of that night. it was not a thoroughly truthful tale, for in her narrative she told him only what she thought was necessary and good for him to know, keeping the rest to herself. and when she had related all that there was to tell she insisted upon his going to sleep again, giving him no opportunity whatsoever to speak, since she left his bedside after drawing the curtains. unwillingly the man lay back and tried to force himself to be patient; but he fretted at the enforced quietude and, as a result, sleep refused to come to him. from time to time he could hear the girl moving noiselessly about the room. the knowledge that she was there gave him a sense of security, and he began to let his thoughts dwell upon her. no longer did he doubt but what she was a real influence now; and the thought had the effect of making him keenly alive to what his life had been. it was not a pleasant picture that he looked back upon, now that he had caught a glimpse of what life might mean with the girl at his side. from the moment that he had taken her in his arms he realised to the full that his cherished dream had come true; he realised, also, that there was now but one answer to the question of keeping to the oath given to his father, and that was that gratitude--for he had guessed rightly, though she had not told him, that she had saved him from capture by the sheriff and his posse--demanded that he should put an end to his vocation and devote his life henceforth to making her happy. once or twice while thus communing with himself he fancied that he heard voices. it seemed to him that he recognised nick's voice. but whoever it was, he spoke in whispers, and though the wounded man strove to hear, he was unsuccessful. after a while he heard the door close and then the tension was somewhat relaxed, for he knew that she was keeping his presence in her cabin a secret with all the wiles of a clever and loving woman. and more and more he determined to gain an honoured place for her in some community--an honoured place for himself and her. vague, very vague, of course, were the new purposes and plans that had so suddenly sprang up because of her influence, but the desire to lead a clean life had touched his heart, and since his old calling had never been pleasing to him, he did not for a moment doubt his ability to succeed. the morning was half gone when the girl returned to her patient. then, in tones that did her best to make her appear free from anxiety, she told him that it was the barkeeper, as he had surmised, with whom she had been talking and that she had been obliged to take him into her confidence. the man made no comment, for the situation necessarily was in her hands, and he felt that she could be relied upon not to make any mistake. four people, he was told, knew of his presence in the cabin. so far as rance was concerned she had absolute faith in his honour, gambler though he was; there was nothing that nick would not do for her; and as for the indians, the secret was sure to be kept by them, unless jackrabbit got hold of some whisky--a contingency not at all likely, for nick had promised to see to that. in fact, all could be trusted to be as silent as the grave. the invalid had listened intently; nevertheless, he sighed: "it's hard to lie here. i don't want to be caught _now_." the girl smiled at the emphasis on the last word, for she knew that it referred to her. furthermore, she had divined pretty well what had been his thoughts concerning his old life; but, being essentially a woman of action and not words, she said nothing. a moment or so later he asked her to read to him. the girl looked as she might have looked if he had asked her to go to the moon. notwithstanding, she got up and, presently, returned with a lot of old school-books, which she solemnly handed over for his inspection. the invalid smiled at the look of earnestness on the girl's face. "not these?" he gently inquired. "where is the dante you were telling me about?" once more the girl went over to the book-shelf; when she came back she handed him a volume, which he glanced over carefully before showing her the place where he wished her to begin to read to him. at first the girl was embarrassed and stumbled badly. but on seeing that he seemed not to notice it she gained courage and acquitted herself creditably, at least, so she flattered herself, for she could detect, as she looked up from time to time, no expression other than pleasure on his face. it may be surmised, though, that johnson had not merely chosen a page at random; on the contrary, when the book was in his hand he had quickly found the lines which the girl had, so to say, paraphrased, and he was intensely curious to see how they would appeal to her. but now, apparently, she saw nothing in the least amusing in them, nor in other passages fully as sentimental. in fact, no comment of any kind was forthcoming from her--though johnson was looking for it and, to tell the truth, was somewhat disappointed--when she read that dante had probably never spoken more than twice to beatrice and his passion had no other food than the mists of his own dreaming. however, it was different when,--pausing before each word after the manner of a child,--she came to a passage of the poet's, and read: "'in that moment i say most truly that the spirit of life, which hath its dwelling in the most secret chambers of the heart, began to tremble so violently that the least pulse of my body shook herewith, and in the trembling it said these words: "here is a deity stronger than i who, coming shall rule over me."'" at that the girl let the book fall and, going down on her knees and taking both his hands in hers, she raised to him a look so full of adoring worship that he felt himself awed before it. "that 'ere dante ain't so far off after all. i know jest how he feels. oh, i ain't fit to read to you, to talk to you, to kiss you." nevertheless, he saw to it that she did. after this he told her about the inferno, and she listened eagerly to his description of the unfortunate characters, though she declared, when he explained some of the crimes that they had committed, that they "got only what was rightly comin' to them." the patient could hardly suppress his amusement. dante was discarded and instead they told each other how much love there was in that little cabin on cloudy mountain. the days that followed were all much like this one. food was brought up from the polka and, by degrees, the patient's strength came back. and it was but natural that he became so absorbed in his newly-found happiness that he gradually was losing all sense of danger. late one night, however, when he was asleep, an incident happened that warned the girl that it was necessary to get her lover away just as soon as he was able to ride a horse. lying on the rug in front of the fire she had been thinking of him when, suddenly, her quick ear, more than ever alert in these days, caught the sound of a stealthy footstep outside the cabin. with no fear whatever except in relation to the discovery of her lover, the girl went noiselessly to the window and peered out into the darkness. a man was making signs that he wished to speak with her. for a moment she stood watching in perplexity, but almost instantly her instinct told her that one of that race, for she believed the man to be a mexican, would never dare to come to her cabin at that time of night unless it was on a friendly errand. so putting her face close to the pane to reassure herself that she had not been mistaken in regard to his nationality, she then went to the door and held it wide open for the man to enter, at the same time putting her finger to her lips as a sign that he should be very still. "what are you doin' here? what do you want?" she asked in a low voice, at the same time leading him to the side of the room further away from her lover. jose castro's first words were in spanish, but immediately perceiving that he failed to make her understand, he nodded comprehendingly, and said: "all righta--i espeak engleesh--i am jose castro too well known to the _maestro_. i want to see 'im." the girl's intuition told her that a member of the band stood before her, and she regarded him suspiciously. not that she believed that he was disloyal and had come there with hostile intent, but because she felt that she must be absolutely sure of her ground before she revealed the fact that johnson was in the cabin. she let some moments pass before she replied: "i don't know nothin' about your master. who is he?" an indulgent smile crossed the mexican's face. "that ver' good to tella other peoples; but i know 'im here too much. you trusta me--me quita safe." all this was said with many gestures and an air that convinced the girl that he was speaking the truth. but since she deemed it best that the invalid should be kept from any excitement, she resolved to make the mexican divulge to her the nature of his important errand. "how do you know he's here?" she began warily. "what do you want 'im for?" the mexican's shifty eyes wandered all over the room as if to make certain that no inimical ears were listening; then he whispered: "i tella you something--you lika the _maestro_?" unconsciously the girl nodded, which evidently satisfied the mexican, for he went on: "you thinka well of him--yees. now i tella you something. the man pedro 'e no good. 'e wisha the reward--the money for ramerrez. 'e and the woman--woman no good--tell meester ashby they thinka 'im 'ere." the girl felt the colour leave her cheeks, though she made a gesture for him to proceed. "pedro not 'ere any longer," smiled the mexican. "me senda 'im to the devil. serva 'im right." "an' the woman?" gasped the girl. "she gone--got away--monterey by this time," replied castro with evident disappointment. "but meester ashby 'e know too much--'ees men everywhere searched the camp--no safa 'ere now. to-norrow--" castro stopped short; the next instant with a joyful gleam in his eyes he cried out: "_maestro_!" "castro's right, girl," said johnson, who had waked and heard the mexican's last words; "it is not safe a moment more here, and i must go." with a little cry of loving protest the girl abruptly left the men to talk over the situation and sought the opposite side of the room. there, her eyes half-closed and her lips pressed tightly together she gave herself up to her distressing fears. after a while it was made plain to her that she was being brought into the conversation, for every now and then castro would look curiously at her; at length, as if it had been determined by them that nothing should be undertaken without her advice, johnson, followed by his subordinate, came over to her and related in detail all the startling information that castro had brought. quietly the girl listened and, in the end, it was agreed between them that it would be safer for the men not to leave the cabin together, but that castro should go at once with the understanding that he should procure horses and wait for the master at a given point across the ravine. it was decided, too, that there was not a moment to be lost in putting their plan into execution. in consequence, castro immediately took his departure. the hour that passed before the time set for johnson to leave the cabin was a most trying one for both of them. it was not so hard on the man, of course, for he was excited over the prospect of escaping; but the girl, whose mind was filled with the dread of what might happen to him, had nothing to sustain her. despite his objection, she had stipulated that, with jackrabbit as a companion, she should accompany him to the outskirts of the camp. and so, at the moment of departure, throwing about her a cloak of some rough material, she went up to her lover and said with a quiver in her voice: "i'm ready, dick, but i'm a-figurin' that i can't let you go alone--you jest got to take me below with you, an' that's all there is to it." the man shook his head. "there's very little risk, believe me. i'll join castro and ride all through the night. i'll be down below in no time at all. but we must be going, dear." the man passed through the door first. but when it came the girl's turn she hesitated, for she had seen a dark shadow flit by the window. it was as if someone had been stealthily watching there. in another moment, however, it turned out to be jackrabbit and, greatly relieved, the girl whispered to johnson that he was to descend the trail between the indian and herself, and that on no account was he to utter a word until she gave him permission. for another moment or so they stood in silence; johnson, appreciating fully what were the girl's feelings, did not dare to whisper even a word of encouragement to her. at last, she ordered the indian to lead the way, and they started. the trail curved and twisted around the mountain, and in places they had to use the greatest care lest a misstep should carry them over a precipice with a drop of hundreds of feet. it was a perilous descent, inasmuch as the path was covered with snow. moreover, it was necessary that as little noise as possible should be made while they were making their way past the buildings of the camp below, for the mexican had not been wrong when he stated that ashby's men were quartered at, or in the immediate vicinity of, the palmetto. fortunately, they passed through without meeting anyone, and before long they came to the edge of the plateau beneath which was the ravine which johnson had to cross to reach the spot where it had been agreed that castro should be waiting with horses for his master. it was also the place where the girl was to leave her lover to go on alone, and so they halted. a few moments passed without either of them speaking; at length, the man said in as cheery a voice as he could summon: "i must leave you here. i remember the way well. all danger is past." the girl's lips were quivering; she asked: "an' when will you be back?" the man noted her emotion, and though he himself was conscious of a choking sensation he contrived to say in a most optimistic tone: "in two weeks--not more than two weeks. it will take all that time to arrange things at the rancho. as it is, i hardly see my way clear to dismissing my men--you see, they belong to me, almost, and--but i'll do so, never fear. no power on earth could make me take up the old life again." the girl said nothing in reply; instead she put both her arms around his neck and remained a long time in his embrace. at last, summoning up all her fortitude she put him resolutely from her, and whispered: "when you are ready, come. you must leave me now." and with a curt command to the indian she fled back into the darkness. for an instant the road agent's eyes followed the direction that she had taken; then, his spirits rising at the thought that his escape was now well-nigh assured, he turned and plunged down the ravine. xv. as has been said, it was a custom of the miners, whenever a storm made it impossible for them to work in the mines, to turn the dance-hall of the polka saloon into an academy, the post of teacher being filled by the girl. it happened, therefore, that early the following morning the men of cloudy mountain camp assembled in the low, narrow room with its walls of boards nailed across inside upright beams--a typical miners' dance-hall of the late forties--which they had transformed into a veritable bower, so eager were they to please their lovely teacher. everyone was in high spirits, rance alone refraining from taking any part whatsoever in the morning's activities; dejectedly, sullenly, he sat tilted back in an old, weather-beaten, lumber chair before the heavily-dented, sheet-iron stove in a far corner of the room, gazing abstractedly up towards the stove's rusty pipe that ran directly through the ceiling; and what with his pale, waxen countenance, his eyes red and half-closed for the want of sleep, his hair ruffled, his necktie awry, his waistcoat unfastened, his boots unpolished, and the burnt-out cigar which he held between his white, emaciated fingers, he was not the immaculate-looking rance of old, but presented a very sad spectacle indeed. outside, through the windows,--over which had been hung curtains of red and yellow cotton,--could be seen the green firs on the mountain, their branches dazzling under their burden of snow crystals; and stretching out seemingly interminably until the line of earth and sky met were the great hills white with snow except in the spots where the wind had swept it away. but within the little, low dance-hall, everywhere were evidences of festivity and good cheer, the walls being literally covered with pine boughs and wreaths of berries, while here and there was an eagle's wing or an owl's head, a hawk or a vulture, a quail or a snow-bird, not to mention the big, stuffed game cock that was mounted on a piece of weather-beaten board, until it would seem as if every variety of bird native to the sierra mountains was represented there. grouped together on one side of the wall were twelve buck horns, and these served as a sort of rack for the miners to hang their hats and coats during the school session. several mottoes, likewise upon the wall, were intended to attract the students' attention, the most conspicuous being: "live and learn" and "god bless our school." a great bear's skin formed a curtain between the dance-hall and the saloon, while upon the door-frame was a large hand rudely painted, the index-finger outstretched and pointing to the next room. it said: "to the bar." it was, however, upon the teacher's desk--a whittled-up, hand-made affair which stood upon a slightly-raised platform--that the boys had outdone themselves in the matter of decoration. garlanded both on top and around the sides with pine boughs and upon the centre of which stood a tall glass filled with red and white berries, it looked not unlike a sacrificial altar which, in a way, it certainly was. a box that was intended for a seat for the teacher was also decorated with pine branches; while several cheap, print flags adorned the primitive iron holder of the large lamp suspended from the ceiling in the centre of the room. altogether it was a most festive-looking academy that was destined to meet the teacher's eye on this particular morning. for some time nick had been standing near the window gazing in the direction of the girl's cabin. turning, suddenly, to rance, the only other occupant of the room, he remarked somewhat sadly: "i'd be willin' to lose the profits of the bar if we could git back to a week ago--before johnson walked into this room." at the mention of the road agent's name rance's eyes dropped to the floor. it required no flash of inspiration to tell him that things would never be what they had been. "johnson," he muttered, his face ashen white and a sound in his throat that was something like a groan. "a week--a week in her cabin--nursed and kissed . . ." he finished shortly. nick had been helping himself to a drink; he wheeled swiftly round, confronting him. "oh, say, rance, she--" rance took the words out of his mouth. "never kissed him! you bet she kissed him! it was all i could do to keep from telling the whole camp he was up there." his eyes blazed and his hands tightened convulsively. "but you didn't . . ." nick broke in on him quickly. "if i hadn't been let into the game by the girl i'd a thought you were a level sheriff lookin' for him. rance, you're my ideal of a perfect gent." rance braced up in his chair. "what did she see in that sacramento shrimp, will you tell me?" presently he questioned, contempt showing on every line of his face. the little barkeeper did not answer at once, but filled a glass with whisky which he handed to him. "well, you see, i figger it out this way, boss," at last he answered, meeting him face to face frankly, earnestly, his foot the while resting on the other's chair. "love's like a drink that gits a hold on you an' you can't quit. it's a turn of the head or a touch of the hands, or it's a half sort of smile, an' you're doped, doped, doped with a feelin' like strong liquor runnin' through your veins, an' there ain't nothin' on earth can break it up once you've got the habit. that's love." touched by the little barkeeper's droll philosophy, the sheriff dropped his head on his breast, while the hand which held the glass unconsciously fell to his side. "i've got it," went on nick with enthusiasm; "you've got it; the boy's got it; the girl's got it; the whole damn world's got it. it's all the heaven there is on earth, an' in nine cases out of ten it's hell." rance opened his lips to speak, but quickly drew them in tightly. the next instant nick touched him lightly on the shoulder and pointed to the empty glass in his hand, the contents having run out upon the floor. with a mere glance at the empty glass rance returned it to nick. presently, then, he took out his watch and fell to studying its face intently, and only when he had finally returned the watch to his pocket did he voice what was in his mind. "well, nick," he said, "her road agent's got off by now." whereupon, the barkeeper, too, took out his watch and consulted it. "left cloudy at three o'clock this morning--five hours off . . ." was his brief comment. once more a silence fell upon the room. then, all of a sudden, the sound of horses' hoofs and the murmur of rough voices came to their ears, and almost instantly a voice was heard to cry out: "hello!" "hello!" came from an answering voice. "why, it's the pony express got through at last!" announced nick, incredulously; and so saying he took up the whisky bottle and glasses which lay on the teacher's desk and dashed into the saloon. he had barely left, however, than the pony express, muffled up to his ears and looking fit to brave the fiercest of storms, entered the room, hailing the boys with: "hello, boys! letter for ashby!" the deputy--who with trinidad and sonora had come running in, the latter carrying a boot-leg and a stove-polishing brush in his hand--took the letter and started in search of the wells fargo agent who, rance had told them, had gone to sleep. "well, boys, how d'you like bein' snowed in for a week?" asked the pony express, warming himself by the stove; and then without waiting for an answer he rattled on: "there's a rumour at the ridge that you all let ramerrez freeze an' missed a hangin'. say, they're roarin' at you, chaps!" and with a "so long, boys!" he strode out of the room. sonora started in hot pursuit after him, hollering out: "wait! wait!" and when the pony express halted, he added: "says you to the boys at the ridge as you ride by, the academy at cloudy is open to-day full blast!" "whoopee! whoop!" chimed in trinidad and began to execute a _pas seul_ in the middle of the room, dropping into a chair just in time to avoid running into nick, who hurriedly returned with two glasses and a bottle. "help yourselves, boys," he said; which they did to the accompaniment of a succession of joyous yells from trinidad. meantime rance had relighted the burnt-out cigar which he had been holding for some time between his fingers, and was sending curls of smoke upwards towards the ceiling. "academy," he sneered. sonora surveyed him critically for some moments; at length he said: "say, rance, what's the matter with you? we began this academy game together--we boys an' the girl--an' there's a damn pretty piece of sentiment back of it. she's taught some of us our letters, and--" "he's a wearin' mournin' because johnson didn't fall alive into his hands," interposed trinidad with a laugh. "is that it?" queried sonora. "ain't it enough, rance, that he must be lyin' dead down some canyon, with his mouth full of snow?" a mocking smile was on trinidad's face as he asked the question. "you done all you could to git 'im," went on sonora as if there had been no interruption. "the boys is all satisfied he's dead." "dead?" rance fairly picked up the word. "dead? yes, he's dead," he declared tensely, and unconsciously arose and went over to the window where he stood motionless, gazing through the parted curtains at the snow-covered hills. presently the boys saw a cynical smile spread over his face, and a moment later, he added: "the matter with me is that i'm a chink." this depreciation of himself was so thoroughly un-rance like, that it brought forth great bursts of laughter from the men, but notwithstanding which, rance went on to admit, in the same sullen tone, that it was all up with him and the girl. "throwed 'im!" whispered trinidad to sonora with a pleased look on his face. sonora, likewise, was beaming with joy when almost instantly he turned to nick with: "as sure's you live she's throwed 'im for me!" nick, among his other accomplishments, had a faculty for dumbness and said nothing; but a smile which approached a grin formed on his face as he stood eyeing quizzically first one and then the other. finally, picking up the empty glasses, he left the room. "will old dog tray remember me"--immediately sung out trinidad, gleefully. while sonora, in the seventh heaven of delight, began to caper about the room. of a sudden nick poked his head in through the door to inquire into the cause of their hilarity, but they ignored him completely. at the bar-room door, however, sonora halted and, glancing over his shoulder in the sheriff's direction, he added in a most tantalising manner: ". . . for me!" but while trinidad and sonora were going out through one door the deputy was entering through another. he was greatly agitated and carried in his hand the letter which the pony express had entrusted to his keeping for ashby. "why, ashby's skipped!" he announced uneasily. "got off just after three this morning--posse and all." a question was in nick's eyes as he turned upon the speaker with the interjection: "what!" and then as the deputy made a dash for the bar-room, he added with a swift change of manner: "help yourself, dep." but if nick was slow to realise the situation, not so the sheriff, who instantly awoke to the fact that the wells fargo agent was on johnson's trail. his lips drew quickly back in a half-grin. "ashby's after johnson," presently he said with a savage little laugh. "nick, he was watchin' that greaser . . . took him ten minutes to saddle up--johnson has ten minutes' start"--he broke off abruptly and ended impatiently with: "oh, lord, they'll never get him! he's a wonder on the road--you've got to take your hat off to the damn cuss!" and with a dig at the other's ribs that was half-playful, half-serious, he was off in pursuit of ashby. a moment later the miners began to pile in for school, whooping and yelling, their feet covered with snow. sonora led with an armful of wood, which he deposited on the floor beside the stove; then came handsome charlie and happy halliday, together with old steady and bill crow, who immediately dropped on all fours and began to play leap-frog. "boys gatherin' for school," observed trinidad, hurriedly opening the door; and while the men proceeded to flock in, he got into his jacket which lay on a chair beside the teacher's desk. "here, trin, here's the book!" cried out happy halliday; and the book, which was securely tied in a red cotton handkerchief, went flying through the air. in those few words the signal was given; the fun was on in earnest. instantly the miners--veritable school-boys they were, so genuine was their merriment--braced themselves for a catch of the book, which had landed safely in trinidad's hands. now it was aimed at sonora, who caught it on the fly; from sonora it travelled to old steady, who sent it whizzing over to handsome. now the deputy made ready to receive it; but instead it landed once more in sonora's hands amidst cheers of "come on, sonora! whoopee! whoop!" "sh-sh-sh, boys!" warned the deputy as sonora was about to send the book on another expedition through the air; "here comes the noo scholar from watson's." an ominous hush fell upon the room. one could have heard a pin drop as the school settled itself down with anticipatory grins that said, "what won't we do to bucking billy!" therefore, there was not an eye that was not upon the new pupil when with dinner-pail swinging on one arm and the other holding tightly onto a small slate, he slowly advanced towards them. "did you ever play lame soldier, m' friend?" was sonora's greeting, while the miners crowded around them. "no," replied the big, raw-boned, gullible-looking fellow with a grin. "we'll play it after school; you'll be the stirrup," promised sonora; then turning to his mates with a laugh, which was unobserved by bucking billy, he added: "we'll initiate 'im." presently the miners began to move away and trinidad, picking up a chip which he espied under a bench, put it on his shoulder and stood in the centre of the room, thereby indirectly challenging the new pupil to a scrimmage. "don't do it!" cried old steady as he hung up his hat upon a buck's horn on the wall. "go on! go on!" encouraged bill crow, hanging up his hat beside old steady's. the boys took up his words in chorus. "go on! go on!" whereupon, sonora made a dash far the chip and knocked it off of trinidad's shoulder, blazing huskily into his face as he did so: "you do, do you?" in the twinkling of an eye trinidad's jacket was off and the two men were engaged in a hand-to-hand scuffle. "soak him!" came from a voice somewhere in the crowd. "hit him!" urged another. "bat him in the eye!" shrieked handsome charlie. finally sonora succeeded in throwing down his opponent and sent him rolling along the floor, the contents of his pockets marking his trail. the rafters of the polka shook to a storm of cheering, and there is no telling when the men would have ceased had not nick interfered at that moment by yelling out: "boys, boys, here she is!" "here comes the girl!" came simultaneously from happy halliday, who had got a glimpse of her coming down the trail. none the worse for his defeat and fall, trinidad sprang to his feet; while sonora made a dash for a seat. they had not been placed; whereupon he cried out excitedly: "the seats, boys, where's the seats?" for the few minutes that preceded the girl's entrance into the room no men were ever known to work more rapidly or more harmoniously. they fairly flew in and out of the room, now bringing in the great whittled-up, weather-beaten benches and placing them in school-room fashion, and then rolling in boxes and casks which served as a ground-hold for the planks which were stretched across them for desks. it was in the midst of these pilgrimages that trinidad rushed over to nick to ask whether he did not think to-day a good time to put the question to the girl. nick's eyes twinkled up with merriment; nevertheless, his face took on a dubious look when presently he answered: "i wouldn't rush her, trin--you've got plenty of time . . ." and when he proceeded to put up the blackboard he almost ran into sonora, who stood by the teacher's desk getting into his frock coat. "hurry up, boys, hurry up!" urged trinidad, though he himself smilingly looked on. a moment later the girl, carrying a small book of poems, walked quietly into their midst. she was paler and not as buoyant as usual, but she managed to appear cheerful when she said: "hello, boys!" the men were all smiles and returned her greeting with: "hello, girl!" then followed the presentation of their offerings--mere trifles, to be sure, but given out of the fulness of their hearts. sonora led with a bunch of berries, which was followed by trinidad with an orange. "from 'frisco," he said simply, watching the effect of his words with pride. a bunch of berries was also happy's contribution, which he made with a stiff little bow and the one word: "regards." meantime nick, faithful friend that he was, went down on his knees and began to remove the girl's moccasins. the knowledge of his proximity encouraged the girl to glance about her to see if she could detect any signs on the men's faces which would prove that they suspected the real truth concerning her absence. needless to say adoration and love was all that she saw; nevertheless, she felt ill-at-ease and, unconsciously, repeated: "hello, boys!" and then added, a little more bravely: "how's everythin'?" "bully!" spoke up handsome charlie, who was posing for her benefit, as was his wont, beside one of the desks. "say, we missed you," acknowledged sonora with a world of tenderness in his voice. "never knew you to desert the polka for a whole week before." "no, i--i . . ." stammered guiltily, and with their little gifts turned abruptly towards her desk lest she should meet their gaze. "academy's opened," suddenly announced happy, "and--" "yes, i see it is," quickly answered the girl, brushing away a tear that persisted in clinging to her eyelids; slowly, now, she drew off her gloves and laid them on the desk. "i guess i'm kind o' nervous to-day, boys," she began. "no wonder," observed sonora. "road agent's been in camp an' we missed a hangin'. i can't git over that." all a-quiver and not daring to meet the men's gaze, much less to discuss the road agent with them, the girl endeavoured to hide her confusion by asking nick to help her off with her cape. turning presently she said in a strained voice: "well, come on, boys--come, now!" immediately the boys fell in line for the opening exercises, which consisted of an examination by the girl of their general appearance. "let me see your hands," she said to the man nearest to her; a glance was sufficient, and he was expelled from her presence. "let me see yours, sonora," she commanded. holding his hands behind his back the man addressed moved towards her slowly, for he was conscious of the grime that was on them. before he had spoken his apology she ordered him none too gently to go and wash them, ending with an emphatic: "git!" "yes'm," was his meek answer, though he called back as he disappeared: "been blackenin' my boots." the girl took up the word quickly. "boots! yes, an' look at them boots!" and as each man came up to her, "an' them boots! an' them boots! get in there the whole lot o' you an' be sure that you leave your whisky behind." when all had left the room save nick, who stood with her cape on his arm near the desk she suddenly became conscious that she still had her hood on, and at once began to remove it--a proceeding which brought out clearly the extraordinary pallor of her face which, generally, had a bright, healthy colouring. now she beckoned to nick to draw near. no need for her to speak, for he had caught the questioning look in her eyes, and it told him plainer than any words that she was anxious to hear of her lover. he was about to tell her the little he knew when with lips that trembled she finally whispered: "have you heard anythin'? do you think he got through safe?" nick nodded in the affirmative. "i saw 'im off, you know," she went on in the same low voice; then, before nick could speak, she concluded anxiously: "but s'pose he don't git through?" "oh, he'll git through sure! we'll hear he's out of this country pretty quick," consoled the little barkeeper just as rance, unperceived by them, quietly entered the room and went over to a chair by the stove. xvi. no man had more of a dread of the obvious than the sheriff. his position, he felt, was decidedly an unpleasant one. nevertheless, in the silence that followed the girl's discovery of his presence, he struggled to appear his old self. he was by no means unconscious of the fact that he had omitted his usual cordial greeting to her, and he felt that she must be scrutinising him, feature by feature. when, therefore, he shot a covert glance at her, it was with surprise that he saw an appealing look in her eyes. "oh, jack, i want to thank you--" she began, but stopped quickly, deterred by the hard expression that instantly spread itself over the sheriff's face. resentment, all the more bitter because he believed it to be groundless, followed hard on the heels of her words which he thought to be inspired solely by a delicate tactfulness. "oh, don't thank me that he got away," he said icily. "it was the three aces and the pair you held--" this was the girl's opportunity; she seized it. "about the three aces, i want to say that--" it was rance's turn to interrupt, which he did brutally. "he'd better keep out of my country, that's all." "yes, yes." to the girl, any reference to her lover was a stab. her face was pale with her terrible anxiety; notwithstanding, the contrast of her pallid cheeks and masses of golden hair gave her a beauty which rance, as he met her eyes, found so extraordinarily tempting that he experienced a renewed fury at his utter helplessness. at the point, however, when it would seem from his attitude that all his self-control was about to leave him, the girl picked up the bell on the desk and rang it vigorously. began then the long procession of miners walking around the room before taking their seats on the benches. at their head was happy halliday, who carried in his hands a number of slates, the one on the top having a large sponge attached. these were all more or less in bad condition, some having no frames, while others were mere slits of slate, but all had slate-pencils fastened to them by strings. "come along, boys, get your slates!" sang out happy as he left the line and let the others file past him. "whoop!" vociferated trinidad in a burst of enthusiasm. "trin, you're out o' step there!" reprimanded the teacher a little sharply; and then addressing happy she ordered him to take his place once more in the line. in a little while they were all seated, and now, at last, it seemed to the barkeeper as if the air of the room had been freed of its tension. no longer did he experience a sense of alertness, a feeling that something out of the ordinary was going to happen, and it was with immense relief that he heard the girl take up her duties and ask: "what books were left from last year?" at first no one was able to give a scrap of information on this important matter; maybe it was because all lips were too dry to open; in the end, however, when the silence was becoming embarrassing, happy moistened his lips with his tongue, and answered: "why, we scared up jest a whole book left. the name of it is--is--is--" the effort was beyond his mental powers and he came to a helpless pause. swelling with importance, and drawing forth the volume in question from his pocket, sonora stood up and finished: "--is 'old joe miller's jokes.'" "that will do nicely," declared the girl and seated herself on the pine-decorated box. "now, boys," continued sonora, ever the most considerate of pupils, "before we begin i propose no drawin' of weppings, drinkin' or swearin' in school hours. the conduct of certain members wore on teacher last term. i don't want to mention no names, but i want handsome an' happy to hear what i'm sayin'." and after a sweeping glance at his mates, who, already, had begun to disport themselves and jeer at the unfortunate pair, he wound up with: "is that straight?" "you bet it is!" yelled the others in chorus; whereupon sonora dropped into his seat. in time order was restored and now the girl, looking at rance out of her big, frightened, blue eyes, observed: "rance, last year you led off with an openin' address, an'--" "yes, yes, go on sheriff!" cried the boys, hailing her suggestion with delight. nevertheless, the sheriff hesitated, seeing which, trinidad contributed: "let 'er go, jack!" at length, fixing a look upon the girl, rance rose and said significantly: "i pass." "oh, then, sonora," suggested the girl, covering up her embarrassment as best she could, "won't you make a speech?" "me--speak?" exploded sonora; and again; "me--speak? oh, the devil!" "sh-sh!" came warningly from several of the boys. "why, i didn't mean that, o' course," apologised sonora, colouring, and incidentally expectorating on bucking billy's boots. but to his infinite sorrow no protest worthy of the word was forthcoming from the apparently insensible bucking billy. "go on! go on!" urged the school. sonora coughed behind his hand; then he began his address. "gents, i look on this place as something more 'n a place to sit around an' spit on--the stove. i claim that there's culture in the air o' californay an' we're here to buck up again it an' hook on." "hear! hear! hear!" voiced the men together, while their fists came down heavily upon the improvised desks before them. "with these remarks," concluded sonora, "i set." and suiting the action to the word he plumped himself down heavily upon the bench, but only to rise again quickly with a cry of pain and strike trinidad a fierce blow, who, he rightly suspected, was responsible for the pin that had found a lodging-place in the seat of his trousers. at that not even the girl's remonstrances prevented the boys, who had been silent as mice all the time that the instrument of torture was being adjusted, from giving vent to roars of laughter; and for a moment things in the school-room were decidedly boisterous. "sit down, boys, sit down!" ordered the girl again and again; but it was some moments before she could get the school under control. when, finally, the skylarking had ceased, the girl said in a voice which, despite its strange weariness, was music to their ears: "once more we meet together. there's ben a lot happened o' late that has learned me that p'r'aps i don't know as much as i tho't i did, an' i can't teach you much more. but if you're willin' to take me for what i am--jest a woman who wants things better, who wants everybody all they ought to be, why i'm willin' to rise with you an' help reach out--" she stopped abruptly, for handsome was waving his hand excitedly at her, and asked a trifle impatiently: "what is it, handsome?" handsome rose and hurriedly went over to her. "whisky, teacher, whisky! i want it so bad--" the school rose to its feet as one man. "teacher! teacher!" came tumultuously from all, their hands waving frantically in the air. and then without waiting for permission to speak the cry went up: "whisky! whisky!" "no, no whisky," she denied them flatly. gradually the commotion subsided, for all knew that she meant what she said, at least for the moment. "an' now jest a few words more on the subject o' not settin' judgment on the errin'--a subject near my heart." this remark of the girl's brought forth murmurs of wonder, and in the midst of them the door was pushed slowly inward and the sidney duck, wearing the deuce of spades which the sheriff had pinned to his jacket when he banished him from their presence for cheating at cards, stood on the threshold, looking uncertainly about him. at once all eyes were focused upon him. "git! git!" shouted the men, angrily. this was followed by a general movement towards him, which so impressed the sidney duck that he turned on his heel and was fleeing for his life when a cry from the girl stopped him. "boys, boys," said the girl in a reproving voice, which silenced them almost instantly; then, beckoning to sid to approach, she went on in her most gentle tones: "i was jest gittin' to you, sid, as i promised. you can stay." looking like a whipped dog the sidney duck advanced warily towards her. sonora's brow grew thunderous. "what, here among gentlemen?" and that his protest met with instantaneous approval was shown by the way the miners shifted uneasily in their seats and shouted threateningly: "git! git!" "why, the fellow's a--" began trinidad, but got no further, for the girl stopped him by exclaiming: "i know, i know, trin--i've tho't it all over!" for the next few minutes the girl stood strangely still and her face became very grave. never before had the men seen her in a mood like this, and they exchanged wondering glances. presently she said: "boys, of late a man in trouble has been on my mind--" she paused, her glance having caught the peculiar light which her words had caused to appear in rance's eyes, and lest he should misunderstand her meaning, she hastened to add: "sid, o' course,--an' i fell to thinkin' o' the prodigal son. he done better, didn't he?" "but a card sharp," objected sonora from the depths of his big voice. "yes, that's what!" interjected trinidad, belligerently. the girl's eyebrows lifted and a shade of resentment was in the answering voice: "but s'pose there was a moment in his life when he was called upon to find a extra ace--can't we forgive 'im? he says he's sorry--ain't you, sid?" all the while the girl had been speaking the sidney duck kept his eyes lowered and was swallowing nervously. now he raised them and, with a feeble attempt to simulate penitence, he acknowledged that he had done wrong. nevertheless, he declared: "but if i 'adn't got caught things would 'a' been different. oh, yes, i'm sorry." in an instant the girl was at his side removing the deuce of spades from his coat. "sid, you git your chance," she said with trembling lips. "now go an' sit down." a broad smile was creeping over the sidney duck's countenance as he moved towards the others; but happy took it upon himself to limit its spread. "take that!" he blazed, striking the man in the face. "and git out of here! "happy, happy!" cried the girl. her voice was so charged with reproach that the sidney duck was allowed by the men to pass on without any further molestation. nevertheless, when he attempted to sit beside them, they moved as far away as possible from him and compelled him to take a stool that stood apart from the benches which held them together in friendly proximity. at this point trinidad inquired of the girl whether she meant to infer that honesty was not the best policy, and by way of illustration, he went on to say: "s'posin' my watch had no works an' i was to sell it to the sheriff for one hundred dollars. would you have much respect for me?" for the briefest part of a second the girl seemed to be reflecting. "i'd have more respect for you than for the sheriff," she answered succinctly. "hurrah! whoopee! whoop!" yelled the men, who were delighted both with what she said as well as her pert way of saying it. it was in the midst of these shouts that billy jackrabbit and wowkle, unobserved by the others, quietly stole into the room and squatted themselves down under the blackboard. when the merriment had subsided rance rose and took the floor. his face was paler than usual, though his voice was calm when presently he said: "well, bein' sheriff, i'm careful about my company--i'll sit in the bar. cheats and road agents"--and here he paused meaningly and glanced from the sidney duck to the girl--"ar'n't jest in my line. i walk in the open road with my head up and my face to the sun, and whatever i've pulled up, you'll remark i've always played square and stood by the cyards." "i know, i know," observed the girl and fell wearily into her seat; the next instant she went on more confidently: "an' that's the way to travel--in the straight road. but if ever i don't travel that road, or you--" "you always will, you bet," observed nick with feeling. "you bet she will!" shouted the others. "but if i don't," continued the girl, insistently, "i hope there'll be someone to lead me back--back to the right road. 'cause remember, rance, some of us are lucky enough to be born good, while others have to be 'lected." "that's eloquence!" cried sonora, moved almost to tears; while rance took a step forward as if about to make some reply; but the next instant, his head held no longer erect and his face visibly twitching, he passed into the bar-room. a silence reigned for a time, which was broken at last by the girl announcing with great solemnity: "if anybody can sing 'my country 'tis,' academy's opened." at this request, really of a physical nature, and advanced in a spirit of true modesty, all present, curiously enough, seemed to have lost their voices and nudged one another in an endeavour to get the hymn started. someone insisted that sonora should go ahead, but that worthy pupil objected giving as his excuse, obviously a paltry one and trumped up for the occasion, that he did not know the words. there was nothing to it, therefore, but that the indians should render the great american anthem. and so, standing stolidly facing the others, their high-pitched, nasal voices presently began: "my country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee i sing." "well, if that ain't sarkism!" interjected sonora between the lines of the hymn. "land where our fathers died--" "you bet they died hard!" cut in trinidad, rolling his eyes upward in a comical imitation of the indians. "land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountain side let freedom ring." all the while the indians were singing the last lines of the hymn the girl's face was a study in reminiscent dreams, but when they had finished and were leaving the room, she came back to earth, as it were, and clapped her hands, an appreciation which brought forth from wowkle a grateful "huh!" "i would like to read you a little verse from a book of poems," presently went on the teacher; and when the men had given her their attention, she read with much feeling: "'no star is ever lost we once have seen, we always may be what we might have been.'" "why, what's the matter?" inquired sonora, greatly moved at the sight of the tears which, of a sudden, began to run down the teacher's cheeks. "why, what's--?" came simultaneously from the others, words failing them. "nothin', nothin', only it jest came over me that i'll be leavin' you soon," stammered the girl. "how can i do it? how can i do it?" she wailed. sonora gazed at her unbelievingly. "do what?" he said. "what did she say?" questioned trinidad. now sonora went over to her, and asked: "what d'you say? why, what's the matter?" slowly the girl raised her head and looked at him through half-closed lids, the tears that still clung to them, blinding her almost. plainly audible in the silence of the room the seconds ticked away on the clock, and still she did not speak; at last she murmured: "oh, it's nothin', nothin', only i jest remembered i've promised to leave cloudy soon an', p'r'aps, we might never be together again--you an' me an' the polka. oh, it took me jest like that when i seen your dear, ol' faces, your dear, plucky, ol' faces an' realised that--" she could not go on, and buried her face in her hands, her glistening blonde head shaking with her sobs. it was thus that the sheriff, entering a moment later, found her. without a word he resumed his seat in front of the fire. sonora continued to stare blankly at her. he was too dazed to speak, much less to think. he broke silence slowly. "what--you leavin' us?" "leavin' us?" inquired happy, incredulously. "careful, girl, careful," warned nick, softly. the girl hesitated a moment, and then went recklessly on: "it's bound to happen soon." sonora looked more puzzled than ever; he rested his hand upon her desk as if to support himself, and said: "i don't quite understand. great gilead! we done anythin' to offend you?" "oh, no, no, no!" she hastened to assure him, at the same time letting her hand rest upon his. but this explanation did not satisfy sonora. anxious to discover what she had at heart he went on sounding: "tired of us? ain't we got style enough for you?" the girl did not answer; her breathing, swift and short, painfully intensified the hush that had fallen on the room; at last, the boys becoming impatient began to bombard her with questions. "be you goin' to show them ridge boys we've petered out an' culture's a dead dog here?" began happy, rising. "do you want them to think academy's busted?" asked handsome. "ain't we your boys no more?" put in trinidad, wistfully. "ain't i your boy?" asked sonora, sentimentally. "why, what is it, girl? has anybody--tell me--perhaps--" the girl raised her head and dried her eyes; when she spoke one could have heard a pin drop. "oh, no, no, no," she said with averted face, and added tremulously: "there, we won't say no more about it. let's forgit it. only when i go away i want to leave the key o' my cabin with old sonora here, an' i want you all to come up sometimes, an' to think o' me as the girl who loved you all, an' sometimes is wishin' you well, an' i want to think o' little nick here runnin' my bar an' not givin' the boys too much whisky." her words died away in a sob and her head fell forward, her hand, the while, resting upon nick's shoulder. at last, sonora saw what lay beneath her tears; the situation was all too clear to him now. "hold on!" he cried hoarsely. "there's jest one reason for the girl to leave her home an' friends--only one: there must be some fellow away from here that she--that she likes better 'n she does any of us." and turning once more upon the girl, he demanded excitedly: "is that it? speak!" the girl raised her tear-stained face and looked him in the eye. "likes--" she repeated with a world of meaning in her voice--"in a different way, yes." "well, so help me!" ejaculated happy, unhappily, while sonora, with head bent low, went over to his seat. the next moment the boys of the front rows had joined those of the rear and were grouping themselves together to discuss the situation. "sure you ain't makin' a mistake?" trinidad questioned suddenly. the girl came down from her seat on the platform and went over to them. "mistake," she repeated dreamily. "oh, no, no, no, boys, there's no mistake about this. oh, trin!" she burst out tearfully, and two soft arms crept gently about his neck. "an' sonora--ah, sonora!" she raised herself on her tiny toes and kissed him on the left cheek. the next instant she was gone. xvii. whatever may be said to the contrary, there are few more humiliating moments in a man's life than when he learns that some other person has supplanted him in the affections of his adored one. and it was the girl's knowledge of this, together with her desire to spare the feelings of her two old admirers,--for in her nature there was ever that thoughtfulness of others which never permitted her to do a mean thing to anyone,--that had caused her to flee so precipitously from the room. but painful as was their humiliation as they stood in silence, gazing with saddened faces at the door through which the girl had gone out, their cup of bitterness was not yet full. the next moment the sheriff, his lips curled inscrutably, said mockingly: "well, boys, the right man has come at last. take your medicine, gentlemen." his words cut sonora to the quick, and it was with difficulty that he braced himself to hear the worst. "who's the man?" he inquired gruffly. the sheriff's eyes fastened themselves upon him; at length with deadly coldness he drawled out: "johnson's the man." all the colour went out of sonora's face, while his lips ejaculated: "gol a'mighty!" "you lie!" blazed trinidad in the next breath, and made a quick movement towards the sheriff. but rance was not to be denied. seeing nick advancing towards them he called upon him to verify his words; but that individual merely looked first at one and then the other and did not answer, which silence infuriated sonora. "why, you tol' me . . .?" he said with an angry look in his eye. "tol' you, sonora? why he tol' me the same thing," protested trinidad with an earnestness that, at any other time, would have sent his listeners into fits of laughter. this was too much for sonora; he flew into a paroxysm of rage. "well, for a first-class liar . . .!" "you bet!" corroborated trinidad, relapsing, despite his anger, into his pet phrase. for some minutes the dejected suitors continued in this strain, now arguing and then condoling with one another, the boys, meanwhile, proceeding to clear the school-room of the benches, casks and planks, lifting or rolling them back into place as if they were made of paper. all of a sudden sonora's face cleared perceptibly. turning swiftly to the sheriff, who sat tilted back in a chair before the fire, he said with unexpected cheerfulness of voice: "why, johnson's dead. he got away, an'--" "yes, he got away," remarked rance, dully, shaking the ashes from his cigar, which answer, together with the peculiar look which sonora saw on the other's face, made him at once suspicious that something was being held back from them which they had a right to know. it came about, therefore, that, with a hasty movement towards the sheriff, his eyes glaring, his voice husky, sonora demanded: "jack rance, i call on you as sheriff for johnson! he was in your county." instantly the cry was taken up by the others, but it was trinidad who, shaking his fist in rance's face, supplemented: "you hustle up an' run a bridle through your p'int o' teeth or your boom for re-election 's over, you lily-fingered gambler!" but the sheriff did not move a muscle, though after a moment he answered coolly: "oh, i don't know as i give a damn . . .!" which reply, to say the least, was somewhat disconcerting to the men who had surrounded him and were eyeing him threateningly. "no talk--we want johnson," insisted trinidad, hotly. "we want johnson," echoed the crowd in low, tense voices, their fists clenched. and still rance did not waver, but calmly puffing sway at his long, black cigar he looked blankly into space. presently a voice outside calling, "boys!" sounded throughout the room and brought him back to actuality. he sat straight up in his chair while nick, shifting uneasily about on his feet, muttered: "why, that's ashby!" "oh, if--" began the sheriff and stopped. the next instant the wells fargo agent, a cool, triumphant look on his face, stood framed in the doorway. with a hasty movement towards him rance asked tensely: "did you get him?" the answer came back, almost before the question was asked: "yes--we've got him." "not johnson?" demanded sonora, truculently. "yes, johnson," affirmed the wells fargo agent with a hard laugh, his eyes the while upon handsome, who, unaided, was lifting a heavy cask to a bench nearby. "not alive?" questioned trinidad, unwilling to trust his own ears. "you bet!" was ashby's sententious confirmation, at which pandemonium broke loose, nick alone appearing dejected and morose-looking. for his love and devotion to the girl were too genuine to permit of his taking any part whatsoever in what he believed was opposed to her happiness. on the other hand, rance, as may be inferred, was inwardly rejoicing, though when he perceived that nick was eyeing him steadily he was careful to lower his eyes lest the little barkeeper should see the triumph shining beneath them. and, finally, unable to bear nick's scrutiny any longer, he explained with a feeble attempt at self-defence: "well, i didn't do it, nick, i didn't do it." but a moment later, his face hard and set, he added: "now he be damned! there's an end of johnson!" the words were hardly out of his mouth, however, than johnson, his arms bound, followed by the deputy, strode into the room with the courage of one who has long faced death, and stood before the men who glared at him with fire in their eyes and murder in their hearts. "how do you do, mr. johnson. i think, mr. johnson, five minutes will do for you." rance gave to the words a peculiar accent and inflection, but this caused the prisoner to look even more composed and calm than before; he returned crisply: "i think so." "so this is the gentleman the girl loves?" sonora's face wore a cruel grin as he stood with arms folded leering at the prisoner. the biting humour of the thought appealed to rance, and he smiled grimly to himself. "that's the gentleman"--he was saying when a voice outside broke in upon his words with: "nick! boys! boys!" "it's the girl!" cried nick in dismay, at the same time rushing over to the door to intercept her; while ashby, desirous of preventing any communication between the girl and the prisoner took up a position between them--unnecessary precautions, since the girl had no intention of re-entering the room, but wished merely to say that she had forgotten that it was recess and that the boys might have one drink. at the sound of her voice johnson paled. he listened to her retreating steps, then turning towards nick he asked him to lock the door. "why, the devil . . .!" objected the sheriff, angrily. "please," urged the prisoner with such a look of entreaty in his eyes that nick could not find it in his heart to deny him, and went forthwith to the door and locked it. "why, you--" began sonora with a hurried movement towards the prisoner. "you keep out of this, sonora," enjoined the sheriff, coming forward to take a hand in the proceedings. "i handle the rope--pick the tree . . ." "then hurry . . ." said sonora, impatiently, while trinidad interposed with his usual, "you bet!" "one moment," said the prisoner as the miners started to go out; and, strange to relate, the sheriff ordered the men to halt. turning once more to the prisoner, he said: "be quick--what is it?" "it is true," began the unfortunate road agent in an even, unemotional voice, "that i love the girl." at these words rance's arms flew up threateningly, while a mocking smile sprang to his lips. "well, you won't in a minute," he reminded him grimly. the taunt brought no change of expression to the prisoner's face or change of tone in his voice as he went on to say that he did not care what they did to him; that he was prepared for anything; and that every man who travelled the path that he did faced death every day for a drink of water or ten minutes' sleep, concluding calmly: "you've got me and i wouldn't care but for the girl." "you've got just three minutes!" a shade almost of contempt was in sonora's exclamation. "yes . . .!" blazed trinidad. there was an impressive silence; then in a voice that trembled strangely between pride and humility johnson continued: "i don't want her to know my end. why, that would be an awful thought for her to go on with all her life--that i died out there--near at hand. why, boys, she couldn't stay here after that--she couldn't . . ." "that's understood," replied rance, succinctly. "i'd like her to think," went on the prisoner, with difficulty choking back the tears, "that i got away clear and went east and changed my way of living. so you just drag me a good ways from here before you--" he stopped abruptly and began to swallow nervously. when he spoke again it was with a perceptible change of manner. "and when i don't write and she never hears why she will say, 'he's forgotten me,' and that will be about enough for her to remember, because she loved me before she knew what i was--and you can't change love in a minute." all the while johnson had been speaking the sheriff's jealousy had been growing steadily until, finally, turning upon the other with a succession of oaths he struck him a fierce blow in the face. "i don't blame you," returned the prisoner without a trace of malice in his voice. "strike me again--strike me--one death is not enough for me. damn me--i wish you could . . . oh, why couldn't i have let her pass! i'm sorry i came her way--but it's too late now, it's too late . . ." rance, not in the least affected by what the prisoner had been saying, asked if that was his last word. johnson nodded. trinidad, simultaneously with his nod, snapped his finger, indicating that the prisoner's time was up. "dep!" called the sheriff, sharply. the deputy came forward and took his prisoner in charge. "good-bye, sir!" said nick, who was visibly affected. "good-bye!" returned the prisoner, briefly. "you tell the girl--no, come to think of it, nick, don't say anything . . ." "come on, you!" ordered happy. whereupon with a shout and an imprecation the men removed en masse to the door. "boys," intervened nick at this juncture, rushing into their midst, "when alliger was hanged rance let 'im see his sweetheart. i think, considerin' as how she ain't goin' to see no more o' mr. johnson here, an' knowin' the girl's feelin's--well, i think she ought to have a chance to--" nick was not allowed to finish, for instantly the men were up in arms raising a most vigorous objection to his proposal; but, notwithstanding, nick, evidently bent upon calling the girl, started for the door. "no," objected rance, obstinately. the road agent took a step forward and, turning upon the sheriff with a desperately hopeless expression upon his face, he said: "jack rance, there were two of us--i've had my chance. inside of ten minutes i'll be dead and it will be all your way. couldn't you let me--" he paused, and ended almost piteously with: "oh, i thought i'd have the courage not to ask, but, oh, couldn't you let me--couldn't you--" once more nick intervened by shrewdly prevaricating: "here's the girl, boys!" but this ruse of nick's met with no greater success than his previous efforts, for rance, putting his foot down heavily upon the stove, voiced a vigorous protest. "all right," said the prisoner, resignedly. nevertheless, his face reflected his disappointment. turning now to nick he thanked him for his efforts in his behalf. "you must excuse rance," remarked the little barkeeper with a significant look at the sheriff, "for bein' so small a man as to deny the usual courtesies, but he ain't quite himself." weary of their cavilling, for he believed that in the end the sheriff would carry his point, and determined to go before his courage failed him, johnson made a movement towards the door. speaking bravely, though his voice trembled, he said: "come, boys--come." but, odd as it may seem, nick's words had taken root. "wait a minute," rance temporised. the prisoner halted. "i don't know that i'm so small a man as to deny the usual courtesies, since you put it that way," continued rance. "i always have extended them. but we'll hear what you have to say--that's our protection. and it might interest some of us to hear what the girl will have to say to you, mr. johnson--after a week in her cabin there may be more to know than--" fire leapt to johnson's eyes; he cried hoarsely-- "stop!" "rance, you don't know what you're sayin'," resented nick, casting hard looks at him; while sonora put a heavy hand upon the sheriff and threatened him with: "now, rance, you stop that!" "we'll hear every word he has to say," insisted the sheriff, doggedly. "you bet!" affirmed trinidad. "nick! nick!" called the girl once more, and while the little barkeeper went over to admit her the wells fargo agent took his leave, calling back after him: "well, boys, you've got him safe--i can't wait--i'm off!" "dep, untie the prisoner! boys, circle round the bar! trin, put a man at that door! and sonora, put a couple of men at those windows!" and so swift were the men in carrying out his instructions, that even as he spoke, everyone was at his post, the sheriff himself and sonora remaining unseen but on guard at the doors, while the prisoner, edging up close to the door, was not in evidence when the girl entered. "you can think of something to tell her--lie to her," had been the sheriff's parting suggestion. "i'll let her think i risked coming back to see her again," had replied the prisoner, his throat trembling. "she won't know it's for the last time--we'll be there," had come warningly from the sheriff as he pointed to the door that led to the bar-room. * * * * * * "why, what have you got the door barred for?" asked the girl as she came into the room; and then without waiting for an answer: "why, where are the boys?" "well, you see, the boys--the boys has--has--" began nick confusedly and stopped. "the boys--" there was a question in the girl's voice. "has gone." "gone where?" "why, to the palmetter," came out feebly from nick; and then with a sudden change of manner, he added: "oh, say, girl, i likes you!" and here he laid his hand affectionately upon her shoulder. "you've been my religion--the bar an' you. why, you don't never want to leave us--why, i'd drop dead for you." "nick, you're very nice to--" began the girl, gratefully, and stopped, for at that instant a gentle tap came upon the door. turning swiftly, she saw johnson coming towards her. "girl!" he cried in an agony of joy, and held out his arms to receive her. "you? you?" she admonished softly. "don't say a word," he whispered hurriedly. "you shouldn't have come back," she said with knitted brow. "i had to--to say good-bye once more." and his voice was so filled with tenderness that she readily forgave him for the indiscretion. "it's all right, it's all right," murmured nick, his hand still on the door, which he had taken the precaution to bolt after the girl had passed through it. there was a moment's silence; then, going over to the windows, the girl pulled down the curtains. "the boys are good for quite a little bit," she said as she came back. "don't git nervous--i'll give you warnin' . . ." nick, unwilling to witness the heartrending scene which he foresaw would follow, noiselessly withdrew into the bar-room, leaving the prisoner alone with the girl. "don't be afraid, my girl," said johnson, softly. but the girl's one thought, after her first gladness, was of his safety: "but you can't git away now without bein' seen?" "yes, there's another way out of cloudy,--and i'm going to take it." the grimness of his meaning was lost on the girl, who answered urgently: "then go--go! don't wait, go now!" johnson smiled a sad little smile: "but remember that i'm sorry for the past, and--and don't forget me," he said, with an odd break in his voice,--so odd that it roused the girl into startled wonderment. "forget you? why, dick . . .!" "i mean, till we meet again," he reassured her hastily. the girl heaved a troubled sigh. her fears for him were still on edge. then, with a nervous start, she asked: "did he call?" "no. he'll--he'll warn me," johnson told her unsteadily. "oh, every day that dawns i'll wait for a message from you. i'll feel you wanting me. every night i'll say to-morrow, and every to-morrow i'll say to-day . . . oh, you've changed the whole world for me! i can't let you go, but i must, dick, i must . . ." and bursting into tears, she buried her face on his shoulder, repeating piteously, between shaking sobs, "oh, i'm so afraid,--i'm so afraid!" he held her close, the strength of his arms around her reassuring her silently. "why, you mustn't be afraid," he said in tones that were almost steady. "in a few minutes i'll be quite free, and then--" "an' you'll make a little home for me when you're free--soon--will you?" asked the girl, with a wan smile dawning on her trembling lips. she was drying her eyes and did not see how the light died out of the man's face, as he gazed down at her hungrily, hopelessly. this time he could not trust himself to speak, but merely nodded "yes." "a strange feelin' has come over me," went on the girl, brokenly, "a feelin' to hold you--to cling to you--not to let you go. somethin' in my heart keeps sayin', 'don't let him go!'" johnson felt his knees sagging oddly beneath him. the girl's sure instinct of danger, the piteousness of their case, were making a coward of him. he tore himself from her in a panic desire to go while he still had the manhood to play his part to the end; then suddenly broke down completely, and with his face buried in his hands, sobbed aloud. "why, girl," he managed to say, brokenly, "it's been worth--the whole of life just--to know you. you've brought me nearer heaven,--you, to love a man like me!" "don't say that, oh, don't say that," she hastened to say with a great tenderness in her voice. "s'pose you was only a road agent an' i was a saloon keeper. we both came out o' nothin' an' we met, but through lovin' we're goin' to reach things now--that's us. we had to be lifted up like this to be saved." johnson tried to speak, but the words would not come. it was, therefore, with a feeling of relief that, presently, he heard nick at the door, saying, "it's all clear now." johnson wheeled round, but nick had flown. turning once more to the girl, he said with trembling lips: "good-bye!" the girl's face wore a puzzled look, and she told him that he acted as if they were never going to meet again. "an' we are, we are, ain't we?" she questioned eagerly. a faint little smile hovered about the corners of the road agent's mouth when presently he answered: "why, surely we are . . ." his words cleared her face instantly. "i want you to think o' me here jest waitin'," she said. "you was the first--there'll never be anyone but you. why, you're the man i'd want sittin' across the table if there was a little kid like i was playin' under it. i can't say no more 'n that. only you--you will--you must get through safe an' come back--an' well, think o' me here jest waitin', jest waitin', waitin' . . ." at these words a tightness gripped the man's throat, and in the silence that followed the tears ran steadily down his cheeks. "oh, girl, girl," at last he said, "that first night i went to your cabin i saw you kneeling, praying. say that in your heart again for me now. perhaps i believe it--perhaps i don't . . . i hope i do--i want to--but say it, say it, girl, just for the luck of it--say it . . ." quickly the girl crossed herself, and while she sent a silent prayer to heaven johnson knelt at her knees, his head bowed low. "god bless you," he murmured when the prayer was finished and arose to his feet; then bending over her hand he touched it softly with his lips. "good-bye!" he said chokingly and started for the door. "good-bye!" came slowly in return, her face no less moist than his. presently she murmured like one in a dream: "dick, dick!" the man hastened his steps and did not turn. at the door, however, he burst out in an agony of despair: "girl! girl . . .!" but when the girl looked up he had reached the open. she listened a moment to the retreating steps, then raising her tear-stained face above her arms, she sobbed out: "he's gone--he's gone--he's gone . . .!" she started in pursuit of him, but half-way across the room she fell into nick's arms, crying out: "he's gone, he's gone, he's gone! dick! dick! dick . . .!" terribly affected at the sight of the girl's sorrow, the little barkeeper did his best to soothe her, now patting her little blonde head as it rested upon his arm, now murmuring words of loving tenderness. suddenly she raised her head, and then it was that she saw for the first time the men standing huddled together near the door. in a flash the truth of the situation dawned upon her. with a look of indescribable horror upon her face she turned upon nick, turned upon them all with: "you knew, nick--you all knew you had 'im! you knew you had 'im an' you're goin' to kill 'im! but you shan't--no, you shan't kill 'im--you shan't--you shan't . . .!" once more she started in pursuit of her lover, but only to fall with her face against the door, sobbing as if her heart would break. outside there was nothing in the enchanting scene to suggest finality. nature never was more prodigal of her magic beauties. the sun still shone on the winter whiteness of the majestic mountains; the great arch of sky was still an azure blue; the wild things still roamed the great forest at will. life indeed was very beautiful. minutes passed and still the girl wept. a wonderful thing happened then--and as suddenly as it was characteristic of these impulsive and tender-hearted men. in thinking over their action long afterwards the girl recalled how for an instant she could believe neither her ears nor her eyes. with sonora it was credible, at least; but with rance--it seemed wonderful to her even when observed through the vista of many years. and yet, men like rance more often than not exhibit to the world the worst side of their nature. it is only when some cataclysm of feeling bursts that their inner soul is disclosed and joyously viewed by eyes which have long been accustomed to judging them solely from the icy and impenetrable reserve which they invariably wear. and so it came about that sonora--first of the two--went over to her and laid an affectionate hand upon her shoulder. "why, girl," he said, all the kindliness of his gentle nature flooding his eyes, "the boys an' me ain't perhaps realised jest what johnson stood for you, an' hearin' what you said, an' seein' you prayin' over the cuss--" rance's face lit up scornfully. "the cuss?" he cut in, objecting to a term which is not infrequently used affectionately. "yes, the cuss," repeated sonora, all the vindictiveness gone from his heart now. "i got an idee maybe god's back of this 'ere game." the girl's heart was beating fast; she was hoping against hope when, a moment later, she asked: "you're not goin' to pull the rope on 'im?" "you mean i set him free," came from rance, his tone softer, gentler than anyone had heard it in some time. "you set 'im free?" repeated the girl, timidly, and not daring to meet his gaze. "i let him go," announced the sheriff in spite of himself. "you let 'im go?" questioned the girl, still in a daze. "that's our verdict, an' we're prepared to back it up," declared sonora with a smile on his weathered face, though the tears streamed down his cheeks. the girl's face illumined with a great joy. she did not stop now to dissipate the tears which she saw rolling down sonora's face, as was her wont when any of the boys were grieved or distressed, but fairly flew out of the cabin, calling half-frantically, half-ecstatically: "dick! dick! you're free! you're free! you're free . . .!" the minutes passed and still the miners did not move. they stood with an air of solemnity gazing silently at one another. only too well did they realise what was happening to them. they were inconsolable. presently, sonora, all in a heap on a bench, took out some tobacco and began to chew it as fast as his mouth would let him; happy, going over to the teacher's desk, picked up the bunch of berries which he had presented her at the opening of the school session and began to fondle them; while trinidad, too overcome to speak, stood leaning against the door, gazing sadly in the direction that the girl had taken. as for rance, after calling to nick to bring him a drink, he quietly brought out a pack of cards from his pocket and, seemingly, became absorbed in a game of solitaire. a little while later, his eyes still red from weeping, nick remarked: "the polka won't never be the same, boys--the girl's gone." xviii. the soft and velvety blackness of night was giving place to a pearly grey, and the feathery streaks of a trembling dawn were shooting heavenward when a man, whose head had been pillowed on a mexican saddle, rose from the ground in front of a tepee, made of blankets on crossed sticks, and seated himself on an old tree-stump where he proceeded to light a cigarette. in the little tepee, sheltered by an overhanging rock, the girl was still sleeping; and the man, sitting opposite the mound of earth and rock on which it was built, was johnson. a week had passed since the lovers had left cloudy mountain, and each day, at the moment when the sun burst above the snow-capped mountains, found them up and riding slowly eastward. no attempt whatever was made at haste, but, instead, now climbing easily to the top of the passes, now descending into the valleys, they rode slowly on, ever loathe to leave behind them the great forests and high mountains. noon of each day found them always resting in some glen where the sun made golden lacework of the branches over their heads; while at the approach of night when the great orb was no longer to be seen through the tree-tops and twilight was fast settling upon the woods, they would halt near a pool of a dancing brook where, with the relish of fatigue, they would partake of their rations; and then, when the silences came on, johnson would proceed to put up with loving skill the girl's rude quarters and, stretching himself out on a gentle slope, covered with pine needles matted close together, the man and the girl would go to sleep listening to the music of the stream as it gurgled and dashed along, foaming and leaping, over the rocks and beneath the little patches of snow forgotten by the sun. and to these two, whether in the depths of the vast forest or, as now, at the edge of the merciless desert, stretching away like a world without end, their environment seemed nothing less than a paradise. there were moments, however, in the long days, which could be devoted to reflection; and often johnson pondered over the strange fate that had brought him under the influence--an influence which held him now and which he earnestly prayed would continue to hold him--and into close relationship with a character so different from his own. a contemplation of his past life was wholly unnecessary, for the realisation had come to him that it was her personality alone that had awakened his dormant sense of what was right and what was wrong, and changed the course of his life. that his future was full of possibilities, evil as well as good, he was only too well aware; nevertheless, his faith in himself was that of a strong man whose powers of resistance, in this case, would be immeasurably strengthened by constant association with a stronger character. it was while he was in the midst of these thoughts that the girl, without letting him see her, quietly drew the blankets of the tepee a little to one side and peered out at him. she, too, had not been without her moments of meditation. not that she regretted for an instant that she had committed herself to him irrevocably but, rather, because she feared lest he should find it difficult to detach himself, soul and body, from the adventurous life he had been leading. such painful communings, however, were rare and quickly dismissed as unworthy of her; and now as she looked at him with faith and joy in her eyes, it seemed to her that never before had she seen him appear so resolute and strong, and she rejoiced that he belonged to her. at the thought a blush spread over her features, and it was not until she had drawn the blankets back into their place that she called from behind them: "are you awake, dick?" at the sound of her voice the man quickly arose and, going over to the tepee, he parted the blankets and held them open. and even as she passed out the greyness of dawn was replaced by silver, and silver by pink tints which lighted up the pale green of the sage brush, the dwarf shrubs and clumps of buffalo grass around them as well as the darker green of the pines and hemlocks of the foothills in the near distance. "another day, girl," he said softly. "see, the dawn is breaking!" for some moments they stood side by side in silence, the man thinking of the future, the woman serenely happy and lost in admiration of the calm beauty of the scene which, in one direction, at least, differed greatly from anything that she had ever beheld. every night previous to the one just passed they had encamped in the great forests; but now they looked upon a vast expanse of level plain which to the north and east, stretched trackless and unbroken by mountain or ravine to an infinitude--the boundless prairies soon to be mellowed and turned to a golden brown by the shafts of a burning sun already just below the edge of an horizon aglow with opaline tints. the girl had ever been a lover of nature. all her life the mystery and silences of the high mountains had appealed to her soul; but never until now had she realised the marvellous beauty and glory of the great plains. and yet, though her eyes shone with the wonder of it all, there was an unmistakably sad and reminiscent note in the voice that presently murmured: "another day." after a while, and as if under the spell of some unseen power, she slowly turned and faced the west where she gazed long and earnestly at the panorama of the snow-capped peaks, rising range after range, all tipped with dazzling light. "oh, dick, look back!" she cried in distress. "the foothills are growin' fainter." she paused, but suddenly with a far-off look in her eyes she went on: "every dawn--every dawn they'll be farther away. some night when i'm goin' to sleep i'll turn an' they won't be there--red an' shinin'." again she paused as if almost overwhelmed with emotion, saying at length with a deep sigh: "oh, that was indeed the promised land!" johnson was greatly moved. it was some time before he found his voice. at length he chided her softly: "we must always look ahead, girl--not backwards. the promised land is always ahead." it was perhaps strange that the girl failed to see the new light--the light that reflected his desire for a cleaner life and an honoured place in another community with her ever at his side--the hope and faith in his eyes as he spoke; but still in that sad, reminiscent mood, with her eyes fixed on the dim distances, she failed to see it, though she replied in a voice of resignation: "always ahead--yes, it must be." and then again with tears in her eyes: "but, dick, all the people there in cloudy, how far off they seem now--like shadows movin' in a dream--like shadows i've dreamt of. only a few days ago i clasped their hands--i seen their faces--their dear faces--i--" she broke off; then while the tears streamed down her cheeks: "an' now they're fadin'--in this little while i've lost 'em--lost 'em." "but through you all my old life has faded away . . . i have lost that . . ." and so saying he stretched out his arms towards her; but very gently she waved him back with a murmured: "not yet!" for a little while longer her gaze remained on the mountains in the west. the mist was still over her eyes when she turned again and saw that the sun was clearing the horizon in opulent splendour. "see," she cried with a quick transition of mood, "the sun has risen in the east--far away--fair an' clear!" again johnson held out his arms to her. "a new day--a new life--trust me, girl." in silence she slipped one hand into his; then she bowed her head and repeated solemnly: "yes--a new life." suddenly she drew a little away from him and faced the west again. clinging tightly now to him with one hand, and the other raised high above her head, she cried in a voice that was fraught with such passionate longing that the man felt himself stirred to the very depths of his emotions: "oh, my mountains, i'm leavin' you! oh, my california--my lovely west--my sierras, i'm leavin' you!" she ended with a sob; but the next moment throwing herself into johnson's arms she snuggled there, murmuring lovingly: "oh, my home!" a little while later, happy in their love and fearlessly eager to meet the trials of the days to come in a new country, they had mounted their mustangs and were riding eastward. etext prepared by bill brewer, billbrewer@ttu.edu betty zane by zane grey to the betty zane chapter of the daughters of the revolution this book is respectfully dedicated by the author note in a quiet corner of the stately little city of wheeling, west va., stands a monument on which is inscribed: "by authority of the state of west virginia to commemorate the siege of fort henry, sept , , the last battle of the american revolution, this tablet is here placed." had it not been for the heroism of a girl the foregoing inscription would never have been written, and the city of wheeling would never have existed. from time to time i have read short stories and magazine articles which have been published about elizabeth zane and her famous exploit; but they are unreliable in some particulars, which is owing, no doubt, to the singularly meagre details available in histories of our western border. for a hundred years the stories of betty and isaac zane have been familiar, oft-repeated tales in my family--tales told with that pardonable ancestral pride which seems inherent in every one. my grandmother loved to cluster the children round her and tell them that when she was a little girl she had knelt at the feet of betty zane, and listened to the old lady as she told of her brother's capture by the indian princess, of the burning of the fort, and of her own race for life. i knew these stories by heart when a child. two years ago my mother came to me with an old note book which had been discovered in some rubbish that had been placed in the yard to burn. the book had probably been hidden in an old picture frame for many years. it belonged to my great-grandfather, col. ebenezer zane. from its faded and time-worn pages i have taken the main facts of my story. my regret is that a worthier pen than mine has not had this wealth of material. in this busy progressive age there are no heroes of the kind so dear to all lovers of chivalry and romance. there are heroes, perhaps, but they are the patient sad-faced kind, of whom few take cognizance as they hurry onward. but cannot we all remember some one who suffered greatly, who accomplished great deeds, who died on the battlefield--some one around whose name lingers a halo of glory? few of us are so unfortunate that we cannot look backward on kith or kin and thrill with love and reverence as we dream of an act of heroism or martyrdom which rings down the annals of time like the melody of the huntsman's horn, as it peals out on a frosty october morn purer and sweeter with each succeeding note. if to any of those who have such remembrances, as well as those who have not, my story gives an hour of pleasure i shall be rewarded. prologue on june , , alexander spotswood, governor of the colony of virginia, and a gallant soldier who had served under marlborough in the english wars, rode, at the head of a dauntless band of cavaliers, down the quiet street of quaint old williamsburg. the adventurous spirits of this party of men urged them toward the land of the setting sun, that unknown west far beyond the blue crested mountains rising so grandly before them. months afterward they stood on the western range of the great north mountains towering above the picturesque shenandoah valley, and from the summit of one of the loftiest peaks, where, until then, the foot of a white man had never trod, they viewed the vast expanse of plain and forest with glistening eyes. returning to williamsburg they told of the wonderful richness of the newly discovered country and thus opened the way for the venturesome pioneer who was destined to overcome all difficulties and make a home in the western world. but fifty years and more passed before a white man penetrated far beyond the purple spires of those majestic mountains. one bright morning in june, , the figure of a stalwart, broad shouldered man could have been seen standing on the wild and rugged promontory which rears its rocky bluff high above the ohio river, at a point near the mouth of wheeling creek. he was alone save for the companionship of a deerhound that crouched at his feet. as he leaned on a long rifle, contemplating the glorious scene that stretched before him, a smile flashed across his bronzed cheek, and his heart bounded as he forecast the future of that spot. in the river below him lay an island so round and green that it resembled a huge lily pad floating placidly on the water. the fresh green foliage of the trees sparkled with glittering dewdrops. back of him rose the high ridges, and, in front, as far as eye could reach, extended an unbroken forest. beneath him to the left and across a deep ravine he saw a wide level clearing. the few scattered and blackened tree stumps showed the ravages made by a forest fire in the years gone by. the field was now overgrown with hazel and laurel bushes, and intermingling with them were the trailing arbutus, the honeysuckle, and the wild rose. a fragrant perfume was wafted upward to him. a rushing creek bordered one edge of the clearing. after a long quiet reach of water, which could be seen winding back in the hills, the stream tumbled madly over a rocky ledge, and white with foam, it hurried onward as if impatient of long restraint, and lost its individuality in the broad ohio. this solitary hunter was colonel ebenezer zane. he was one of those daring men, who, as the tide of emigration started westward, had left his friends and family and had struck out alone into the wilderness. departing from his home in eastern virginia he had plunged into the woods, and after many days of hunting and exploring, he reached the then far western ohio valley. the scene so impressed colonel zane that he concluded to found a settlement there. taking "tomahawk possession" of the locality (which consisted of blazing a few trees with his tomahawk), he built himself a rude shack and remained that summer on the ohio. in the autumn he set out for berkeley county, virginia, to tell his people of the magnificent country he had discovered. the following spring he persuaded a number of settlers, of a like spirit with himself, to accompany him to the wilderness. believing it unsafe to take their families with them at once, they left them at red stone on the monongahela river, while the men, including colonel zane, his brothers silas, andrew, jonathan and isaac, the wetzels, mccollochs, bennets, metzars and others, pushed on ahead. the country through which they passed was one tangled, most impenetrable forest; the axe of the pioneer had never sounded in this region, where every rod of the way might harbor some unknown danger. these reckless bordermen knew not the meaning of fear; to all, daring adventure was welcome, and the screech of a redskin and the ping of a bullet were familiar sounds; to the wetzels, mccollochs and jonathan zane the hunting of indians was the most thrilling passion of their lives; indeed, the wetzels, particularly, knew no other occupation. they had attained a wonderful skill with the rifle; long practice had rendered their senses as acute as those of the fox. skilled in every variety of woodcraft, with lynx eyes ever on the alert for detecting a trail, or the curling smoke of some camp fire, or the minutest sign of an enemy, these men stole onward through the forest with the cautious but dogged and persistent determination that was characteristic of the settler. they at length climbed the commanding bluff overlooking the majestic river, and as they gazed out on the undulating and uninterrupted area of green, their hearts beat high with hope. the keen axe, wielded by strong arms, soon opened the clearing and reared stout log cabins on the river bluff. then ebenezer zane and his followers moved their families and soon the settlement began to grow and flourish. as the little village commenced to prosper the redmen became troublesome. settlers were shot while plowing the fields or gathering the harvests. bands of hostile indians prowled around and made it dangerous for anyone to leave the clearing. frequently the first person to appear in the early morning would be shot at by an indian concealed in the woods. general george rodgers clark, commandant of the western military department, arrived at the village in . as an attack from the savages was apprehended during the year the settlers determined to erect a fort as a defense for the infant settlement. it was planned by general clark and built by the people themselves. at first they called it fort fincastle, in honor of lord dunmore, who, at the time of its erection, was governor of the colony of virginia. in its name was changed to fort henry, in honor of patrick henry. for many years it remained the most famous fort on the frontier, having withstood numberless indian attacks and two memorable sieges, one in , which year is called the year of the "bloody sevens," and again in . in this last siege the british rangers under hamilton took part with the indians, making the attack practically the last battle of the revolution. betty zane chapter i. the zane family was a remarkable one in early days, and most of its members are historical characters. the first zane of whom any trace can be found was a dane of aristocratic lineage, who was exiled from his country and came to america with william penn. he was prominent for several years in the new settlement founded by penn, and zane street, philadelphia, bears his name. being a proud and arrogant man, he soon became obnoxious to his quaker brethren. he therefore cut loose from them and emigrated to virginia, settling on the potomac river, in what was then known as berkeley county. there his five sons, and one daughter, the heroine of this story, were born. ebenezer zane, the eldest, was born october , , and grew to manhood in the potomac valley. there he married elizabeth mccolloch, a sister of the famous mccolloch brothers so well known in frontier history. ebenezer was fortunate in having such a wife and no pioneer could have been better blessed. she was not only a handsome woman, but one of remarkable force of character as well as kindness of heart. she was particularly noted for a rare skill in the treatment of illness, and her deftness in handling the surgeon's knife and extracting a poisoned bullet or arrow from a wound had restored to health many a settler when all had despaired. the zane brothers were best known on the border for their athletic prowess, and for their knowledge of indian warfare and cunning. they were all powerful men, exceedingly active and as fleet as deer. in appearance they were singularly pleasing and bore a marked resemblance to one another, all having smooth faces, clear cut, regular features, dark eyes and long black hair. when they were as yet boys they had been captured by indians, soon after their arrival on the virginia border, and had been taken far into the interior, and held as captives for two years. ebenezer, silas, and jonathan zane were then taken to detroit and ransomed. while attempting to swim the scioto river in an effort to escape, andrew zane had been shot and killed by his pursuers. but the bonds that held isaac zane, the remaining and youngest brother, were stronger than those of interest or revenge such as had caused the captivity of his brothers. he was loved by an indian princess, the daughter of tarhe, the chief of the puissant huron race. isaac had escaped on various occasions, but had always been retaken, and at the time of the opening of our story nothing had been heard of him for several years, and it was believed he had been killed. at the period of the settling of the little colony in the wilderness, elizabeth zane, the only sister, was living with an aunt in philadelphia, where she was being educated. colonel zane's house, a two story structure built of rough hewn logs, was the most comfortable one in the settlement, and occupied a prominent site on the hillside about one hundred yards from the fort. it was constructed of heavy timber and presented rather a forbidding appearance with its square corners, its ominous looking portholes, and strongly barred doors and windows. there were three rooms on the ground floor, a kitchen, a magazine room for military supplies, and a large room for general use. the several sleeping rooms were on the second floor, which was reached by a steep stairway. the interior of a pioneer's rude dwelling did not reveal, as a rule, more than bare walls, a bed or two, a table and a few chairs--in fact, no more than the necessities of life. but colonel zane's house proved an exception to this. most interesting was the large room. the chinks between the logs had been plastered up with clay and then the walls covered with white birch bark; trophies of the chase, indian bows and arrows, pipes and tomahawks hung upon them; the wide spreading antlers of a noble buck adorned the space above the mantel piece; buffalo robes covered the couches; bearskin rugs lay scattered about on the hardwood floor. the wall on the western side had been built over a huge stone, into which had been cut an open fireplace. this blackened recess, which had seen two houses burned over it, when full of blazing logs had cheered many noted men with its warmth. lord dunmore, general clark, simon kenton, and daniel boone had sat beside that fire. there cornplanter, the seneca chief, had made his famous deal with colonel zane, trading the island in the river opposite the settlement for a barrel of whiskey. logan, the mingo chief and friend of the whites, had smoked many pipes of peace there with colonel zane. at a later period, when king louis phillippe, who had been exiled from france by napoleon, had come to america, during the course of his melancholy wanderings he had stopped at fort henry a few days. his stay there was marked by a fierce blizzard and the royal guest passed most of his time at colonel zane's fireside. musing by those roaring logs perhaps he saw the radiant star of the man of destiny rise to its magnificent zenith. one cold, raw night in early spring the colonel had just returned from one of his hunting trips and the tramping of horses mingled with the rough voices of the negro slaves sounded without. when colonel zane entered the house he was greeted affectionately by his wife and sister. the latter, at the death of her aunt in philadelphia, had come west to live with her brother, and had been there since late in the preceding autumn. it was a welcome sight for the eyes of a tired and weary hunter. the tender kiss of his comely wife, the cries of the delighted children, and the crackling of the fire warmed his heart and made him feel how good it was to be home again after a three days' march in the woods. placing his rifle in a corner and throwing aside his wet hunting coat, he turned and stood with his back to the bright blaze. still young and vigorous, colonel zane was a handsome man. tall, though not heavy, his frame denoted great strength and endurance. his face was smooth, his heavy eyebrows met in a straight line; his eyes were dark and now beamed with a kindly light; his jaw was square and massive; his mouth resolute; in fact, his whole face was strikingly expressive of courage and geniality. a great wolf dog had followed him in and, tired from travel, had stretched himself out before the fireplace, laying his noble head on the paws he had extended toward the warm blaze. "well! well! i am nearly starved and mighty glad to get back," said the colonel, with a smile of satisfaction at the steaming dishes a negro servant was bringing from the kitchen. "we are glad you have returned," answered his wife, whose glowing face testified to the pleasure she felt. "supper is ready--annie, bring in some cream--yes, indeed, i am happy that you are home. i never have a moment's peace when you are away, especially when you are accompanied by lewis wetzel." "our hunt was a failure," said the colonel, after he had helped himself to a plate full of roast wild turkey. "the bears have just come out of their winter's sleep and are unusually wary at this time. we saw many signs of their work, tearing rotten logs to pieces in search of grubs and bees' nests. wetzel killed a deer and we baited a likely place where we had discovered many bear tracks. we stayed up all night in a drizzling rain, hoping to get a shot. i am tired out. so is tige. wetzel did not mind the weather or the ill luck, and when we ran across some indian sign he went off on one of his lonely tramps, leaving me to come home alone." "he is such a reckless man," remarked mrs. zane. "wetzel is reckless, or rather, daring. his incomparable nerve carries him safely through many dangers, where an ordinary man would have no show whatever. well, betty, how are you?" "quite well," said the slender, dark-eyed girl who had just taken the seat opposite the colonel. "bessie, has my sister indulged in any shocking escapade in my absence? i think that last trick of hers, when she gave a bucket of hard cider to that poor tame bear, should last her a spell." "no, for a wonder elizabeth has been very good. however, i do not attribute it to any unusual change of temperament; simply the cold, wet weather. i anticipate a catastrophe very shortly if she is kept indoors much longer." "i have not had much opportunity to be anything but well behaved. if it rains a few days more i shall become desperate. i want to ride my pony, roam the woods, paddle my canoe, and enjoy myself," said elizabeth. "well! well! betts, i knew it would be dull here for you, but you must not get discouraged. you know you got here late last fall, and have not had any pleasant weather yet. it is perfectly delightful in may and june. i can take you to fields of wild white honeysuckle and may flowers and wild roses. i know you love the woods, so be patient a little longer." elizabeth had been spoiled by her brothers--what girl would not have been by five great big worshippers?--and any trivial thing gone wrong with her was a serious matter to them. they were proud of her, and of her beauty and accomplishments were never tired of talking. she had the dark hair and eyes so characteristic of the zanes; the same oval face and fine features: and added to this was a certain softness of contour and a sweetness of expression which made her face bewitching. but, in spite of that demure and innocent face, she possessed a decided will of her own, and one very apt to be asserted; she was mischievous; inclined to coquettishness, and more terrible than all she had a fiery temper which could be aroused with the most surprising ease. colonel zane was wont to say that his sister's accomplishments were innumerable. after only a few months on the border she could prepare the flax and weave a linsey dresscloth with admirable skill. sometimes to humor betty the colonel's wife would allow her to get the dinner, and she would do it in a manner that pleased her brothers, and called forth golden praises from the cook, old sam's wife who had been with the family twenty years. betty sang in the little church on sundays; she organized and taught a sunday school class; she often beat colonel zane and major mccolloch at their favorite game of checkers, which they had played together since they were knee high; in fact, betty did nearly everything well, from baking pies to painting the birch bark walls of her room. but these things were insignificant in colonel zane's eyes. if the colonel were ever guilty of bragging it was about his sister's ability in those acquirements demanding a true eye, a fleet foot, a strong arm and a daring spirit. he had told all the people in the settlement, to many of whom betty was unknown, that she could ride like an indian and shoot with undoubted skill; that she had a generous share of the zanes' fleetness of foot, and that she would send a canoe over as bad a place as she could find. the boasts of the colonel remained as yet unproven, but, be that as it may, betty had, notwithstanding her many faults, endeared herself to all. she made sunshine and happiness everywhere; the old people loved her; the children adored her, and the broad shouldered, heavy footed young settlers were shy and silent, yet blissfully happy in her presence. "betty, will you fill my pipe?" asked the colonel, when he had finished his supper and had pulled his big chair nearer the fire. his oldest child, noah, a sturdy lad of six, climbed upon his knee and plied him with questions. "did you see any bars and bufflers?" he asked, his eyes large and round. "no, my lad, not one." "how long will it be until i am big enough to go?" "not for a very long time, noah." "but i am not afraid of betty's bar. he growls at me when i throw sticks at him, and snaps his teeth. can i go with you next time?" "my brother came over from short creek to-day. he has been to fort pitt," interposed mrs. zane. as she was speaking a tap sounded on the door, which, being opened by betty, disclosed captain boggs his daughter lydia, and major samuel mccolloch, the brother of mrs. zane. "ah, colonel! i expected to find you at home to-night. the weather has been miserable for hunting and it is not getting any better. the wind is blowing from the northwest and a storm is coming," said captain boggs, a fine, soldierly looking man. "hello, captain! how are you? sam, i have not had the pleasure of seeing you for a long time," replied colonel zane, as he shook hands with his guests. major mccolloch was the eldest of the brothers of that name. as an indian killer he ranked next to the intrepid wetzel; but while wetzel preferred to take his chances alone and track the indians through the untrodden wilds, mccolloch was a leader of expeditions against the savages. a giant in stature, massive in build, bronzed and bearded, he looked the typical frontiersman. his blue eyes were like those of his sister and his voice had the same pleasant ring. "major mccolloch, do you remember me?" asked betty. "indeed i do," he answered, with a smile. "you were a little girl, running wild, on the potomac when i last saw you!" "do you remember when you used to lift me on your horse and give me lessons in riding?" "i remember better than you. how you used to stick on the back of that horse was a mystery to me." "well, i shall be ready soon to go on with those lessons in riding. i have heard of your wonderful leap over the hill and i should like to have you tell me all about it. of all the stories i have heard since i arrived at fort henry, the one of your ride and leap for life is the most wonderful." "yes, sam, she will bother you to death about that ride, and will try to give you lessons in leaping down precipices. i should not be at all surprised to find her trying to duplicate your feat. you know the indian pony i got from that fur trader last summer. well, he is as wild as a deer and she has been riding him without his being broken," said colonel zane. "some other time i shall tell you about my jump over the hill. just now i have important matters to discuss," answered the major to betty. it was evident that something unusual had occurred, for after chatting a few moments the three men withdrew into the magazine room and conversed in low, earnest tones. lydia boggs was eighteen, fair haired and blue eyed. like betty she had received a good education, and, in that respect, was superior to the border girls, who seldom knew more than to keep house and to make linen. at the outbreak of the indian wars general clark had stationed captain boggs at fort henry and lydia had lived there with him two years. after betty's arrival, which she hailed with delight, the girls had become fast friends. lydia slipped her arm affectionately around betty's neck and said, "why did you not come over to the fort to-day?" "it has been such an ugly day, so disagreeable altogether, that i have remained indoors." "you missed something," said lydia, knowingly. "what do you mean? what did i miss?" "oh, perhaps, after all, it will not interest you." "how provoking! of course it will. anything or anybody would interest me to-night. do tell me, please." "it isn't much. only a young soldier came over with major mccolloch." "a soldier? from fort pitt? do i know him? i have met most of the officers." "no, you have never seen him. he is a stranger to all of us." "there does not seem to be so much in your news," said betty, in a disappointed tone. "to be sure, strangers are a rarity in our little village, but, judging from the strangers who have visited us in the past, i imagine this one cannot be much different." "wait until you see him," said lydia, with a serious little nod of her head. "come, tell me all about him," said betty, now much interested. "major mccolloch brought him in to see papa, and he was introduced to me. he is a southerner and from one of those old families. i could tell by his cool, easy, almost reckless air. he is handsome, tall and fair, and his face is frank and open. he has such beautiful manners. he bowed low to me and really i felt so embarrassed that i hardly spoke. you know i am used to these big hunters seizing your hand and giving it a squeeze which makes you want to scream. well, this young man is different. he is a cavalier. all the girls are in love with him already. so will you be." "i? indeed not. but how refreshing. you must have been strongly impressed to see and remember all you have told me." "betty zane, i remember so well because he is just the man you described one day when we were building castles and telling each other what kind of a hero we wanted." "girls, do not talk such nonsense," interrupted the colonel's wife who was perturbed by the colloquy in the other room. she had seen those ominous signs before. "can you find nothing better to talk about?" meanwhile colonel zane and his companions were earnestly discussing certain information which had arrived that day. a friendly indian runner had brought news to short creek, a settlement on the river between fort henry and fort pitt of an intended raid by the indians all along the ohio valley. major mccolloch, who had been warned by wetzel of the fever of unrest among the indians--a fever which broke out every spring--had gone to fort pitt with the hope of bringing back reinforcements, but, excepting the young soldier, who had volunteered to return with him, no help could he enlist, so he journeyed back post-haste to fort henry. the information he brought disturbed captain boggs, who commanded the garrison, as a number of men were away on a logging expedition up the river, and were not expected to raft down to the fort for two weeks. jonathan zane, who had been sent for, joined the trio at this moment, and was acquainted with the particulars. the zane brothers were always consulted where any question concerning indian craft and cunning was to be decided. colonel zane had a strong friendly influence with certain tribes, and his advice was invaluable. jonathan zane hated the sight of an indian and except for his knowledge as a scout, or indian tracker or fighter, he was of little use in a council. colonel zane informed the men of the fact that wetzel and he had discovered indian tracks within ten miles of the fort, and he dwelt particularly on the disappearance of wetzel. "now, you can depend on what i say. there are wyandots in force on the war path. wetzel told me to dig for the fort and he left me in a hurry. we were near that cranberry bog over at the foot of bald mountain. i do not believe we shall be attacked. in my opinion the indians would come up from the west and keep to the high ridges along yellow creek. they always come that way. but of course, it is best to know surely, and i daresay lew will come in to-night or to-morrow with the facts. in the meantime put out some scouts back in the woods and let jonathan and the major watch the river." "i hope wetzel will come in," said the major. "we can trust him to know more about the indians than any one. it was a week before you and he went hunting that i saw him. i went to fort pitt and tried to bring over some men, but the garrison is short and they need men as much as we do. a young soldier named clarke volunteered to come and i brought him along with me. he has not seen any indian fighting, but he is a likely looking chap, and i guess will do. captain boggs will give him a place in the block house if you say so." "by all means. we shall be glad to have him," said colonel zane. "it would not be so serious if i had not sent the men up the river," said captain boggs, in anxious tones. "do you think it possible they might have fallen in with the indians?" "it is possible, of course, but not probable," answered colonel zane. "the indians are all across the ohio. wetzel is over there and he will get here long before they do." "i hope it may be as you say. i have much confidence in your judgment," returned captain boggs. "i shall put out scouts and take all the precaution possible. we must return now. come, lydia." "whew! what an awful night this is going to be," said colonel zane, when he had closed the door after his guests' departure. "i should not care to sleep out to-night." "eb, what will lew wetzel do on a night like this?" asked betty, curiously. "oh, lew will be as snug as a rabbit in his burrow," said colonel zane, laughing. "in a few moments he can build a birch bark shack, start a fire inside and go to sleep comfortably." "ebenezer, what is all this confab about? what did my brother tell you?" asked mrs. zane, anxiously. "we are in for more trouble from the wyandots and shawnees. but, bessie, i don't believe it will come soon. we are too well protected here for anything but a protracted siege." colonel zane's light and rather evasive answer did not deceive his wife. she knew her brother and her husband would not wear anxious faces for nothing. her usually bright face clouded with a look of distress. she had seen enough of indian warfare to make her shudder with horror at the mere thought. betty seemed unconcerned. she sat down beside the dog and patted him on the head. "tige, indians! indians!" she said. the dog growled and showed his teeth. it was only necessary to mention indians to arouse his ire. "the dog has been uneasy of late," continued colonel zane "he found the indian tracks before wetzel did. you know how tige hates indians. ever since he came home with isaac four years ago he has been of great service to the scouts, as he possesses so much intelligence and sagacity. tige followed isaac home the last time he escaped from the wyandots. when isaac was in captivity he nursed and cared for the dog after he had been brutally beaten by the redskins. have you ever heard that long mournful howl tige gives out sometimes in the dead of night?" "yes i have, and it makes me cover up my head," said betty. "well, it is tige mourning for isaac," said colonel zane "poor isaac," murmured betty. "do you remember him? it has been nine years since you saw him," said mrs. zane. "remember isaac? indeed i do. i shall never forget him. i wonder if he is still living?" "probably not. it is now four years since he was recaptured. i think it would have been impossible to keep him that length of time, unless, of course, he has married that indian girl. the simplicity of the indian nature is remarkable. he could easily have deceived them and made them believe he was content in captivity. probably, in attempting to escape again, he has been killed as was poor andrew." brother and sister gazed with dark, sad eyes into the fire, now burned down to a glowing bed of coals. the silence remained unbroken save for the moan of the rising wind outside, the rattle of hail, and the patter of rain drops on the roof. chapter ii. fort henry stood on a bluff overlooking the river and commanded a fine view of the surrounding country. in shape it was a parallelogram, being about three hundred and fifty-six feet in length, and one hundred and fifty in width. surrounded by a stockade fence twelve feet high, with a yard wide walk running around the inside, and with bastions at each corner large enough to contain six defenders, the fort presented an almost impregnable defense. the blockhouse was two stories in height, the second story projecting out several feet over the first. the thick white oak walls bristled with portholes. besides the blockhouse, there were a number of cabins located within the stockade. wells had been sunk inside the inclosure, so that if the spring happened to go dry, an abundance of good water could be had at all times. in all the histories of frontier life mention is made of the forts and the protection they offered in time of savage warfare. these forts were used as homes for the settlers, who often lived for weeks inside the walls. forts constructed entirely of wood without the aid of a nail or spike (for the good reason that these things could not be had) may seem insignificant in these days of great nasal and military garrisons. however, they answered the purpose at that time and served to protect many an infant settlement from the savage attacks of indian tribes. during a siege of fort henry, which had occurred about a year previous, the settlers would have lost scarcely a man had they kept to the fort. but captain ogle, at that time in charge of the garrison, had led a company out in search of the indians. nearly all of his men were killed, several only making their way to the fort. on the day following major mccolloch's arrival at fort henry, the settlers had been called in from their spring plowing and other labors, and were now busily engaged in moving their stock and the things they wished to save from the destructive torch of the redskin. the women had their hands full with the children, the cleaning of rifles and moulding of bullets, and the thousand and one things the sterner tasks of their husbands had left them. major mccolloch, jonathan and silas zane, early in the day, had taken different directions along the river to keep a sharp lookout for signs of the enemy. colonel zane intended to stay in his oven house and defend it, so he had not moved anything to the fort excepting his horses and cattle. old sam, the negro, was hauling loads of hay inside the stockade. captain boggs had detailed several scouts to watch the roads and one of these was the young man, clarke, who had accompanied the major from fort pitt. the appearance of alfred clarke, despite the fact that he wore the regulation hunting garb, indicated a young man to whom the hard work and privation of the settler were unaccustomed things. so thought the pioneers who noticed his graceful walk, his fair skin and smooth hands. yet those who carefully studied his clearcut features were favorably impressed; the women, by the direct, honest gaze of his blue eyes and the absence of ungentle lines in his face; the men, by the good nature, and that indefinable something by which a man marks another as true steel. he brought nothing with him from fort pitt except his horse, a black-coated, fine limbed thoroughbred, which he frankly confessed was all he could call his own. when asking colonel zane to give him a position in the garrison he said he was a virginian and had been educated in philadelphia; that after his father died his mother married again, and this, together with a natural love of adventure, had induced him to run away and seek his fortune with the hardy pioneer and the cunning savage of the border. beyond a few months' service under general clark he knew nothing of frontier life; but he was tired of idleness; he was strong and not afraid of work, and he could learn. colonel zane, who prided himself on his judgment of character, took a liking to the young man at once, and giving him a rifle and accoutrements, told him the border needed young men of pluck and fire, and that if he brought a strong hand and a willing heart he could surely find fortune. possibly if alfred clarke could have been told of the fate in store for him he might have mounted his black steed and have placed miles between him and the frontier village; but, as there were none to tell, he went cheerfully out to meet that fate. on this is bright spring morning he patrolled the road leading along the edge of the clearing, which was distant a quarter of a mile from the fort. he kept a keen eye on the opposite side of the river, as he had been directed. from the upper end of the island, almost straight across from where he stood, the river took a broad turn, which could not be observed from the fort windows. the river was high from the recent rains and brush heaps and logs and debris of all descriptions were floating down with the swift current. rabbits and other small animals, which had probably been surrounded on some island and compelled to take to the brush or drown, crouched on floating logs and piles of driftwood. happening to glance down the road, clarke saw a horse galloping in his direction. at first he thought it was a messenger for himself, but as it neared him he saw that the horse was an indian pony and the rider a young girl, whose long, black hair was flying in the wind. "hello! i wonder what the deuce this is? looks like an indian girl," said clarke to himself. "she rides well, whoever she may be." he stepped behind a clump of laurel bushes near the roadside and waited. rapidly the horse and rider approached him. when they were but a few paces distant he sprang out and, as the pony shied and reared at sight of him, he clutched the bridle and pulled the pony's head down. looking up he encountered the astonished and bewildered gaze from a pair of the prettiest dark eyes it had ever been his fortune, or misfortune, to look into. betty, for it was she, looked at the young man in amazement, while alfred was even more surprised and disconcerted. for a moment they looked at each other in silence. but betty, who was scarcely ever at a loss for words, presently found her voice. "well, sir! what does this mean?" she asked indignantly. "it means that you must turn around and go back to the fort," answered alfred, also recovering himself. now betty's favorite ride happened to be along this road. it lay along the top of the bluff a mile or more and afforded a fine unobstructed view of the river. betty had either not heard of the captain's order, that no one was to leave the fort, or she had disregarded it altogether; probably the latter, as she generally did what suited her fancy. "release my pony's head!" she cried, her face flushing, as she gave a jerk to the reins. "how dare you? what right have you to detain me?" the expression betty saw on clarke's face was not new to her, for she remembered having seen it on the faces of young gentlemen whom she had met at her aunt's house in philadelphia. it was the slight, provoking smile of the man familiar with the various moods of young women, the expression of an amused contempt for their imperiousness. but it was not that which angered betty. it was the coolness with which he still held her pony regardless of her commands. "pray do not get excited," he said. "i am sorry i cannot allow such a pretty little girl to have her own way. i shall hold your pony until you say you will go back to the fort." "sir!" exclaimed betty, blushing a bright-red. "you--you are impertinent!" "not at all," answered alfred, with a pleasant laugh. "i am sure i do not intend to be. captain boggs did not acquaint me with full particulars or i might have declined my present occupation: not, however, that it is not agreeable just at this moment. he should have mentioned the danger of my being run down by indian ponies and imperious young ladies." "will you let go of that bridle, or shall i get off and walk back for assistance?" said betty, getting angrier every moment. "go back to the fort at once," ordered alfred, authoritatively. "captain boggs' orders are that no one shall be allowed to leave the clearing." "oh! why did you not say so? i thought you were simon girty, or a highwayman. was it necessary to keep me here all this time to explain that you were on duty?" "you know sometimes it is difficult to explain," said alfred, "besides, the situation had its charm. no, i am not a robber, and i don't believe you thought so. i have only thwarted a young lady's whim, which i am aware is a great crime. i am very sorry. goodbye." betty gave him a withering glance from her black eyes, wheeled her pony and galloped away. a mellow laugh was borne to her ears before she got out of hearing, and again the red blood mantled her cheeks. "heavens! what a little beauty," said alfred to himself, as he watched the graceful rider disappear. "what spirit! now, i wonder who she can be. she had on moccasins and buckskin gloves and her hair tumbled like a tomboy's, but she is no backwoods girl, i'll bet on that. i'm afraid i was a little rude, but after taking such a stand i could not weaken, especially before such a haughty and disdainful little vixen. it was too great a temptation. what eyes she had! contrary to what i expected, this little frontier settlement bids fair to become interesting." the afternoon wore slowly away, and until late in the day nothing further happened to disturb alfred's meditations, which consisted chiefly of different mental views and pictures of red lips and black eyes. just as he decided to return to the fort for his supper he heard the barking of a dog that he had seen running along the road some moments before. the sound came from some distance down the river bank and nearer the fort. walking a few paces up the bluff alfred caught sight of a large black dog running along the edge of the water. he would run into the water a few paces and then come out and dash along the shore. he barked furiously all the while. alfred concluded that he must have been excited by a fox or perhaps a wolf; so he climbed down the steep bank and spoke to the dog. thereupon the dog barked louder and more fiercely than ever, ran to the water, looked out into the river and then up at the man with almost human intelligence. alfred understood. he glanced out over the muddy water, at first making out nothing but driftwood. then suddenly he saw a log with an object clinging to it which he took to be a man, and an indian at that. alfred raised his rifle to his shoulder and was in the act of pressing the trigger when he thought he heard a faint halloo. looking closer, he found he was not covering the smooth polished head adorned with the small tuft of hair, peculiar to a redskin on the warpath, but a head from which streamed long black hair. alfred lowered his rifle and studied intently the log with its human burden. drifting with the current it gradually approached the bank, and as it came nearer he saw that it bore a white man, who was holding to the log with one hand and with the other was making feeble strokes. he concluded the man was either wounded or nearly drowned, for his movements were becoming slower and weaker every moment. his white face lay against the log and barely above water. alfred shouted encouraging words to him. at the bend of the river a little rocky point jutted out a few yards into the water. as the current carried the log toward this point, alfred, after divesting himself of some of his clothing, plunged in and pulled it to the shore. the pallid face of the man clinging to the log showed that he was nearly exhausted, and that he had been rescued in the nick of time. when alfred reached shoal water he slipped his arm around the man, who was unable to stand, and carried him ashore. the rescued man wore a buckskin hunting shirt and leggins and moccasins of the same material, all very much the worse for wear. the leggins were torn into tatters and the moccasins worn through. his face was pinched with suffering and one arm was bleeding from a gunshot wound near the shoulder. "can you not speak? who are you?" asked clarke, supporting the limp figure. the man made several efforts to answer, and finally said something that to alfred sounded like "zane," then he fell to the ground unconscious. all this time the dog had acted in a most peculiar manner, and if alfred had not been so intent on the man he would have noticed the animal's odd maneuvers. he ran to and fro on the sandy beach; he scratched up the sand and pebbles, sending them flying in the air; he made short, furious dashes; he jumped, whirled, and, at last, crawled close to the motionless figure and licked its hand. clarke realized that he would not be able to carry the inanimate figure, so he hurriedly put on his clothes and set out on a run for colonel zane's house. the first person whom he saw was the old negro slave, who was brushing one of the colonel's horses. sam was deliberate and took his time about everything. he slowly looked up and surveyed clarke with his rolling eyes. he did not recognize in him any one he had ever seen before, and being of a sullen and taciturn nature, especially with strangers, he seemed in no hurry to give the desired information as to colonel zane's whereabouts. "don't stare at me that way, you damn nigger," said clarke, who was used to being obeyed by negroes. "quick, you idiot. where is the colonel?" at that moment colonel zane came out of the barn and started to speak, when clarke interrupted him. "colonel, i have just pulled a man out of the river who says his name is zane, or if he did not mean that, he knows you, for he surely said 'zane.'" "what!" ejaculated the colonel, letting his pipe fall from his mouth. clarke related the circumstances in a few hurried words. calling sam they ran quickly down to the river, where they found the prostrate figure as clarke had left it, the dog still crouched close by. "my god! it is isaac!" exclaimed colonel zane, when he saw the white face. "poor boy, he looks as if he were dead. are you sure he spoke? of course he must have spoken for you could not have known. yes, his heart is still beating." colonel zane raised his head from the unconscious man's breast, where he had laid it to listen for the beating heart. "clarke, god bless you for saving him," said he fervently. "it shall never be forgotten. he is alive, and, i believe, only exhausted, for that wound amounts to little. let us hurry." "i did not save him. it was the dog," alfred made haste to answer. they carried the dripping form to the house, where the door was opened by mrs. zane. "oh, dear, another poor man," she said, pityingly. then, as she saw his face, "great heavens, it is isaac! oh! don't say he is dead!" "yes, it is isaac, and he is worth any number of dead men yet," said colonel zane, as they laid the insensible man on the couch. "bessie, there is work here for you. he has been shot." "is there any other wound beside this one in his arm?" asked mrs. zane, examining it. "i do not think so, and that injury is not serious. it is lose of blood, exposure and starvation. clarke, will you please run over to captain boggs and tell betty to hurry home! sam, you get a blanket and warm it by the fire. that's right, bessie, bring the whiskey," and colonel zane went on giving orders. alfred did not know in the least who betty was, but, as he thought that unimportant, he started off on a run for the fort. he had a vague idea that betty was the servant, possibly sam's wife, or some one of the colonel's several slaves. let us return to betty. as she wheeled her pony and rode away from the scene of her adventure on the river bluff, her state of mind can be more readily imagined than described. betty hated opposition of any kind, whether justifiable or not; she wanted her own way, and when prevented from doing as she pleased she invariably got angry. to be ordered and compelled to give up her ride, and that by a stranger, was intolerable. to make it all the worse this stranger had been decidedly flippant. he had familiarly spoken to her as "a pretty little girl." not only that, which was a great offense, but he had stared at her, and she had a confused recollection of a gaze in which admiration had been ill disguised. of course, it was that soldier lydia had been telling her about. strangers were of so rare an occurrence in the little village that it was not probable there could be more than one. approaching the house she met her brother who told her she had better go indoors and let sam put up the pony. accordingly, betty called the negro, and then went into the house. bessie had gone to the fort with the children. betty found no one to talk to, so she tried to read. finding she could not become interested she threw the book aside and took up her embroidery. this also turned out a useless effort; she got the linen hopelessly twisted and tangled, and presently she tossed this upon the table. throwing her shawl over her shoulders, for it was now late in the afternoon and growing chilly, she walked downstairs and out into the yard. she strolled aimlessly to and fro awhile, and then went over to the fort and into captain bogg's house, which adjoined the blockhouse. here she found lydia preparing flax. "i saw you racing by on your pony. goodness, how you can ride! i should be afraid of breaking my neck," exclaimed lydia, as betty entered. "my ride was spoiled," said betty, petulantly. "spoiled? by what--whom?" "by a man, of course," retorted betty, whose temper still was high. "it is always a man that spoils everything." "why, betty, what in the world do you mean? i never heard you talk that way," said lydia, opening her blue eyes in astonishment. "well, lyde, i'll tell you. i was riding down the river road and just as i came to the end of the clearing a man jumped out from behind some bushes and grasped madcap's bridle. imagine! for a moment i was frightened out of my wits. i instantly thought of the girtys, who, i have heard, have evinced a fondness for kidnapping little girls. then the fellow said he was on guard and ordered me, actually commanded me to go home." "oh, is that all?" said lydia, laughing. "no, that is not all. he--he said i was a pretty little girl and that he was sorry i could not have my own way; that his present occupation was pleasant, and that the situation had its charm. the very idea. he was most impertinent," and betty's telltale cheeks reddened again at the recollection. "betty, i do not think your experience was so dreadful, certainly nothing to put you out as it has," said lydia, laughing merrily. "be serious. you know we are out in the backwoods now and must not expect so much of the men. these rough border men know little of refinement like that with which you have been familiar. some of them are quiet and never speak unless addressed; their simplicity is remarkable; lew wetzel and your brother jonathan, when they are not fighting indians, are examples. on the other hand, some of them are boisterous and if they get anything to drink they will make trouble for you. why, i went to a party one night after i had been here only a few weeks and they played a game in which every man in the place kissed me." "gracious! please tell me when any such games are likely to be proposed and i'll stay home," said betty. "i have learned to get along very well by simply making the best of it," continued lydia. "and to tell the truth, i have learned to respect these rugged fellows. they are uncouth; they have no manners, but their hearts are honest and true, and that is of much greater importance in frontiersmen than the little attentions and courtesies upon which women are apt to lay too much stress." "i think you speak sensibly and i shall try and be more reasonable hereafter. but, to return to the man who spoiled my ride. he, at least, is no frontiersman, notwithstanding his gun and his buckskin suit. he is an educated man. his manner and accent showed that. then he looked at me so differently. i know it was that soldier from fort pitt." "mr. clarke? why, of course!" exclaimed lydia, clapping her hands in glee. "how stupid of me!" "you seem to be amused," said betty, frowning. "oh, betty, it is such a good joke." "is it? i fail to see it." "but i can. i am very much amused. you see, i heard mr. clarke say, after papa told him there were lots of pretty girls here, that he usually succeeded in finding those things out and without any assistance. and the very first day he has met you and made you angry. it is delightful." "lyde, i never knew you could be so horrid." "it is evident that mr. clarke is not only discerning, but not backward in expressing his thoughts. betty, i see a romance." "don't be ridiculous," retorted betty, with an angry blush. "of course, he had a right to stop me, and perhaps he did me a good turn by keeping me inside the clearing, though i cannot imagine why he hid behind the bushes. but he might have been polite. he made me angry. he was so cool and--and--" "i see," interrupted lydia, teasingly. "he failed to recognize your importance." "nonsense, lydia. i hope you do not think i am a silly little fool. it is only that i have not been accustomed to that kind of treatment, and i will not have it." lydia was rather pleased that some one had appeared on the scene who did not at once bow down before betty, and therefore she took the young man's side of the argument. "do not be hard on poor mr. clarke. maybe he mistook you for an indian girl. he is handsome. i am sure you saw that." "oh, i don't remember how he looked," said betty. she did remember, but would not admit it. the conversation drifted into other channels after this, and soon twilight came stealing down on them. as betty rose to go there came a hurried tap on the door. "i wonder who would knock like that," said lydia, rising "betty, wait a moment while i open the door." on doing this she discovered clarke standing on the step with his cap in his hand. "why, mr. clarke! will you come in?" exclaimed lydia. "thank you, only for a moment," said alfred. "i cannot stay. i came to find betty. is she here?" he had not observed betty, who had stepped back into the shadow of the darkening room. at his question lydia became so embarrassed she did not know what to say or do, and stood looking helplessly at him. but betty was equal to the occasion. at the mention of her first name in such a familiar manner by this stranger, who had already grievously offended her once before that day, betty stood perfectly still a moment, speechless with surprise, then she stepped quickly out of the shadow. clarke turned as he heard her step and looked straight into a pair of dark, scornful eyes and a face pale with anger. "if it be necessary that you use my name, and i do not see how that can be possible, will you please have courtesy enough to say miss zane?" she cried haughtily. lydia recovered her composure sufficiently to falter out: "betty, allow me to introduce--" "do not trouble yourself, lydia. i have met this person once before to-day, and i do not care for an introduction." when alfred found himself gazing into the face that had haunted him all the afternoon, he forgot for the moment all about his errand. he was finally brought to a realization of the true state of affairs by lydia's words. "mr. clarke, you are all wet. what has happened?" she exclaimed, noticing the water dripping from his garments. suddenly a light broke in on alfred. so the girl he had accosted on the road and "betty" were one and the same person. his face flushed. he felt that his rudeness on that occasion may have merited censure, but that it had not justified the humiliation she had put upon him. these two persons, so strangely brought together, and on whom fate had made her inscrutable designs, looked steadily into each other's eyes. what mysterious force thrilled through alfred clarke and made betty zane tremble? "miss boggs, i am twice unfortunate," said alfred, tuning to lydia, and there was an earnest ring in his deep voice "this time i am indeed blameless. i have just left colonel zane's house, where there has been an accident, and i was dispatched to find 'betty,' being entirely ignorant as to who she might be. colonel zane did not stop to explain. miss zane is needed at the house, that is all." and without so much as a glance at betty he bowed low to lydia and then strode out of the open door. "what did he say?" asked betty, in a small trembling voice, all her anger and resentment vanished. "there has been an accident. he did not say what or to whom. you must hurry home. oh, betty, i hope no one has been hurt! and you were very unkind to mr. clarke. i am sure he is a gentleman, and you might have waited a moment to learn what he meant." betty did not answer, but flew out of the door and down the path to the gate of the fort. she was almost breathless when she reached colonel zane's house, and hesitated on the step before entering. summoning her courage she pushed open the door. the first thing that struck her after the bright light was the pungent odor of strong liniment. she saw several women neighbors whispering together. major mccolloch and jonathan zane were standing by a couch over which mrs. zane was bending. colonel zane sat at the foot of the couch. betty saw this in the first rapid glance, and then, as the colonel's wife moved aside, she saw a prostrate figure, a white face and dark eyes that smiled at her. "betty," came in a low voice from those pale lips. her heart leaped and then seemed to cease beating. many long years had passed since she had heard that voice, but it had never been forgotten. it was the best beloved voice of her childhood, and with it came the sweet memories of her brother and playmate. with a cry of joy she fell on her knees beside him and threw her arms around his neck. "oh, isaac, brother, brother!" she cried, as she kissed him again and again. "can it really be you? oh, it is too good to be true! thank god! i have prayed and prayed that you would be restored to us." then she began to cry and laugh at the same time in that strange way in which a woman relieves a heart too full of joy. "yes, betty. it is all that is left of me," he said, running his hand caressingly over the dark head that lay on his breast. "betty, you must not excite him," said colonel zane. "so you have not forgotten me?" whispered isaac. "no, indeed, isaac. i have never forgotten," answered betty, softly. "only last night i spoke of you and wondered if you were living. and now you are here. oh, i am so happy!" the quivering lips and the dark eyes bright with tears spoke eloquently of her joy. "major will you tell captain boggs to come over after supper? isaac will be able to talk a little by then, and he has some news of the indians," said colonel zane. "and ask the young man who saved my life to come that i may thank him," said isaac. "saved your life?" exclaimed betty, turning to her brother, in surprise, while a dark red flush spread over her face. a humiliating thought had flashed into her mind. "saved his life, of course," said colonel zane, answering for isaac. "young clarke pulled him out of the river. didn't he tell you?" "no," said betty, rather faintly. "well, he is a modest young fellow. he saved isaac's life, there is no doubt of that. you will hear all about it after supper. don't make isaac talk any more at present." betty hid her face on isaac's shoulder and remained quiet a few moments; then, rising, she kissed his cheek and went quietly to her room. once there she threw herself on the bed and tried to think. the events of the day, coming after a long string of monotonous, wearying days, had been confusing; they had succeeded one another in such rapid order as to leave no time for reflection. the meeting by the river with the rude but interesting stranger; the shock to her dignity; lydia's kindly advice; the stranger again, this time emerging from the dark depths of disgrace into the luminous light as the hero of her brother's rescue--all these thoughts jumbled in her mind making it difficult for her to think clearly. but after a time one thing forced itself upon her. she could not help being conscious that she had wronged some one to whom she would be forever indebted. nothing could alter that. she was under an eternal obligation to the man who had saved the life she loved best on earth. she had unjustly scorned and insulted the man to whom she owed the life of her brother. betty was passionate and quick-tempered, but she was generous and tender-hearted as well, and when she realized how unkind and cruel she kind been she felt very miserable. her position admitted of no retreat. no matter how much pride rebelled; no matter how much she disliked to retract anything she had said, she knew no other course lay open to her. she would have to apologize to mr. clarke. how could she? what would she say? she remembered how cold and stern his face had been as he turned from her to lydia. perplexed and unhappy, betty did what any girl in her position would have done: she resorted to the consoling and unfailing privilege of her sex--a good cry. when she became composed again she got up and bathed her hot cheeks, brushed her hair, and changed her gown for a becoming one of white. she tied a red ribbon about her throat and put a rosette in her hair. she had forgotten all about the indians. by the time mrs. zane called her for supper she had her mind made up to ask mr. clarke's pardon, tell him she was sorry, and that she hoped they might be friends. isaac zane's fame had spread from the potomac to detroit and louisville. many an anxious mother on the border used the story of his captivity as a means to frighten truant youngsters who had evinced a love for running wild in the woods. the evening of isaac's return every one in the settlement called to welcome home the wanderer. in spite of the troubled times and the dark cloud hanging over them they made the occasion one of rejoicing. old john bennet, the biggest and merriest man in the colony, came in and roared his appreciation of isaac's return. he was a huge man, and when he stalked into the room he made the floor shake with his heavy tread. his honest face expressed his pleasure as he stood over isaac and nearly crushed his hand. "glad to see you, isaac. always knew you would come back. always said so. there are not enough damn redskins on the river to keep you prisoner." "i think they managed to keep him long enough," remarked silas zane. "well, here comes the hero," said colonel zane, as clarke entered, accompanied by captain boggs, major mccolloch and jonathan. "any sign of wetzel or the indians?" jonathan had not yet seen his brother, and he went over and seized isaac's hand and wrung it without speaking. "there are no indians on this side of the river," said major mccolloch, in answer to the colonel's question. "mr. clarke, you do not seem impressed with your importance," said colonel zane. "my sister said you did not tell her what part you took in isaac's rescue." "i hardly deserve all the credit," answered alfred. "your big black dog merits a great deal of it." "well, i consider your first day at the fort a very satisfactory one, and an augury of that fortune you came west to find." "how are you?" said alfred, going up to the couch where isaac lay. "i am doing well, thanks to you," said isaac, warmly shaking alfred's hand. "it is good to see you pulling out all right," answered alfred. "i tell you, i feared you were in a bad way when i got you out of the water." isaac reclined on the couch with his head and shoulder propped up by pillows. he was the handsomest of the brothers. his face would have been but for the marks of privation, singularly like betty's; the same low, level brows and dark eyes; the same mouth, though the lips were stronger and without the soft curves which made his sister's mouth so sweet. betty appeared at the door, and seeing the room filled with men she hesitated a moment before coming forward. in her white dress she made such a dainty picture that she seemed out of place among those surroundings. alfred clarke, for one, thought such a charming vision was wasted on the rough settlers, every one of whom wore a faded and dirty buckskin suit and a belt containing a knife and a tomahawk. colonel zane stepped up to betty and placing his arm around her turned toward clarke with pride in his eyes. "betty, i want to make you acquainted with the hero of the hour, mr. alfred clarke. this is my sister." betty bowed to alfred, but lowered her eyes instantly on encountering the young man's gaze. "i have had the pleasure of meeting miss zane twice today," said alfred. "twice?" asked colonel zane, turning to betty. she did not answer, but disengaged herself from his arm and sat down by isaac. "it was on the river road that i first met miss zane, although i did not know her then," answered alfred. "i had some difficulty in stopping her pony from going to fort pitt, or some other place down the river." "ha! ha! well, i know she rides that pony pretty hard," said colonel zane, with his hearty laugh. "i'll tell you, clarke, we have some riders here in the settlement. have you heard of major mccolloch's leap over the hill?" "i have heard it mentioned, and i would like to hear the story," responded alfred. "i am fond of horses, and think i can ride a little myself. i am afraid i shall be compelled to change my mind." "that is a fine animal you rode from fort pitt," remarked the major. "i would like to own him." "come, draw your chairs up and he'll listen to isaac's story," said colonel zane. "i have not much of a story to tell," said isaac, in a voice still weak and low. "i have some bad news, i am sorry to say, but i shall leave that for the last. this year, if it had been completed, would have made my tenth year as a captive of the wyandots. this last period of captivity, which has been nearly four years, i have not been ill-treated and have enjoyed more comfort than any of you can imagine. probably you are all familiar with the reason for my long captivity. because of the interest of myeerah, the indian princess, they have importuned me for years to be adopted into the tribe, marry the white crane, as they call myeerah, and become a wyandot chief. to this i would never consent, though i have been careful not to provoke the indians. i was allowed the freedom of the camp, but have always been closely watched. i should still be with the indians had i not suspected that hamilton, the british governor, had formed a plan with the hurons, shawnees, delawares, and other tribes, to strike a terrible blow at the whites along, the river. for months i have watched the indians preparing for an expedition, the extent of which they had never before undertaken. i finally learned from myeerah that my suspicions were well founded. a favorable chance to escape presented and i took it and got away. i outran all the braves, even arrowswift, the wyandot runner, who shot me through the arm. i have had a hard time of it these last three or four days, living on herbs and roots, and when i reached the river i was ready to drop. i pushed a log into the water and started to drift over. when the old dog saw me i knew i was safe if i could hold on. once, when the young man pointed his gun at me, i thought it was all over. i could not shout very loud." "were you going to shoot?" asked colonel zane of clarke. "i took him for an indian, but fortunately i discovered my mistake in time," answered alfred. "are the indians on the way here?" asked jonathan. "that i cannot say. at present the wyandots are at home. but i know that the british and the indians will make a combined attack on the settlements. it may be a month, or a year, but it is coming." "and hamilton, the hair buyer, the scalp buyer, is behind the plan," said colonel zane, in disgust. "the indians have their wrongs. i sympathize with them in many ways. we have robbed them, broken faith with them, and have not lived up to the treaties. pipe and wingenund are particularly bitter toward the whites. i understand cornplanter is also. he would give anything for jonathan's scalp, and i believe any of the tribes would give a hundred of their best warriors for 'black wind,' as they call lew wetzel." "have you ever seen red fox?" asked jonathan, who was sitting near the fire and as usual saying but little. he was the wildest and most untamable of all the zanes. most of the time he spent in the woods, not so much to fight indians, as wetzel did, but for pure love of outdoor life. at home he was thoughtful and silent. "yes, i have seen him," answered isaac. "he is a shawnee chief and one of the fiercest warriors in that tribe of fighters. he was at indian-head, which is the name of one of the wyandot villages, when i visited there last, and he had two hundred of his best braves with him." "he is a bad indian. wetzel and i know him. he swore he would hang our scalps up in his wigwam," said jonathan. "what has he in particular against you?" asked colonel zane. "of course, wetzel is the enemy of all indians." "several years ago wetzel and i were on a hunt down the river at the place called girty's point, where we fell in with the tracks of five shawnees. i was for coming home, but wetzel would not hear of it. we trailed the indians and, coming up on them after dark, we tomahawked them. one of them got away crippled, but we could not follow him because we discovered that they had a white girl as captive, and one of the red devils, thinking we were a rescuing party, had tomahawked her. she was not quite dead. we did all we could to save her life. she died and we buried her on the spot. they were red fox's braves and were on their way to his camp with the prisoner. a year or so afterwards i learned from a friendly indian that the shawnee chief had sworn to kill us. no doubt he will be a leader in the coming attack." "we are living in the midst of terrible times," remarked colonel zane. "indeed, these are the times that try men's souls, but i firmly believe the day is not far distant when the redmen will be driven far over the border." "is the indian princess pretty?" asked betty of isaac. "indeed she is, betty, almost as beautiful as you are," said isaac. "she is tall and very fair for an indian. but i have something to tell about her more interesting than that. since i have been with the wyandots this last time i have discovered a little of the jealously guarded secret of myeerah's mother. when tarhe and his band of hurons lived in canada their home was in the muskoka lakes region on the moon river. the old warriors tell wonderful stories of the beauty of that country. tarhe took captive some french travellers, among them a woman named la durante. she had a beautiful little girl. the prisoners, except this little girl, were released. when she grew up tarhe married her. myeerah is her child. once tarhe took his wife to detroit and she was seen there by an old frenchman who went crazy over her and said she was his child. tarhe never went to the white settlements again. so you see, myeerah is from a great french family on her mother's side, as this is old frenchman was probably chevalier la durante, and myeerah's grandfather." "i would love to see her, and yet i hate her. what an odd name she has," said betty. "it is the indian name for the white crane, a rare and beautiful bird. i never saw one. the name has been celebrated among the hurons as long as any one of them can remember. the indians call her the white crane, or walk-in-the-water, because of her love for wading in the stream." "i think we have made isaac talk enough for one night," said colonel zane. "he is tired out. major, tell isaac and betty, and mr. clarke, too, of your jump over the cliff." "i have heard of that leap from the indians," said isaac. "major, from what hill did you jump your horse?" asked alfred. "you know the bare rocky bluff that stands out prominently on the hill across the creek. from that spot colonel zane first saw the valley, and from there i leaped my horse. i can never convince myself that it really happened. often i look up at that cliff in doubt. but the indians and colonel zane, jonathan, wetzel and others say they actually saw the deed done, so i must accept it," said major mccolloch. "it seems incredible!" said alfred. "i cannot understand how a man or horse could go over that precipice and live." "that is what we all say," responded the colonel. "i suppose i shall have to tell the story. we have fighters and makers of history here, but few talkers." "i am anxious to hear it," answered clarke, "and i am curious to see this man wetzel, whose fame has reached as far as my home, way down in virginia." "you will have your wish gratified soon, i have no doubt," resumed the colonel. "well, now for the story of mccolloch's mad ride for life and his wonderful leap down wheeling hill. a year ago, when the fort was besieged by the indians, the major got through the lines and made off for short creek. he returned next morning with forty mounted men. they marched boldly up to the gate, and all succeeded in getting inside save the gallant major, who had waited to be the last man to go in. finding it impossible to make the short distance without going under the fire of the indians, who had rushed up to prevent the relief party from entering the fort, he wheeled his big stallion, and, followed by the yelling band of savages, he took the road leading around back of the fort to the top of the bluff. the road lay along the edge of the cliff and i saw the major turn and wave his rifle at us, evidently with the desire of assuring us that he was safe. suddenly, on the very summit of the hill, he reined in his horse as if undecided. i knew in an instant what had happened. the major had run right into the returning party of indians, which had been sent out to intercept our reinforcements. in a moment more we heard the exultant yells of the savages, and saw them gliding from tree to tree, slowly lengthening out their line and surrounding the unfortunate major. they did not fire a shot. we in the fort were stupefied with horror, and stood helplessly with our useless guns, watching and waiting for the seemingly inevitable doom of our comrade. not so with the major! knowing that he was a marked man by the indians and feeling that any death was preferable to the gauntlet, the knife, the stake and torch of the merciless savage, he had grasped at a desperate chance. he saw his enemies stealthily darting from rock to tree, and tree to bush, creeping through the brush, and slipping closer and closer every moment. on three sides were his hated foes and on the remaining side--the abyss. without a moment's hesitation the intrepid major spurred his horse at the precipice. never shall i forget that thrilling moment. the three hundred savages were silent as they realized the major's intention. those in the fort watched with staring eyes. a few bounds and the noble steed reared high on his hind legs. outlined by the clear blue sky the magnificent animal stood for one brief instant, his black mane flying in the wind, his head thrown up and his front hoofs pawing the air like marcus curtius' mailed steed of old, and then down with a crash, a cloud of dust, and the crackling of pine limbs. a long yell went up from the indians below, while those above ran to the edge of the cliff. with cries of wonder and baffled vengeance they gesticulated toward the dark ravine into which horse and rider had plunged rather than wait to meet a more cruel death. the precipice at this point is over three hundred feet in height, and in places is almost perpendicular. we believed the major to be lying crushed and mangled on the rocks. imagine our frenzy of joy when we saw the daring soldier and his horse dash out of the bushes that skirt the base of the cliff, cross the creek, and come galloping to the fort in safety." "it was wonderful! wonderful!" exclaimed isaac, his eyes glistening. "no wonder the indians call you the 'flying chief.'" "had the major not jumped into the clump of pine trees which grow thickly some thirty feet below the summit he would not now be alive," said colonel zane. "i am certain of that. nevertheless that does not detract from the courage of his deed. he had no time to pick out the best place to jump. he simply took his one chance, and came out all right. that leap will live in the minds of men as long as yonder bluff stands a monument to mccolloch's ride for life." alfred had listened with intense interest to the colonel's recital. when it ended, although his pulses quickened and his soul expanded with awe and reverence for the hero of that ride, he sat silent. alfred honored courage in a man more than any other quality. he marvelled at the simplicity of these bordermen who, he thought, took the most wonderful adventures and daring escapes as a matter of course, a compulsory part of their daily lives. he had already, in one day, had more excitement than had ever befallen him, and was beginning to believe his thirst for a free life of stirring action would be quenched long before he had learned to become useful in his new sphere. during the remaining half hour of his call on his lately acquired friends, he took little part in the conversation, but sat quietly watching the changeful expressions on betty's face, and listening to colonel zane's jokes. when he rose to go he bade his host good-night, and expressed a wish that isaac, who had fallen asleep, might have a speedy recovery. he turned toward the door to find that betty had intercepted him. "mr. clarke," she said, extending a little hand that trembled slightly. "i wish to say--that--i want to say that my feelings have changed. i am sorry for what i said over at lydia's. i spoke hastily and rudely. you have saved my brother's life. i will be forever grateful to you. it is useless to try to thank you. i--i hope we may be friends." alfred found it desperately hard to resist that low voice, and those dark eyes which were raised shyly, yet bravely, to his. but he had been deeply hurt. he pretended not to see the friendly hand held out to him, and his voice was cold when he answered her. "i am glad to have been of some service," he said, "but i think you overrate my action. your brother would not have drowned, i am sure. you owe me nothing. good-night." betty stood still one moment staring at the door through which he had gone before she realized that her overtures of friendship had been politely, but coldly, ignored. she had actually been snubbed. the impossible had happened to elizabeth zane. her first sensation after she recovered from her momentary bewilderment was one of amusement, and she laughed in a constrained manner; but, presently, two bright red spots appeared in her cheeks, and she looked quickly around to see if any of the others had noticed the incident. none of them had been paying any attention to her and she breathed a sigh of relief. it was bad enough to be snubbed without having others see it. that would have been too humiliating. her eyes flashed fire as she remembered the disdain in clarke's face, and that she had not been clever enough to see it in time. "tige, come here!" called colonel zane. "what ails the dog?" the dog had jumped to his feet and ran to the door, where he sniffed at the crack over the threshold. his aspect was fierce and threatening. he uttered low growls and then two short barks. those in the room heard a soft moccasined footfall outside. the next instant the door opened wide and a tall figure stood disclosed. "wetzel!" exclaimed colonel zane. a hush fell on the little company after that exclamation, and all eyes were fastened on the new comer. well did the stranger merit close attention. he stalked into the room, leaned his long rifle against the mantelpiece and spread out his hands to the fire. he was clad from head to foot in fringed and beaded buckskin, which showed evidence of a long and arduous tramp. it was torn and wet and covered with mud. he was a magnificently made man, six feet in height, and stood straight as an arrow. his wide shoulders, and his muscular, though not heavy, limbs denoted wonderful strength and activity. his long hair, black as a raven's wing, hung far down his shoulders. presently he turned and the light shone on a remarkable face. so calm and cold and stern it was that it seemed chiselled out of marble. the most striking features were its unusual pallor, and the eyes, which were coal black, and piercing as the dagger's point. "if you have any bad news out with it," cried colonel zane, impatiently. "no need fer alarm," said wetzel. he smiled slightly as he saw betty's apprehensive face. "don't look scared, betty. the redskins are miles away and goin' fer the kanawha settlement." chapter iii. many weeks of quiet followed the events of the last chapter. the settlers planted their corn, harvested their wheat and labored in the fields during the whole of one spring and summer without hearing the dreaded war cry of the indians. colonel zane, who had been a disbursing officer in the army of lord dunmore, where he had attained the rank of colonel, visited fort pitt during the summer in the hope of increasing the number of soldiers in his garrison. his efforts proved fruitless. he returned to fort henry by way of the river with several pioneers, who with their families were bound for fort henry. one of these pioneers was a minister who worked in the fields every week day and on sundays preached the gospel to those who gathered in the meeting house. alfred clarke had taken up his permanent abode at the fort, where he had been installed as one of the regular garrison. his duties, as well as those of the nine other members of the garrison, were light. for two hours out of the twenty-four he was on guard. thus he had ample time to acquaint himself with the settlers and their families. alfred and isaac had now become firm friends. they spent many hours fishing in the river, and roaming the woods in the vicinity, as colonel zane would not allow isaac to stray far from the fort. alfred became a regular visitor at colonel zane's house. he saw betty every day, but as yet, nothing had mended the breach between them. they were civil to each other when chance threw them together, but betty usually left the room on some pretext soon after he entered. alfred regretted his hasty exhibition of resentment and would have been glad to establish friendly relations with her. but she would not give him an opportunity. she avoided him on all possible occasions. though alfred was fast succumbing to the charm of betty's beautiful face, though his desire to be near her had grown well nigh resistless, his pride had not yet broken down. many of the summer evenings found him on the colonel's doorstep, smoking a pipe, or playing with the children. he was that rare and best company--a good listener. although he laughed at colonel zane's stories, and never tired of hearing of isaac's experiences among the indians, it is probable he would not have partaken of the colonel's hospitality nearly so often had it not been that he usually saw betty, and if he got only a glimpse of her he went away satisfied. on sundays he attended the services at the little church and listened to betty's sweet voice as she led the singing. there were a number of girls at the fort near betty's age. with all of these alfred was popular. he appeared so entirely different from the usual young man on the frontier that he was more than welcome everywhere. girls in the backwoods are much the same as girls in thickly populated and civilized districts. they liked his manly ways; his frank and pleasant manners; and when to these virtues he added a certain deferential regard, a courtliness to which they were unaccustomed, they were all the better pleased. he paid the young women little attentions, such as calling on them, taking them to parties and out driving, but there was not one of them who could think that she, in particular, interested him. the girls noticed, however, that he never approached betty after service, or on any occasion, and while it caused some wonder and gossip among them, for betty enjoyed the distinction of being the belle of the border, they were secretly pleased. little hints and knowing smiles, with which girls are so skillful, made known to betty all of this, and, although she was apparently indifferent, it hurt her sensitive feelings. it had the effect of making her believe she hated the cause of it more than ever. what would have happened had things gone on in this way, i am not prepared to say; probably had not a meddling fate decided to take a hand in the game, betty would have continued to think she hated alfred, and i would never have had occasion to write his story; but fate did interfere, and, one day in the early fall, brought about an incident which changed the whole world for the two young people. it was the afternoon of an indian summer day--in that most beautiful time of all the year--and betty, accompanied by her dog, had wandered up the hillside into the woods. from the hilltop the broad river could be seen winding away in the distance, and a soft, bluish, smoky haze hung over the water. the forest seemed to be on fire. the yellow leaves of the poplars, the brown of the white and black oaks, the red and purple of the maples, and the green of the pines and hemlocks flamed in a glorious blaze of color. a stillness, which was only broken now and then by the twittering of birds uttering the plaintive notes peculiar to them in the autumn as they band together before their pilgrimage to the far south, pervaded the forest. betty loved the woods, and she knew all the trees. she could tell their names by the bark or the shape of the leaves. the giant black oak, with its smooth shiny bark and sturdy limbs, the chestnut with its rugged, seamed sides and bristling burrs, the hickory with its lofty height and curled shelling bark, were all well known and well loved by betty. many times had she wondered at the trembling, quivering leaves of the aspen, and the foliage of the silver-leaf as it glinted in the sun. to-day, especially, as she walked through the woods, did their beauty appeal to her. in the little sunny patches of clearing which were scattered here and there in the grove, great clusters of goldenrod grew profusely. the golden heads swayed gracefully on the long stems betty gathered a few sprigs and added to them a bunch of warmly tinted maple leaves. the chestnuts burrs were opening. as betty mounted a little rocky eminence and reached out for a limb of a chestnut tree, she lost her footing and fell. her right foot had twisted under her as she went down, and when a sharp pain shot through it she was unable to repress a cry. she got up, tenderly placed the foot on the ground and tried her weight on it, which caused acute pain. she unlaced and removed her moccasin to find that her ankle had commenced to swell. assured that she had sprained it, and aware of the serious consequences of an injury of that nature, she felt greatly distressed. another effort to place her foot on the ground and bear her weight on it caused such severe pain that she was compelled to give up the attempt. sinking down by the trunk of the tree and leaning her head against it she tried to think of a way out of her difficulty. the fort, which she could plainly see, seemed a long distance off, although it was only a little way down the grassy slope. she looked and looked, but not a person was to be seen. she called to tige. she remembered that he had been chasing a squirrel a short while ago, but now there was no sign of him. he did not come at her call. how annoying! if tige were only there she could have sent him for help. she shouted several times, but the distance was too great for her voice to carry to the fort. the mocking echo of her call came back from the bluff that rose to her left. betty now began to be alarmed in earnest, and the tears started to roll down her cheeks. the throbbing pain in her ankle, the dread of having to remain out in that lonesome forest after dark, and the fear that she might not be found for hours, caused betty's usually brave spirit to falter; she was weeping unreservedly. in reality she had been there only a few minutes--although they seemed hours to her--when she heard the light tread of moccasined feet on the moss behind her. starting up with a cry of joy she turned and looked up into the astonished face of alfred clarke. returning from a hunt back in the woods he had walked up to her before being aware of her presence. in a single glance he saw the wildflowers scattered beside her, the little moccasin turned inside out, the woebegone, tearstained face, and he knew betty had come to grief. confused and vexed, betty sank back at the foot of the tree. it is probable she would have encountered girty or a member of his band of redmen, rather than have this young man find her in this predicament. it provoked her to think that of all the people at the fort it should be the only one she could not welcome who should find her in such a sad plight. "why, miss zane!" he exclaimed, after a moment of hesitation. "what in the world has happened? have you been hurt? may i help you?" "it is nothing," said betty, bravely, as she gathered up her flowers and the moccasin and rose slowly to her feet. "thank you, but you need not wait." the cold words nettled alfred and he was in the act of turning away from her when he caught, for the fleetest part of a second, the full gaze of her eyes. he stopped short. a closer scrutiny of her face convinced him that she was suffering and endeavoring with all her strength to conceal it. "but i will wait. i think you have hurt yourself. lean upon my arm," he said, quietly. "please let me help you," he continued, going nearer to her. but betty refused his assistance. she would not even allow him to take the goldenrod from her arms. after a few hesitating steps she paused and lifted her foot from the ground. "here, you must not try to walk a step farther," he said, resolutely, noting how white she had suddenly become. "you have sprained your ankle and are needlessly torturing yourself. please let me carry you?" "oh, no, no, no!" cried betty, in evident distress. "i will manage. it is not so--very--far." she resumed the slow and painful walking, but she had taken only a few steps when she stopped again and this time a low moan issued from her lips. she swayed slightly backward and if alfred had not dropped his rifle and caught her she would have fallen. "will you--please--for some one?" she whispered faintly, at the same time pushing him away. "how absurd!" burst out alfred, indignantly. "am i then, so distasteful to you that you would rather wait here and suffer a half hour longer while i go for assistance? it is only common courtesy on my part. i do not want to carry you. i think you would be quite heavy." he said this in a hard, bitter tone, deeply hurt that she would not accept even a little kindness from him. he looked away from her and waited. presently a soft, half-smothered sob came from betty and it expressed such utter wretchedness that his heart melted. after all she was only a child. he turned to see the tears running down her cheeks, and with a suppressed imprecation upon the wilfulness of young women in general, and this one in particular, he stepped forward and before she could offer any resistance, he had taken her up in his arms, goldenrod and all, and had started off at a rapid walk toward the fort. betty cried out in angry surprise, struggled violently for a moment, and then, as suddenly, lay quietly in his arms. his anger changed to self-reproach as he realized what a light burden she made. he looked down at the dark head lying on his shoulder. her face was hidden by the dusky rippling hair, which tumbled over his breast, brushed against his cheek, and blew across his lips. the touch of those fragrant tresses was a soft caress. almost unconsciously he pressed her closer to his heart. and as a sweet mad longing grew upon him he was blind to all save that he held her in his arms, that uncertainty was gone forever, and that he loved her. with these thoughts running riot in his brain he carried her down the hill to colonel zane's house. the negro, sam, who came out of the kitchen, dropped the bucket he had in his hand and ran into the house when he saw them. when alfred reached the gate colonel zane and isaac were hurrying out to meet him. "for heaven's sake! what has happened? is she badly hurt? i have always looked for this," said the colonel, excitedly. "you need not look so alarmed," answered alfred. "she has only sprained her ankle, and trying to walk afterward hurt her so badly that she became faint and i had to carry her." "dear me, is that all?" said mrs. zane, who had also come out. "we were terribly frightened. sam came running into the house with some kind of a wild story. said he knew you would be the death of betty." "how ridiculous! colonel zane, that servant of yours never fails to say something against me," said alfred, as he carried betty into the house. "he doesn't like you. but you need not mind sam. he is getting old and we humor him, perhaps too much. we are certainly indebted to you," returned the colonel. betty was laid on the couch and consigned to the skillful hands of mrs. zane, who pronounced the injury a bad sprain. "well, betty, this will keep you quiet for a few days," said she, with a touch of humor, as she gently felt the swollen ankle. "alfred, you have been our good angel so often that i don't see how we shall ever reward you," said isaac to alfred. "oh, that time will come. don't worry about that," said alfred, jestingly, and then, turning to the others he continued, earnestly. "i will apologize for the manner in which i disregarded miss zane's wish not to help her. i am sure i could do no less. i believe my rudeness has spared her considerable suffering." "what did he mean, betts?" asked isaac, going back to his sister after he had closed the door. "didn't you want him to help you?" betty did not answer. she sat on the couch while mrs. zane held the little bare foot and slowly poured the hot water over the swollen and discolored ankle. betty's lips were pale. she winced every time mrs. zane touched her foot, but as yet she had not uttered even a sigh. "betty, does it hurt much?" asked isaac. "hurt? do you think i am made of wood? of course it hurts," retorted betty. "that water is so hot. bessie, will not cold water do as well?" "i am sorry. i won't tease any more," said isaac, taking his sister's hand. "i'll tell you what, betty, we owe alfred clarke a great deal, you and i. i am going to tell you something so you will know how much more you owe him. do you remember last month when that red heifer of yours got away. well, clarke chased her away and finally caught her in the woods. he asked me to say i had caught her. somehow or other he seems to be afraid of you. i wish you and he would be good friends. he is a mighty fine fellow." in spite of the pain betty was suffering a bright blush suffused her face at the words of her brother, who, blind as brothers are in regard to their own sisters, went on praising his friend. betty was confined to the house a week or more and during this enforced idleness she had ample time for reflection and opportunity to inquire into the perplexed state of her mind. the small room, which betty called her own, faced the river and fort. most of the day she lay by the window trying to read her favorite books, but often she gazed out on the quiet scene, the rolling river, the everchanging trees and the pastures in which the red and white cows grazed peacefully; or she would watch with idle, dreamy eyes the flight of the crows over the hills, and the graceful motion of the hawk as he sailed around and around in the azure sky, looking like a white sail far out on a summer sea. but betty's mind was at variance with this peaceful scene. the consciousness of a change, which she could not readily define, in her feelings toward alfred clarke, vexed and irritated her. why did she think of him so often? true, he had saved her brother's life. still she was compelled to admit to herself that this was not the reason. try as she would, she could not banish the thought of him. over and over again, a thousand times, came the recollection of that moment when he had taken her up in his arms as though she were a child. some vague feeling stirred in her heart as she remembered the strong yet gentle clasp of his arms. several times from her window she had seen him coming across the square between the fort and her brother's house, and womanlike, unseen herself, she had watched him. how erect was his carriage. how pleasant his deep voice sounded as she heard him talking to her brother. day by day, as her ankle grew stronger and she knew she could not remain much longer in her room, she dreaded more and more the thought of meeting him. she could not understand herself; she had strange dreams; she cried seemingly without the slightest cause and she was restless and unhappy. finally she grew angry and scolded herself. she said she was silly and sentimental. this had the effect of making her bolder, but it did not quiet her unrest. betty did not know that the little blind god, who steals unawares on his victim, had marked her for his own, and that all this sweet perplexity was the unconscious awakening of the heart. one afternoon, near the end of betty's siege indoors, two of her friends, lydia boggs and alice reynolds, called to see her. alice had bright blue eyes, and her nut brown hair hung in rebellious curls around her demure and pretty face. an adorable dimple lay hidden in her rosy cheek and flashed into light with her smiles. "betty, you are a lazy thing!" exclaimed lydia. "lying here all day long doing nothing but gaze out of the window." "girls, i am glad you came over," said betty. "i am blue. perhaps you will cheer me up." "betty needs some one of the sterner sex to cheer her," said alice, mischievously, her eyes twinkling. "don't you think so, lydia?" "of course," answered lydia. "when i get blue--" "please spare me," interrupted betty, holding up her hands in protest. "i have not a single doubt that your masculine remedies are sufficient for all your ills. girls who have lost their interest in the old pleasures, who spend their spare time in making linen and quilts, and who have sunk their very personalities in a great big tyrant of a man, are not liable to get blue. they are afraid he may see a tear or a frown. but thank goodness, i have not yet reached that stage." "oh, betty zane! just you wait! wait!" exclaimed lydia, shaking her finger at betty. "your turn is coming. when it does do not expect any mercy from us, for you shalt never get it." "unfortunately, you and alice have monopolized the attentions of the only two eligible young men at the fort," said betty, with a laugh. "nonsense there plenty of young men all eager for our favor, you little coquette," answered lydia. "harry martin, will metzer, captain swearengen, of short creek, and others too numerous to count. look at lew wetzel and billy bennet." "lew cares for nothing except hunting indians and billy's only a boy," said betty. "well, have it your own way," said lydia. "only this, i know billy adores you, for he told me so, and a better lad never lived." "lyde, you forget to include one other among those prostrate before betty's charms," said alice. "oh, yes, you mean mr. clarke. to be sure, i had forgotten him," answered lydia. "how odd that he should be the one to find you the day you hurt your foot. was it an accident?" "of course. i slipped off the bank," said betty. "no, no. i don't mean that. was his finding you an accident?" "do you imagine i waylaid mr. clarke, and then sprained my ankle on purpose?" said betty, who began to look dangerous. "certainly not that; only it seems so odd that he should be the one to rescue all the damsels in distress. day before yesterday he stopped a runaway horse, and saved nell metzer who was in the wagon, a severe shaking up, if not something more serious. she is desperately in love with him. she told me mr. clarke--" "i really do not care to hear about it," interrupted betty. "but, betty, tell us. wasn't it dreadful, his carrying you?" asked alice, with a sly glance at betty. "you know you are so--so prudish, one may say. did he take you in his arms? it must have been very embarrassing for you, considering your dislike of mr. clarke, and he so much in love with--" "you hateful girls," cried betty, throwing a pillow at alice, who just managed to dodge it. "i wish you would go home." "never mind, betty. we will not tease anymore," said lydia, putting her arm around betty. "come, alice, we will tell betty you have named the day for your wedding. see! she is all eyes now." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * the young people of the frontier settlements were usually married before they were twenty. this was owing to the fact that there was little distinction of rank and family pride. the object of the pioneers in moving west was, of course, to better their condition; but, the realization of their dependence on one another, the common cause of their labors, and the terrible dangers to which they were continually exposed, brought them together as one large family. therefore, early love affairs were encouraged--not frowned upon as they are to-day--and they usually resulted in early marriages. however, do not let it be imagined that the path of the youthful swain was strewn with flowers. courting or "sparking" his sweetheart had a painful as well as a joyous side. many and varied were the tricks played on the fortunate lover by the gallants who had vied with him for the favor of the maid. brave, indeed, he who won her. if he marched up to her home in the early evening he was made the object of innumerable jests, even the young lady's family indulging in and enjoying the banter. later, when he come out of the door, it was more than likely that, if it were winter, he would be met by a volley of water soaked snowballs, or big buckets of icewater, or a mountain of snow shoved off the roof by some trickster, who had waited patiently for such an opportunity. on summer nights his horse would be stolen, led far into the woods and tied, or the wheels of his wagon would be taken off and hidden, leaving him to walk home. usually the successful lover, and especially if he lived at a distance, would make his way only once a week and then late at night to the home of his betrothed. silently, like a thief in the dark, he would crawl through the grass and shrubs until beneath her window. at a low signal, prearranged between them, she would slip to the door and let him in without disturbing the parents. fearing to make a light, and perhaps welcoming that excuse to enjoy the darkness beloved by sweethearts, they would sit quietly, whispering low, until the brightening in the east betokened the break of day, and then he was off, happy and lighthearted, to his labors. a wedding was looked forward to with much pleasure by old and young. practically, it meant the only gathering of the settlers which was not accompanied by the work of reaping the harvest, building a cabin, planning an expedition to relieve some distant settlement, or a defense for themselves. for all, it meant a rollicking good time; to the old people a feast, and the looking on at the merriment of their children--to the young folk, a pleasing break in the monotony of their busy lives, a day given up to fun and gossip, a day of romance, a wedding, and best of all, a dance. therefore alice reynold's wedding proved a great event to the inhabitants of fort henry. the day dawned bright and clear. the sun, rising like a ball of red gold, cast its yellow beams over the bare, brown hills, shining on the cabin roofs white with frost, and making the delicate weblike coat of ice on the river sparkle as if it had been sprinkled with powdered diamonds. william martin, the groom, and his attendants, met at an appointed time to celebrate an old time-honored custom which always took place before the party started for the house of the bride. this performance was called "the race for the bottle." a number of young men, selected by the groom, were asked to take part in this race, which was to be run over as rough and dangerous a track as could be found. the worse the road, the more ditches, bogs, trees, stumps, brush, in fact, the more obstacles of every kind, the better, as all these afforded opportunity for daring and expert horsemanship. the english fox race, now famous on three continents, while it involves risk and is sometimes dangerous, cannot, in the sense of hazard to life and limb, be compared to this race for the bottle. on this day the run was not less exciting than usual. the horses were placed as nearly abreast as possible and the starter gave an indian yell. then followed the cracking of whips, the furious pounding of heavy hoofs, the commands of the contestants, and the yells of the onlookers. away they went at a mad pace down the road. the course extended a mile straight away down the creek bottom. the first hundred yards the horses were bunched. at the ditch beyond the creek bridge a beautiful, clean limbed animal darted from among the furiously galloping horses and sailed over the deep furrow like a bird. all recognized the rider as alfred clarke on his black thoroughbred. close behind was george martin mounted on a large roan of powerful frame and long stride. through the willows they dashed, over logs and brush heaps, up the little ridges of rising ground, and down the shallow gullies, unheeding the stinging branches and the splashing water. half the distance covered and alfred turned, to find the roan close behind. on a level road he would have laughed at the attempt of that horse to keep up with his racer, but he was beginning to fear that the strong limbed stallion deserved his reputation. directly before them rose a pile of logs and matted brush, placed there by the daredevil settlers who had mapped out the route. it was too high for any horse to be put at. with pale cheek and clinched teeth alfred touched the spurs to roger and then threw himself forward. the gallant beast responded nobly. up, up, up he rose, clearing all but the topmost branches. alfred turned again and saw the giant roan make the leap without touching a twig. the next instant roger went splash into a swamp. he sank to his knees in the soft black soil. he could move but one foot at a time, and alfred saw at a glance he had won the race. the great weight of the roan handicapped him here. when alfred reached the other side of the bog, where the bottle was swinging from a branch of a tree, his rival's horse was floundering hopelessly in the middle of the treacherous mire. the remaining three horsemen, who had come up by this time, seeing that it would be useless to attempt further efforts, had drawn up on the bank. with friendly shouts to clarke, they acknowledged themselves beaten. there were no judges required for this race, because the man who reached the bottle first won it. the five men returned to the starting point, where the victor was greeted by loud whoops. the groom got the first drink from the bottle, then came the attendants, and others in order, after which the bottle was put away to be kept as a memento of the occasion. the party now repaired to the village and marched to the home of the bride. the hour for the observance of the marriage rites was just before the midday meal. when the groom reached the bride's home he found her in readiness. sweet and pretty alice looked in her gray linsey gown, perfectly plain and simple though it was, without an ornament or a ribbon. proud indeed looked her lover as he took her hand and led her up to the waiting minister. when the whisperings had ceased the minister asked who gave this woman to be married. alice's father answered. "will you take this woman to be your wedded wife, to love, cherish and protect her all the days of her life?" asked the minister. "i will," answered a deep bass voice. "will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to love, honor and obey him all the days of your life?" "i will," said alice, in a low tone. "i pronounce you man and wife. those whom god has joined together let no man put asunder." there was a brief prayer and the ceremony ended. then followed the congratulations of relatives and friends. the felicitations were apt to be trying to the nerves of even the best tempered groom. the hand shakes, the heavy slaps on the back, and the pommeling he received at the hands of his intimate friends were as nothing compared to the anguish of mind he endured while they were kissing his wife. the young bucks would not have considered it a real wedding had they been prevented from kissing the bride, and for that matter, every girl within reach. so fast as the burly young settlers could push themselves through the densely packed rooms they kissed the bride, and then the first girl they came to. betty and lydia had been alice's maids of honor. this being betty's first experience at a frontier wedding, it developed that she was much in need of lydia's advice, which she had previously disdained. she had rested secure in her dignity. poor betty! the first man to kiss alice was george martin, a big, strong fellow, who gathered his brother's bride into his arms and gave her a bearish hug and a resounding kiss. releasing her he turned toward lydia and betty. lydia eluded him, but one of his great hands clasped around betty's wrist. she tried to look haughty, but with everyone laughing, and the young man's face expressive of honest fun and happiness she found it impossible. she stood still and only turned her face a little to one side while george kissed her. the young men now made a rush for her. with blushing cheeks betty, unable to stand her ground any longer, ran to her brother, the colonel. he pushed her away with a laugh. she turned to major mccolloch, who held out his arms to her. with an exclamation she wrenched herself free from a young man, who had caught her hand, and flew to the major. but alas for betty! the major was not proof against the temptation and he kissed her himself. "traitor!" cried betty, breaking away from him. poor betty was in despair. she had just made up her mind to submit when she caught sight of wetzel's familiar figure. she ran to him and the hunter put one of his long arms around her. "i reckon i kin take care of you, betty," he said, a smile playing over his usually stern face. "see here, you young bucks. betty don't want to be kissed, and if you keep on pesterin' her i'll have to scalp a few of you." the merriment grew as the day progressed. during the wedding feast great hilarity prevailed. it culminated in the dance which followed the dinner. the long room of the block-house had been decorated with evergreens, autumn leaves and goldenrod, which were scattered profusely about, hiding the blackened walls and bare rafters. numerous blazing pine knots, fastened on sticks which were stuck into the walls, lighted up a scene, which for color and animation could not have been surpassed. colonel zane's old slave, sam, who furnished the music, sat on a raised platform at the upper end of the hall, and the way he sawed away on his fiddle, accompanying the movements of his arm with a swaying of his body and a stamping of his heavy foot, showed he had a hearty appreciation of his own value. prominent among the men and women standing and sitting near the platform could be distinguished the tall forms of jonathan zane, major mccolloch and wetzel, all, as usual, dressed in their hunting costumes and carrying long rifles. the other men had made more or less effort to improve their appearance. bright homespun shirts and scarfs had replaced the everyday buckskin garments. major mccolloch was talking to colonel zane. the genial faces of both reflected the pleasure they felt in the enjoyment of the younger people. jonathan zane stood near the door. moody and silent he watched the dance. wetzel leaned against the wall. the black barrel of his rifle lay in the hollow of his arm. the hunter was gravely contemplating the members of the bridal party who were dancing in front of him. when the dance ended lydia and betty stopped before wetzel and betty said: "lew, aren't you going to ask us to dance?" the hunter looked down into the happy, gleaming faces, and smiling in his half sad way, answered: "every man to his gifts." "but you can dance. i want you to put aside your gun long enough to dance with me. if i waited for you to ask me, i fear i should have to wait a long time. come, lew, here i am asking you, and i know the other men are dying to dance with me," said betty, coaxingly, in a roguish voice. wetzel never refused a request of betty's, and so, laying aside his weapons, he danced with her, to the wonder and admiration of all. colonel zane clapped his hands, and everyone stared in amazement at the unprecedented sight wetzel danced not ungracefully. he was wonderfully light on his feet. his striking figure, the long black hair, and the fancifully embroidered costume he wore contrasted strangely with betty's slender, graceful form and pretty gray dress. "well, well, lewis, i would not have believed anything but the evidence of my own eyes," said colonel zane, with a laugh, as betty and wetzel approached him. "if all the men could dance as well as lew, the girls would be thankful, i can assure you," said betty. "betty, i declare you grow prettier every day," said old john bennet, who was standing with the colonel and the major. "if i were only a young man once more i should try my chances with you, and i wouldn't give up very easily." "i do not know, uncle john, but i am inclined to think that if you were a young man and should come a-wooing you would not get a rebuff from me," answered betty, smiling on the old man, of whom she was very fond. "miss zane, will you dance with me?" the voice sounded close by betty's side. she recognized it, and an unaccountable sensation of shyness suddenly came over her. she had firmly made up her mind, should mr. clarke ask her to dance, that she would tell him she was tired, or engaged for that number--anything so that she could avoid dancing with him. but, now that the moment had come she either forgot her resolution or lacked the courage to keep it, for as the music commenced, she turned and without saying a word or looking at him, she placed her hand on his arm. he whirled her away. she gave a start of surprise and delight at the familiar step and then gave herself up to the charm of the dance. supported by his strong arm she floated around the room in a sort of dream. dancing as they did was new to the young people at the fort--it was a style then in vogue in the east--and everyone looked on with great interest and curiosity. but all too soon the dance ended and before betty had recovered her composure she found that her partner had led her to a secluded seat in the lower end of the hall. the bench was partly obscured from the dancers by masses of autumn leaves. "that was a very pleasant dance," said alfred. "miss boggs told me you danced the round dance." "i was much surprised and pleased," said betty, who had indeed enjoyed it. "it has been a delightful day," went on alfred, seeing that betty was still confused. "i almost killed myself in that race for the bottle this morning. i never saw such logs and brush heaps and ditches in my life. i am sure that if the fever of recklessness which seemed in the air had not suddenly seized me i would never have put my horse at such leaps." "i heard my brother say your horse was one of the best he had ever seen, and that you rode superbly," murmured betty. "well, to be honest, i would not care to take that ride again. it certainly was not fair to the horse." "how do you like the fort by this time?" "miss zane, i am learning to love this free, wild life. i really think i was made for the frontier. the odd customs and manners which seemed strange at first have become very acceptable to me now. i find everyone so honest and simple and brave. here one must work to live, which is right. do you know, i never worked in my life until i came to fort henry. my life was all uselessness, idleness." "i can hardly believe that," answered betty. "you have learned to dance and ride and--" "what?" asked alfred, as betty hesitated. "never mind. it was an accomplishment with which the girls credited you," said betty, with a little laugh. "i suppose i did not deserve it. i heard i had a singular aptitude for discovering young ladies in distress." "have you become well acquainted with the boys?" asked betty, hastening to change the subject. "oh, yes, particularly with your indianized brother, isaac. he is the finest fellow, as well as the most interesting, i ever knew. i like colonel zane immensely too. the dark, quiet fellow, jack, or john, they call him, is not like your other brothers. the hunter, wetzel, inspires me with awe. everyone has been most kind to me and i have almost forgotten that i was a wanderer." "i am glad to hear that," said betty. "miss zane," continued alfred, "doubtless you have heard that i came west because i was compelled to leave my home. please do not believe everything you hear of me. some day i may tell you my story if you care to hear it. suffice it to say now that i left my home of my own free will and i could go back to-morrow." "i did not mean to imply--" began betty, coloring. "of course not. but tell me about yourself. is it not rather dull and lonesome here for you?" "it was last winter. but i have been contented and happy this summer. of course, it is not philadelphia life, and i miss the excitement and gayety of my uncle's house. i knew my place was with my brothers. my aunt pleaded with me to live with her and not go to the wilderness. i had everything i wanted there--luxury, society, parties, balls, dances, friends--all that the heart of a girl could desire, but i preferred to come to this little frontier settlement. strange choice for a girl, was it not?" "unusual, yes," answered alfred, gravely. "and i cannot but wonder what motives actuated our coming to fort henry. i came to seek my fortune. you came to bring sunshine into the home of your brother, and left your fortune behind you. well, your motive has the element of nobility. mine has nothing but that of recklessness. i would like to read the future." "i do not think it is right to have such a wish. with the veil rolled away could you work as hard, accomplish as much? i do not want to know the future. perhaps some of it will be unhappy. i have made my choice and will cheerfully abide by it. i rather envy your being a man. you have the world to conquer. a woman--what can she do? she can knead the dough, ply the distaff, and sit by the lattice and watch and wait." "let us postpone such melancholy thoughts until some future day. i have not as yet said anything that i intended. i wish to tell you how sorry i am that i acted in such a rude way the night your brother came home. i do not know what made me do so, but i know i have regretted it ever since. will you forgive me and may we not be friends?" "i--i do not know," said betty, surprised and vaguely troubled by the earnest light in his eyes. "but why? surely you will make some little allowance for a naturally quick temper, and you know you did not--that you were--" "yes, i remember i was hasty and unkind. but i made amends, or at least, i tried to do so." "try to overlook my stupidity. i will not give up until you forgive me. consider how much you can avoid by being generous." "very well, then, i will forgive you," said betty, who had arrived at the conclusion that this young man was one of determination. "thank you. i promise you shall never regret it. and the sprained ankle? it must be well, as i noticed you danced beautifully." "i am compelled to believe what the girls say--that you are inclined to the language of compliment. my ankle is nearly well, thank you. it hurts a little now and then." "speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened," said alfred, watching her closely. he desired to tease her a little, but he was not sure of his ground. "i had been all day in the woods with nothing but my thoughts--mostly unhappy ones--for company. when i met you i pretended to be surprised. as a matter of fact i was not, for i had followed your dog. he took a liking to me and i was extremely pleased, i assure you. well, i saw your face a moment before you knew i was as near you. when you heard my footsteps you turned with a relieved and joyous cry. when you saw whom it was your glad expression changed, and if i had been a hostile wyandot you could not have looked more unfriendly. such a woeful, tear-stained face i never saw." "mr. clarke, please do not speak any more of that," said betty with dignity. "i desire that you forget it." "i will forget all except that it was i who had the happiness of finding you and of helping you. i cannot forget that. i am sure we should never have been friends but for that accident." "there is isaac. he is looking for me," answered betty, rising. "wait a moment longer--please. he will find you," said alfred, detaining her. "since you have been so kind i have grown bolder. may i come over to see you to-morrow?" he looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fell before he had completed his question. "there is isaac. he cannot see me here. i must go." "but not before telling me. what is the good of your forgiving me if i may not see you. please say yes." "you may come," answered betty, half amused and half provoked at his persistence. "i should think you would know that such permission invariably goes with a young woman's forgiveness." "hello, here you are. what a time i have had in finding you," said isaac, coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with excitement. "alfred, what do you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away like this? i want to dance with you, betts. i am having a fine time. i have not danced anything but indian dances for ages. sorry to take her away, alfred. i can see she doesn't want to go. ha! ha!" and with a mischievous look at both of them he led betty away. alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought. suddenly he remembered that it would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, so he got up and found a partner. he danced with alice, lydia, and the other young ladies. after an hour he slipped away to his room. he wished to be alone. he wanted to think; to decide whether it would be best for him to stay at the fort, or ride away in the darkness and never return. with the friendly touch of betty's hand the madness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over him stronger than ever. the thrill of that soft little palm remained with him, and he pressed the hand it had touched to his lips. for a long hour he sat by his window. he could dimly see the broad winding river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, the dark outline of the forest. a cool breeze from the water fanned his heated brow, and the quiet and solitude soothed him. chapter iv. "good morning, harry. where are you going so early?" called betty from the doorway. a lad was passing down the path in front of colonel zane's house as betty hailed him. he carried a rifle almost as long as himself. "mornin', betty. i am goin' 'cross the crick fer that turkey i hear gobblin'," he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly at betty. "hello, harry bennet. going after that turkey? i have heard him several mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler," said colonel zane, stepping to the door. "you are going to have company. here comes wetzel." "good morning, lew. are you too off on a turkey hunt?" said betty. "listen," said the hunter, as he stopped and leaned against the gate. they listened. all was quiet save for the tinkle of a cow-bell in the pasture adjoining the colonel's barn. presently the silence was broken by a long, shrill, peculiar cry. "chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug." "well, it's a turkey, all right, and i'll bet a big gobbler," remarked colonel zane, as the cry ceased. "has jonathan heard it?" asked wetzel. "not that i know of. why do you ask?" said the colonel, in a low tone. "look here, lew, is that not a genuine call?" "goodbye, harry, be sure and bring me a turkey," called betty, as she disappeared. "i calkilate it's a real turkey," answered the hunter, and motioning the lad to stay behind, he shouldered his rifle and passed swiftly down the path. of all the wetzel family--a family noted from one end of the frontier to the other--lewis was as the most famous. the early history of west virginia and ohio is replete with the daring deeds of this wilderness roamer, this lone hunter and insatiable nemesis, justly called the greatest indian slayer known to men. when lewis was about twenty years old, and his brothers john and martin little older, they left their virginia home for a protracted hunt. on their return they found the smoking ruins of the home, the mangled remains of father and mother, the naked and violated bodies of their sisters, and the scalped and bleeding corpse of a baby brother. lewis wetzel swore sleepless and eternal vengeance on the whole indian race. terribly did he carry out that resolution. from that time forward he lived most of the time in the woods, and an indian who crossed his trail was a doomed man. the various indian tribes gave him different names. the shawnees called him "long knife;" the hurons, "destroyer;" the delawares, "death wind," and any one of these names would chill the heart of the stoutest warrior. to most of the famed pioneer hunters of the border, indian fighting was only a side issue--generally a necessary one--but with wetzel it was the business of his life. he lived solely to kill indians. he plunged recklessly into the strife, and was never content unless roaming the wilderness solitudes, trailing the savages to their very homes and ambushing the village bridlepath like a panther waiting for his prey. often in the gray of the morning the indians, sleeping around their camp fire, were awakened by a horrible, screeching yell. they started up in terror only to fall victims to the tomahawk of their merciless foe, or to hear a rifle shot and get a glimpse of a form with flying black hair disappearing with wonderful quickness in the forest. wetzel always left death behind him, and he was gone before his demoniac yell ceased to echo throughout the woods. although often pursued, he invariably eluded the indians, for he was the fleetest runner on the border. for many years he was considered the right hand of the defense of the fort. the indians held him in superstitious dread, and the fact that he was known to be in the settlement had averted more than one attack by the indians. many regarded wetzel as a savage, a man who was mad for the blood of the red men, and without one redeeming quality. but this was an unjust opinion. when that restless fever for revenge left him--it was not always with him--he was quiet and peaceable. to those few who knew him well he was even amiable. but wetzel, although known to everyone, cared for few. he spent little time in the settlements and rarely spoke except when addressed. nature had singularly fitted him for his pre-eminent position among scouts and hunters. he was tall and broad across the shoulders; his strength, agility and endurance were marvelous; he had an eagle eye, the sagacity of the bloodhound, and that intuitive knowledge which plays such an important part in a hunter's life. he knew not fear. he was daring where daring was the wiser part. crafty, tireless and implacable, wetzel was incomparable in his vocation. his long raven-black hair, of which he was vain, when combed out reached to within a foot of the ground. he had a rare scalp, one for which the indians would have bartered anything. a favorite indian decoy, and the most fatal one, was the imitation of the call of the wild turkey. it had often happened that men from the settlements who had gone out for a turkey which had been gobbling, had not returned. for several mornings wetzel had heard a turkey call, and becoming suspicious of it, had determined to satisfy himself. on the east side of the creek hill there was a cavern some fifty or sixty yards above the water. the entrance to this cavern was concealed by vines and foliage. wetzel knew of it, and, crossing the stream some distance above, he made a wide circuit and came up back of the cave. here he concealed himself in a clump of bushes and waited. he had not been there long when directly below him sounded the cry, "chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug." at the same time the polished head and brawny shoulders of an indian warrior rose out of the cavern. peering cautiously around, the savage again gave the peculiar cry, and then sank back out of sight. wetzel screened himself safely in his position and watched the savage repeat the action at least ten times before he made up his mind that the indian was alone in the cave. when he had satisfied himself of this he took a quick aim at the twisted tuft of hair and fired. without waiting to see the result of his shot--so well did he trust his unerring aim--he climbed down the steep bank and brushing aside the vines entered the cave. a stalwart indian lay in the entrance with his face pressed down on the vines. he still clutched in his sinewy fingers the buckhorn mouthpiece with which he had made the calls that had resulted in his death. "huron," muttered the hunter to himself as he ran the keen edge of his knife around the twisted tuft of hair and tore off the scalp-lock. the cave showed evidence of having been inhabited for some time. there was a cunningly contrived fireplace made of stones, against which pieces of birch bark were placed in such a position that not a ray of light could get out of the cavern. the bed of black coals between the stones still smoked; a quantity of parched corn lay on a little rocky shelf which jutted out from the wall; a piece of jerked meat and a buckskin pouch hung from a peg. suddenly wetzel dropped on his knees and began examining the footprints in the sandy floor of the cavern. he measured the length and width of the dead warrior's foot. he closely scrutinized every moccasin print. he crawled to the opening of the cavern and carefully surveyed the moss. then he rose to his feet. a remarkable transformation had come over him during the last few moments. his face had changed; the calm expression was replaced by one sullen and fierce: his lips were set in a thin, cruel line, and a strange light glittered in his eyes. he slowly pursued a course lending gradually down to the creek. at intervals he would stop and listen. the strange voices of the woods were not mysteries to him. they were more familiar to him than the voices of men. he recalled that, while on his circuit over the ridge to get behind the cavern, he had heard the report of a rifle far off in the direction of the chestnut grove, but, as that was a favorite place of the settlers for shooting squirrels, he had not thought anything of it at the time. now it had a peculiar significance. he turned abruptly from the trail he had been following and plunged down the steep hill. crossing the creek he took to the cover of the willows, which grew profusely along the banks, and striking a sort of bridle path he started on a run. he ran easily, as though accustomed to that mode of travel, and his long strides covered a couple of miles in short order. coming to the rugged bluff, which marked the end of the ridge, he stopped and walked slowly along the edge of the water. he struck the trail of the indians where it crossed the creek, just where he expected. there were several moccasin tracks in the wet sand and, in some of the depressions made by the heels the rounded edges of the imprints were still smooth and intact. the little pools of muddy water, which still lay in these hollows, were other indications to his keen eyes that the indians had passed this point early that morning. the trail led up the hill and far into the woods. never in doubt the hunter kept on his course; like a shadow he passed from tree to tree and from bush to bush; silently, cautiously, but rapidly he followed the tracks of the indians. when he had penetrated the dark backwoods of the black forest tangled underbrush, windfalls and gullies crossed his path and rendered fast trailing impossible. before these almost impassible barriers he stopped and peered on all sides, studying the lay of the land, the deadfalls, the gorges, and all the time keeping in mind the probable route of the redskins. then he turned aside to avoid the roughest travelling. sometimes these detours were only a few hundred feet long; often they were miles; but nearly always he struck the trail again. this almost superhuman knowledge of the indian's ways of traversing the forest, which probably no man could have possessed without giving his life to the hunting of indians, was the one feature of wetzel's woodcraft which placed him so far above other hunters, and made him so dreaded by the savages. descending a knoll he entered a glade where the trees grew farther apart and the underbrush was only knee high. the black soil showed that the tract of land had been burned over. on the banks of a babbling brook which wound its way through this open space, the hunter found tracks which brought an exclamation from him. clearly defined in the soft earth was the impress of a white man's moccasin. the footprints of an indian toe inward. those of a white man are just the opposite. a little farther on wetzel came to a slight crushing of the moss, where he concluded some heavy body had fallen. as he had seen the tracks of a buck and doe all the way down the brook he thought it probable one of them had been shot by the white hunter. he found a pool of blood surrounded by moccasin prints; and from that spot the trail led straight toward the west, showing that for some reason the indians had changed their direction. this new move puzzled the hunter, and he leaned against the trunk of a tree, while he revolved in his mind the reasons for this abrupt departure--for such he believed it. the trail he had followed for miles was the devious trail of hunting indians, stealing slowly and stealthily along watching for their prey, whether it be man or beast. the trail toward the west was straight as the crow flies; the moccasin prints that indented the soil were wide apart, and to an inexperienced eye looked like the track of one indian. to wetzel this indicated that the indians had all stepped in the tracks of a leader. as was usually his way, wetzel decided quickly. he had calculated that there were eight indians in all, not counting the chief whom he had shot. this party of indians had either killed or captured the white man who had been hunting. wetzel believed that a part of the indians would push on with all possible speed, leaving some of their number to ambush the trail or double back on it to see if they were pursued. an hour of patient waiting, in which he never moved from his position, proved the wisdom of his judgment. suddenly, away at the other end of the grove, he caught a flash of brown, of a living, moving something, like the flitting of a bird behind a tree. was it a bird or a squirrel? then again he saw it, almost lost in the shade of the forest. several minutes passed, in which wetzel never moved and hardly breathed. the shadow had disappeared behind a tree. he fixed his keen eyes on that tree and presently a dark object glided from it and darted stealthily forward to another tree. one, two, three dark forms followed the first one. they were indian warriors, and they moved so quickly that only the eyes of a woodsman like wetzel could have discerned their movements at that distance. probably most hunters would have taken to their heels while there was yet time. the thought did not occur to wetzel. he slowly raised the hammer of his rifle. as the indians came into plain view he saw they did not suspect his presence, but were returning on the trail in their customary cautious manner. when the first warrior reached a big oak tree some two hundred yards distant, the long, black barrel of the hunter's rifle began slowly, almost imperceptibly, to rise, and as it reached a level the savage stepped forward from the tree. with the sharp report of the weapon he staggered and fell. wetzel sprang up and knowing that his only escape was in rapid flight, with his well known yell, he bounded off at the top of his speed. the remaining indians discharged their guns at the fleeing, dodging figure, but without effect. so rapidly did he dart in and out among the trees that an effectual aim was impossible. then, with loud yells, the indians, drawing their tomahawks, started in pursuit, expecting soon to overtake their victim. in the early years of his indian hunting, wetzel had perfected himself in a practice which had saved his life many tunes, and had added much to his fame. he could reload his rifle while running at topmost speed. his extraordinary fleetness enabled him to keep ahead of his pursuers until his rifle was reloaded. this trick he now employed. keeping up his uneven pace until his gun was ready, he turned quickly and shot the nearest indian dead in his tracks. the next indian had by this time nearly come up with him and close enough to throw his tomahawk, which whizzed dangerously near wetzel's head. but he leaped forward again and soon his rifle was reloaded. every time he looked around the indians treed, afraid to face his unerring weapon. after running a mile or more in this manner, he reached an open space in the woods where he wheeled suddenly on his pursuers. the foremost indian jumped behind a tree, but, as it did not entirely screen his body, he, too, fell a victim to the hunter's aim. the indian must have been desperately wounded, for his companion now abandoned the chase and went to his assistance. together they disappeared in the forest. wetzel, seeing that he was no longer pursued, slackened his pace and proceeded thoughtfully toward the settlement. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * that same day, several hours after wetzel's departure in quest of the turkey, alfred clarke strolled over from the fort and found colonel zane in the yard. the colonel was industriously stirring the contents of a huge copper kettle which swung over a brisk wood fire. the honeyed fragrance of apple-butter mingled with the pungent odor of burning hickory. "morning, alfred, you see they have me at it," was the colonel's salute. "so i observe," answered alfred, as he seated himself on the wood-pile. "what is it you are churning so vigorously?" "apple-butter, my boy, apple-butter. i don't allow even bessie to help when i am making apple-butter." "colonel zane, i have come over to ask a favor. ever since you notified us that you intended sending an expedition up the river i have been worried about my horse roger. he is too light for a pack horse, and i cannot take two horses." "i'll let you have the bay. he is big and strong enough. that black horse of yours is a beauty. you leave roger with me and if you never come back i'll be in a fine horse. ha, ha! but, seriously, clarke, this proposed trip is a hazardous undertaking, and if you would rather stay--" "you misunderstand me," quickly replied alfred, who had flushed. "i do not care about myself. i'll go and take my medicine. but i do mind about my horse." "that's right. always think of your horses. i'll have sam take the best of care of roger." "what is the nature of this excursion, and how long shall we be gone?" "jonathan will guide the party. he says it will take six weeks if you have pleasant weather. you are to go by way of short creek, where you will help put up a blockhouse. then you go to fort pitt. there you will embark on a raft with the supplies i need and make the return journey by water. you will probably smell gunpowder before you get back." "what shall we do with the horses?" "bring them along with you on the raft, of course." "that is a new way to travel with horses," said alfred, looking dubiously at the swift river. "will there be any way to get news from fort henry while we are away?" "yes, there will be several runners." "mr. clarke, i am going to feed my pets. would you like to see them?" asked a voice which brought alfred to his feet. he turned and saw betty. her dog followed her, carrying a basket. "i shall be delighted," answered alfred. "have you more pets than tige and madcap?" "oh, yes, indeed. i have a bear, six squirrels, one of them white, and some pigeons." betty led the way to an enclosure adjoining colonel zane's barn. it was about twenty feet square, made of pine saplings which had been split and driven firmly into the ground. as betty took down a bar and opened the small gate a number of white pigeons fluttered down from the roof of the barn, several of them alighting on her shoulders. a half-grown black bear came out of a kennel and shuffled toward her. he was unmistakably glad to see her, but he avoided going near tige, and looked doubtfully at the young man. but after alfred had stroked his head and had spoken to him he seemed disposed to be friendly, for he sniffed around alfred's knees and then stood up and put his paws against the young man's shoulders. "here, caesar, get down," said betty. "he always wants to wrestle, especially with anyone of whom he is not suspicious. he is very tame and will do almost anything. indeed, you would marvel at his intelligence. he never forgets an injury. if anyone plays a trick on him you may be sure that person will not get a second opportunity. the night we caught him tige chased him up a tree and jonathan climbed the tree and lassoed him. ever since he has evinced a hatred of jonathan, and if i should leave tige alone with him there would be a terrible fight. but for that i could allow caesar to run free about the yard." "he looks bright and sagacious," remarked alfred. "he is, but sometimes he gets into mischief. i nearly died laughing one day. bessie, my brother's wife, you know, had the big kettle on the fire, just as you saw it a moment ago, only this time she was boiling down maple syrup. tige was out with some of the men and i let caesar loose awhile. if there is anything he loves it is maple sugar, so when he smelled the syrup he pulled down the kettle and the hot syrup went all over his nose. oh, his howls were dreadful to hear. the funniest part about it was he seemed to think it was intentional, for he remained sulky and cross with me for two weeks." "i can understand your love for animals," said alfred. "i think there are many interesting things about wild creatures. there are comparatively few animals down in virginia where i used to live, and my opportunities to study them have been limited." "here are my squirrels," said betty, unfastening the door of a cage. a number of squirrels ran out. several jumped to the ground. one perched on top of the box. another sprang on betty's shoulder. "i fasten them up every night, for i'm afraid the weasels and foxes will get them. the white squirrel is the only albino we have seen around here. it took jonathan weeks to trap him, but once captured he soon grew tame. is he not pretty?" "he certainly is. i never saw one before; in fact, i did not know such a beautiful little animal existed," answered alfred, looking in admiration at the graceful creature, as he leaped from the shelf to betty's arm and ate from her hand, his great, bushy white tail arching over his back and his small pink eyes shining. "there! listen," said betty. "look at the fox squirrel, the big brownish red one. i call him the captain, because he always wants to boss the others. i had another fox squirrel, older than this fellow, and he ran things to suit himself, until one day the grays united their forces and routed him. i think they would have killed him had i not freed him. well, this one is commencing the same way. do you hear that odd clicking noise? that comes from the captain's teeth, and he is angry and jealous because i show so much attention to this one. he always does that, and he would fight too if i were not careful. it is a singular fact, though, that the white squirrel has not even a little pugnacity. he either cannot fight, or he is too well behaved. here, mr. clarke, show snowball this nut, and then hide it in your pocket, and see him find it." alfred did as he was told, except that while he pretended to put the nut in his pocket he really kept it concealed in his hand. the pet squirrel leaped lightly on alfred's shoulder, ran over his breast, peeped in all his pockets, and even pushed his cap to one side of his head. then he ran down alfred's arm, sniffed in his coat sleeve, and finally wedged a cold little nose between his closed fingers. "there, he has found it, even though you did not play fair," said betty, laughing gaily. alfred never forgot the picture betty made standing there with the red cap on her dusky hair, and the loving smile upon her face as she talked to her pets. a white fan-tail pigeon had alighted on her shoulder and was picking daintily at the piece of cracker she held between her lips. the squirrels were all sitting up, each with a nut in his little paws, and each with an alert and cunning look in the corner of his eye, to prevent, no doubt, being surprised out of a portion of his nut. caesar was lying on all fours, growling and tearing at his breakfast, while the dog looked on with a superior air, as if he knew they would not have had any breakfast but for him. "are you fond of canoeing and fishing?" asked betty, as they returned to the house. "indeed i am. isaac has taken me out on the river often. canoeing may be pleasant for a girl, but i never knew one who cared for fishing." "now you behold one. i love dear old izaak walton. of course, you have read his books?" "i am ashamed to say i have not." "and you say you are a fisherman? well, you haste a great pleasure in store, as well as an opportunity to learn something of the 'contemplative man's recreation.' i shall lend you the books." "i have not seen a book since i came to fort henry." "i have a fine little library, and you are welcome to any of my books. but to return to fishing. i love it, and yet i nearly always allow the fish to go free. sometimes i bring home a pretty sunfish, place him in a tub of water, watch him and try to tame him. but i must admit failure. it is the association which makes fishing so delightful. the canoe gliding down a swift stream, the open air, the blue sky, the birds and trees and flowers--these are what i love. come and see my canoe." thus betty rattled on as she led the way through the sitting-room and kitchen to colonel zane's magazine and store-house which opened into the kitchen. this little low-roofed hut contained a variety of things. boxes, barrels and farming implements filled one corner; packs of dried skins were piled against the wall; some otter and fox pelts were stretched on the wall, and a number of powder kegs lined a shelf. a slender canoe swung from ropes thrown over the rafters. alfred slipped it out of the loops and carried it outside. the canoe was a superb specimen of indian handiwork. it had a length of fourteen feet and was made of birch bark, stretched over a light framework of basswood. the bow curved gracefully upward, ending in a carved image representing a warrior's head. the sides were beautifully ornamented and decorated in fanciful indian designs. "my brother's indian guide, tomepomehala, a shawnee chief, made it for me. you see this design on the bow. the arrow and the arm mean in indian language, 'the race is to the swift and the strong.' the canoe is very light. see, i can easily carry it," said betty, lifting it from the grass. she ran into the house and presently came out with two rods, a book and a basket. "these are jack's rods. he cut them out of the heart of ten-year-old basswood trees, so he says. we must be careful of them." alfred examined the rods with the eye of a connoisseur and pronounced them perfect. "these rods have been made by a lover of the art. anyone with half an eye could see that. what shall we use for bait?" he said. "sam got me some this morning." "did you expect to go?" asked alfred, looking up in surprise. "yes, i intended going, and as you said you were coming over, i meant to ask you to accompany me." "that was kind of you." "where are you young people going?" called colonel zane, stopping in his task. "we are going down to the sycamore," answered betty. "very well. but be certain and stay on this side of the creek and do not go out on the river," said the colonel. "why, eb, what do you mean? one might think mr. clarke and i were children," exclaimed betty. "you certainly aren't much more. but that is not my reason. never mind the reason. do as i say or do not go," said colonel zane. "all right, brother. i shall not forget," said betty, soberly, looking at the colonel. he had not spoken in his usual teasing way, and she was at a loss to understand him. "come, mr. clarke, you carry the canoe and follow me down this path and look sharp for roots and stones or you may trip." "where is isaac?" asked alfred, as he lightly swung the canoe over his shoulder. "he took his rifle and went up to the chestnut grove an hour or more ago." a few minutes' walk down the willow skirted path and they reached the creek. here it was a narrow stream, hardly fifty feet wide, shallow, and full of stones over which the clear brown water rushed noisily. "is it not rather risky going down there?" asked alfred as he noticed the swift current and the numerous boulders poking treacherous heads just above the water. "of course. that is the great pleasure in canoeing," said betty, calmly. "if you would rather walk--" "no, i'll go if i drown. i was thinking of you." "it is safe enough if you can handle a paddle," said betty, with a smile at his hesitation. "and, of course, if your partner in the canoe sits trim." "perhaps you had better allow me to use the paddle. where did you learn to steer a canoe?" "i believe you are actually afraid. why, i was born on the potomac, and have used a paddle since i was old enough to lift one. come, place the canoe in here and we will keep to the near shore until we reach the bend. there is a little fall just below this and i love to shoot it." he steadied the canoe with one hand while he held out the other to help her, but she stepped nimbly aboard without his assistance. "wait a moment while i catch some crickets and grasshoppers." "gracious! what a fisherman. don't you know we have had frost?" "that's so," said alfred, abashed by her simple remark. "but you might find some crickets under those logs," said betty. she laughed merrily at the awkward spectacle made by alfred crawling over the ground, improvising a sort of trap out of his hat, and pouncing down on a poor little insect. "now, get in carefully, and give the canoe a push. there, we are off," she said, taking up the paddle. the little bark glided slowly down stream at first hugging the bank as though reluctant to trust itself to the deeper water, and then gathering headway as a few gentle strokes of the paddle swerved it into the current. betty knelt on one knee and skillfully plied the paddle, using the indian stroke in which the paddle was not removed from the water. "this is great!" exclaimed alfred, as he leaned back in the bow facing her. "there is nothing more to be desired. this beautiful clear stream, the air so fresh, the gold lined banks, the autumn leaves, a guide who--" "look," said betty. "there is the fall over which we must pass." he looked ahead and saw that they were swiftly approaching two huge stones that reared themselves high out of the water. they were only a few yards apart and surrounded by smaller rocks, about high the water rushed white with foam. "please do not move!" cried betty, her eyes shining bright with excitement. indeed, the situation was too novel for alfred to do anything but feel a keen enjoyment. he had made up his mind that he was sure to get a ducking, but, as he watched betty's easy, yet vigorous sweeps with the paddle, and her smiling, yet resolute lips, he felt reassured. he could see that the fall was not a great one, only a few feet, but one of those glancing sheets of water like a mill race, and he well knew that if they struck a stone disaster would be theirs. twenty feet above the white-capped wave which marked the fall, betty gave a strong forward pull on the paddle, a deep stroke which momentarily retarded their progress even in that swift current, and then, a short backward stroke, far under the stern of the canoe, and the little vessel turned straight, almost in the middle of the course between the two rocks. as she raised her paddle into the canoe and smiled at the fascinated young man, the bow dipped, and with that peculiar downward movement, that swift, exhilarating rush so dearly loved by canoeists, they shot down the smooth incline of water, were lost for a moment in a white cloud of mist, and in another they coated into a placid pool. "was not that delightful?" she asked, with just a little conscious pride glowing in her dark eyes. "miss zane, it was more than that. i apologize for my suspicions. you have admirable skill. i only wish that on my voyage down the river of life i could have such a sure eye and hand to guide me through the dangerous reefs and rapids." "you are poetical," said betty, who laughed, and at the same time blushed slightly. "but you are right about the guide. jonathan says 'always get a good guide,' and as guiding is his work he ought to know. but this has nothing in common with fishing, and here is my favorite place under the old sycamore." with a long sweep of the paddle she ran the canoe alongside a stone beneath a great tree which spread its long branches over the creek and shaded the pool. it was a grand old tree and must have guarded that sylvan spot for centuries. the gnarled and knotted trunk was scarred and seamed with the ravages of time. the upper part was dead. long limbs extended skyward, gaunt and bare, like the masts of a storm beaten vessel. the lower branches were white and shining, relieved here and there by brown patches of bark which curled up like old parchment as they shelled away from the inner bark. the ground beneath the tree was carpeted with a velvety moss with little plots of grass and clusters of maiden-hair fern growing on it. from under an overhanging rock on the bank a spring of crystal water bubbled forth. alfred rigged up the rods, and baiting a hook directed betty to throw her line well out into the current and let it float down into the eddy. she complied, and hardly had the line reached the circle of the eddy, where bits of white foam floated round and round, when there was a slight splash, a scream from betty and she was standing up in the canoe holding tightly to her rod. "be careful!" exclaimed alfred. "sit down. you will have the canoe upset in a moment. hold your rod steady and keep the line taut. that's right. now lead him round toward me. there," and grasping the line he lifted a fine rock bass over the side of the canoe. "oh! i always get so intensely excited," breathlessly cried betty. "i can't help it. jonathan always declares he will never take me fishing again. let me see the fish. it's a goggle-eye. isn't he pretty? look how funny he bats his eyes," and she laughed gleefully as she gingerly picked up the fish by the tail and dropped him into the water. "now, mr. goggle-eye, if you are wise, in future you will beware of tempting looking bugs." for an hour they had splendid sport. the pool teemed with sunfish. the bait would scarcely touch the water when the little orange colored fellows would rush for it. now and then a black bass darted wickedly through the school of sunfish and stole the morsel from them. or a sharp-nosed fiery-eyed pickerel--vulture of the water--rising to the surface, and, supreme in his indifference to man or fish, would swim lazily round until he had discovered the cause of all this commotion among the smaller fishes, and then, opening wide his jaws would take the bait with one voracious snap. presently something took hold of betty's line and moved out toward the middle of the pool. she struck and the next instant her rod was bent double and the tip under water. "pull your rod up!" shouted alfred. "here, hand it to me." but it was too late. a surge right and left, a vicious tug, and betty's line floated on the surface of the water. "now, isn't that too bad? he has broken my line. goodness, i never before felt such a strong fish. what shall i do?" "you should be thankful you were not pulled in. i have been in a state of fear ever since we commenced fishing. you move round in this canoe as though it were a raft. let me paddle out to that little ripple and try once there; then we will stop. i know you are tired." near the center of the pool a half submerged rock checked the current and caused a little ripple of the water. several times alfred had seen the dark shadow of a large fish followed by a swirl of the water, and the frantic leaping of little bright-sided minnows in all directions. as his hook, baited with a lively shiner, floated over the spot, a long, yellow object shot from out that shaded lair. there was a splash, not unlike that made by the sharp edge of a paddle impelled by a short, powerful stroke, the minnow disappeared, and the broad tail of the fish flapped on the water. the instant alfred struck, the water boiled and the big fish leaped clear into the air, shaking himself convulsively to get rid of the hook. he made mad rushes up and down the pool, under the canoe, into the swift current and against the rocks, but all to no avail. steadily alfred increased the strain on the line and gradually it began to tell, for the plunges of the fish became shorter and less frequent. once again, in a last magnificent effort, he leaped straight into the air, and failing to get loose, gave up the struggle and was drawn gasping and exhausted to the side of the canoe. "are you afraid to touch him?" asked alfred. "indeed i am not," answered betty. "then run your hand gently down the line, slip your fingers in under his gills and lift him over the side carefully." "five pounds," exclaimed alfred, when the fish lay at his feet. "this is the largest black bass i ever caught. it is pity to take such a beautiful fish out of his element." "let him go, then. may i?" said betty. "no, you have allowed them all to go, even the pickerel which i think ought to be killed. we will keep this fellow alive, and place him in that nice clear pool over in the fort-yard." "i like to watch you play a fish," said betty. "jonathan always hauls them right out. you are so skillful. you let this fish run so far and then you checked him. then you gave him a line to go the other way, and no doubt he felt free once more when you stopped him again." "you are expressing a sentiment which has been, is, and always will be particularly pleasing to the fair sex, i believe," observed alfred, smiling rather grimly as he wound up his line. "would you mind being explicit?" she questioned. alfred had laughed and was about to answer when the whip-like crack of a rifle came from the hillside. the echoes of the shot reverberated from hill to hill and were finally lost far down the valley. "what can that be?" exclaimed alfred anxiously, recalling colonel zane's odd manner when they were about to leave the house. "i am not sure, but i think that is my turkey, unless lew wetzel happened to miss his aim," said betty, laughing. "and that is such an unprecedented thing that it can hardly be considered. turkeys are scarce this season. jonathan says the foxes and wolves ate up the broods. lew heard this turkey calling and he made little harry bennet, who had started out with his gun, stay at home and went after mr. gobbler himself." "is that all? well, that is nothing to get alarmed about, is it? i actually had a feeling of fear, or a presentiment, we might say." they beached the canoe and spread out the lunch in the shade near the spring. alfred threw himself at length upon the grass and betty sat leaning against the tree. she took a biscuit in one hand, a pickle in the other, and began to chat volubly to alfred of her school life, and of philadelphia, and the friends she had made there. at length, remarking his abstraction, she said: "you are not listening to me." "i beg your pardon. my thoughts did wander. i was thinking of my mother. something about you reminds me of her. i do not know what, unless it is that little mannerism you have of pursing up your lips when you hesitate or stop to think." "tell me of her," said betty, seeing his softened mood. "my mother was very beautiful, and as good as she was lovely. i never had a care until my father died. then she married again, and as i did not get on with my step-father i ran away from home. i have not been in virginia for four years." "do you get homesick?" "indeed i do. while at fort pitt i used to have spells of the blues which lasted for days. for a time i felt more contented here. but i fear the old fever of restlessness will come over me again. i can speak freely to you because i know you will understand, and i feel sure of your sympathy. my father wanted me to be a minister. he sent me to the theological seminary at princeton, where for two years i tried to study. then my father died. i went home and looked after things until my mother married again. that changed everything for me. i ran away and have since been a wanderer. i feel that i am not lazy, that i am not afraid of work, but four years have drifted by and i have nothing to show for it. i am discouraged. perhaps that is wrong, but tell me how i can help it. i have not the stoicism of the hunter, wetzel, nor have i the philosophy of your brother. i could not be content to sit on my doorstep and smoke my pipe and watch the wheat and corn grow. and then, this life of the borderman, environed as it is by untold dangers, leads me, fascinates me, and yet appalls me with the fear that here i shall fall a victim to an indian's bullet or spear, and find a nameless grave." a long silence ensued. alfred had spoken quietly, but with an undercurrent of bitterness that saddened betty. for the first time she saw a shadow of pain in his eyes. she looked away down the valley, not seeing the brown and gold hills boldly defined against the blue sky, nor the beauty of the river as the setting sun cast a ruddy glow on the water. her companion's words had touched an unknown chord in her heart. when finally she turned to answer him a beautiful light shone in her eyes, a light that shines not on land or sea--the light of woman's hope. "mr. clarke," she said, and her voice was soft and low, "i am only a girl, but i can understand. you are unhappy. try to rise above it. who knows what will befall this little settlement? it may be swept away by the savages, and it may grow to be a mighty city. it must take that chance. so must you, so must we all take chances. you are here. find your work and do it cheerfully, honestly, and let the future take care of itself. and let me say--do not be offended--beware of idleness and drink. they are as great a danger--nay, greater than the indians." "miss zane, if you were to ask me not to drink i would never touch a drop again," said alfred, earnestly. "i did not ask that," answered betty, flushing slightly. "but i shall remember it as a promise and some day i may ask it of you." he looked wonderingly at the girl beside him. he had spent most of his life among educated and cultured people. he had passed several years in the backwoods. but with all his experience with people he had to confess that this young woman was as a revelation to him. she could ride like an indian and shoot like a hunter. he had heard that she could run almost as swiftly as her brothers. evidently she feared nothing, for he had just seen an example of her courage in a deed that had tried even his own nerve, and, withal, she was a bright, happy girl, earnest and true, possessing all the softer graces of his sisters, and that exquisite touch of feminine delicacy and refinement which appeals more to men than any other virtue. "have you not met mr. miller before he came here from fort pitt?" asked betty. "why do you ask?" "i think he mentioned something of the kind." "what else did he say?" "why--mr. clarke, i hardly remember." "i see," said alfred, his face darkening. "he has talked about me. i do not care what he said. i knew him at fort pitt, and we had trouble there. i venture to say he has told no one about it. he certainly would not shine in the story. but i am not a tattler." "it is not very difficult to see that you do not like him. jonathan does not, either. he says mr. miller was friendly with mckee, and the notorious simon girty, the soldiers who deserted from fort pitt and went to the indians. the girls like him however." "usually if a man is good looking and pleasant that is enough for the girls. i noticed that he paid you a great deal of attention at the dance. he danced three times with you." "did he? how observing you are," said betty, giving him a little sidelong glance. "well, he is very agreeable, and he dances better than many of the young men." "i wonder if wetzel got the turkey. i have heard no more shots," said alfred, showing plainly that he wished to change the subject. "oh, look there! quick!" exclaimed betty, pointing toward the hillside. he looked in the direction indicated and saw a doe and a spotted fawn wading into the shallow water. the mother stood motionless a moment, with head erect and long ears extended. then she drooped her graceful head and drank thirstily of the cool water. the fawn splashed playfully round while its mother was drinking. it would dash a few paces into the stream and then look back to see if its mother approved. evidently she did not, for she would stop her drinking and call the fawn back to her side with a soft, crooning noise. suddenly she raised her head, the long ears shot up, and she seemed to sniff the air. she waded through the deeper water to get round a rocky bluff which ran out into the creek. then she turned and called the little one. the fawn waded until the water reached its knees, then stopped and uttered piteous little bleats. encouraged by the soft crooning it plunged into the deep water and with great splashing and floundering managed to swim the short distance. its slender legs shook as it staggered up the bank. exhausted or frightened, it shrank close to its mother. together they disappeared in the willows which fringed the side of the hill. "was not that little fellow cute? i have had several fawns, but have never had the heart to keep them," said betty. then, as alfred made no motion to speak, she continued: "you do not seem very talkative." "i have nothing to say. you will think me dull. the fact is when i feel deepest i am least able to express myself." "i will read to you." said betty taking up the book. he lay back against the grassy bank and gazed dreamily at the many hued trees on the little hillside; at the bare rugged sides of mccolloch's rock which frowned down upon them. a silver-breasted eagle sailed slowly round and round in the blue sky, far above the bluff. alfred wondered what mysterious power sustained that solitary bird as he floated high in the air without perceptible movement of his broad wings. he envied the king of birds his reign over that illimitable space, his far-reaching vision, and his freedom. round and round the eagle soared, higher and higher, with each perfect circle, and at last, for an instant poising as lightly as if he were about to perch on his lonely crag, he arched his wings and swooped down through the air with the swiftness of a falling arrow. betty's low voice, the water rushing so musically over the falls, the great yellow leaves falling into the pool, the gentle breeze stirring the clusters of goldenrod--all came softly to alfred as he lay there with half closed eyes. the time slipped swiftly by as only such time can. "i fear the melancholy spirit of the day has prevailed upon you," said betty, half wistfully. "you did not know i had stopped reading, and i do not believe you heard my favorite poem. i have tried to give you a pleasant afternoon and have failed." "no, no," said alfred, looking at her with a blue flame in his eyes. "the afternoon has been perfect. i have forgotten my role, and have allowed you to see my real self, something i have tried to hide from all." "and are you always sad when you are sincere?" "not always. but i am often sad. is it any wonder? is not all nature sad? listen! there is the song of the oriole. breaking in on the stillness it is mournful. the breeze is sad, the brook is sad, this dying indian summer day is sad. life itself is sad." "oh, no. life is beautiful." "you are a child," said he, with a thrill in his deep voice "i hope you may always be as you are to-day, in heart, at least." "it grows late. see, the shadows are falling. we must go." "you know i am going away to-morrow. i don't want to go. perhaps that is why i have been such poor company today. i have a presentiment of evil i am afraid i may never come back." "i am sorry you must go." "do you really mean that?" asked alfred, earnestly, bending toward her "you know it is a very dangerous undertaking. would you care if i never returned?" she looked up and their eyes met. she had raised her head haughtily, as if questioning his right to speak to her in that manner, but as she saw the unspoken appeal in his eyes her own wavered and fell while a warm color crept into her cheek. "yes, i would be sorry," she said, gravely. then, after a moment: "you must portage the canoe round the falls, and from there we can paddle back to the path." the return trip made, they approached the house. as they turned the corner they saw colonel zane standing at the door talking to wetzel. they saw that the colonel looked pale and distressed, and the face of the hunter was dark and gloomy. "lew, did you get my turkey?" said betty, after a moment of hesitation. a nameless fear filled her breast. for answer wetzel threw back the flaps of his coat and there at his belt hung a small tuft of black hair. betty knew at once it was the scalp-lock of an indian. her face turned white and she placed a hand on the hunter's arm. "what do you mean? that is an indian's scalp. lew, you look so strange. tell me, is it because we went off in the canoe and have been in danger?" "betty, isaac has been captured again," said the colonel. "oh, no, no, no," cried betty in agonized tones, and wringing her hands. then, excitedly, "something can be done; you must pursue them. oh, lew, mr. clarke, cannot you rescue him? they have not had time to go far." "isaac went to the chestnut grove this morning. if he had stayed there he would not have been captured. but he went far into the black forest. the turkey call we heard across the creek was made by a wyandot concealed in the cave. lewis tells me that a number of indians have camped there for days. he shot the one who was calling and followed the others until he found where they had taken isaac's trail." betty turned to the younger man with tearful eyes, and with beseeching voice implored them to save her brother. "i am ready to follow you," said clarke to wetzel. the hunter shook his head, but did not answer. "it is that hateful white crane," passionately burst out betty, as the colonel's wife led her weeping into the house. "did you get more than one shot at them?" asked clarke. the hunter nodded, and the slight, inscrutable smile flitted across his stern features. he never spoke of his deeds. for this reason many of the thrilling adventures which he must have had will forever remain unrevealed. that evening there was sadness at colonel zane's supper table. they felt the absence of the colonel's usual spirits, his teasing of betty, and his cheerful conversation. he had nothing to say. betty sat at the table a little while, and then got up and left the room saying she could not eat. jonathan, on hearing of his brother's recapture, did not speak, but retired in gloomy silence. silas was the only one of the family who was not utterly depressed. he said it could have been a great deal worse; that they must make the best of it, and that the sooner isaac married his indian princess the better for his scalp and for the happiness of all concerned. "i remember myeerah very well," he said. "it was eight years ago, and she was only a child. even then she was very proud and willful, and the loveliest girl i ever laid eyes on." alfred clarke staid late at colonel zane's that night. before going away for so many weeks he wished to have a few more moments alone with betty. but a favorable opportunity did not present itself during the evening, so when he had bade them all goodbye and goodnight, except betty, who opened the door for him, he said softly to her: "it is bright moonlight outside. come, please, and walk to the gate with me." a full moon shone serenely down on hill and dale, flooding the valley with its pure white light and bathing the pastures in its glory; at the foot of the bluff the waves of the river gleamed like myriads of stars all twinkling and dancing on a bed of snowy clouds. thus illumined the river wound down the valley, its brilliance growing fainter and fainter until at last, resembling the shimmering of a silver thread which joined the earth to heaven, it disappeared in the horizon. "i must say goodbye," said alfred, as they reached the gate. "friends must part. i am sorry you must go, mr. clarke, and i trust you may return safe. it seems only yesterday that you saved my brother's life, and i was so grateful and happy. now he is gone." "you should not think about it so much nor brood over it," answered the young man. "grieving will not bring him back nor do you any good. it is not nearly so bad as if he had been captured by some other tribe. wetzel assures us that isaac was taken alive. please do not grieve." "i have cried until i cannot cry any more. i am so unhappy. we were children together, and i have always loved him better than any one since my mother died. to have him back again and then to lose him! oh! i cannot bear it." she covered her face with her hands and a low sob escaped her. "don't, don't grieve," he said in an unsteady voice, as he took the little hands in his and pulled them away from her face. betty trembled. something in his voice, a tone she had never heard before startled her. she looked up at him half unconscious that he still held her hands in his. never had she appeared so lovely. "you cannot understand my feelings." "i loved my mother." "but you have not lost her. that makes all the difference." "i want to comfort you and i am powerless. i am unable to say what--i--" he stopped short. as he stood gazing down into her sweet face, burning, passionate words came to his lips; but he was dumb; he could not speak. all day long he had been living in a dream. now he realized that but a moment remained for him to be near the girl he loved so well. he was leaving her, perhaps never to see her again, or to return to find her another's. a fierce pain tore his heart. "you--you are holding my hands," faltered betty, in a doubtful, troubled voice. she looked up into his face and saw that it was pale with suppressed emotion. alfred was mad indeed. he forgot everything. in that moment the world held nothing for him save that fair face. her eyes, uplifted to his in the moonlight, beamed with a soft radiance. they were honest eyes, just now filled with innocent sadness and regret, but they drew him with irresistible power. without realizing in the least what he was doing he yielded to the impulse. bending his head he kissed the tremulous lips. "oh," whispered betty, standing still as a statue and looking at him with wonderful eyes. then, as reason returned, a hot flush dyed her face, and wrenching her hands free she struck him across the cheek. "for god's sake, betty, i did not mean to do that! wait. i have something to tell you. for pity's sake, let me explain," he cried, as the full enormity of his offence dawned upon him. betty was deaf to the imploring voice, for she ran into the house and slammed the door. he called to her, but received no answer. he knocked on the door, but it remained closed. he stood still awhile, trying to collect his thoughts, and to find a way to undo the mischief he had wrought. when the real significance of his act came to him he groaned in spirit. what a fool he had been! only a few short hours and he must start on a perilous journey, leaving the girl he loved in ignorance of his real intentions. who was to tell her that he loved her? who was to tell her that it was because his whole heart and soul had gone to her that he had kissed her? with bowed head he slowly walked away toward the fort, totally oblivious of the fact that a young girl, with hands pressed tightly over her breast to try to still a madly beating heart, watched him from her window until he disappeared into the shadow of the block-house. alfred paced up and down his room the four remaining hours of that eventful day. when the light was breaking in at the east and dawn near at hand he heard the rough voices of men and the tramping of iron-shod hoofs. the hour of his departure was at hand. he sat down at his table and by the aid of the dim light from a pine knot he wrote a hurried letter to betty. a little hope revived in his heart as he thought that perhaps all might yet be well. surely some one would be up to whom he could intrust the letter, and if no one he would run over and slip it under the door of colonel zane's house. in the gray of the early morning alfred rode out with the daring band of heavily armed men, all grim and stern, each silent with the thought of the man who knows he may never return. soon the settlement was left far behind. chapter v. during the last few days, in which the frost had cracked open the hickory nuts, and in which the squirrels had been busily collecting and storing away their supply of nuts for winter use, it had been isaac's wont to shoulder his rifle, walk up the hill, and spend the morning in the grove. on this crisp autumn morning he had started off as usual, and had been called back by col. zane, who advised him not to wander far from the settlement. this admonition, kind and brotherly though it was, annoyed isaac. like all the zanes he had born in him an intense love for the solitude of the wilderness. there were times when nothing could satisfy him but the calm of the deep woods. one of these moods possessed him now. courageous to a fault and daring where daring was not always the wiser part, isaac lacked the practical sense of the colonel and the cool judgment of jonathan. impatient of restraint, independent in spirit, and it must be admitted, in his persistence in doing as he liked instead of what he ought to do, he resembled betty more than he did his brothers. feeling secure in his ability to take care of himself, for he knew he was an experienced hunter and woodsman, he resolved to take a long tramp in the forest. this resolution was strengthened by the fact that he did not believe what the colonel and jonathan had told him--that it was not improbable some of the wyandot braves were lurking in the vicinity, bent on killing or recapturing him. at any rate he did not fear it. once in the shade of the great trees the fever of discontent left him, and, forgetting all except the happiness of being surrounded by the silent oaks, he penetrated deeper and deeper into the forest. the brushing of a branch against a tree, the thud of a falling nut, the dart of a squirrel, and the sight of a bushy tail disappearing round a limb--all these things which indicated that the little gray fellows were working in the tree-tops, and which would usually have brought isaac to a standstill, now did not seem to interest him. at times he stooped to examine the tender shoots growing at the foot of a sassafras tree. then, again, he closely examined marks he found in the soft banks of the streams. he went on and on. two hours of this still-hunting found him on the bank of a shallow gully through which a brook went rippling and babbling over the mossy green stones. the forest was dense here; rugged oaks and tall poplars grew high over the tops of the first growth of white oaks and beeches; the wild grapevines which coiled round the trees like gigantic serpents, spread out in the upper branches and obscured the sun; witch-hopples and laurel bushes grew thickly; monarchs of the forest, felled by some bygone storm, lay rotting on the ground; and in places the wind-falls were so thick and high as to be impenetrable. isaac hesitated. he realized that he had plunged far into the black forest. here it was gloomy; a dreamy quiet prevailed, that deep calm of the wilderness, unbroken save for the distant note of the hermit-thrush, the strange bird whose lonely cry, given at long intervals, pierced the stillness. although isaac had never seen one of these birds, he was familiar with that cry which was never heard except in the deepest woods, far from the haunts of man. a black squirrel ran down a tree and seeing the hunter scampered away in alarm. isaac knew the habits of the black squirrel, that it was a denizen of the wildest woods and frequented only places remote from civilization. the song of the hermit and the sight of the black squirrel caused isaac to stop and reflect, with the result that he concluded he had gone much farther from the fort than he had intended. he turned to retrace his steps when a faint sound from down the ravine came to his sharp ears. there was no instinct to warn him that a hideously painted face was raised a moment over the clump of laurel bushes to his left, and that a pair of keen eyes watched every move he made. unconscious of impending evil isaac stopped and looked around him. suddenly above the musical babble of the brook and the rustle of the leaves by the breeze came a repetition of the sound. he crouched close by the trunk of a tree and strained his ears. all was quiet for some moments. then he heard the patter, patter of little hoofs coming down the stream. nearer and nearer they came. sometimes they were almost inaudible and again he heard them clearly and distinctly. then there came a splashing and the faint hollow sound caused by hard hoofs striking the stones in shallow water. finally the sounds ceased. cautiously peering from behind the tree isaac saw a doe standing on the bank fifty yards down the brook. trembling she had stopped as if in doubt or uncertainty. her ears pointed straight upward, and she lifted one front foot from the ground like a thoroughbred pointer. isaac knew a doe always led the way through the woods and if there were other deer they would come up unless warned by the doe. presently the willows parted and a magnificent buck with wide spreading antlers stepped out and stood motionless on the bank. although they were down the wind isaac knew the deer suspected some hidden danger. they looked steadily at the clump of laurels at isaac's left, a circumstance he remarked at the time, but did not understand the real significance of until long afterward. following the ringing report of isaac's rifle the buck sprang almost across the stream, leaped convulsively up the bank, reached the top, and then his strength failing, slid down into the stream, where, in his dying struggles, his hoofs beat the water into white foam. the doe had disappeared like a brown flash. isaac, congratulating himself on such a fortunate shot--for rarely indeed does a deer fall dead in his tracks even when shot through the heart--rose from his crouching position and commenced to reload his rifle. with great care he poured the powder into the palm of his hand, measuring the quantity with his eye--for it was an evidence of a hunter's skill to be able to get the proper quantity for the ball. then he put the charge into the barrel. placing a little greased linsey rag, about half an inch square, over the muzzle, he laid a small lead bullet on it, and with the ramrod began to push the ball into the barrel. a slight rustle behind him, which sounded to him like the gliding of a rattlesnake over the leaves, caused him to start and turn round. but he was too late. a crushing blow on the head from a club in the hand of a brawny indian laid him senseless on the ground. when isaac regained his senses he felt a throbbing pain in his head, and then he opened his eyes he was so dizzy that he was unable to discern objects clearly. after a few moments his sight returned. when he had struggled to a sitting posture he discovered that his hands were bound with buckskin thongs. by his side he saw two long poles of basswood, with some strips of green bark and pieces of grapevine laced across and tied fast to the poles. evidently this had served as a litter on which he had been carried. from his wet clothes and the position of the sun, now low in the west, he concluded he had been brought across the river and was now miles from the fort. in front of him he saw three indians sitting before a fire. one of them was cutting thin slices from a haunch of deer meat, another was drinking from a gourd, and the third was roasting a piece of venison which he held on a sharpened stick. isaac knew at once the indians were wyandots, and he saw they were in full war paint. they were not young braves, but middle aged warriors. one of them isaac recognized as crow, a chief of one of the wyandot tribes, and a warrior renowned for his daring and for his ability to make his way in a straight line through the wilderness. crow was a short, heavy indian and his frame denoted great strength. he had a broad forehead, high cheek bones, prominent nose and his face would have been handsome and intelligent but for the scar which ran across his cheek, giving him a sinister look. "hugh!" said crow, as he looked up and saw isaac staring at him. the other indians immediately gave vent to a like exclamation. "crow, you caught me again," said isaac, in the wyandot tongue, which he spoke fluently. "the white chief is sure of eye and swift of foot, but he cannot escape the huron. crow has been five times on his trail since the moon was bright. the white chief's eyes were shut and his ears were deaf," answered the indian loftily. "how long have you been near the fort?" "two moons have the warriors of myeerah hunted the pale face." "have you any more indians with you?" the chief nodded and said a party of nine wyandots had been in the vicinity of wheeling for a month. he named some of the warriors. isaac was surprised to learn of the renowned chiefs who had been sent to recapture him. not to mention crow, the delaware chiefs son-of-wingenund and wapatomeka were among the most cunning and sagacious indians of the west. isaac reflected that his year's absence from myeerah had not caused her to forget him. crow untied isaac's hands and gave him water and venison. then he picked up his rifle and with a word to the indians he stepped into the underbrush that skirted the little dale, and was lost to view. isaac's head ached and throbbed so that after he had satisfied his thirst and hunger he was glad to close his eyes and lean back against the tree. engrossed in thoughts of the home he might never see again, he had lain there an hour without moving, when he was aroused from his meditations by low guttural exclamations from the indians. opening his eyes he saw crow and another indian enter the glade, leading and half supporting a third savage. they helped this indian to the log, where he sat down slowly and wearily, holding one hand over his breast. he was a magnificent specimen of indian manhood, almost a giant in stature, with broad shoulders in proportion to his height. his head-dress and the gold rings which encircled his bare muscular arms indicated that he was a chief high in power. the seven eagle plumes in his scalp-lock represented seven warriors that he had killed in battle. little sticks of wood plaited in his coal black hair and painted different colors showed to an indian eye how many times this chief had been wounded by bullet, knife, or tomahawk. his face was calm. if he suffered he allowed no sign of it to escape him. he gazed thoughtfully into the fire, slowly the while untying the belt which contained his knife and tomahawk. the weapons were raised and held before him, one in each hand, and then waved on high. the action was repeated three times. then slowly and reluctantly the indian lowered them as if he knew their work on earth was done. it was growing dark and the bright blaze from the camp fire lighted up the glade, thus enabling isaac to see the drooping figure on the log, and in the background crow, holding a whispered consultation with the other indians. isaac heard enough of the colloquy to guess the facts. the chief had been desperately rounded; the palefaces were on their trail, and a march must be commenced at once. isaac knew the wounded chief. he was the delaware son-of-wingenund. he married a wyandot squaw, had spent much of his time in the wyandot village and on warring expeditions which the two friendly nations made on other tribes. isaac had hunted with him, slept under the same blanket with him, and had grown to like him. as isaac moved slightly in his position the chief saw him. he straightened up, threw back the hunting shirt and pointed to a small hole in his broad breast. a slender stream of blood issued from the wound and flowed down his chest. "wind-of-death is a great white chief. his gun is always loaded," he said calmly, and a look of pride gleamed across his dark face, as though he gloried in the wound made by such a warrior. "deathwind" was one of the many names given to wetzel by the savages, and a thrill of hope shot through isaac's heart when he saw the indians feared wetzel was on their track. this hope was short lived, however, for when he considered the probabilities of the thing he knew that pursuit would only result in his death before the settlers could come up with the indians, and he concluded that wetzel, familiar with every trick of the redmen, would be the first to think of the hopelessness of rescuing him and so would not attempt it. the four indians now returned to the fire and stood beside the chief. it was evident to them that his end was imminent. he sang in a low, not unmusical tone the death-chant of the hurons. his companions silently bowed their heads. when he had finished singing he slowly rose to his great height, showing a commanding figure. slowly his features lost their stern pride, his face softened, and his dark eyes, gazing straight into the gloom of the forest, bespoke a superhuman vision. "wingenund has been a great chief. he has crossed his last trail. the deeds of wingenund will be told in the wigwams of the lenape," said the chief in a loud voice, and then sank back into the arms of his comrades. they laid him gently down. a convulsive shudder shook the stricken warrior's frame. then, starting up he straightened out his long arm and clutched wildly at the air with his sinewy fingers as if to grasp and hold the life that was escaping him. isaac could see the fixed, sombre light in the eyes, and the pallor of death stealing over the face of the chief. he turned his eyes away from the sad spectacle, and when he looked again the majestic figure lay still. the moon sailed out from behind a cloud and shed its mellow light down on the little glade. it showed the four indians digging a grave beneath the oak tree. no word was spoken. they worked with their tomahawks on the soft duff and soon their task was completed. a bed of moss and ferns lined the last resting place of the chief. his weapons were placed beside him, to go with him to the happy hunting ground, the eternal home of the redmen, where the redmen believe the sun will always shine, and where they will be free from their cruel white foes. when the grave had been filled and the log rolled on it the indians stood by it a moment, each speaking a few words in a low tone, while the night wind moaned the dead chief's requiem through the tree tops. accustomed as isaac was to the bloody conflicts common to the indians, and to the tragedy that surrounded the life of a borderman, the ghastly sight had unnerved him. the last glimpse of that stern, dark face, of that powerful form, as the moon brightened up the spot in seeming pity, he felt he could never forget. his thoughts were interrupted by the harsh voice of crow bidding him get up. he was told that the slightest inclination on his part to lag behind on the march before them, or in any way to make their trail plainer, would be the signal for his death. with that crow cut the thongs which bound isaac's legs and placing him between two of the indians, led the way into the forest. moving like spectres in the moonlight they marched on and on for hours. crow was well named. he led them up the stony ridges where their footsteps left no mark, and where even a dog could not find their trail; down into the valleys and into the shallow streams where the running water would soon wash away all trace of their tracks; then out on the open plain, where the soft, springy grass retained little impress of their moccasins. single file they marched in the leader's tracks as he led them onward through the dark forests, out under the shining moon, never slacking his rapid pace, ever in a straight line, and yet avoiding the roughest going with that unerring instinct which was this indian's gift. toward dawn the moon went down, leaving them in darkness, but this made no difference, for, guided by the stars, crow kept straight on his course. not till break of day did he come to a halt. then, on the banks of a narrow stream, the indians kindled a fire and broiled some of the venison. crow told isaac he could rest, so he made haste to avail himself of the permission, and almost instantly was wrapped in the deep slumber of exhaustion. three of the indians followed suit, and crow stood guard. sleepless, tireless, he paced to and fro on the bank his keen eyes vigilant for signs of pursuers. the sun was high when the party resumed their flight toward the west. crow plunged into the brook and waded several miles before he took to the woods on the other shore. isaac suffered severely from the sharp and slippery stones, which in no wise bothered the indians. his feet were cut and bruised; still he struggled on without complaining. they rested part of the night, and the next day the indians, now deeming themselves practically safe from pursuit, did not exercise unusual care to conceal their trail. that evening about dusk they came to a rapidly flowing stream which ran northwest. crow and one of the other indians parted the willows on the bank at this point and dragged forth a long birch-bark canoe which they ran into the stream. isaac recognized the spot. it was near the head of mad river, the river which ran through the wyandot settlements. two of the indians took the bow, the third indian and isaac sat in the middle, back to back, and crow knelt in the stern. once launched on that wild ride isaac forgot his uneasiness and his bruises. the night was beautiful; he loved the water, and was not lacking in sentiment. he gave himself up to the charm of the silver moonlight, of the changing scenery, and the musical gurgle of the water. had it not been for the cruel face of crow, he could have imagined himself on one of those enchanted canoes in fairyland, of which he had read when a boy. ever varying pictures presented themselves at the range, impelled by vigorous arms, flew over the shining bosom of the stream. here, in a sharp bend, was a narrow place where the trees on each bank interlaced their branches and hid the moon, making a dark and dim retreat. then came a short series of ripples, with merry, bouncing waves and foamy currents; below lay a long, smooth reach of water, deep and placid, mirroring the moon and the countless stars. noiseless as a shadow the canoe glided down this stretch, the paddle dipping regularly, flashing brightly, and scattering diamond drops in the clear moonlight. another turn in the stream and a sound like the roar of an approaching storm as it is borne on a rising wind, broke the silence. it was the roar of rapids or falls. the stream narrowed; the water ran swifter; rocky ledges rose on both sides, gradually getting higher and higher. crow rose to his feet and looked ahead. then he dropped to his knees and turned the head of the canoe into the middle of the stream. the roar became deafening. looking forward isaac saw that they were entering a dark gorge. in another moment the canoe pitched over a fall and shot between two high, rocky bluffs. these walls ran up almost perpendicularly two hundred feet; the space between was scarcely twenty feet wide, and the water fairly screamed as it rushed madly through its narrow passage. in the center it was like a glancing sheet of glass, weird and dark, and was bordered on the sides by white, seething foam-capped waves which tore and dashed and leaped at their stony confines. though the danger was great, though death lurked in those jagged stones and in those black waits isaac felt no fear, he knew the strength of that arm, now rigid and again moving with lightning swiftness; he knew the power of the eye which guided them. once more out under the starry sky; rifts, shallows, narrows, and lake-like basins were passed swiftly. at length as the sky was becoming gray in the east, they passed into the shadow of what was called the standing stone. this was a peculiarly shaped stone-faced bluff, standing high over the river, and taking its name from tarhe, or standing stone, chief of all the hurons. at the first sight of that well known landmark, which stood by the wyandot village, there mingled with isaac's despondency and resentment some other feeling that was akin to pleasure; with a quickening of the pulse came a confusion of expectancy and bitter memories as he thought of the dark eyed maiden from whom he had fled a year ago. "co-wee-co-woe," called out one of the indians in the bow of the canoe. the signal was heard, for immediately an answering shout came from the shore. when a few moments later the canoe grated softly on a pebbly beach. isaac saw, indistinctly in the morning mist, the faint outlines of tepees and wigwams, and he knew he was once more in the encampment of the wyandots. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * late in the afternoon of that day isaac was awakened from his heavy slumber and told that the chief had summoned him. he got up from the buffalo robes upon which he had flung himself that morning, stretched his aching limbs, and walked to the door of the lodge. the view before him was so familiar that it seemed as if he had suddenly come home after being absent a long time. the last rays of the setting sun shone ruddy and bright over the top of the standing stone; they touched the scores of lodges and wigwams which dotted the little valley; they crimsoned the swift, narrow river, rushing noisily over its rocky bed. the banks of the stream were lined with rows of canoes; here and there a bridge made of a single tree spanned the stream. from the camp fires long, thin columns of blue smoke curled lazily upward; giant maple trees, in them garb of purple and gold, rose high above the wigwams, adding a further beauty to this peaceful scene. as isaac was led down a lane between two long lines of tepees the watching indians did not make the demonstration that usually marked the capture of a paleface. some of the old squaws looked up from their work round the campfires and steaming kettles and grinned as the prisoner passed. the braves who were sitting upon their blankets and smoking their long pipes, or lounging before the warm blazes maintained a stolid indifference; the dusky maidens smiled shyly, and the little indian boys, with whom isaac had always been a great favorite, manifested their joy by yelling and running after him. one youngster grasped isaac round the leg and held on until he was pulled away. in the center of the village were several lodges connected with one another and larger and more imposing than the surrounding tepees. these were the wigwams of the chief, and thither isaac was conducted. the guards led him to a large and circular apartment and left him there alone. this room was the council-room. it contained nothing but a low seat and a knotted war-club. isaac heard the rattle of beads and bear claws, and as he turned a tall and majestic indian entered the room. it was tarhe, the chief of all the wyandots. though tarhe was over seventy, he walked erect; his calm face, dark as a bronze mask, showed no trace of his advanced age. every line and feature of his face had race in it; the high forehead, the square, protruding jaw, the stern mouth, the falcon eyes--all denoted the pride and unbending will of the last of the tarhes. "the white eagle is again in the power of tarhe," said the chief in his native tongue. "though he had the swiftness of the bounding deer or the flight of the eagle it would avail him not. the wild geese as they fly northward are not swifter than the warriors of tarhe. swifter than all is the vengeance of the huron. the young paleface has cost the lives of some great warriors. what has he to say?" "it was not my fault," answered isaac quickly. "i was struck down from behind and had no chance to use a weapon. i have never raised my hand against a wyandot. crow will tell you that. if my people and friends kill your braves i am not to blame. yet i have had good cause to shed huron blood. your warriors have taken me from my home and have wounded me many times." "the white chief speaks well. tarhe believes his words," answered tarhe in his sonorous voice. "the lenapee seek the death of the pale face. wingenund grieves for his son. he is tarhe's friend. tarhe is old and wise and he is king here. he can save the white chief from wingenund and cornplanter. listen. tarhe is old and he has no son. he will make you a great chief and give you lands and braves and honors. he shall not ask you to raise your hand against your people, but help to bring peace. tarhe does not love this war. he wants only justice. he wants only to keep his lands, his horses, and his people. the white chief is known to be brave; his step is light, his eye is keen, and his bullet is true. for many long moons tarhe's daughter has been like the singing bird without its mate. she sings no more. she shall be the white chief's wife. she has the blood of her mother and not that of the last of the tarhes. thus the mistakes of tarhe's youth come to disappoint his old age. he is the friend of the young paleface. tarhe has said. now go and make your peace with myeerah." the chief motioned toward the back of the lodge. isaac stepped forward and went through another large room, evidently the chief's, as it was fitted up with a wild and barbaric splendor. isaac hesitated before a bearskin curtain at the farther end of the chief's lodge. he had been there many times before, but never with such conflicting emotions. what was it that made his heart beat faster? with a quick movement he lifted the curtain and passed under it. the room which he entered was circular in shape and furnished with all the bright colors and luxuriance known to the indian. buffalo robes covered the smooth, hard-packed clay floor; animals, allegorical pictures, and fanciful indian designs had been painted on the wall; bows and arrows, shields, strings of bright-colored beads and indian scarfs hung round the room. the wall was made of dried deerskins sewed together and fastened over long poles which were planted in the ground and bent until the ends met overhead. an oval-shaped opening let in the light. through a narrow aperture, which served as a door leading to a smaller apartment, could be seen a low couch covered with red blankets, and a glimpse of many hued garments hanging on the wall. as isaac entered the room a slender maiden ran impulsively to him and throwing her arms round his neck hid her face on his breast. a few broken, incoherent words escaped her lips. isaac disengaged himself from the clinging arms and put her from him. the face raised to his was strikingly beautiful. oval in shape, it was as white as his own, with a broad, low brow and regular features. the eyes were large and dark and they dilated and quickened with a thousand shadows of thought. "myeerah, i am taken again. this time there has been blood shed. the delaware chief was killed, and i do not know how many more indians. the chiefs are all for putting me to death. i am in great danger. why could you not leave me in peace?" at his first words the maiden sighed and turned sorrowfully and proudly away from the angry face of the young man. a short silence ensued. "then you are not glad to see myeerah?" she said, in english. her voice was music. it rang low, sweet, clear-toned as a bell. "what has that to do with it? under some circumstances i would be glad to see you. but to be dragged back here and perhaps murdered--no, i don't welcome it. look at this mark where crow hit me," said isaac, passionately, bowing his head to enable her to see the bruise where the club had struck him. "i am sorry," said myeerah, gently. "i know that i am in great danger from the delawares." "the daughter of tarhe has saved your life before and will save it again." "they may kill me in spite of you." "they will not dare. do not forget that i saved you from the shawnees. what did my father say to you?" "he assured me that he was my friend and that he would protect me from wingenund. but i must marry you and become one of the tribe. i cannot do that. and that is why i am sure they will kill me." "you are angry now. i will tell you. myeerah tried hard to win your love, and when you ran away from her she was proud for a long time. but there was no singing of birds, no music of the waters, no beauty in anything after you left her. life became unbearable without you. then myeerah remembered that she was a daughter of kings. she summoned the bravest and greatest warriors of two tribes and said to them. 'go and bring to me the paleface, white eagle. bring him to me alive or dead. if alive, myeerah will smile once more upon her warriors. if dead, she will look once upon his face and die. ever since myeerah was old enough to remember she has thought of you. would you wish her to be inconstant, like the moon?'" "it is not what i wish you to be. it is that i cannot live always without seeing my people. i told you that a year ago." "you told me other things in that past time before you ran away. they were tender words that were sweet to the ear of the indian maiden. have you forgotten them?" "i have not forgotten them. i am not without feeling. you do not understand. since i have been home this last time, i have realized more than ever that i could not live away from my home." "is there any maiden in your old home whom you have learned to love more than myeerah?" he did not reply, but looked gloomily out of the opening in the wall. myeerah had placed her hold upon his arm, and as he did not answer the hand tightened its grasp. "she shall never have you." the low tones vibrated with intense feeling, with a deathless resolve. isaac laughed bitterly and looked up at her. myeerah's face was pale and her eyes burned like fire. "i should not be surprised if you gave me up to the delawares," said isaac, coldly. "i am prepared for it, and i would not care very much. i have despaired of your ever becoming civilized enough to understand the misery of my sister and family. why not let the indians kill me?" he knew how to wound her. a quick, shuddery cry broke from her lips. she stood before him with bowed head and wept. when she spoke again her voice was broken and pleading. "you are cruel and unjust. though myeerah has indian blood she is a white woman. she can feel as your people do. in your anger and bitterness you forget that myeerah saved you from the knife of the shawnees. you forget her tenderness; you forget that she nursed you when you were wounded. myeerah has a heart to break. has she not suffered? is she not laughed at, scorned, called a 'paleface' by the other tribes? she thanks the great spirit for the indian blood that keep her true. the white man changes his loves and his wives. that is not an indian gift." "no, myeerah, i did not say so. there is no other woman. it is that i am wretched and sick at heart. do you not see that this will end in a tragedy some day? can you not realize that we would be happier if you would let me go? if you love me you would not want to see me dead. if i do not marry you they will kill me; if i try to escape again they win kill me. let me go free." "i cannot! i cannot!" she cried. "you have taught me many of the ways of your people, but you cannot change my nature." "why cannot you free me?" "i love you, and i will not live without you." "then come and go to my home and live there with me," said isaac, taking the weeping maiden in his arms. "i know that my people will welcome you." "myeerah would be pitied and scorned," she said, sadly, shaking her head. isaac tried hard to steel his heart against her, but he was only mortal and he failed. the charm of her presence influenced him; her love wrung tenderness from him. those dark eyes, so proud to all others, but which gazed wistfully and yearningly into his, stirred his heart to its depths. he kissed the tear-wet cheeks and smiled upon her. "well, since i am a prisoner once more, i must make the best of it. do not look so sad. we shall talk of this another day. come, let us go and find my little friend, captain jack. he remembered me, for he ran out and grasped my knee and they pulled him away." chapter vi. when the first french explorers invaded the northwest, about the year , the wyandot indians occupied the territory between georgian bay and the muskoka lakes in ontario. these frenchmen named the tribe huron because of the manner in which they wore their hair. at this period the hurons were at war with the iroquois, and the two tribes kept up a bitter fight until in , when the hurons suffered a decisive defeat. they then abandoned their villages and sought other hunting grounds. they travelled south and settled in ohio along the south and west shores of lake erie. the present site of zanesfield, named from isaac zane, marks the spot where the largest tribe of hurons once lived. in a grove of maples on the banks of a swift little river named mad river, the hurons built their lodges and their wigwams. the stately elk and graceful deer abounded in this fertile valley, and countless herds of bison browsed upon the uplands. there for many years the hurons lived a peaceful and contented life. the long war cry was not heard. they were at peace with the neighboring tribes. tarhe, the huron chief, attained great influence with the delawares. he became a friend of logan, the mingo chief. with the invasion of the valley of the ohio by the whites, with the march into the wilderness of that wild-turkey breed of heroes of which boone, kenton, the zanes, and the wetzels were the first, the indian's nature gradually changed until he became a fierce and relentless foe. the hurons had sided with the french in pontiac's war, and in the revolution they aided the british. they allied themselves with the mingoes, delawares and shawnees and made a fierce war on the virginian pioneers. some powerful influence must have engendered this implacable hatred in these tribes, particularly in the mingo and the wyandot. the war between the indians and the settlers along the pennsylvania and west virginia borders was known as "dunmore's war." the hurons, mingoes, and delawares living in the "hunter's paradise" west of the ohio river, seeing their land sold by the iroquois and the occupation of their possessions by a daring band of white men naturally were filled with fierce anger and hate. but remembering the past bloody war and british punishment they slowly moved backward toward the setting sun and kept the peace. in a canoe filled with friendly wyandots was attacked by white men below yellow creek and the indians were killed. later the same year a party of men under colonel cresop made an unprovoked and dastardly massacre of the family and relatives of logan. this attack reflected the deepest dishonor upon all the white men concerned, and was the principal cause of the long and bloody war which followed. the settlers on the border sent messengers to governor dunmore at williamsburg for immediate relief parties. knowing well that the indians would not allow this massacre to go unavenged the frontiersmen erected forts and blockhouses. logan, the famous mingo chief, had been a noted friend of the white men. after the murder of his people he made ceaseless war upon them. he incited the wrath of the hurons and the delawares. he went on the warpath, and when his lust for vengeance had been satisfied he sent the following remarkable address to lord dunmore: "i appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered logan's cabin and he gave him not meat: if ever he came cold and naked and he clothed him not. during the course of the last long and bloody war logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate of peace. such was my love for the whites that my countrymen pointed as they passed and said: 'logan is the friend of the white man.' i had even thought to have lived with you but for the injuries of one man, colonel cresop, who, last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the relatives of logan, not even sparing my women and children. there runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. this called upon me for vengeance. i have sought it: i have killed many; i have glutted my vengeance. for my country i will rejoice at the beams of peace. but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. logan never felt fear; he could not turn upon his heel to save his life. who is there to mourn for logan? not one." the war between the indians and the pioneers was waged for years. the settlers pushed farther and farther into the wilderness. the indians, who at first sought only to save their farms and their stock, now fought for revenge. that is why every ambitious pioneer who went out upon those borders carried his life in his hands; why there was always the danger of being shot or tomahawked from behind every tree; why wife and children were constantly in fear of the terrible enemy. to creep unawares upon a foe and strike him in the dark was indian warfare; to an indian it was not dishonorable; it was not cowardly. he was taught to hide in the long grass like a snake, to shoot from coverts, to worm his way stealthily through the dense woods and to ambush the paleface's trail. horrible cruelties, such as torturing white prisoners and burning them at the stake were never heard of before the war made upon the indians by the whites. comparatively little is known of the real character of the indian of that time. we ourselves sit before our warm fires and talk of the deeds of the redman. we while away an hour by reading pontiac's siege of detroit, of the battle of braddock's fields, and of custer's last charge. we lay the book down with a fervent expression of thankfulness that the day of the horrible redman is past. because little has been written on the subject, no thought is given to the long years of deceit and treachery practiced upon pontiac; we are ignorant of the causes which led to the slaughter of braddock's army, and we know little of the life of bitterness suffered by sitting bull. many intelligent white men, who were acquainted with the true life of the indian before he was harassed and driven to desperation by the pioneers, said that he had been cruelly wronged. many white men in those days loved the indian life so well that they left the settlements and lived with the indians. boone, who knew the indian nature, said the honesty and the simplicity of the indian were remarkable. kenton said he had been happy among the indians. col. zane had many indian friends. isaac zane, who lived most of his life with the wyandots, said the american redman had been wrongfully judged a bloodthirsty savage, an ignorant, thieving wretch, capable of not one virtue. he said the free picturesque life of the indians would have appealed to any white man; that it had a wonderful charm, and that before the war with the whites the indians were kind to their prisoners, and sought only to make indians of them. he told tales of how easily white boys become indianized, so attached to the wild life and freedom of the redmen that it was impossible to get the captives to return to civilized life. the boys had been permitted to grow wild with the indian lads; to fish and shoot and swim with them; to play the indian games--to live idle, joyous lives. he said these white boys had been ransomed and taken from captivity and returned to their homes and, although a close watch has kept on them, they contrived to escape and return to the indians, and that while they were back among civilized people it was difficult to keep the boys dressed. in summer time it was useless to attempt it. the strongest hemp-linen shirts, made with the strongest collar and wrist-band, would directly be torn off and the little rascals found swimming in the river or rolling on the sand. if we may believe what these men have said--and there seems no good reason why we may not--the indian was very different from the impression given of him. there can be little doubt that the redman once lived a noble and blameless life; that he was simple, honest and brave, that he had a regard for honor and a respect for a promise far exceeding that of most white men. think of the beautiful poetry and legends left by these silent men: men who were a part of the woods; men whose music was the sighing of the wind, the rustling of the leaf, the murmur of the brook; men whose simple joys were the chase of the stag, and the light in the dark eye of a maiden. if we wish to find the highest type of the american indian we must look for him before he was driven west by the land-seeking pioneer and before he was degraded by the rum-selling french trader. the french claimed all the land watered by the mississippi river and its tributaries. the french canadian was a restless, roaming adventurer and he found his vocation in the fur-trade. this fur-trade engendered a strange class of men--bush-rangers they were called--whose work was to paddle the canoe along the lakes and streams and exchange their cheap rum for the valuable furs of the indians. to these men the indians of the west owe their degradation. these bush-rangers or coureurs-des-bois, perverted the indians and sank into barbarism with them. the few travellers there in those days were often surprised to find in the wigwams of the indians men who acknowledged the blood of france, yet who had lost all semblance to the white man. they lived in their tepee with their indian squaws and lolled on their blankets while the squaws cooked their venison and did all the work. they let their hair grow long and wore feathers in it; they painted their faces hideously with ochre and vermilion. these were the worthless traders and adventurers who, from the year to , encroached on the hunting grounds of the indians and explored the wilderness, seeking out the remote tribes and trading the villainous rum for the rare pelts. in the french authorities, realizing that these vagrants were demoralizing the indians, warned them to get off the soil. finding this course ineffectual they arrested those that could be apprehended and sent them to canada. but it was too late: the harm had been done: the poor, ignorant savage had tasted of the terrible "fire-water," as he called the rum and his ruin was inevitable. it was a singular fact that almost every indian who had once tasted strong drink, was unable to resist the desire for more. when a trader came to one of the indian hamlets the braves purchased a keg of rum and then they held a council to see who was to get drunk and who was to keep sober. it was necessary to have some sober indians in camp, otherwise the drunken braves would kill one another. the weapons would have to be concealed. when the indians had finished one keg of rum they would buy another, and so on until not a beaver-skin was left. then the trader would move or when the indians sobered up they would be much dejected, for invariably they would find that some had been wounded, others crippled, and often several had been killed. logan, using all his eloquence, travelled from village to village visiting the different tribes and making speeches. he urged the indians to shun the dreaded "fire-water." he exclaimed against the whites for introducing liquor to the indians and thus debasing them. at the same time logan admitted his own fondness for rum. this intelligent and noble indian was murdered in a drunken fight shortly after sending his address to lord dunmore. thus it was that the poor indians had no chance to avert their downfall; the steadily increasing tide of land-stealing settlers rolling westward, and the insidious, debasing, soul-destroying liquor were the noble redman's doom. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * isaac zane dropped back not altogether unhappily into his old place in the wigwam, in the hunting parties, and in the indian games. when the braves were in camp, the greatest part of the day was spent in shooting and running matches, in canoe races, in wrestling, and in the game of ball. the chiefs and the older braves who had won their laurels and the maidens of the tribe looked on and applauded. isaac entered into all these pastimes, partly because he had a natural love for them, and partly because he wished to win the regard of the indians. in wrestling, and in those sports which required weight and endurance, he usually suffered defeat. in a foot race there was not a brave in the entire tribe who could keep even with him. but it was with the rifle that isaac won his greatest distinction. the indians never learned the finer shooting with the rifle. some few of them could shoot well, but for the most part they were poor marksmen. accordingly, isaac was always taken on the fall hunt. every autumn there were three parties sent out to bring in the supply of meat for the winter. because of isaac's fine marksmanship he was always taken with the bear hunters. bear hunting was exciting and dangerous work. before the weather got very cold and winter actually set in the bears crawled into a hole in a tree or a cave in the rocks, where they hibernated. a favorite place for them was in hollow trees. when the indians found a tree with the scratches of a bear on it and a hole large enough to admit the body of a bear, an indian climbed up the tree and with a long pole tried to punch bruin out of his den. often this was a hazardous undertaking, for the bear would get angry on being disturbed in his winter sleep and would rush out before the indian could reach a place of safety. at times there were even two or three bears in one den. sometimes the bear would refuse to come out, and on these occasions, which were rare, the hunters would resort to fire. a piece of dry, rotten wood was fastened to a long pole and was set on fire. when this was pushed in on the bear he would give a sniff and a growl and come out in a hurry. the buffalo and elk were hunted with the bow and arrow. this effective weapon did not make a noise and frighten the game. the wary indian crawled through the high grass until within easy range and sometimes killed several buffalo or elk before the herd became alarmed. the meat was then jerked. this consisted in cutting it into thin strips and drying it in the sun. afterwards it was hung up in the lodges. the skins were stretched on poles to dry, and when cured they served as robes, clothing and wigwam-coverings. the indians were fond of honey and maple sugar. the finding of a hive of bees, or a good run of maple syrup was an occasion for general rejoicing. they found the honey in hollow trees, and they obtained the maple sugar in two ways. when the sap came up in the maple trees a hole was bored in the trees about a foot from the ground and a small tube, usually made from a piece of alder, was inserted in the hole. through this the sap was carried into a vessel which was placed under the tree. this sap was boiled down in kettles. if the indians had no kettles they made the frost take the place of heat in preparing the sugar. they used shallow vessels made of bark, and these were filled with water and the maple sap. it was left to freeze over night and in the morning the ice was broken and thrown away. the sugar did not freeze. when this process had been repeated several times the residue was very good maple sugar. isaac did more than his share toward the work of provisioning the village for the winter. but he enjoyed it. he was particularly fond of fishing by moonlight. early november was the best season for this sport, and the indians caught large numbers of fish. they placed a torch in the bow of a canoe and paddled noiselessly over the stream. in the clear water a bright light would so attract and fascinate the fish that they would lie motionless near the bottom of the shallow stream. one cold night isaac was in the bow of the canoe. seeing a large fish he whispered to the indians with him to exercise caution. his guides paddled noiselessly through the water. isaac stood up and raised the spear, ready to strike. in another second isaac had cast the iron, but in his eagerness he overbalanced himself and plunged head first into the icy current, making a great splash and spoiling any further fishing. incidents like this were a source of infinite amusement to the indians. before the autumn evenings grew too cold the indian held their courting dances. all unmarried maidens and braves in the village were expected to take part in these dances. in the bright light of huge fires, and watched by the chiefs, the old men, the squaws, and the children, the maidens and the braves, arrayed in their gaudiest apparel, marched into the circle. they formed two lines a few paces apart. each held in the right hand a dry gourd which contained pebbles. advancing toward one another they sang the courting song, keeping time to the tune with the rattling of the pebbles. when they met in the center the braves bent forward and whispered a word to the maidens. at a certain point in the song, which was indicated by a louder note, the maidens would change their positions, and this was continued until every brave had whispered to every maiden, when the dance ended. isaac took part in all these pleasures; he entered into every phase of the indian's life; he hunted, worked, played, danced, and sang with faithfulness. but when the long, dreary winter days came with their ice-laden breezes, enforcing idleness on the indians, he became restless. sometimes for days he would be morose and gloomy, keeping beside his own tent and not mingling with the indians. at such times myeerah did not question him. even in his happier hours his diversions were not many. he never tired of watching and studying the indian children. when he had an opportunity without being observed, which was seldom, he amused himself with the papooses. the indian baby was strapped to a flat piece of wood and covered with a broad flap of buckskin. the squaws hung these primitive baby carriages up on the pole of a tepee, on a branch of a tree, or threw them round anywhere. isaac never heard a papoose cry. he often pulled down the flap of buckskin and looked at the solemn little fellow, who would stare up at him with big, wondering eyes. isaac's most intimate friend was a six-year-old indian boy, whom he called captain jack. he was the son of thundercloud, the war-chief of the hurons. jack made a brave picture in his buckskin hunting suit and his war bonnet. already he could stick tenaciously on the back of a racing mustang and with his little bow he could place arrow after arrow in the center of the target. knowing captain jack would some day be a mighty chief, isaac taught him to speak english. he endeavored to make jack love him, so that when the lad should grow to be a man he would remember his white brother and show mercy to the prisoners who fell into his power. another of isaac's favorites was a half-breed ottawa indian, a distant relative of tarhe's. this indian was very old; no one knew how old; his face was seamed and scarred and wrinkled. bent and shrunken was his form. he slept most of the time, but at long intervals he would brighten up and tell of his prowess when a warrior. one of his favorite stories was of the part he had taken in the events of that fatal and memorable july , , when gen. braddock and his english army were massacred by the french and indians near fort duquesne. the old chief told how beaujeu with his frenchmen and his five hundred indians ambushed braddock's army, surrounded the soldiers, fired from the ravines, the trees, the long grass, poured a pitiless hail of bullets on the bewildered british soldiers, who, unaccustomed to this deadly and unseen foe, huddled under the trees like herds of frightened sheep, and were shot down with hardly an effort to defend themselves. the old chief related that fifteen years after that battle he went to the kanawha settlement to see the big chief, gen. george washington, who was travelling on the kanawha. he told gen. washington how he had fought in the battle of braddock's fields; how he had shot and killed gen. braddock; how he had fired repeatedly at washington, and had killed two horses under him, and how at last he came to the conclusion that washington was protected by the great spirit who destined him for a great future. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * myeerah was the indian name for a rare and beautiful bird--the white crane--commonly called by the indians, walk-in-the-water. it had been the name of tarhe's mother and grandmother. the present myeerah was the daughter of a french woman, who had been taken captive at a very early age, adopted into the huron tribe, and married to tarhe. the only child of this union was myeerah. she grew to be beautiful woman and was known in detroit and the canadian forts as tarhe's white daughter. the old chief often visited the towns along the lake shore, and so proud was he of myeerah that he always had her accompany him. white men travelled far to look at the indian beauty. many french soldiers wooed her in vain. once, while tarhe was in detroit, a noted french family tried in every way to get possession of myeerah. the head of this family believed he saw in myeerah the child of his long lost daughter. tarhe hurried away from the city and never returned to the white settlement. myeerah was only five years old at the time of the capture of the zane brothers and it was at this early age that she formed the attachment for isaac zane which clung to her all her life. she was seven when the men came from detroit to ransom the brothers, and she showed such grief when she learned that isaac was to be returned to his people that tarhe refused to accept any ransom for isaac. as myeerah grew older her childish fancy for the white boy deepened into an intense love. but while this love tendered her inexorable to isaac on the question of giving him his freedom, it undoubtedly saved his life as well as the lives of other white prisoners, on more than one occasion. to the white captives who fell into the hands of the hurons, she was kind and merciful; many of the wounded she had tended with her own hands, and many poor wretches she had saved from the gauntlet and the stake. when her efforts to persuade her father to save any one were unavailing she would retire in sorrow to her lodge and remain there. her infatuation for the white eagle, the huron name for isaac, was an old story; it was known to all the tribes and had long ceased to be questioned. at first some of the delawares and the shawnee braves, who had failed to win myeerah's love, had openly scorned her for her love for the pale face. the wyandot warriors to a man worshipped her; they would have marched straight into the jaws of death at her command; they resented the insults which had been cast on their princess, and they had wiped them out in blood: now none dared taunt her. in the spring following isaac's recapture a very serious accident befell him. he had become expert in the indian game of ball, which is a game resembling the canadian lacrosse, and from which, in fact, it had been adopted. goals were placed at both ends of a level plain. each party of indians chose a goal which they endeavored to defend and at the same time would try to carry the ball over their opponent's line. a well contested game of indian ball presented a scene of wonderful effort and excitement. hundreds of strong and supple braves could be seen running over the plain, darting this way and that, or struggling in a yelling, kicking, fighting mass, all in a mad scramble to get the ball. as isaac had his share of the zane swiftness of foot, at times his really remarkable fleetness enabled him to get control of the ball. in front of the band of yelling savages he would carry it down the field, and evading the guards at the goal, would throw it between the posts. this was a feat of which any brave could be proud. during one of these games red fox, a wyandot brave, who had long been hopelessly in love with myeerah, and who cordially hated isaac, used this opportunity for revenge. red fox, who was a swift runner, had vied with isaac for the honors, but being defeated in the end, he had yielded to his jealous frenzy and had struck isaac a terrible blow on the head with his bat. it happened to be a glancing blow or isaac's life would have been ended then and there. as it was he had a deep gash in his head. the indians carried him to his lodge and the medicine men of the tribe were summoned. when isaac recovered consciousness he asked for myeerah and entreated her not to punish red fox. he knew that such a course would only increase his difficulties, and, on the other hand, if he saved the life of the indian who had struck him in such a cowardly manner such an act would appeal favorably to the indians. his entreaties had no effect on myeerah, who was furious, and who said that if red fox, who had escaped, ever returned he would pay for his unprovoked assault with his life, even if she had to kill him herself. isaac knew that myeerah would keep her word. he dreaded every morning that the old squaw who prepared his meals would bring him the news that his assailant had been slain. red fox was a popular brave, and there were many indians who believed the blow he had struck isaac was not intentional. isaac worried needlessly, however, for red fox never came back, and nothing could be learned as to his whereabouts. it was during his convalescence that isaac learned really to love the indian maiden. she showed such distress in the first days after his injury, and such happiness when he was out of danger and on the road to recovery that isaac wondered at her. she attended him with anxious solicitude; when she bathed and bandaged his wound her every touch was a tender caress; she sat by him for hours; her low voice made soft melody as she sang the huron love songs. the moments were sweet to isaac when in the gathering twilight she leaned her head on his shoulder while they listened to the evening carol of the whip-poor-will. days passed and at length isaac was entirely well. one day when the air was laden with the warm breath of summer myeerah and isaac walked by the river. "you are sad again," said myeerah. "i am homesick. i want to see my people. myeerah, you have named me rightly. the eagle can never be happy unless he is free." "the eagle can be happy with his mate. and what life could be freer than a huron's? i hope always that you will grow content." "it has been a long time now, myeerah, since i have spoken with you of my freedom. will you ever free me? or must i take again those awful chances of escape? i cannot always live here in this way. some day i shall be killed while trying to get away, and then, if you truly love me, you will never forgive yourself." "does not myeerah truly love you?" she asked, gazing straight into his eyes, her own misty and sad. "i do not doubt that, but i think sometimes that it is not the right kind of love. it is too savage. no man should be made a prisoner for no other reason than that he is loved by a woman. i have tried to teach you many things; the language of my people, their ways and thoughts, but i have failed to civilize you. i cannot make you understand that it is unwomanly--do not turn away. i am not indifferent. i have learned to care for you. your beauty and tenderness have made anything else impossible." "myeerah is proud of her beauty, if it pleases the eagle. her beauty and her love are his. yet the eagle's words make myeerah sad. she cannot tell what she feels. the pale face's words flow swiftly and smoothly like rippling waters, but myeerah's heart is full and her lips are dumb." myeerah and isaac stopped under a spreading elm tree the branches of which drooped over and shaded the river. the action of the high water had worn away the earth round the roots of the old elm, leaving them bare and dry when the stream was low. as though nature had been jealous in the interest of lovers, she had twisted and curled the roots into a curiously shaped bench just above the water, which was secluded enough to escape all eyes except those of the beaver and the muskrat. the bank above was carpeted with fresh, dewy grass; blue bells and violets hid modestly under their dark green leaves; delicate ferns, like wonderful fairy lace, lifted their dainty heads to sway in the summer breeze. in this quiet nook the lovers passed many hours. "then, if my white chief has learned to care for me, he must not try to escape," whispered myeerah, tenderly, as she crept into isaac's arms and laid her head on his breast. "i love you. i love you. what will become of myeerah if you leave her? could she ever be happy? could she ever forget? no, no, i will keep my captive." "i cannot persuade you to let me go?" "if i free you i will come and lie here," cried myeerah, pointing to the dark pool. "then come with me to my home and live there." "go with you to the village of the pale faces, where myeerah would be scorned, pointed at as your captors laughed at and pitied? no! no!" "but you would not be," said isaac, eagerly. "you would be my wife. my sister and people will love you. come, myeerah save me from this bondage; come home with me and i will make you happy." "it can never be," she said, sadly, after a long pause. "how would we ever reach the fort by the big river? tarhe loves his daughter and will not give her up. if we tried to get away the braves would overtake us and then even myeerah could not save your life. you would be killed. i dare not try. no, no, myeerah loves too well for that." "you might make the attempt," said isaac, turning away in bitter disappointment. "if you loved me you could not see me suffer." "never say that again," cried myeerah, pain and scorn in her dark eyes. "can an indian princess who has the blood of great chiefs in her veins prove her love in any way that she has not? some day you will know that you wrong me. i am tarhe's daughter. a huron does not lie." they slowly wended their way back to the camp, both miserable at heart; isaac longing to see his home and friends, and yet with tenderness in his heart for the indian maiden who would not free him; myeerah with pity and love for him and a fear that her long cherished dream could never be realized. one dark, stormy night, when the rain beat down in torrents and the swollen river raged almost to its banks, isaac slipped out of his lodge unobserved and under cover of the pitchy darkness he got safely between the lines of tepees to the river. he had just the opportunity for which he had been praying. he plunged into the water and floating down with the swift current he soon got out of sight of the flickering camp fires. half a mile below he left the water and ran along the bank until he came to a large tree, a landmark he remembered, when he turned abruptly to the east and struck out through the dense woods. he travelled due east all that night and the next day without resting, and with nothing to eat except a small piece of jerked buffalo meat which he had taken the precaution to hide in his hunting shirt. he rested part of the second night and next morning pushed on toward the east. he had expected to reach the ohio that day, but he did not and he noticed that the ground seemed to be gradually rising. he did not come across any swampy lands or saw grass or vegetation characteristic of the lowlands. he stopped and tried to get his bearings. the country was unknown to him, but he believed he knew the general lay of the ridges and the water-courses. the fourth day found isaac hopelessly lost in the woods. he was famished, having eaten but a few herbs and berries in the last two days; his buckskin garments were torn in tatters; his moccasins were worn out and his feet lacerated by the sharp thorns. darkness was fast approaching when he first realized that he was lost. he waited hopefully for the appearance of the north star--that most faithful of hunter's guides--but the sky clouded over and no stars appeared. tired out and hopeless he dragged his weary body into a dense laurel thicket end lay down to wait for dawn. the dismal hoot of an owl nearby, the stealthy steps of some soft-footed animal prowling round the thicket, and the mournful sough of the wind in the treetops kept him awake for hours, but at last he fell asleep. chapter vii. the chilling rains of november and december's flurry of snow had passed and mid-winter with its icy blasts had set in. the black forest had changed autumn's gay crimson and yellow to the somber hue of winter and now looked indescribably dreary. an ice gorge had formed in the bend of the river at the head of the island and from bank to bank logs, driftwood, broken ice and giant floes were packed and jammed so tightly as to resist the action of the mighty current. this natural bridge would remain solid until spring had loosened the frozen grip of old winter. the hills surrounding fort henry were white with snow. the huge drifts were on a level with col. zane's fence and in some places the top rail had disappeared. the pine trees in the yard were weighted down and drooped helplessly with their white burden. on this frosty january morning the only signs of life round the settlement were a man and a dog walking up wheeling hill. the man carried a rifle, an axe, and several steel traps. his snow-shoes sank into the drifts as he labored up the steep hill. all at once he stopped. the big black dog had put his nose high in the air and had sniffed at the cold wind. "well, tige, old fellow, what is it?" said jonathan zane, for this was he. the dog answered with a low whine. jonathan looked up and down the creek valley and along the hillside, but he saw no living thing. snow, snow everywhere, its white monotony relieved here and there by a black tree trunk. tige sniffed again and then growled. turning his ear to the breeze jonathan heard faint yelps from far over the hilltop. he dropped his axe and the traps and ran the remaining short distance up the hill. when he reached the summit the clear baying of hunting wolves was borne to his ears. the hill sloped gradually on the other side, ending in a white, unbroken plain which extended to the edge of the laurel thicket a quarter of a mile distant. jonathan could not see the wolves, but he heard distinctly their peculiar, broken howls. they were in pursuit of something, whether quadruped or man he could not decide. another moment and he was no longer in doubt, for a deer dashed out of the thicket. jonathan saw that it was a buck and that he was well nigh exhausted; his head swung low from side to side; he sank slowly to his knees, and showed every indication of distress. the next instant the baying of the wolves, which had ceased for a moment, sounded close at hand. the buck staggered to his feet; he turned this way and that. when he saw the man and the dog he started toward them without a moment's hesitation. at a warning word from jonathan the dog sank on the snow. jonathan stepped behind a tree, which, however, was not large enough to screen his body. he thought the buck would pass close by him and he determined to shoot at the most favorable moment. the buck, however, showed no intention of passing by; in his abject terror he saw in the man and the dog foes less terrible than those which were yelping on his trail. he came on in a lame uneven trot, making straight for the tree. when he reached the tree he crouched, or rather fell, on the ground within a yard of jonathan and his dog. he quivered and twitched; his nostrils flared; at every pant drops of blood flecked the snow; his great dark eyes had a strained and awful look, almost human in its agony. another yelp from the thicket and jonathan looked up in time to see five timber wolves, gaunt, hungry looking beasts, burst from the bushes. with their noses close to the snow they followed the trail. when they came to the spot where the deer had fallen a chorus of angry, thirsty howls filled the air. "well, if this doesn't beat me! i thought i knew a little about deer," said jonathan. "tige, we will save this buck from those gray devils if it costs a leg. steady now, old fellow, wait." when the wolves were within fifty yards of the tree and coming swiftly jonathan threw his rifle forward and yelled with all the power of his strong lungs: "hi! hi! hi! take 'em, tige!" in trying to stop quickly on the slippery snowcrust the wolves fell all over themselves. one dropped dead and another fell wounded at the report of jonathan's rifle. the others turned tail and loped swiftly off into the thicket. tige made short work of the wounded one. "old white tail, if you were the last buck in the valley, i would not harm you," said jonathan, looking at the panting deer. "you need have no farther fear of that pack of cowards." so saying jonathan called to tige and wended his way down the hill toward the settlement. an hour afterward he was sitting in col. zane's comfortable cabin, where all was warmth and cheerfulness. blazing hickory logs roared and crackled in the stone fireplace. "hello, jack, where did you come from?" said col. zane, who had just come in. "haven't seen you since we were snowed up. come over to see about the horses? if i were you i would not undertake that trip to fort pitt until the weather breaks. you could go in the sled, of course, but if you care anything for my advice you will stay home. this weather will hold on for some time. let lord dunmore wait." "i guess we are in for some stiff weather." "haven't a doubt of it. i told bessie last fall we might expect a hard winter. everything indicated it. look at the thick corn-husks. the hulls of the nuts from the shell-bark here in the yard were larger and tougher than i ever saw them. last october tige killed a raccoon that had the wooliest kind of a fur. i could have given you a dozen signs of a hard winter. we shall still have a month or six weeks of it. in a week will be ground-hog day and you had better wait and decide after that." "i tell you, eb, i get tired chopping wood and hanging round the house." "aha! another moody spell," said col. zane, glancing kindly at his brother. "jack, if you were married you would outgrow those 'blue-devils.' i used to have them. it runs in the family to be moody. i have known our father to take his gun and go into the woods and stay there until he had fought out the spell. i have done that myself, but once i married bessie i have had no return of the old feeling. get married, jack, and then you will settle down and work. you will not have time to roam around alone in the woods." "i prefer the spells, as you call them, any day," answered jonathan, with a short laugh. "a man with my disposition has no right to get married. this weather is trying, for it keeps me indoors. i cannot hunt because we do not need the meat. and even if i did want to hunt i should not have to go out of sight of the fort. there were three deer in front of the barn this morning. they were nearly starved. they ran off a little at sight of me, but in a few moments came back for the hay i pitched out of the loft. this afternoon tige and i saved a big buck from a pack of wolves. the buck came right up to me. i could have touched him. this storm is sending the deer down from the hills." "you are right. it is too bad. severe weather like this will kill more deer than an army could. have you been doing anything with your traps?" "yes, i have thirty traps out." "if you are going, tell sam to fetch down another load of fodder before he unhitches." "eb, i have no patience with your brothers," said col. zane's wife to him after he had closed the door. "they are all alike; forever wanting to be on the go. if it isn't indians it is something else. the very idea of going up the river in this weather. if jonathan doesn't care for himself he should think of the horses." "my dear, i was just as wild and discontented as jack before i met you," remarked col. zane. "you may not think so, but a home and pretty little woman will do wonders for any man. my brothers have nothing to keep them steady." "perhaps. i do not believe that jonathan ever will get married. silas may; he certainly has been keeping company long enough with mary bennet. you are the only zane who has conquered that adventurous spirit and the desire to be always roaming the woods in search of something to kill. your old boy, noah, is growing up like all the zanes. he fights with all the children in the settlement. i cannot break him of it. he is not a bully, for i have never known him to do anything mean or cruel. it is just sheer love of fighting." "ha! ha! i fear you will not break him of that," answered col. zane. "it is a good joke to say he gets it all from the zanes. how about the mccollochs? what have you to say of your father and the major and john mccolloch? they are not anything if not the fighting kind. it's the best trait the youngster could have, out here on the border. he'll need it all. don't worry about him. where is betty?" "i told her to take the children out for a sled ride. betty needs exercise. she stays indoors too much, and of late she looks pale." "what! betty not looking well! she was never ill in her life. i have noticed no change in her." "no, i daresay you have not. you men can't see anything. but i can, and i tell you, betty is very different from the girl she used to be. most of the time she sits and gazes out of her window. she used to be so bright, and when she was not romping with the children she busied herself with her needle. yesterday as i entered her room she hurriedly picked up a book, and, i think, intentionally hid her face behind it. i saw she had been crying." "come to think of it, i believe i have missed betty," said col. zane, gravely. "she seems more quiet. is she unhappy? when did you first see this change?" "i think it a little while after mr. clarke left here last fall." "clarke! what has he to do with betty? what are you driving at?" exclaimed the colonel, stopping in front of his wife. his faced had paled slightly. "i had forgotten clarke. bess, you can't mean--" "now, eb, do not get that look on your face. you always frighten me," answered his wife, as she quietly placed her hand on his arm. "i do not mean anything much, certainly nothing against mr. clarke. he was a true gentleman. i really liked him." "so did i," interrupted the colonel. "i believe betty cared for mr. clarke. she was always different with him. he has gone away and has forgotten her. that is strange to us, because we cannot imagine any one indifferent to our beautiful betty. nevertheless, no matter how attractive a woman may be men sometimes love and ride away. i hear the children coming now. do not let betty see that we have been talking about her. she is as quick as a steel trap." a peal of childish laughter came from without. the door opened and betty ran in, followed by the sturdy, rosy-checked youngsters. all three were white with snow. "we have had great fun," said betty. "we went over the bank once and tumbled off the sled into the snow. then we had a snow-balling contest, and the boys compelled me to strike my colors and fly for the house." col. zane looked closely at his sister. her cheeks were flowing with health; her eyes were sparkling with pleasure. failing to observe any indication of the change in betty which his wife had spoken, he concluded that women were better qualified to judge their own sex than were men. he had to confess to himself that the only change he could see in his sister was that she grew prettier every day of her life. "oh, papa. i hit sam right in the head with a big snow-ball, and i made betty run into the house, and i slid down to all by myself. sam was afraid," said noah to his father. "noah, if sammy saw the danger in sliding down the hill he was braver than you. now both of you run to annie and have these wet things taken off." "i must go get on dry clothes myself," said betty. "i am nearly frozen. it is growing colder. i saw jack come in. is he going to fort pitt?" "no. he has decided to wait until good weather. i met mr. miller over at the garrison this afternoon and he wants you to go on the sled-ride to-night. there is to be a dance down at watkins' place. all the young people are going. it is a long ride, but i guess it will be perfectly safe. silas and wetzel are going. dress yourself warmly and go with them. you have never seen old grandma watkins." "i shall be pleased to go," said betty. betty's room was very cozy, considering that it was in a pioneer's cabin. it had two windows, the larger of which opened on the side toward the river. the walls had been smoothly plastered and covered with white birch-bark. they were adorned with a few pictures and indian ornaments. a bright homespun carpet covered the floor. a small bookcase stood in the corner. the other furniture consisted of two chairs, a small table, a bureau with a mirror, and a large wardrobe. it was in this last that betty kept the gowns which she had brought from philadelphia, and which were the wonder of all the girls in the village. "i wonder why eb looked so closely at me," mused betty, as she slipped on her little moccasins. "usually he is not anxious to have me go so far from the fort; and now he seemed to think i would enjoy this dance to-night. i wonder what bessie has been telling him." betty threw some wood on the smouldering fire in the little stone grate and sat down to think. like every one who has a humiliating secret, betty was eternally suspicious and feared the very walls would guess it. swift as light came the thought that her brother and his wife had suspected her secret and had been talking about her, perhaps pitying her. with this thought came the fear that if she had betrayed herself to the colonel's wife she might have done so to others. the consciousness that this might well be true and that even now the girls might be talking and laughing at her caused her exceeding shame and bitterness. many weeks had passed since that last night that betty and alfred clarke had been together. in due time col. zane's men returned and betty learned from jonathan that alfred had left them at ft. pitt, saying he was going south to his old home. at first she had expected some word from alfred, a letter, or if not that, surely an apology for his conduct on that last evening they had been together. but jonathan brought her no word, and after hoping against hope and wearing away the long days looking for a letter that never came, she ceased to hope and plunged into despair. the last few months had changed her life; changed it as only constant thinking, and suffering that must be hidden from the world, can change the life of a young girl. she had been so intent on her own thoughts, so deep in her dreams that she had taken no heed of other people. she did not know that those who loved her were always thinking of her welfare and would naturally see even a slight change in her. with a sudden shock of surprise and pain she realized that to-day for the first time in a month she had played with the boys. sammy had asked her why she did not laugh any more. now she understood the mad antics of tige that morning; madcap's whinney of delight; the chattering of the squirrels, and caesar's pranks in the snow. she had neglected her pets. she had neglected her work, her friends, the boys' lessons; and her brother. for what? what would her girl friends say? that she was pining for a lover who had forgotten her. they would say that and it would be true. she did think of him constantly. with bitter pain she recalled the first days of the acquaintance which now seemed so long past; how much she had disliked alfred; how angry she had been with him and how contemptuously she had spurned his first proffer of friendship; how, little by little, her pride had been subdued; then the struggle with her heart. and, at last, after he had gone, came the realization that the moments spent with him had been the sweetest of her life. she thought of him as she used to see him stand before her; so good to look at; so strong and masterful, and yet so gentle. "oh, i cannot bear it," whispered betty with a half sob, giving up to a rush of tender feeling. "i love him. i love him, and i cannot forget him. oh, i am so ashamed." betty bowed her head on her knees. her slight form quivered a while and then grew still. when a half hour later she raised her head her face was pale and cold. it bore the look of a girl who had suddenly become a woman; a woman who saw the battle of life before her and who was ready to fight. stern resolve gleamed from her flashing eyes; there was no faltering in those set lips. betty was a zane and the zanes came of a fighting race. their blood had ever been hot and passionate; the blood of men quick to love and quick to hate. it had flowed in the veins of daring, reckless men who had fought and died for their country; men who had won their sweethearts with the sword; men who had had unconquerable spirits. it was this fighting instinct that now rose in betty; it gave her strength and pride to defend her secret; the resolve to fight against the longing in her heart. "i will forget him! i will tear him out of my heart!" she exclaimed passionately. "he never deserved my love. he did not care. i was a little fool to let him amuse himself with me. he went away and forgot. i hate him." at length betty subdued her excitement, and when she went down to supper a few minutes later she tried to maintain a cheerful composure of manner and to chat with her old-time vivacity. "bessie, i am sure you have exaggerated things," remarked col. zane after betty had gone upstairs to dress for the dance. "perhaps it is only that betty grows a little tired of this howling wilderness. small wonder if she does. you know she has always been used to comfort and many young people, places to go and all that. this is her first winter on the frontier. she'll come round all right." "have it your way, ebenezer," answered his wife with a look of amused contempt on her face. "i am sure i hope you are right. by the way, what do you think of this ralfe miller? he has been much with betty of late." "i do not know the fellow, bessie. he seems agreeable. he is a good-looking young man. why do you ask?" "the major told me that miller had a bad name at pitt, and that he had been a friend of simon girty before girty became a renegade." "humph! i'll have to speak to sam. as for knowing girty, there is nothing terrible in that. all the women seem to think that simon is the very prince of devils. i have known all the girtys for years. simon was not a bad fellow before he went over to the indians. it is his brother james who has committed most of those deeds which have made the name of girty so infamous." "i don't like miller," continued mrs. zane in a hesitating way. "i must admit that i have no sensible reason for my dislike. he is pleasant and agreeable, yes, but behind it there is a certain intensity. that man has something on his mind." "if he is in love with betty, as you seem to think, he has enough on his mind. i'll vouch for that," said col. zane. "betty is inclined to be a coquette. if she liked clarke pretty well, it may be a lesson to her." "i wish she were married and settled down. it may have been no great harm for betty to have had many admirers while in philadelphia, but out here on the border it will never do. these men will not have it. there will be trouble come of betty's coquettishness." "why, bessie, she is only a child. what would you have her do? marry the first man who asked her?" "the clod-hoppers are coming," said mrs. zane as the jingling of sleigh bells broke the stillness. col. zane sprang up and opened the door. a broad stream of light flashed from the room and lighted up the road. three powerful teams stood before the door. they were hitched to sleds, or clod-hoppers, which were nothing more than wagon-beds fastened on wooden runners. a chorus of merry shouts greeted col. zane as he appeared in the doorway. "all right! all right! here she is," he cried, as betty ran down the steps. the colonel bundled her in a buffalo robe in a corner of the foremost sled. at her feet he placed a buckskin bag containing a hot stone mrs. zane thoughtfully had provided. "all ready here. let them go," called the colonel. "you will have clear weather. coming back look well to the traces and keep a watch for the wolves." the long whips cracked, the bells jingled, the impatient horses plunged forward and away they went over the glistening snow. the night was clear and cold; countless stars blinked in the black vault overhead; the pale moon cast its wintry light down on a white and frozen world. as the runners glided swiftly and smoothly onward showers of dry snow like fine powder flew from under the horses' hoofs and soon whitened the black-robed figures in the sleds. the way led down the hill past the fort, over the creek bridge and along the road that skirted the black forest. the ride was long; it led up and down hills, and through a lengthy stretch of gloomy forest. sometimes the drivers walked the horses up a steep climb and again raced them along a level bottom. making a turn in the road they saw a bright light in the distance which marked their destination. in five minutes the horses dashed into a wide clearing. an immense log fire burned in front of a two-story structure. streams of light poured from the small windows; the squeaking of fiddles, the shuffling of many feet, and gay laughter came through the open door. the steaming horses were unhitched, covered carefully with robes and led into sheltered places, while the merry party disappeared into the house. the occasion was the celebration of the birthday of old dan watkins' daughter. dan was one of the oldest settlers along the river; in fact, he had located his farm several years after col. zane had founded the settlement. he was noted for his open-handed dealing and kindness of heart. he had loaned many a head of cattle which had never been returned, and many a sack of flour had left his mill unpaid for in grain. he was a good shot, he would lay a tree on the ground as quickly as any man who ever swung an axe, and he could drink more whiskey than any man in the valley. dan stood at the door with a smile of welcome upon his rugged features and a handshake and a pleasant word for everyone. his daughter susan greeted the men with a little curtsy and kissed the girls upon the cheek. susan was not pretty, though she was strong and healthy; her laughing blue eyes assured a sunny disposition, and she numbered her suitors by the score. the young people lost no time. soon the floor was covered with their whirling forms. in one corner of the room sat a little dried-up old woman with white hair and bright dark eyes. this was grandma watkins. she was very old, so old that no one knew her age, but she was still vigorous enough to do her day's work with more pleasure than many a younger woman. just now she was talking to wetzel, who leaned upon his inseparable rifle and listened to her chatter. the hunter liked the old lady and would often stop at her cabin while on his way to the settlement and leave at her door a fat turkey or a haunch of venison. "lew wetzel, i am ashamed of you." grandmother watkins was saying. "put that gun in the corner and get out there and dance. enjoy yourself. you are only a boy yet." "i'd better look on, mother," answered the hunter. "pshaw! you can hop and skip around like any of then and laugh too if you want. i hope that pretty sister of eb zane has caught your fancy." "she is not for the like of me," he said gently "i haven't the gifts." "don't talk about gifts. not to an old woman who has lived three times and more your age," she said impatiently. "it is not gifts a woman wants out here in the west. if she does 'twill do her no good. she needs a strong arm to build cabins, a quick eye with a rifle, and a fearless heart. what border-women want are houses and children. they must bring up men, men to drive the redskins back, men to till the soil, or else what is the good of our suffering here." "you are right," said wetzel thoughtfully. "but i'd hate to see a flower like betty zane in a rude hunter's cabin." "i have known the zanes for forty year' and i never saw one yet that was afraid of work. and you might win her if you would give up running mad after indians. i'll allow no woman would put up with that. you have killed many indians. you ought to be satisfied." "fightin' redskins is somethin' i can't help," said the hunter, slowly shaking his head. "if i got married the fever would come on and i'd leave home. no, i'm no good for a woman. fightin' is all i'm good for." "why not fight for her, then? don't let one of these boys walk off with her. look at her. she likes fun and admiration. i believe you do care for her. why not try to win her?" "who is that tall man with her?" continued the old lady as wetzel did not answer. "there, they have gone into the other room. who is he?" "his name is miller." "lewis, i don't like him. i have been watching him all evening. i'm a contrary old woman, i know, but i have seen a good many men in my time, and his face is not honest. he is in love with her. does she care for him?" "no, betty doesn't care for miller. she's just full of life and fun." "you may be mistaken. all the zanes are fire and brimstone and this girl is a zane clear through. go and fetch her to me, lewis. i'll tell you if there's a chance for you." "dear mother, perhaps there's a wife in heaven for me. there's none on earth," said the hunter, a sad smile flitting over his calm face. ralfe miller, whose actions had occasioned the remarks of the old lady, would have been conspicuous in any assembly of men. there was something in his dark face that compelled interest and yet left the observer in doubt. his square chin, deep-set eyes and firm mouth denoted a strong and indomitable will. he looked a man whom it would be dangerous to cross. little was known of miller's history. he hailed from ft. pitt, where he had a reputation as a good soldier, but a man of morose and quarrelsome disposition. it was whispered that he drank, and that he had been friendly with the renegades mckee, elliott, and girty. he had passed the fall and winter at ft. henry, serving on garrison duty. since he had made the acquaintance of betty he had shown her all the attention possible. on this night a close observer would have seen that miller was laboring under some strong feeling. a half-subdued fire gleamed from his dark eyes. a peculiar nervous twitching of his nostrils betrayed a poorly suppressed excitement. all evening he followed betty like a shadow. her kindness may have encouraged him. she danced often with him and showed a certain preference for his society. alice and lydia were puzzled by betty's manner. as they were intimate friends they believed they knew something of her likes and dislikes. had not betty told them she did not care for mr. miller? what was the meaning of the arch glances she bestowed upon him, if she did not care for him? to be sure, it was nothing wonderful for betty to smile,--she was always prodigal of her smiles--but she had never been known to encourage any man. the truth was that betty had put her new resolution into effect; to be as merry and charming as any fancy-free maiden could possibly be, and the farthest removed from a young lady pining for an absent and indifferent sweetheart. to her sorrow betty played her part too well. except to wetzel, whose keen eyes little escaped, there was no significance in miller's hilarity one moment and sudden thoughtfulness the next. and if there had been, it would have excited no comment. most of the young men had sampled some of old dan's best rye and their flushed faces and unusual spirits did not result altogether from the exercise of the dance. after one of the reels miller led betty, with whom he had been dancing, into one of the side rooms. round the dimly lighted room were benches upon which were seated some of the dancers. betty was uneasy in mind and now wished that she had remained at home. they had exchanged several commonplace remarks when the music struck up and betty rose quickly to her feet. "see, the others have gone. let us return," she said. "wait," said miller hurriedly. "do not go just yet. i wish to speak to you. i have asked you many times if you will marry me. now i ask you again." "mr. miller, i thanked you and begged you not to cause us both pain by again referring to that subject," answered betty with dignity. "if you will persist in bringing it up we cannot be friends any longer." "wait, please wait. i have told you that i will not take 'no' for an answer. i love you with all my heart and soul and i cannot give you up." his voice was low and hoarse and thrilled with a strong man's passion. betty looked up into his face and tears of compassion filled her eyes. her heart softened to this man, and her conscience gave her a little twinge of remorse. could she not have averted all this? no doubt she had been much to blame, and this thought made her voice very low and sweet as she answered him. "i like you as a friend, mr. miller, but we can never be more than friends. i am very sorry for you, and angry with myself that i did not try to help you instead of making it worse. please do not speak of this again. come, let us join the others." they were quite alone in the room. as betty finished speaking and started for the door miller intercepted her. she recoiled in alarm from his white face. "no, you don't go yet. i won't give you up so easily. no woman can play fast and loose with me! do you understand? what have you meant all this winter? you encouraged me. you know you did," he cried passionately. "i thought you were a gentleman. i have really taken the trouble to defend you against persons who evidently were not misled as to your real nature. i will not listen to you," said betty coldly. she turned away from him, all her softened feeling changed to scorn. "you shall listen to me," he whispered as he grasped her wrist and pulled her backward. all the man's brutal passion had been aroused. the fierce border blood boiled within his heart. unmasked he showed himself in his true colors a frontier desperado. his eyes gleamed dark and lurid beneath his bent brows and a short, desperate laugh passed his lips. "i will make you love me, my proud beauty. i shall have you yet, one way or another." "let me go. how dare you touch me!" cried betty, the hot blood coloring her face. she struck him a stinging blow with her free hand and struggled with all her might to free herself; but she was powerless in his iron grasp. closer he drew her. "if it costs me my life i will kiss you for that blow," he muttered hoarsely. "oh, you coward! you ruffian! release me or i will scream." she had opened her lips to call for help when she saw a dark figure cross the threshold. she recognized the tall form of wetzel. the hunter stood still in the doorway for a second and then with the swiftness of light he sprang forward. the single straightening of his arm sent miller backward over a bench to the floor with a crashing sound. miller rose with some difficulty and stood with one hand to his head. "lew, don't draw your knife," cried betty as she saw wetzel's hand go inside his hunting shirt. she had thrown herself in front of him as miller got to his feet. with both little hands she clung to the brawny arm of the hunter, but she could not stay it. wetzel's hand slipped to his belt. "for god's sake, lew, do not kill him," implored betty, gazing horror-stricken at the glittering eyes of the hunter. "you have punished him enough. he only tried to kiss me. i was partly to blame. put your knife away. do not shed blood. for my sake, lew, for my sake!" when betty found that she could not hold wetzel's arm she threw her arms round his neck and clung to him with all her young strength. no doubt her action averted a tragedy. if miller had been inclined to draw a weapon then he might have had a good opportunity to use it. he had the reputation of being quick with his knife, and many of his past fights testified that he was not a coward. but he made no effort to attack wetzel. it was certain that he measured with his eye the distance to the door. wetzel was not like other men. irrespective of his wonderful strength and agility there was something about the indian hunter that terrified all men. miller shrank before those eyes. he knew that never in all his life of adventure had he been as near death as at that moment. there was nothing between him and eternity but the delicate arms of this frail girl. at a slight wave of the hunter's hand towards the door he turned and passed out. "oh, how dreadful!" cried betty, dropping upon a bench with a sob of relief. "i am glad you came when you did even though you frightened me more than he did. promise me that you will not do miller any further harm. if you had fought it would all have been on my account; one or both of you might have been killed. don't look at me so. i do not care for him. i never did. now that i know him i despise him. he lost his senses and tried to kiss me. i could have killed him myself." wetzel did not answer. betty had been holding his hand in both her own while she spoke impulsively. "i understand how difficult it is for you to overlook an insult to me," she continued earnestly. "but i ask it of you. you are my best friend, almost my brother, and i promise you that if he ever speaks a word to me again that is not what it should be i will tell you." "i reckon i'll let him go, considerin' how set on it you are." "but remember, lew, that he is revengeful and you must be on the lookout," said betty gravely as she recalled the malignant gleam in miller's eyes. "he's dangerous only like a moccasin snake that hides in the grass." "am i all right? do i look mussed or--or excited--or anything?" asked betty. lewis smiled as she turned round for his benefit. her hair was a little awry and the lace at her neck disarranged. the natural bloom had not quite returned to her cheeks. with a look in his eyes that would have mystified betty for many a day had she but seen it he ran his gaze over the dainty figure. then reassuring her that she looked as well as ever, he led her into the dance-room. "so this is betty zane. dear child, kiss me," said grandmother watkins when wetzel had brought betty up to her. "now, let me get a good look at you. well, well, you are a true zane. black hair and eyes; all fire and pride. child, i knew your father and mother long before you were born. your father was a fine man but a proud one. and how do you like the frontier? are you enjoying yourself?" "oh, yes, indeed," said betty, smiling brightly at the old lady. "well, dearie, have a good time while you can. life is hard in a pioneer's cabin. you will not always have the colonel to look after you. they tell me you have been to some grand school in philadelphia. learning is very well, but it will not help you in the cabin of one of these rough men." "there is a great need of education in all the pioneers' homes. i have persuaded brother eb to have a schoolteacher at the fort next spring." "first teach the boys to plow and the girls to make johnny cake. how much you favor your brother isaac. he used to come and see me often. so must you in summertime. poor lad, i suppose he is dead by this time. i have seen so many brave and good lads go. there now, i did not mean to make you sad," and the old lady patted betty's hand and sighed. "he often spoke of you and said that i must come with him to see you. now he is gone," said betty. "yes, he is gone, betty, but you must not be sad while you are so young. wait until you are old like i am. how long have you known lew wetzel?" "all my life. he used to carry me in his arm, when i was a baby. of course i do not remember that, but as far back as i can go in memory i can see lew. oh, the many times he has saved me from disaster! but why do you ask?" "i think lew wetzel cares more for you than for all the world. he is as silent as an indian, but i am an old woman and i can read men's hearts. if he could be made to give up his wandering life he would be the best man on the border." "oh, indeed i think you are wrong. lew does not care for me in that way," said betty, surprised and troubled by the old lady's vehemence. a loud blast from a hunting-horn directed the attention of all to the platform at the upper end of the hall, where dan watkins stood. the fiddlers ceased playing, the dancers stopped, and all looked expectantly. the scene was simple strong, and earnest. the light in the eyes of these maidens shone like the light from the pine cones on the walls. it beamed soft and warm. these fearless sons of the wilderness, these sturdy sons of progress, standing there clasping the hands of their partners and with faces glowing with happiness, forgetful of all save the enjoyment of the moment, were ready to go out on the morrow and battle unto the death for the homes and the lives of their loved ones. "friends," said dan when the hum of voices had ceased "i never thought as how i'd have to get up here and make a speech to-night or i might have taken to the woods. howsomever, mother and susan says as it's gettin' late it's about time we had some supper. somewhere in the big cake is hid a gold ring. if one of the girls gets it she can keep it as a gift from susan, and should one of the boys find it he may make a present to his best girl. and in the bargain he gets to kiss susan. she made some objection about this and said that part of the game didn't go, but i reckon the lucky young man will decide that for hisself. and now to the festal board." ample justice was done to the turkey, the venison, and the bear meat. grandmother watkins' delicious apple and pumpkin pies for which she was renowned, disappeared as by magic. likewise the cakes and the sweet cider and the apple butter vanished. when the big cake had been cut and divided among the guests, wetzel discovered the gold ring within his share. he presented the ring to betty, and gave his privilege of kissing susan to george reynolds, with the remark: "george, i calkilate susan would like it better if you do the kissin' part." now it was known to all that george had long been an ardent admirer of susan's, and it was suspected that she was not indifferent to him. nevertheless, she protested that it was not fair. george acted like a man who had the opportunity of his life. amid uproarious laughter he ran susan all over the room, and when he caught her he pulled her hands away from her blushing face and bestowed a right hearty kiss on her cheek. to everyone's surprise and to wetzel's discomfiture, susan walked up to him and saying that as he had taken such an easy way out of it she intended to punish him by kissing him. and so she did. poor lewis' face looked the picture of dismay. probably he had never been kissed before in his life. happy hours speed away on the wings of the wind. the feasting over, the good-byes were spoken, the girls were wrapped in the warm robes, for it was now intensely cold, and soon the horses, eager to start on the long homeward journey, were pulling hard on their bits. on the party's return trip there was an absence of the hilarity which had prevailed on their coming. the bells were taken off before the sleds left the blockhouse, and the traces and the harness examined and tightened with the caution of men who were apprehensive of danger and who would take no chances. in winter time the foes most feared by the settlers were the timber wolves. thousands of these savage beasts infested the wild forest regions which bounded the lonely roads, and their wonderful power of scent and swift and tireless pursuit made a long night ride a thing to be dreaded. while the horses moved swiftly danger from wolves was not imminent; but carelessness or some mishap to a trace or a wheel had been the cause of more than one tragedy. therefore it was not remarkable that the drivers of our party breathed a sigh of relief when the top of the last steep hill had been reached. the girls were quiet, and tired out and cold they pressed close to one another; the men were silent and watchful. when they were half way home and had just reached the outskirts of the black forest the keen ear of wetzel caught the cry of a wolf. it came from the south and sounded so faint that wetzel believed at first that he had been mistaken. a few moments passed in which the hunter turned his ear to the south. he had about made up his mind that he had only imagined he had heard something when the unmistakable yelp of a wolf came down on the wind. then another, this time clear and distinct, caused the driver to turn and whisper to wetzel. the hunter spoke in a low tone and the driver whipped up his horses. from out the depths of the dark woods along which they were riding came a long and mournful howl. it was a wolf answering the call of his mate. this time the horses heard it, for they threw back their ears and increased their speed. the girls heard it, for they shrank closer to the men. there is that which is frightful in the cry of a wolf. when one is safe in camp before a roaring fire the short, sharp bark of a wolf is startling, and the long howl will make one shudder. it is so lonely and dismal. it makes no difference whether it be given while the wolf is sitting on his haunches near some cabin waiting for the remains of the settler's dinner, or while he is in full chase after his prey--the cry is equally wild, savage and bloodcurdling. betty had never heard it and though she was brave, when the howl from the forest had its answer in another howl from the creek thicket, she slipped her little mittened hand under wetzel's arm and looked up at him with frightened eyes. in half an hour the full chorus of yelps, barks and howls swelled hideously on the air, and the ever increasing pack of wolves could be seen scarcely a hundred yards behind the sleds. the patter of their swiftly flying feet on the snow could be distinctly heard. the slender, dark forms came nearer and nearer every moment. presently the wolves had approached close enough for the occupants of the sleds to see their shining eyes looking like little balls of green fire. a gaunt beast bolder than the others, and evidently the leader of the pack, bounded forward until he was only a few yards from the last sled. at every jump he opened his great jaws and uttered a quick bark as if to embolden his followers. almost simultaneously with the red flame that burst from wetzel's rifle came a sharp yelp of agony from the leader. he rolled over and over. instantly followed a horrible mingling of snarls and barks, and snapping of jaws as the band fought over the body of their luckless comrade. this short delay gave the advantage to the horses. when the wolves again appeared they were a long way behind. the distance to the fort was now short and the horses were urged to their utmost. the wolves kept up the chase until they reached the creek bridge and the mill. then they slowed up: the howling became desultory, and finally the dark forms disappeared in the thickets. chapter viii. winter dragged by uneventfully for betty. unlike the other pioneer girls, who were kept busy all the time with their mending, and linsey weaving, and household duties, betty had nothing to divert her but her embroidery and her reading. these she found very tiresome. her maid was devoted to her and never left a thing undone. annie was old sam's daughter, and she had waited on betty since she had been a baby. the cleaning or mending or darning--anything in the shape of work that would have helped pass away the monotonous hours for betty, was always done before she could lift her hand. during the day she passed hours in her little room, and most of them were dreamed away by her window. lydia and alice came over sometimes and whiled away the tedious moments with their bright chatter and merry laughter, their castle-building, and their romancing on heroes and love and marriage as girls always will until the end of time. they had not forgotten mr. clarke, but as betty had rebuked them with a dignity which forbade any further teasing on that score, they had transferred their fun-making to the use of mr. miller's name. fearing her brothers' wrath betty had not told them of the scene with miller at the dance. she had learned enough of rough border justice to dread the consequence of such a disclosure. she permitted miller to come to the house, although she never saw him alone. miller had accepted this favor gratefully. he said that on the night of the dance he had been a little the worse for dan watkins' strong liquor, and that, together with his bitter disappointment, made him act in the mad way which had so grievously offended her. he exerted himself to win her forgiveness. betty was always tender-hearted, and though she did not trust him, she said they might still be friends, but that that depended on his respect for her forbearance. miller had promised he would never refer to the old subject and he had kept his word. indeed betty welcomed any diversion for the long winter evenings. occasionally some of the young people visited her, and they sang and danced, roasted apples, popped chestnuts, and played games. often wetzel and major mccolloch came in after supper. betty would come down and sing for them, and afterward would coax indian lore and woodcraft from wetzel, or she would play checkers with the major. if she succeeded in winning from him, which in truth was not often, she teased him unmercifully. when col. zane and the major had settled down to their series of games, from which nothing short of indians could have diverted them, betty sat by wetzel. the silent man of the woods, an appellation the hunter had earned by his reticence, talked for betty as he would for no one else. one night while col. zane, his wife and betty were entertaining capt. boggs and major mccolloch and several of betty's girls friends, after the usual music and singing, storytelling became the order of the evening. little noah told of the time he had climbed the apple-tree in the yard after a raccoon and got severely bitten. "one day," said noah, "i heard tige barking out in the orchard and i ran out there and saw a funny little fur ball up in the tree with a black tail and white rings around it. it looked like a pretty cat with a sharp nose. every time tige barked the little animal showed his teeth and swelled up his back. i wanted him for a pet. i got sam to give me a sack and i climbed the tree and the nearer i got to him the farther he backed down the limb. i followed him and put out the sack to put it over his head and he bit me. i fell from the limb, but he fell too and tige killed him and sam stuffed him for me." "noah, you are quite a valiant hunter," said betty. "now, jonathan, remember that you promised to tell me of your meeting with daniel boone." "it was over on the muskingong near the mouth of the sandusky. i was hunting in the open woods along the bank when i saw an indian. he saw me at the same time and we both treed. there we stood a long time each afraid to change position. finally i began to act tired and resorted to an old ruse. i put my coon-skin cap on my ramrod and cautiously poked it from behind the tree, expecting every second to hear the whistle of the redskin's bullet. instead i heard a jolly voice yell: 'hey, young feller, you'll have to try something better'n that.' i looked and saw a white man standing out in the open and shaking all over with laughter. i went up to him and found him to be a big strong fellow with an honest, merry face. he said: 'i'm boone.' i was considerably taken aback, especially when i saw he knew i was a white man all the time. we camped and hunted along the river a week and at the falls of the muskingong he struck out for his kentucky home." "here is wetzel," said col. zane, who had risen and gone to the door. "now, betty, try and get lew to tell us something." "come, lewis, here is a seat by me," said betty. "we have been pleasantly passing the time. we have had bear stories, snake stories, ghost stories--all kinds of tales. will you tell us one?" "lewis, did you ever have a chance to kill a hostile indian and not take it?" asked col. zane. "never but once," answered lewis. "tell us about it. i imagine it will be interesting." "well, i ain't good at tellin' things," began lewis. "i reckon i've seen some strange sights. i kin tell you about the only redskin i ever let off. three years ago i was takin' a fall hunt over on the big sandy, and i run into a party of shawnees. i plugged a chief and started to run. there was some good runners and i couldn't shake 'em in the open country. comin' to the ohio i jumped in and swum across, keepin' my rifle and powder dry by holdin' 'em up. i hid in some bulrushes and waited. pretty soon along comes three injuns, and when they saw where i had taken to the water they stopped and held a short pow-wow. then they all took to the water. this was what i was waitin' for. when they got nearly acrosst i shot the first redskin, and loadin' quick got a bullet into the others. the last injun did not sink. i watched him go floatin' down stream expectin' every minute to see him go under as he was hurt so bad he could hardly keep his head above water. he floated down a long ways and the current carried him to a pile of driftwood which had lodged against a little island. i saw the injun crawl up on the drift. i went down stream and by keepin' the island between me and him i got out to where he was. i pulled my tomahawk and went around the head of the island and found the redskin leanin' against a big log. he was a young brave and a fine lookin strong feller. he was tryin' to stop the blood from my bullet-hole in his side. when he saw me he tried to get up, but he was too weak. he smiled, pointed to the wound and said: 'deathwind not heap times bad shot.' then he bowed his head and waited for the tomahawk. well, i picked him up and carried him ashore and made a shack by a spring. i staid there with him. when he got well enough to stand a few days' travel i got him across the river and givin' him a hunk of deer meat i told him to go, and if i ever saw him again i'd make a better shot. "a year afterwards i trailed two shawnees into wingenund's camp and got surrounded and captured. the delaware chief is my great enemy. they beat me, shot salt into my legs, made me run the gauntlet, tied me on the back of a wild mustang. then they got ready to burn me at the stake. that night they painted my face black and held the usual death dances. some of the braves got drunk and worked themselves into a frenzy. i allowed i'd never see daylight. i seen that one of the braves left to guard me was the young feller i had wounded the year before. he never took no notice of me. in the gray of the early mornin' when all were asleep and the other watch dozin' i felt cold steel between my wrists and my buckskin thongs dropped off. then my feet were cut loose. i looked round and in the dim light i seen my young brave. he handed me my own rifle, knife and tomahawk, put his finger on his lips and with a bright smile, as if to say he was square with me, he pointed to the east. i was out of sight in a minute." "how noble of him!" exclaimed betty, her eyes all aglow. "he paid his debt to you, perhaps at the price of his life." "i have never known an indian to forget a promise, or a kind action, or an injury," observed col. zane. "are the indians half as bad as they are called?" asked betty. "i have heard as many stories of their nobility as of their cruelty." "the indians consider that they have been robbed and driven from their homes. what we think hideously inhuman is war to them," answered col. zane. "when i came here from fort pitt i expected to see and fight indians every day," said capt. boggs. "i have been here at wheeling for nearly two years and have never seen a hostile indian. there have been some indians in the vicinity during that time but not one has shown himself to me. i'm not up to indian tricks, i know, but i think the last siege must have been enough for them. i don't believe we shall have any more trouble from them." "captain," called out col. zane, banging his hand on the table. "i'll bet you my best horse to a keg of gunpowder that you see enough indians before you are a year older to make you wish you had never seen or heard of the western border." "and i'll go you the same bet," said major mccolloch. "you see, captain, you must understand a little of the nature of the indian," continued col. zane. "we have had proof that the delawares and the shawnees have been preparing for an expedition for months. we shall have another siege some day and to my thinking it will be a longer and harder one than the last. what say you, wetzel?" "i ain't sayin' much, but i don't calkilate on goin' on any long hunts this summer," answered the hunter. "and do you think tarhe, wingenund, pipe, cornplanter, and all those chiefs will unite their forces and attack us?" asked betty of wetzel. "cornplanter won't. he has been paid for most of his land and he ain't so bitter. tarhe is not likely to bother us. but pipe and wingenund and red fox--they all want blood." "have you seen these chiefs?" said betty. "yes, i know 'em all and they all know me," answered the hunter. "i've watched over many a trail waitin' for one of 'em. if i can ever get a shot at any of 'em i'll give up injuns and go farmin'. good night, betty." "what a strange man is wetzel," mused betty, after the visitors had gone. "do you know, eb, he is not at all like any one else. i have seen the girls shudder at the mention of his name and i have heard them say they could not look in his eyes. he does not affect me that way. it is not often i can get him to talk, but sometimes he tells me beautiful thing about the woods; how he lives in the wilderness, his home under the great trees; how every leaf on the trees and every blade of grass has its joy for him as well as its knowledge; how he curls up in his little bark shack and is lulled to sleep by the sighing of the wind through the pine tops. he told me he has often watched the stars for hours at a time. i know there is a waterfall back in the black forest somewhere that lewis goes to, simply to sit and watch the water tumble over the precipice." "wetzel is a wonderful character, even to those who know him only as an indian slayer and a man who wants no other occupation. some day he will go off on one of these long jaunts and will never return. that is certain. the day is fast approaching when a man like wetzel will be of no use in life. now, he is a necessity. like tige he can smell indians. betty, i believe lewis tells you so much and is so kind and gentle toward you because he cares for you." "of course lew likes me. i know he does and i want him to," said betty. "but he does not care as you seem to think. grandmother watkins said the same. i am sure both of you are wrong." "did dan's mother tell you that? well, she's pretty shrewd. it's quite likely, betty, quite likely. it seems to me you are not so quick witted as you used to be." "why so?" asked betty, quickly. "well, you used to be different somehow," said her brother, as he patted her hand. "do you mean i am more thoughtful?" "yes, and sometimes you seem sad." "i have tried to be brave and--and happy," said betty, her voice trembling slightly. "yes, yes, i know you have, betty. you have done wonderfully well here in this dead place. but tell me, don't be angry, don't you think too much of some one?" "you have no right to ask me that," said betty, flushing and turning away toward the stairway. "well, well, child, don't mind me. i did not mean anything. there, good night, betty." long after she had gone up-stairs col. zane sat by his fireside. from time to time he sighed. he thought of the old virginia home and of the smile of his mother. it seemed only a few short years since he had promised her that he would take care of the baby sister. how had he kept that promise made when betty was a little thing bouncing on his knee? it seemed only yesterday. how swift the flight of time! already betty was a woman; her sweet, gay girlhood had passed; already a shadow had fallen on her face, the shadow of a secret sorrow. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * march with its blustering winds had departed, and now april's showers and sunshine were gladdening the hearts of the settlers. patches of green freshened the slopes of the hills; the lilac bushes showed tiny leaves, and the maple-buds were bursting. yesterday a blue-bird--surest harbinger of spring--had alighted on the fence-post and had sung his plaintive song. a few more days and the blossoms were out mingling their pink and white with the green; the red-bud, the hawthorne, and the dog-wood were in bloom, checkering the hillsides. "bessie, spring is here," said col. zane, as he stood in the doorway. "the air is fresh, the sun shines warm, the birds are singing; it makes me feel good." "yes, it is pleasant to have spring with us again," answered his wife. "i think, though, that in winter i am happier. in summer i am always worried. i am afraid for the children to be out of my sight, and when you are away on a hunt i am distraught until you are home safe." "well, if the redskins let us alone this summer it will be something new," he said, laughing. "by the way, bess, some new people came to the fort last night. they rafted down from the monongahela settlements. some of the women suffered considerably. i intend to offer them the cabin on the hill until they can cut the timber and run up a house. sam said the cabin roof leaked and the chimney smoked, but with a little work i think they can be made more comfortable there than at the block-house." "it is the only vacant cabin in the settlement. i can accommodate the women folks here." "well, we'll see about it. i don't want you and betty inconvenienced. i'll send sam up to the cabin and have him fix things up a bit and make it more habitable." the door opened, admitting col. zane's elder boy. the lad's face was dirty, his nose was all bloody, and a big bruise showed over his right eye. "for the land's sake!" exclaimed his mother. "look at the boy. noah, come here. what have you been doing?" noah crept close to his mother and grasping her apron with both hands hid his face. mrs. zane turned the boy around and wiped his discolored features with a wet towel. she gave him a little shake and said: "noah, have you been fighting again?" "let him go and i'll tell you about it," said the colonel, and when the youngster had disappeared he continued: "right after breakfast noah went with me down to the mill. i noticed several children playing in front of reihart's blacksmith shop. i went in, leaving noah outside. i got a plow-share which i had left with reihart to be repaired. he came to the door with me and all at once he said: 'look at the kids.' i looked and saw noah walk up to a boy and say something to him. the lad was a stranger, and i have no doubt belongs to these new people i told you about. he was bigger than noah. at first the older boy appeared very friendly and evidently wanted to join the others in their game. i guess noah did not approve of this, for after he had looked the stranger over he hauled away and punched the lad soundly. to make it short the strange boy gave noah the worst beating he ever got in his life. i told noah to come straight to you and confess." "well, did you ever!" ejaculated mrs. zane. "noah is a bad boy. and you stood and watched him fight. you are laughing about it now. ebenezer zane, i would not put it beneath you to set noah to fighting. i know you used to make the little niggers fight. anyway, it serves noah right and i hope it will be a lesson to him." "i'll make you a bet, bessie," said the colonel, with another laugh. "i'll bet you that unless we lock him up, noah will fight that boy every day or every time he meets him." "i won't bet," said mrs. zane, with a smile of resignation. "where's betts? i haven't seen her this morning. i am going over to short creek to-morrow or next day, and think i'll take her with me. you know i am to get a commission to lay out several settlements along the river, and i want to get some work finished at short creek this spring. mrs. raymer'll be delighted to have betty. shall i take her?" "by all means. a visit there will brighten her up and do her good." "well, what on earth have you been doing?" cried the colonel. his remark had been called forth by a charming vision that had entered by the open door. betty--for it was she--wore a little red cap set jauntily on her black hair. her linsey dress was crumpled and covered with hayseed. "i've been in the hay-mow," said betty, waving a small basket. "for a week that old black hen has circumvented me, but at last i have conquered. i found the nest in the farthest corner under the hay." "how did you get up in the loft?" inquired mrs. zane. "bessie, i climbed up the ladder of course. i acknowledge being unusually light-hearted and happy this morning, but i have not as yet grown wings. sam said i could not climb up that straight ladder, but i found it easy enough." "you should not climb up into the loft," said mrs. zane, in a severe tone. "only last fall hugh bennet's little boy slid off the hay down into one of the stalls and the horse kicked him nearly to death." "oh, fiddlesticks, bessie, i am not a baby," said betty, with vehemence. "there is not a horse in the barn but would stand on his hind legs before he would step on me, let alone kick me." "i don't know, betty, but i think that black horse mr. clarke left here would kick any one," remarked the colonel. "oh, no, he would not hurt me." "betty, we have had pleasant weather for about three days," said the colonel, gravely. "in that time you have let out that crazy bear of yours to turn everything topsy-turvy. only yesterday i got my hands in the paint you have put on your canoe. if you had asked my advice i would have told you that painting your canoe should not have been done for a month yet. silas told me you fell down the creek hill; sam said you tried to drive his team over the bluff, and so on. we are happy to see you get back your old time spirits, but could you not be a little more careful? your versatility is bewildering. we do not know what to look for next. i fully expect to see you brought to the house some day maimed for life, or all that beautiful black hair gone to decorate some huron's lodge." "i tell you i am perfectly delighted that the weather is again so i can go out. i am tired to death of staying indoors. this morning i could have cried for very joy. bessie will soon be lecturing me about madcap. i must not ride farther than the fort. well, i don't care. i intend to ride all over." "betty, i do not wish you to think i am lecturing you," said the colonel's wife. "but you are as wild as a march hare and some one must tell you things. now listen. my brother, the major, told me that simon girty, the renegade, had been heard to say that he had seen eb zane's little sister and that if he ever got his hands on her he would make a squaw of her. i am not teasing you. i am telling you the truth. girty saw you when you were at fort pitt two years ago. now what would you do if he caught you on one of your lonely rides and carried you off to his wigwam? he has done things like that before. james girty carried off one of the johnson girls. her brothers tried to rescue her and lost their lives. it is a common trick of the indians." "what would i do if mr. simon girty tried to make a squaw of me?" exclaimed betty, her eyes flashing fire. "why, i'd kill him!" "i believe it, betts, on my word i do," spoke up the colonel. "but let us hope you may never see girty. all i ask is that you be careful. i am going over to short creek to-morrow. will you go with me? i know mrs. raymer will be pleased to see you." "oh, eb, that will be delightful!" "very well, get ready and we shall start early in the morning." two weeks later betty returned from short creek and seemed to have profited much by her short visit. col. zane remarked with satisfaction to his wife that betty had regained all her former cheerfulness. the morning after betty's return was a perfect spring morning--the first in that month of may-days. the sun shone bright and warm; the mayflowers blossomed; the trailing arbutus scented the air; everywhere the grass and the leaves looked fresh and green; swallows flitted in and out of the barn door; the blue-birds twittered; a meadow-lark caroled forth his pure melody, and the busy hum of bees came from the fragrant apple-blossoms. "mis' betty, madcap 'pears powerfo' skittenish," said old sam, when he had led the pony to where betty stood on the hitching block. "whoa, dar, you rascal." betty laughed as she leaped lightly into the saddle, and soon she was flying over the old familiar road, down across the creek bridge, past the old grist-mill, around the fort and then out on the river bluff. the indian pony was fiery and mettlesome. he pranced and side-stepped, galloped and trotted by turns. he seemed as glad to get out again into the warm sunshine as was betty herself. he tore down the road a mile at his best speed. coming back betty pulled him into a walk. presently her musings were interrupted by a sharp switch in the face from a twig of a tree. she stopped the pony and broke off the offending branch. as she looked around the recollection of what had happened to her in that very spot flashed into her mind. it was here that she had been stopped by the man who had passed almost as swiftly out of her life as he had crossed her path that memorable afternoon. she fell to musing on the old perplexing question. after all could there not have been some mistake? perhaps she might have misjudged him? and then the old spirit, which resented her thinking of him in that softened mood, rose and fought the old battle over again. but as often happened the mood conquered, and betty permitted herself to sink for the moment into the sad thoughts which returned like a mournful strain of music once sung by beloved voices, now forever silent. she could not resist the desire to ride down to the old sycamore. the pony turned into the bridle-path that led down the bluff and the sure-footed beast picked his way carefully over the roots and stones. betty's heart beat quicker when she saw the noble tree under whose spreading branches she had spent the happiest day of her life. the old monarch of the forest was not one whit changed by the wild winds of winter. the dew sparkled on the nearly full grown leaves; the little sycamore balls were already as large as marbles. betty drew rein at the top of the bank and looked absently at the tree and into the foam covered pool beneath. at that moment her eyes saw nothing physical. they held the faraway light of the dreamer, the look that sees so much of the past and nothing of the present. presently her reflections were broken by the actions of the pony. madcap had thrown up her head, laid back her ears and commenced to paw the ground with her forefeet. betty looked round to see the cause of madcap's excitement. what was that! she saw a tall figure clad in brown leaning against the stone. she saw a long fishing-rod. what was there so familiar in the poise of that figure? madcap dislodged a stone from the path and it went rattling down the rock, slope and fell with a splash into the water. the man heard it, turned and faced the hillside. betty recognized alfred clarke. for a moment she believed she must be dreaming. she had had many dreams of the old sycamore. she looked again. yes, it was he. pale, worn, and older he undoubtedly looked, but the features were surely those of alfred clarke. her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stop beating while a very agony of joy surged over her and made her faint. so he still lived. that was her first thought, glad and joyous, and then memory returning, her face went white as with clenched teeth she wheeled madcap and struck her with the switch. once on the level bluff she urged her toward the house at a furious pace. col. zane had just stepped out of the barn door and his face took on an expression of amazement when he saw the pony come tearing up the road, betty's hair flying in the wind and with a face as white as if she were pursued by a thousand yelling indians. "say, betts, what the deuce is wrong?" cried the colonel, when betty reached the fence. "why did you not tell me that man was here again?" she demanded in intense excitement. "that man! what man?" asked col. zane, considerably taken back by this angry apparition. "mr. clarke, of course. just as if you did not know. i suppose you thought it a fine opportunity for one of your jokes." "oh, clarke. well, the fact is i just found it out myself. haven't i been away as well as you? i certainly cannot imagine how any man could create such evident excitement in your mind. poor clarke, what has he done now?" "you might have told me. somebody could have told me and saved me from making a fool of myself," retorted betty, who was plainly on the verge of tears. "i rode down to the old sycamore tree and he saw me in, of all the places in the world, the one place where i would not want him to see me." "huh!" said the colonel, who often gave vent to the indian exclamation. "is that all? i thought something had happened." "all! is it not enough? i would rather have died. he is a man and he will think i followed him down there, that i was thinking of--that--oh!" cried betty, passionately, and then she strode into the house, slammed the door, and left the colonel, lost in wonder. "humph! these women beat me. i can't make them out, and the older i grow the worse i get," he said, as he led the pony into the stable. betty ran up-stairs to her room, her head in a whirl stronger than the surprise of alfred's unexpected appearance in fort henry and stronger than the mortification in having been discovered going to a spot she should have been too proud to remember was the bitter sweet consciousness that his mere presence had thrilled her through and through. it hurt her and made her hate herself in that moment. she hid her face in shame at the thought that she could not help being glad to see the man who had only trifled with her, the man who had considered the acquaintance of so little consequence that he had never taken the trouble to write her a line or send her a message. she wrung her trembling hands. she endeavored to still that throbbing heart and to conquer that sweet vague feeling which had crept over her and made her weak. the tears began to come and with a sob she threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillow. an hour after, when betty had quieted herself and had seated herself by the window a light knock sounded on the door and col. zane entered. he hesitated and came in rather timidly, for betty was not to be taken liberties with, and seeing her by the window he crossed the room and sat down by her side. betty did not remember her father or her mother. long ago when she was a child she had gone to her brother, laid her head on his shoulder and told him all her troubles. the desire grew strong within her now. there was comfort in the strong clasp of his hand. she was not proof against it, and her dark head fell on his shoulder. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * alfred clarke had indeed made his reappearance in fort henry. the preceding october when he left the settlement to go on the expedition up the monongahela river his intention had been to return to the fort as soon as he had finished his work, but what he did do was only another illustration of that fatality which affects everything. man hopefully makes his plans and an inexorable destiny works out what it has in store for him. the men of the expedition returned to fort henry in due time, but alfred had been unable to accompany them. he had sustained a painful injury and had been compelled to go to fort pitt for medical assistance. while there he had received word that his mother was lying very ill at his old home in southern virginia and if he wished to see her alive he must not delay in reaching her bedside. he left fort pitt at once and went to his home, where he remained until his mother's death. she had been the only tie that bound him to the old home, and now that she was gone he determined to leave the scene of his boyhood forever. alfred was the rightful heir to all of the property, but an unjust and selfish stepfather stood between him and any contentment he might have found there. he decided he would be a soldier of fortune. he loved the daring life of a ranger, and preferred to take his chances with the hardy settlers on the border rather than live the idle life of a gentleman farmer. he declared his intention to his step-father, who ill-concealed his satisfaction at the turn affairs had taken. then alfred packed his belongings, secured his mother's jewels, and with one sad, backward glance rode away from the stately old mansion. it was sunday morning and clarke had been two days in fort henry. from his little room in the block-house he surveyed the well-remembered scene. the rolling hills, the broad river, the green forests seemed like old friends. "here i am again," he mused. "what a fool a man can be. i have left a fine old plantation, slaves, horses, a country noted for its pretty women--for what? here there can be nothing for me but indians, hard work, privation, and trouble. yet i could not get here quickly enough. pshaw! what use to speak of the possibilities of a new country. i cannot deceive myself. it is she. i would walk a thousand miles and starve myself for months just for one glimpse of her sweet face. knowing this what care i for all the rest. how strange she should ride down to the old sycamore tree yesterday the moment i was there and thinking of her. evidently she had just returned from her visit. i wonder if she ever cared. i wonder if she ever thinks of me. shall i accept that incident as a happy augury? well, i am here to find out and find out i will. aha! there goes the church bell." laughing a little at his eagerness he brushed his coat, put on his cap and went down stairs. the settlers with their families were going into the meeting house. as alfred started up the steps he met lydia boggs. "why, mr. clarke, i heard you had returned," she said, smiling pleasantly and extending her hand. "welcome to the fort. i am very glad to see you." while they were chatting her father and col. zane came up and both greeted the young man warmly. "well, well, back on the frontier," said the colonel, in his hearty way. "glad to see you at the fort again. i tell you, clarke, i have taken a fancy to that black horse you left me last fall. i did not know what to think when jonathan brought back my horse. to tell you the truth i always looked for you to come back. what have you been doing all winter?" "i have been at home. my mother was ill all winter and she died in april." "my lad, that's bad news. i am sorry," said col. zane putting his hand kindly on the young man's shoulder. "i was wondering what gave you that older and graver look. it's hard, lad, but it's the way of life." "i have come back to get my old place with you, col. zane, if you will give it to me." "i will, and can promise you more in the future. i am going to open a road through to maysville, kentucky, and start several new settlements along the river. i will need young men, and am more than glad you have returned." "thank you, col. zane. that is more than i could have hoped for." alfred caught sight of a trim figure in a gray linsey gown coming down the road. there were several young people approaching, but he saw only betty. by some evil chance betty walked with ralfe miller, and for some mysterious reason, which women always keep to themselves, she smiled and looked up into his face at a time of all times she should not have done so. alfred's heart turned to lead. when the young people reached the steps the eyes of the rivals met for one brief second, but that was long enough for them to understand each other. they did not speak. lydia hesitated and looked toward betty. "betty, here is--" began col. zane, but betty passed them with flaming cheeks and with not so much as a glance at alfred. it was an awkward moment for him. "let us go in," he said composedly, and they filed into the church. as long as he lived alfred clarke never forgot that hour. his pride kept him chained in his seat. outwardly he maintained his composure, but inwardly his brain seemed throbbing, whirling, bursting. what an idiot he had been! he understood now why his letter had never been answered. betty loved miller, a man who hated him, a man who would leave no stone unturned to destroy even a little liking which she might have felt for him. once again miller had crossed his path and worsted him. with a sudden sickening sense of despair he realized that all his fond hopes had been but dreams, a fool's dreams. the dream of that moment when he would give her his mother's jewels, the dream of that charming face uplifted to his, the dream of the little cottage to which he would hurry after his day's work and find her waiting at the gate,--these dreams must be dispelled forever. he could barely wait until the end of the service. he wanted to be alone; to fight it out with himself; to crush out of his heart that fair image. at length the hour ended and he got out before the congregation and hurried to his room. betty had company all that afternoon and it was late in the day when col. zane ascended the stairs and entered her room to find her alone. "betty, i wish to know why you ignored mr. clarke this morning?" said col. zane, looking down on his sister. there was a gleam in his eye and an expression about his mouth seldom seen in the colonel's features. "i do not know that it concerns any one but myself," answered betty quickly, as her head went higher and her eyes flashed with a gleam not unlike that in her brother's. "i beg your pardon. i do not agree with you," replied col. zane. "it does concern others. you cannot do things like that in this little place where every one knows all about you and expect it to pass unnoticed. martin's wife saw you cut clarke and you know what a gossip she is. already every one is talking about you and clarke." "to that i am indifferent." "but i care. i won't have people talking about you," replied the colonel, who began to lose patience. usually he had the best temper imaginable. "last fall you allowed clarke to pay you a good deal of attention and apparently you were on good terms when he went away. now that he has returned you won't even speak to him. you let this fellow miller run after you. in my estimation miller is not to be compared to clarke, and judging from the warm greetings i saw clarke receive this morning, there are a number of folk who agree with me. not that i am praising clarke. i simply say this because to bessie, to jack, to everyone, your act is incomprehensible. people are calling you a flirt and saying that they would prefer some country manners." "i have not allowed mr. miller to run after me, as you are pleased to term it," retorted betty with indignation. "i do not like him. i never see him any more unless you or bessie or some one else is present. you know that. i cannot prevent him from walking to church with me." "no, i suppose not, but are you entirely innocent of those sweet glances which you gave him this morning?" "i did not," cried betty with an angry blush. "i won't be called a flirt by you or by anyone else. the moment i am civil to some man all these old maids and old women say i am flirting. it is outrageous." "now, betty, don't get excited. we are getting from the question. why are you not civil to clarke?" asked col. zane. she did not answer and after a moment he continued. "if there is anything about clarke that i do not know and that i should know i want you to tell me. personally i like the fellow. i am not saying that to make you think you ought to like him because i do. you might not care for him at all, but that would be no good reason for your actions. betty, in these frontier settlements a man is soon known for his real worth. every one at the fort liked clarke. the youngsters adored him. jessie liked him very much. you know he and isaac became good friends. i think he acted like a man to-day. i saw the look miller gave him. i don't like this fellow miller, anyway. now, i am taking the trouble to tell you my side of the argument. it is not a question of your liking clarke--that is none of my affair. it is simply that either he is not the man we all think him or you are acting in a way unbecoming a zane. i do not purpose to have this state of affairs continue. now, enough of this beating about the bush." betty had seen the colonel angry more than once, but never with her. it was quite certain she had angered him and she forgot her own resentment. her heart had warmed with her brother's praise of clarke. then as she remembered the past she felt a scorn for her weakness and such a revulsion of feeling that she cried out passionately: "he is a trifler. he never cared for me. he insulted me." col. zane reached for his hat, got up without saying another word and went down stairs. betty had not intended to say quite what she had and instantly regretted her hasty words. she called to the colonel, but he did not answer her, nor return. "betty, what in the world could you have said to my husband?" said mrs. zane as she entered the room. she was breathless from running up the stairs and her comely face wore a look of concern. "he was as white as that sheet and he stalked off toward the fort without a word to me." "i simply told him mr. clarke had insulted me," answered betty calmly. "great heavens! betty, what have you done?" exclaimed mrs. zane. "you don't know eb when he is angry. he is a big fool over you, anyway. he is liable to kill clarke." betty's blood was up now and she said that would not be a matter of much importance. "when did he insult you?" asked the elder woman, yielding to her natural curiosity. "it was last october." "pooh! it took you a long time to tell it. i don't believe it amounted to much. mr. clarke did not appear to be the sort of a man to insult anyone. all the girls were crazy about him last year. if he was not all right they would not have been." "i do not care if they were. the girls can have him and welcome. i don't want him. i never did. i am tired of hearing everyone eulogize him. i hate him. do you hear? i hate him! and i wish you would go away and leave me alone." "well, betty, all i will say is that you are a remarkable young woman," answered mrs. zane, who saw plainly that betty's violent outburst was a prelude to a storm of weeping. "i don't believe a word you have said. i don't believe you hate him. there!" col. zane walked straight to the fort, entered the block-house and knocked on the door of clarke's room. a voice bade him come in. he shoved open the door and went into the room. clarke had evidently just returned from a tramp in the hills, for his garments were covered with burrs and his boots were dusty. he looked tired, but his face was calm. "why, col. zane! have a seat. what can i do for you?" "i have come to ask you to explain a remark of my sister's." "very well, i am at your service," answered alfred slowly lighting his pipe, after which he looked straight into col. zane's face. "my sister informs me that you insulted her last fall before you left the fort. i am sure you are neither a liar nor a coward, and i expect you to answer as a man." "col. zane, i am not a liar, and i hope i am not a coward," said alfred coolly. he took a long pull on his pipe and blew a puff of white smoke toward the ceiling. "i believe you, but i must have an explanation. there is something wrong somewhere. i saw betty pass you without speaking this morning. i did not like it and i took her to task about it. she then said you had insulted her. betty is prone to exaggerate, especially when angry, but she never told me a lie in her life. ever since you pulled isaac out of the river i have taken an interest in you. that's why i'd like to avoid any trouble. but this thing has gone far enough. now be sensible, swallow your pride and let me hear your side of the story." alfred had turned pale at his visitor's first words. there was no mistaking col. zane's manner. alfred well knew that the colonel, if he found betty had really been insulted, would call him out and kill him. col. zane spoke quietly, ever kindly, but there was an undercurrent of intense feeling in his voice, a certain deadly intent which boded ill to anyone who might cross him at that moment. alfred's first impulse was a reckless desire to tell col. zane he had nothing to explain and that he stood ready to give any satisfaction in his power. but he wisely thought better of this. it struck him that this would not be fair, for no matter what the girl had done the colonel had always been his friend. so alfred pulled himself together and resolved to make a clean breast of the whole affair. "col. zane, i do not feel that i owe your sister anything, and what i am going to tell you is simply because you have always been my friend, and i do not want you to have any wrong ideas about me. i'll tell you the truth and you can be the judge as to whether or not i insulted your sister. i fell in love with her, almost at first sight. the night after the indians recaptured your brother, betty and i stood out in the moonlight and she looked so bewitching and i felt so sorry for her and so carried away by my love for her that i yielded to a momentary impulse and kissed her. i simply could not help it. there is no excuse for me. she struck me across the face and ran into the house. i had intended that night to tell her of my love and place my fate in her hands, but, of course, the unfortunate occurrence made that impossible. as i was to leave at dawn next day, i remained up all night, thinking what i ought to do. finally i decided to write. i wrote her a letter, telling her all and begging her to become my wife. i gave the letter to your slave, sam, and told him it was a matter of life and death, and not to lose the letter nor fail to give it to betty. i have had no answer to that letter. today she coldly ignored me. that is my story, col. zane." "well, i don't believe she got the letter," said col. zane. "she has not acted like a young lady who has had the privilege of saying 'yes' or 'no' to you. and sam never had any use for you. he disliked you from the first, and never failed to say something against you." "i'll kill that d--n nigger if he did not deliver that letter," said clarke, jumping up in his excitement. "i never thought of that. good heaven! what could she have thought of me? she would think i had gone away without a word. if she knew i really loved her she could not think so terribly of me." "there is more to be explained, but i am satisfied with your side of it," said col. zane. "now i'll go to sam and see what has become of that letter. i am glad i am justified in thinking of you as i have. i imagine this thing has hurt you and i don't wonder at it. maybe we can untangle the problem yet. my advice would be--but never mind that now. anyway, i'm your friend in this matter. i'll let you know the result of my talk with sam." "i thought that young fellow was a gentleman," mused col. zane as he crossed the green square and started up the hill toward the cabins. he found the old negro seated on his doorstep. "sam, what did you do with a letter mr. clarke gave you last october and instructed you to deliver to betty?" "i dun recollec' no lettah, sah," replied sam. "now, sam, don't lie about it. clarke has just told me that he gave you the letter. what did you do with it?" "masse zane, i ain dun seen no lettah," answered the old darkey, taking a dingy pipe from his mouth and rolling his eyes at his master. "if you lie again i will punish you," said col. zane sternly. "you are getting old, sam, and i would not like to whip you, but i will if you do not find that letter." sam grumbled, and shuffled inside the cabin. col. zane heard him rummaging around. presently he came back to the door and handed a very badly soiled paper to the colonel. "what possessed you to do this, sam? you have always been honest. your act has caused great misunderstanding and it might have led to worse." "he's one of dem no good southern white trash; he's good fer nuttin'," said sam. "i saw yo' sistah, mis' betty, wit him, and i seen she was gittin' fond of him, and i says i ain't gwinter have mis' betty runnin' off wif him. and i'se never gibbin de lettah to her." that was all the explanation sam would vouchsafe, and col. zane, knowing it would be useless to say more to the well-meaning but ignorant and superstitious old negro, turned and wended his way back to the house. he looked at the paper and saw that it was addressed to elizabeth zane, and that the ink was faded until the letters were scarcely visible. "what have you there?" asked his wife, who had watched him go up the hill to the negro's cabin. she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that her husband's face had recovered its usual placid expression. "it is a little letter for that young fire-brand up stairs, and, i believe it will clear up the mystery. clarke gave it to sam last fall and sam never gave it to betty." "i hope with all my heart it may settle betty. she worries me to death with her love affairs." col. zane went up stairs and found the young lady exactly as he had left her. she gave an impatient toss of her head as he entered. "well, madam, i have here something that may excite even your interest." he said cheerily. "what?" asked betty with a start. she flushed crimson when she saw the letter and at first refused to take it from her brother. she was at a loss to understand his cheerful demeanor. he had been anything but pleasant a few moments since. "here, take it. it is a letter from mr. clarke which you should have received last fall. that last morning he gave this letter to sam to deliver to you, and the crazy old nigger kept it. however, it is too late to talk of that, only it does seem a great pity. i feel sorry for both of you. clarke never will forgive you, even if you want him to, which i am sure you do not. i don't know exactly what is in this letter, but i know it will make you ashamed to think you did not trust him." with this parting reproof the colonel walked out, leaving betty completely bewildered. the words "too late," "never forgive," and "a great pity" rang through her head. what did he mean? she tore the letter open with trembling hands and holding it up to the now fast-waning light, she read "dear betty: "if you had waited only a moment longer i know you would not have been so angry with me. the words i wanted so much to say choked me and i could not speak them. i love you. i have loved you from the very first moment, that blessed moment when i looked up over your pony's head to see the sweetest face the sun ever shone on. i'll be the happiest man on earth if you will say you care a little for me and promise to be my wife. "it was wrong to kiss you and i beg your forgiveness. could you but see your face as i saw it last night in the moonlight, i would not need to plead: you would know that the impulse which swayed me was irresistible. in that kiss i gave you my hope, my love, my life, my all. let it plead for me. "i expect to return from ft. pitt in about six or eight weeks, but i cannot wait until then for your answer. "with hope i sign myself, "yours until death, "alfred." betty read the letter through. the page blurred before her eyes; a sensation of oppression and giddiness made her reach out helplessly with both hands. then she slipped forward and fell on the floor. for the first time in all her young life betty had fainted. col. zane found her lying pale and quiet under the window. chapter ix. yantwaia, or, as he was more commonly called, cornplanter, was originally a seneca chief, but when the five war tribes consolidated, forming the historical "five nations," he became their leader. an old historian said of this renowned chieftain: "tradition says that the blood of a famous white man coursed through the veins of cornplanter. the tribe he led was originally ruled by an indian queen of singular power and beauty. she was born to govern her people by the force of her character. many a great chief importuned her to become his wife, but she preferred to cling to her power and dignity. when this white man, then a very young man, came to the ohio valley the queen fell in love with him, and cornplanter was their son." cornplanter lived to a great age. he was a wise counsellor, a great leader, and he died when he was one hundred years old, having had more conceded to him by the white men than any other chieftain. general washington wrote of him: "the merits of cornplanter and his friendship for the united states are well known and shall not be forgotten." but cornplanter had not always been a friend to the palefaces. during dunmore's war and for years after, he was one of the most vindictive of the savage leaders against the invading pioneers. it was during this period of cornplanter's activity against the whites that isaac zane had the misfortune to fall into the great chief's power. we remember isaac last when, lost in the woods, weak from hunger and exposure, he had crawled into a thicket and had gone to sleep. he was awakened by a dog licking his face. he heard indian voices. he got up and ran as fast as he could, but exhausted as he was he proved no match for his pursuers. they came up with him and seeing that he was unable to defend himself they grasped him by the arms and led him down a well-worn bridle-path. "d--n poor run. no good legs," said one of his captors, and at this the other two indians laughed. then they whooped and yelled, at which signal other indians joined them. isaac saw that they were leading him into a large encampment. he asked the big savage who led him what camp it was, and learned that he had fallen into the hands of cornplanter. while being marched through the large indian village isaac saw unmistakable indications of war. there was a busy hum on all sides; the squaws were preparing large quantities of buffalo meat, cutting it in long, thin strips, and were parching corn in stone vessels. the braves were cleaning rifles, sharpening tomahawks, and mixing war paints. all these things isaac knew to be preparations for long marches and for battle. that night he heard speech after speech in the lodge next to the one in which he lay, but they were in an unknown tongue. later he heard the yelling of the indians and the dull thud of their feet as they stamped on the ground. he heard the ring of the tomahawks as they were struck into hard wood. the indians were dancing the war-dance round the war-post. this continued with some little intermission all the four days that isaac lay in the lodge rapidly recovering his strength. the fifth day a man came into the lodge. he was tall and powerful, his hair fell over his shoulders and he wore the scanty buckskin dress of the indian. but isaac knew at once he was a white man, perhaps one of the many french traders who passed through the indian village. "your name is zane," said the man in english, looking sharply at isaac. "that is my name. who are you?" asked isaac in great surprise. "i am girty. i've never seen you, but i knew col. zane and jonathan well. i've seen your sister; you all favor one another." "are you simon girty?" "yes." "i have heard of your influence with the indians. can you do anything to get me out of this?" "how did you happen to git over here? you are not many miles from wingenund's camp," said girty, giving isaac another sharp look from his small black eyes. "girty, i assure you i am not a spy. i escaped from the wyandot village on mad river and after traveling three days i lost my way. i went to sleep in a thicket and when i awoke an indian dog had found me. i heard voices and saw three indians. i got up and ran, but they easily caught me." "i know about you. old tarhe has a daughter who kept you from bein' ransomed." "yes, and i wish i were back there. i don't like the look of things." "you are right, zane. you got ketched at a bad time. the indians are mad. i suppose you don't know that col. crawford massacred a lot of indians a few days ago. it'll go hard with any white man that gits captured. i'm afraid i can't do nothin' for you." a few words concerning simon girty, the white savage. he had two brothers, james and george, who had been desperadoes before they were adopted by the delawares, and who eventually became fierce and relentless savages. simon had been captured at the same time as his brothers, but he did not at once fall under the influence of the unsettled, free-and-easy life of the indians. it is probable that while in captivity he acquired the power of commanding the indians' interest and learned the secret of ruling them--two capabilities few white men ever possessed. it is certain that he, like the noted french-canadian joucaire, delighted to sit round the camp fires and to go into the council-lodge and talk to the assembled indians. at the outbreak of the revolution girty was a commissioned officer of militia at ft. pitt. he deserted from the fort, taking with him the tories mckee and elliott, and twelve soldiers, and these traitors spread as much terror among the delaware indians as they did among the whites. the delawares had been one of the few peacefully disposed tribes. in order to get them to join their forces with governor hamilton, the british commander, girty declared that gen. washington had been killed, that congress had been dispersed, and that the british were winning all the battles. girty spoke most of the indian languages, and hamilton employed him to go among the different indian tribes and incite them to greater hatred of the pioneers. this proved to be just the life that suited him. he soon rose to have a great and bad influence on all the tribes. he became noted for his assisting the indians in marauds, for his midnight forays, for his scalpings, and his efforts to capture white women, and for his devilish cunning and cruelty. for many years girty was the deathshead of the frontier. the mention of his name alone created terror in any household; in every pioneer's cabin it made the children cry out in fear and paled the cheeks of the stoutest-hearted wife. it is difficult to conceive of a white man's being such a fiend in human guise. the only explanation that can be given is that renegades rage against the cause of their own blood with the fury of insanity rather than with the malignity of a naturally ferocious temper. in justice to simon girty it must be said that facts not known until his death showed he was not so cruel and base as believed; that some deeds of kindness were attributed to him; that he risked his life to save kenton from the stake, and that many of the terrible crimes laid at his door were really committed by his savage brothers. isaac zane suffered no annoyance at the hands of cornplanter's braves until the seventh day of his imprisonment. he saw no one except the squaw who brought him corn and meat. on that day two savages came for him and led him into the immense council-lodge of the five nations. cornplanter sat between his right-hand chiefs, big tree and half town, and surrounded by the other chiefs of the tribes. an aged indian stood in the center of the lodge and addressed the others. the listening savages sat immovable, their faces as cold and stern as stone masks. apparently they did not heed the entrance of the prisoner. "zane, they're havin' a council," whispered a voice in isaac's ear. isaac turned and recognized girty. "i want to prepare you for the worst." "is there, then, no hope for me?" asked isaac. "i'm afraid not," continued the renegade, speaking in a low whisper. "they wouldn't let me speak at the council. i told cornplanter that killin' you might bring the hurons down on him, but he wouldn't listen. yesterday, in the camp of the delawares, i saw col. crawford burnt at the stake. he was a friend of mine at pitt, and i didn't dare to say one word to the frenzied indians. i had to watch the torture. pipe and wingenund, both old friends of crawford, stood by and watched him walk round the stake on the red-hot coals five hours." isaac shuddered at the words of the renegade, but did not answer. he had felt from the first that his case was hopeless, and that no opportunity for escape could possibly present itself in such a large encampment. he set his teeth hard and resolved to show the red devils how a white man could die. several speeches were made by different chiefs and then an impressive oration by big tree. at the conclusion of the speeches, which were in an unknown tongue to isaac, cornplanter handed a war-club to half town. this chief got up, walked to the end of the circle, and there brought the club down on the ground with a resounding thud. then he passed the club to big tree. in a solemn and dignified manner every chief duplicated half town's performance with the club. isaac watched the ceremony as if fascinated. he had seen a war-club used in the councils of the hurons and knew that striking it on the ground signified war and death. "white man, you are a killer of indians," said cornplanter in good english. "when the sun shines again you die." a brave came forward and painted isaac's face black. this isaac knew to indicate that death awaited him on the morrow. on his way back to his prison-lodge he saw that a war-dance was in progress. a hundred braves with tomahawks, knives, and mallets in their hands were circling round a post and keeping time to the low music of a muffled drum. close together, with heads bowed, they marched. at certain moments, which they led up to with a dancing on rigid legs and a stamping with their feet, they wheeled, and uttering hideous yells, started to march in the other direction. when this had been repeated three times a brave stepped from the line, advanced, and struck his knife or tomahawk into the post. then with a loud voice he proclaimed his past exploits and great deeds in war. the other indians greeted this with loud yells of applause and a flourishing of weapons. then the whole ceremony was gone through again. that afternoon many of the indians visited isaac in his lodge and shook their fists at him and pointed their knives at him. they hissed and groaned at him. their vindictive faces expressed the malignant joy they felt at the expectation of putting him to the torture. when night came isaac's guards laced up the lodge-door and shut him from the sight of the maddened indians. the darkness that gradually enveloped him was a relief. by and by all was silent except for the occasional yell of a drunken savage. to isaac it sounded like a long, rolling death-cry echoing throughout the encampment and murdering his sleep. its horrible meaning made him shiver and his flesh creep. at length even that yell ceased. the watch-dogs quieted down and the perfect stillness which ensued could almost be felt. through isaac's mind ran over and over again the same words. his last night to live! his last night to live! he forced himself to think of other things. he lay there in the darkness of his tent, but he was far away in thought, far away in the past with his mother and brothers before they had come to this bloodthirsty country. his thoughts wandered to the days of his boyhood when he used to drive the sows to the pasture on the hillside, and in his dreamy, disordered fancy he was once more letting down the bars of the gate. then he was wading in the brook and whacking the green frogs with his stick. old playmates' faces, forgotten for years, were there looking at him from the dark wall of his wigwam. there was andrew's face; the faces of his other brothers; the laughing face of his sister; the serene face of his mother. as he lay there with the shadow of death over him sweet was the thought that soon he would be reunited with that mother. the images faded slowly away, swallowed up in the gloom. suddenly a vision appeared to him. a radiant white light illumined the lodge and shone full on the beautiful face of the indian maiden who had loved him so well. myeerah's dark eyes were bright with an undying love and her lips smiled hope. a rude kick dispelled isaac's dreams. a brawny savage pulled him to his feet and pushed him outside of the lodge. it was early morning. the sun had just cleared the low hills in the east and its red beams crimsoned the edges of the clouds of fog which hung over the river like a great white curtain. though the air was warm, isaac shivered a little as the breeze blew softly against his cheek. he took one long look toward the rising sun, toward that east he had hoped to see, and then resolutely turned his face away forever. early though it was the indians were astir and their whooping rang throughout the valley. down the main street of the village the guards led the prisoner, followed by a screaming mob of squaws and young braves and children who threw sticks and stones at the hated long knife. soon the inhabitants of the camp congregated on the green oval in the midst of the lodges. when the prisoner appeared they formed in two long lines facing each other, and several feet apart. isaac was to run the gauntlet--one of the severest of indian tortures. with the exception of cornplanter and several of his chiefs, every indian in the village was in line. little indian boys hardly large enough to sling a stone; maidens and squaws with switches or spears; athletic young braves with flashing tomahawks; grim, matured warriors swinging knotted war clubs,--all were there in line, yelling and brandishing their weapons in a manner frightful to behold. the word was given, and stripped to the waist, isaac bounded forward fleet as a deer. he knew the indian way of running the gauntlet. the head of that long lane contained the warriors and older braves and it was here that the great danger lay. between these lines he sped like a flash, dodging this way and that, running close in under the raised weapons, taking what blows he could on his uplifted arms, knocking this warrior over and doubling that one up with a lightning blow in the stomach, never slacking his speed for one stride, so that it was extremely difficult for the indians to strike him effectually. once past that formidable array, isaac's gauntlet was run, for the squaws and children scattered screaming before the sweep of his powerful arms. the old chiefs grunted their approval. there was a bruise on isaac's forehead and a few drops of blood mingled with the beads of perspiration. several lumps and scratches showed on his bare shoulders and arms, but he had escaped any serious injury. this was a feat almost without a parallel in gauntlet running. when he had been tied with wet buckskin thongs to the post in the center of the oval, the youths, the younger braves, and the squaws began circling round him, yelling like so many demons. the old squaws thrust sharpened sticks, which had been soaked in salt water, into his flesh. the maidens struck him with willows which left red welts on his white shoulders. the braves buried the blades of their tomahawks in the post as near as possible to his head without actually hitting him. isaac knew the indian nature well. to command the respect of the savages was the only way to lessen his torture. he knew that a cry for mercy would only increase his sufferings and not hasten his death,--indeed it would prolong both. he had resolved to die without a moan. he had determined to show absolute indifference to his torture, which was the only way to appeal to the savage nature, and if anything could, make the indians show mercy. or, if he could taunt them into killing him at once he would be spared all the terrible agony which they were in the habit of inflicting on their victims. one handsome young brave twirled a glittering tomahawk which he threw from a distance of ten, fifteen, and twenty feet and every time the sharp blade of the hatchet sank deep into the stake within an inch of isaac's head. with a proud and disdainful look isaac gazed straight before him and paid no heed to his tormentor. "does the indian boy think he can frighten a white warrior?" said isaac scornfully at length. "let him go and earn his eagle plumes. the pale face laughs at him." the young brave understood the huron language, for he gave a frightful yell and cast his tomahawk again, this time shaving a lock of hair from isaac's head. this was what isaac had prayed for. he hoped that one of these glittering hatchets would be propelled less skillfully than its predecessors and would kill him instantly. but the enraged brave had no other opportunity to cast his weapon, for the indians jeered at him and pushed him from the line. other braves tried their proficiency in the art of throwing knives and tomahawks, but their efforts called forth only words of derision from isaac. they left the weapons sticking in the post until round isaac's head and shoulders there was scarcely room for another. "the white eagle is tired of boys," cried isaac to a chief dancing near. "what has he done that he be made the plaything of children? let him die the death of a chief." the maidens had long since desisted in their efforts to torment the prisoner. even the hardened old squaws had withdrawn. the prisoner's proud, handsome face, his upright bearing, his scorn for his enemies, his indifference to the cuts and bruises, and red welts upon his clear white skin had won their hearts. not so with the braves. seeing that the pale face scorned all efforts to make him flinch, the young brave turned to big tree. at a command from this chief the indians stopped their maneuvering round the post and formed a large circle. in another moment a tall warrior appeared carrying an armful of fagots. in spite of his iron nerve isaac shuddered with horror. he had anticipated running the gauntlet, having his nails pulled out, powder and salt shot into his flesh, being scalped alive and a host of other indian tortures, but as he had killed no members of this tribe he had not thought of being burned alive. god, it was too horrible! the indians were now quiet. their songs and dances would break out soon enough. they piled fagot after fagot round isaac's feet. the indian warrior knelt on the ground the steel clicked on the flint; a little shower of sparks dropped on the pieces of punk and then--a tiny flame shot up, and slender little column of blue smoke floated on the air. isaac shut his teeth hard and prayed with all his soul for a speedy death. simon girty came hurriedly through the lines of waiting, watching indians. he had obtained permission to speak to the man of his own color. "zane, you made a brave stand. any other time but this it might have saved you. if you want i'll get word to your people." and then bending and placing his mouth close to isaac's ear, he whispered, "i did all i could for you, but it must have been too late." "try and tell them at ft. henry," isaac said simply. there was a little cracking of dried wood and then a narrow tongue of red flame darted up from the pile of fagots and licked at the buckskin fringe on the prisoner's legging. at this supreme moment when the attention of all centered on that motionless figure lashed to the stake, and when only the low chanting of the death-song broke the stillness, a long, piercing yell rang out on the quiet morning air. so strong, so sudden, so startling was the break in that almost perfect calm that for a moment afterward there was a silence as of death. all eyes turned to the ridge of rising ground whence that sound had come. now came the unmistakable thunder of horses' hoofs pounding furiously on the rocky ground. a moment of paralyzed inaction ensued. the indians stood bewildered, petrified. then on that ridge of rising ground stood, silhouetted against the blue sky, a great black horse with arching neck and flying mane. astride him sat a plumed warrior, who waved his rifle high in the air. again that shrill screeching yell came floating to the ears of the astonished indians. the prisoner had seen that horse and rider before; he had heard that long yell; his heart bounded with hope. the indians knew that yell; it was the terrible war-cry of the hurons. a horse followed closely after the leader, and then another appeared on the crest of the hill. then came two abreast, and then four abreast, and now the hill was black with plunging horses. they galloped swiftly down the slope and into the narrow street of the village. when the black horse entered the oval the train of racing horses extended to the top of the ridge. the plumes of the riders streamed gracefully on the breeze; their feathers shone; their weapons glittered in the bright sunlight. never was there more complete surprise. in the earlier morning the hurons had crept up to within a rifle shot of the encampment, and at an opportune moment when all the scouts and runners were round the torture-stake, they had reached the hillside from which they rode into the village before the inhabitants knew what had happened. not an indian raised a weapon. there were screams from the women and children, a shouted command from big tree, and then all stood still and waited. thundercloud, the war chief of the wyandots, pulled his black stallion back on his haunches not twenty feet from the prisoner at the stake. his band of painted devils closed in behind him. full two hundred strong were they and all picked warriors tried and true. they were naked to the waist. across their brawny chests ran a broad bar of flaming red paint; hideous designs in black and white covered their faces. every head had been clean-shaven except where the scalp lock bristled like a porcupine's quills. each warrior carried a plumed spear, a tomahawk, and a rifle. the shining heads, with the little tufts of hair tied tightly close to the scalp, were enough to show that these indians were on the war-path. from the back of one of the foremost horses a slender figure dropped and darted toward the prisoner at the stake. surely that wildly flying hair proved this was not a warrior. swift as a flash of light this figure reached the stake, the blazing fagots scattered right and left; a naked blade gleamed; the thongs fell from the prisoner's wrists; and the front ranks of the hurons opened and closed on the freed man. the deliverer turned to the gaping indians, disclosing to their gaze the pale and beautiful face of myeerah, the wyandot princes. "summon your chief," she commanded. the tall form of the seneca chief moved from among the warriors and with slow and measured tread approached the maiden. his bearing fitted the leader of five nations of indians. it was of one who knew that he was the wisest of chiefs, the hero of a hundred battles. who dared beard him in his den? who dared defy the greatest power in all indian tribes? when he stood before the maiden he folded his arms and waited for her to speak. "myeerah claims the white eagle," she said. cornplanter did not answer at once. he had never seen myeerah, though he had heard many stories of her loveliness. now he was face to face with the indian princess whose fame had been the theme of many an indian romance, and whose beauty had been sung of in many an indian song. the beautiful girl stood erect and fearless. her disordered garments, torn and bedraggled and stained from the long ride, ill-concealed the grace of her form. her hair rippled from the uncovered head and fell in dusky splendor over her shoulders; her dark eyes shone with a stern and steady fire: her bosom swelled with each deep breath. she was the daughter of great chiefs; she looked the embodiment of savage love. "the huron squaw is brave," said cornplanter. "by what right does she come to free my captive?" "he is an adopted wyandot." "why does the paleface hide like a fox near the camp of cornplanter?" "he ran away. he lost the trail to the fort on the river." "cornplanter takes prisoners to kill; not to free." "if you will not give him up myeerah will take him," she answered, pointing to the long line of mounted warriors. "and should harm befall tarhe's daughter it will be avenged." cornplanter looked at thundercloud. well he knew that chief's prowess in the field. he ran his eyes over the silent, watching hurons, and then back to the sombre face of their leader. thundercloud sat rigid upon his stallion; his head held high; every muscle tense and strong for instant action. he was ready and eager for the fray. he, and every one of his warriors, would fight like a thousand tigers for their princess--the pride of the proud race of wyandots. cornplanter saw this and he felt that on the eve of important marches he dared not sacrifice one of his braves for any reason, much less a worthless pale face; and yet to let the prisoner go galled the haughty spirit of the seneca chief. "the long knife is not worth the life of one of my dogs," he said, with scorn in his deep voice. "if cornplanter willed he could drive the hurons before him like leaves before the storm. let myeerah take the pale face back to her wigwam and there feed him and make a squaw of him. when he stings like a snake in the grass remember the chief's words. cornplanter turns on his heel from the huron maiden who forgets her blood." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * when the sun reached its zenith it shone down upon a long line of mounted indians riding single file along the narrow trail and like a huge serpent winding through the forest and over the plain. they were wyandot indians, and isaac zane rode among them. freed from the terrible fate which had menaced him, and knowing that he was once more on his way to the huron encampment, he had accepted his destiny and quarreled no more with fate. he was thankful beyond all words for his rescue from the stake. coming to a clear, rapid stream, the warriors dismounted and rested while their horses drank thirstily of the cool water. an indian touched isaac on the arm and silently pointed toward the huge maple tree under which thundercloud and myeerah were sitting. isaac turned his horse and rode the short distance intervening. when he got near he saw that myeerah stood with one arm over her pony's neck. she raised eyes that were weary and sad, which yet held a lofty and noble resolve. "white eagle, this stream leads straight to the fort on the river," she said briefly, almost coldly. "follow it, and when the sun reaches the top of yonder hill you will be with your people. go, you are free." she turned her face away. isaac's head whirled in his amazement. he could not believe his ears. he looked closely at her and saw that though her face was calm her throat swelled, and the hand which lay over the neck of her pony clenched the bridle in a fierce grasp. isaac glanced at thundercloud and the other indians near by. they sat unconcerned with the invariable unreadable expression. "myeerah, what do you mean?" asked isaac. "the words of cornplanter cut deep into the heart of myeerah," she answered bitterly. "they were true. the eagle does not care for myeerah. she shall no longer keep him in a cage. he is free to fly away." "the eagle does not want his freedom. i love you, myeerah. you have saved me and i am yours. if you will go home with me and marry me there as my people are married i will go back to the wyandot village." myeerah's eyes softened with unutterable love. with a quick cry she was in his arms. after a few moments of forgetfulness myeerah spoke to thundercloud and waved her hand toward the west. the chief swung himself over his horse, shouted a single command, and rode down the bank into the water. his warriors followed him, wading their horses into the shallow creek, with never backward look. when the last rider had disappeared in the willows the lovers turned their horses eastward. chapter x. it was near the close of a day in early summer. a small group of persons surrounded col. zane where he sat on his doorstep. from time to time he took the long indian pipe from his mouth and blew great clouds of smoke over his head. major mccolloch and capt. boggs were there. silas zane half reclined on the grass. the colonel's wife stood in the door-way, and betty sat on the lower step with her head leaning against her brother's knee. they all had grave faces. jonathan zane had returned that day after an absence of three weeks, and was now answering the many questions with which he was plied. "don't ask me any more and i'll tell you the whole thing," he had just said, while wiping the perspiration from his brow. his face was worn; his beard ragged and unkempt; his appearance suggestive of extreme fatigue. "it was this way: colonel crawford had four hundred and eighty men under him, with slover and me acting as guides. this was a large force of men and comprised soldiers from pitt and the other forts and settlers from all along the river. you see, crawford wanted to crush the shawnees at one blow. when we reached the sandusky river, which we did after an arduous march, not one indian did we see. you know crawford expected to surprise the shawnee camp, and when he found it deserted he didn't know what to do. slover and i both advised an immediate retreat. crawford would not listen to us. i tried to explain to him that ever since the guadenhutten massacre keen-eyed indian scouts had been watching the border. the news of the present expedition had been carried by fleet runners to the different indian tribes and they were working like hives of angry bees. the deserted shawnee village meant to me that the alarm had been sounded in the towns of the shawnees and the delawares; perhaps also in the wyandot towns to the north. colonel crawford was obdurate and insisted on resuming the march into the indian country. the next day we met the indians coming directly toward us. it was the combined force of the delaware chiefs, pipe and wingenund. the battle had hardly commenced when the redskins were reinforced by four hundred warriors under shanshota, the huron chief. the enemy skulked behind trees and rocks, hid in ravines, and crawled through the long grass. they could be picked off only by indian hunters, of whom crawford had but few--probably fifty all told. all that day we managed to keep our position, though we lost sixty men. that night we lay down to rest by great fires which we built, to prevent night surprises. "early next morning we resumed the fight. i saw simon girty on his white horse. he was urging and cheering the indians on to desperate fighting. their fire became so deadly that we were forced to retreat. in the afternoon slover, who had been out scouting, returned with the information that a mounted force was approaching, and that he believed they were the reinforcements which col. crawford expected. the reinforcements came up and proved to be butler's british rangers from detroit. this stunned crawford's soldiers. the fire of the enemy became hotter and hotter. our men were falling like leaves around us. they threw aside their rifles and ran, many of them right into the hands of the savages. i believe some of the experienced bordermen escaped but most of crawford's force met death on the field. i hid in a hollow log. next day when i felt that it could be done safely i crawled out. i saw scalped and mutilated bodies everywhere, but did not find col. crawford's body. the indians had taken all the clothing, weapons, blankets and everything of value. the wyandots took a northwest trail and the delawares and the shawnees traveled east. i followed the latter because their trail led toward home. three days later i stood on the high bluff above wingenund's camp. from there i saw col. crawford tied to a stake and a fire started at his feet. i was not five hundred yards from the camp. i saw the war chiefs, pipe and wingenund; i saw simon girty and a british officer in uniform. the chiefs and girty were once crawford's friends. they stood calmly by and watched the poor victim slowly burn to death. the indians yelled and danced round the stake; they devised every kind of hellish torture. when at last an indian ran in and tore off the scalp of the still living man i could bear to see no more, and i turned and ran. i have been in some tough places, but this last was the worst." "my god! it is awful--and to think that man girty was once a white man," cried col. zane. "he came very near being a dead man," said jonathan, with grim humor. "i got a long shot at him and killed his big white horse." "it's a pity you missed him," said silas zane. "here comes wetzel. what will he say about the massacre?" remarked major mccolloch. wetzel joined the group at that moment and shook hands with jonathan. when interrogated about the failure of col. crawford's expedition wetzel said that slover had just made his appearance at the cabin of hugh bennet, and that he was without clothing and almost dead from exposure. "i'm glad slover got out alive. he was against the march all along. if crawford had listened to us he would have averted this terrible affair and saved his own life. lew, did slover know how many men got out?" asked jonathan. "he said not many. the redskins killed all the prisoners exceptin' crawford and knight." "i saw col. crawford burned at the stake. i did not see dr. knight. maybe they murdered him before i reached the camp of the delawares," said jonathan. "wetzel, in your judgment, what effect will this massacre and crawford's death have on the border?" inquired col. zane. "it means another bloody year like ," answered wetzel. "we are liable to have trouble with the indians any day. you mean that." "there'll be war all along the river. hamilton is hatchin' some new devil's trick with girty. col. zane, i calkilate that girty has a spy in the river settlements and knows as much about the forts and defense as you do." "you can't mean a white spy." "yes, just that." "that is a strong assertion, lewis, but coming from you it means something. step aside here and explain yourself," said col. zane, getting up and walking out to the fence. "i don't like the looks of things," said the hunter. "a month ago i ketched this man miller pokin' his nose round the block-house where he hadn't ought to be. and i kep' watchin' him. if my suspicions is correct he's playin' some deep game. i ain't got any proof, but things looks bad." "that's strange, lewis," said col. zane soberly. "now that you mention it i remember jonathan said he met miller near the kanawha three weeks ago. that was when crawford's expedition was on the way to the shawnee villages. the colonel tried to enlist miller, but miller said he was in a hurry to get back to the fort. and he hasn't come back yet." "i ain't surprised. now, col. zane, you are in command here. i'm not a soldier and for that reason i'm all the better to watch miller. he won't suspect me. you give me authority and i'll round up his little game." "by all means, lewis. go about it your own way, and report anything to me. remember you may be mistaken and give miller the benefit of the doubt. i don't like the fellow. he has a way of appearing and disappearing, and for no apparent reason, that makes me distrust him. but for heaven's sake, lew, how would he profit by betraying us?" "i don't know. all i know is he'll bear watchin'." "my gracious, lew wetzel!" exclaimed betty as her brother and the hunter rejoined the others. "have you come all the way over here without a gun? and you have on a new suit of buckskin." lewis stood a moment by betty, gazing down at her with his slight smile. he looked exceedingly well. his face was not yet bronzed by summer suns. his long black hair, of which he was as proud as a woman could have been, and of which he took as much care as he did of his rifle, waved over his shoulders. "betty, this is my birthday, but that ain't the reason i've got my fine feathers on. i'm goin' to try and make an impression on you," replied lewis, smiling. "i declare, this is very sudden. but you have succeeded. who made the suit? and where did you get all that pretty fringe and those beautiful beads?" "that stuff i picked up round an injun camp. the suit i made myself." "i think, lewis, i must get you to help me make my new gown," said betty, roguishly. "well, i must be getting' back," said wetzel, rising. "oh, don't go yet. you have not talked to me at all," said betty petulantly. she walked to the gate with him. "what can an injun hunter say to amuse the belle of the border?" "i don't want to be amused exactly. i mean i'm not used to being unnoticed, especially by you." and then in a lower tone she continued: "what did you mean about mr. miller? i heard his name and eb looked worried. what did you tell him?" "never mind now, betty. maybe i'll tell you some day. it's enough for you to know the colonel don't like miller and that i think he is a bad man. you don't care nothin' for miller, do you betty?" "not in the least." "don't see him any more, betty. good-night, now, i must be goin' to supper." "lew, stop! or i shall run after you." "and what good would your runnin' do?" said lewis "you'd never ketch me. why, i could give you twenty paces start and beat you to yon tree." "you can't. come, try it," retorted betty, catching hold of her skirt. she could never have allowed a challenge like that to pass. "ha! ha! we are in for a race, betty. if you beat him, start or no start, you will have accomplished something never done before," said col. zane. "come, silas, step off twenty paces and make them long ones," said betty, who was in earnest. "we'll make it forty paces," said silas, as he commenced taking immense strides. "what is lewis looking at?" remarked col. zane's wife. wetzel, in taking his position for the race, had faced the river. mrs. zane had seen him start suddenly, straighten up and for a moment stand like a statue. her exclamation drew he attention of the others to the hunter. "look!" he cried, waving his hand toward the river. "i declare, wetzel, you are always seeing something. where shall i look? ah, yes, there is a dark form moving along the bank. by jove! i believe it's an indian," said col. zane. jonathan darted into the house. when he reappeared second later he had three rifles. "i see horses, lew. what do you make out?" said jonathan. "it's a bold manoeuvre for indians unless they have a strong force." "hostile injuns wouldn't show themselves like that. maybe they ain't redskins at all. we'll go down to the bluff." "oh, yes, let us go," cried betty, walking down the path toward wetzel. col. zane followed her, and presently the whole party were on their way to the river. when they reached the bluff they saw two horses come down the opposite bank and enter the water. then they seemed to fade from view. the tall trees cast a dark shadow over the water and the horses had become lost in this obscurity. col. zane and jonathan walked up and down the bank seeking to find a place which afforded a clearer view of the river. "there they come," shouted silas. "yes, i see them just swimming out of the shadow," said col. zane. "both horses have riders. lewis, what can you make out?" "it's isaac and an indian girl," answered wetzel. this startling announcement created a commotion in the little group. it was followed by a chorus of exclamations. "heavens! wetzel, you have wonderful eyes. i hope to god you are right. there, i see the foremost rider waving his hand," cried col. zane. "oh, bessie, bessie! i believe lew is right. look at tige," said betty excitedly. everybody had forgotten the dog. he had come down the path with betty and had pressed close to her. first he trembled, then whined, then with a loud bark he ran down the bank and dashed into the water. "hel-lo, betts," came the cry across the water. there was no mistaking that clear voice. it was isaac's. although the sun had long gone down behind the hills daylight lingered. it was bright enough for the watchers to recognize isaac zane. he sat high on his horse and in his hand he held the bridle of a pony that was swimming beside him. the pony bore the slender figure of a girl. she was bending forward and her hands were twisted in the pony's mane. by this time the colonel and jonathan were standing in the shallow water waiting to grasp the reins and lead the horses up the steep bank. attracted by the unusual sight of a wildly gesticulating group on the river bluff, the settlers from the fort hurried down to the scene of action. capt. boggs and alfred clarke joined the crowd. old sam came running down from the barn. all were intensely excited and col. zane and jonathan reached for the bridles and led the horses up the slippery incline. "eb, jack, silas, here i am alive and well," cried isaac as he leaped from his horse. "betty, you darling, it's isaac. don't stand staring as if i were a ghost." whereupon betty ran to him, flung her arms around his neck and clung to him. isaac kissed her tenderly and disengaged himself from her arms. "you'll get all wet. glad to see me? well, i never had such a happy moment in my life. betty, i have brought you home one whom you must love. this is myeerah, your sister. she is wet and cold. take her home and make her warm and comfortable. you must forget all the past, for myeerah has saved me from the stake." betty had forgotten the other. at her brother's words she turned and saw a slender form. even the wet, mud-stained and ragged indian costume failed to hide the grace of that figure. she saw a beautiful face, as white as her own, and dark eyes full of unshed tears. "the eagle is free," said the indian girl in her low, musical voice. "you have brought him home to us. come," said betty taking the hand of the trembling maiden. the settlers crowded round isaac and greeted him warmly while they plied him with innumerable questions. was he free? who was the indian girl? had he run off with her? were the indians preparing for war? on the way to the colonel's house isaac told briefly of his escape from the wyandots, of his capture by cornplanter, and of his rescue. he also mentioned the preparations for war he had seen in cornplanter's camp, and girty's story of col. crawford's death. "how does it come that you have the indian girl with you?" asked col. zane as they left the curious settlers and entered the house. "i am going to marry myeerah and i brought her with me for that purpose. when we are married i will go back to the wyandots and live with them until peace is declared." "humph! will it be declared?" "myeerah has promised it, and i believe she can bring it about, especially if i marry her. peace with the hurons may help to bring about peace with the shawnees. i shall never cease to work for that end; but even if peace cannot be secured, my duty still is to myeerah. she saved me from a most horrible death." "if your marriage with this indian girl will secure the friendly offices of that grim old warrior tarhe, it is far more than fighting will ever do. i do not want you to go back. would we ever see you again?" "oh, yes, often i hope. you see, if i marry myeerah the hurons will allow me every liberty." "well, that puts a different light on the subject." "oh, how i wish you and jonathan could have seen thundercloud and his two hundred warriors ride into cornplanter's camp. it was magnificent! the braves were all crowded near the stake where i was bound. the fire had been lighted. suddenly the silence was shattered by an awful yell. it was thundercloud's yell. i knew it because i had heard it before, and anyone who had once heard that yell could never forget it. in what seemed an incredibly short time thundercloud's warriors were lined up in the middle of the camp. the surprise was so complete that, had it been necessary, they could have ridden cornplanter's braves down, killed many, routed the others, and burned the village. cornplanter will not get over that surprise in many a moon." betty had always hated the very mention of the indian girl who had been the cause of her brother's long absence from home. but she was so happy in the knowledge of his return that she felt that it was in her power to forgive much; more over, the white, weary face of the indian maiden touched betty's warm heart. with her quick intuition she had divined that this was even a greater trial for myeerah. undoubtedly the indian girl feared the scorn of her lover's people. she showed it in her trembling hands, in her fearful glances. finding that myeerah could speak and understand english, betty became more interested in her charge every moment. she set about to make myeerah comfortable, and while she removed the wet and stained garments she talked all the time. she told her how happy she was that isaac was alive and well. she said myeerah's heroism in saving him should atone for all the past, and that isaac's family would welcome her in his home. gradually myeerah's agitation subsided under betty's sweet graciousness, and by the time betty had dressed her in a white gown, had brushed the dark hair and added a bright ribbon to the simple toilet, myeerah had so far forgotten her fears as to take a shy pleasure in the picture of herself in the mirror. as for betty, she gave vent to a little cry of delight. "oh, you are perfectly lovely," cried betty. "in that gown no one would know you as a wyandot princess." "myeerah's mother was a white woman." "i have heard your story, myeerah, and it is wonderful. you must tell me all about your life with the indians. you speak my language almost as well as i do. who taught you?" "myeerah learned to talk with the white eagle. she can speak french with the coureurs-des-bois." "that's more than i can do, myeerah. and i had french teacher," said betty, laughing. "hello, up there," came isaac's voice from below. "come up, isaac," called betty. "is this my indian sweetheart?" exclaimed isaac, stopping at the door. "betty, isn't she--" "yes," answered betty, "she is simply beautiful." "come, myeerah, we must go down to supper," said isaac, taking her in his arms and kissing her. "now you must not be afraid, nor mind being looked at." "everyone will be kind to you," said betty, taking her hand. myeerah had slipped from isaac's arm and hesitated and hung back. "come," continued betty, "i will stay with you, and you need not talk if you do not wish." thus reassured myeerah allowed betty to lead her down stairs. isaac had gone ahead and was waiting at the door. the big room was brilliantly lighted with pine knots. mrs. zane was arranging the dishes on the table. old sam and annie were hurrying to and fro from the kitchen. col. zane had just come up the cellar stairs carrying a mouldy looking cask. from its appearance it might have been a powder keg, but the merry twinkle in the colonel's eyes showed that the cask contained something as precious, perhaps, as powder, but not quite so dangerous. it was a cask of wine over thirty years old. with col. zane's other effects it had stood the test of the long wagon-train journey over the virginia mountains, and of the raft-ride down the ohio. col. zane thought the feast he had arranged for isaac would be a fitting occasion for the breaking of the cask. major mccullough, capt. boggs and hugh bennet had been invited. wetzel had been persuaded to come. betty's friends lydia and alice were there. as isaac, with an air of pride, led the two girls into the room old sam saw them and he exclaimed, "for de lawd's sakes, marsh zane, dar's two pippins, sure can't tell 'em from one anudder." betty and myeerah did resemble each other. they were of about the same size, tall and slender. betty was rosy, bright-eyed and smiling; myeerah was pale one moment and red the next. "friends, this is myeerah, the daughter of tarhe," said isaac simply. "we are to be married to-morrow." "oh, why did you not tell me?" asked betty in great surprise. "she said nothing about it." "you see myeerah has that most excellent trait in a woman--knowing when to keep silent," answered isaac with a smile. the door opened at this moment, admitting will martin and alfred clarke. "everybody is here now, bessie, and i guess we may as well sit down to supper," said col. zane. "and, good friends, let me say that this is an occasion for rejoicing. it is not so much a marriage that i mean. that we might have any day if lydia or betty would show some of the alacrity which got a good husband for alice. isaac is a free man and we expect his marriage will bring about peace with a powerful tribe of indians. to us, and particularly to you, young people, that is a matter of great importance. the friendship of the hurons cannot but exert an influence on other tribes. i, myself, may live to see the day that my dream shall be realized--peaceful and friendly relations with the indians, the freedom of the soil, well-tilled farms and growing settlements, and at last, the opening of this glorious country to the world. therefore, let us rejoice; let every one be happy; let your gayest laugh ring out, and tell your best story." betty had blushed painfully at the entrance of alfred and again at the colonel's remark. to add to her embarrassment she found herself seated opposite alfred at the table. this was the first time he had been near her since the sunday at the meeting-house, and the incident had a singular effect on betty. she found herself possessed, all at once, of an unaccountable shyness, and she could not lift her eyes from her plate. but at length she managed to steal a glance at alfred. she failed to see any signs in his beaming face of the broken spirit of which her brother had hinted. he looked very well indeed. he was eating his dinner like any other healthy man, and talking and laughing with lydia. this developed another unaccountable feeling in betty, but this time it was resentment. who ever heard of a man, who was as much in love as his letter said, looking well and enjoying himself with any other than the object of his affections? he had got over it, that was all. just then alfred turned and gazed full into betty's eyes. she lowered them instantly, but not so quickly that she failed to see in his a reproach. "you are going to stay with us a while, are you not?" asked betty of isaac. "no, betts, not more than a day or so. now, do not look so distressed. i do not go back as a prisoner. myeerah and i can often come and visit you. but just now i want to get back and try to prevent the delawares from urging tarhe to war." "isaac, i believe you are doing the wisest thing possible," said capt. boggs. "and when i look at your bride-to-be i confess i do not see how you remained single so long." "that's so, captain," answered isaac. "but you see, i have never been satisfied or contented in captivity, i wanted nothing but to be free." "in other words, you were blind," remarked alfred, smiling at isaac. "yes, alfred, was. and i imagine had you been in my place you would have discovered the beauty and virtue of my princess long before i did. nevertheless, please do not favor myeerah with so many admiring glances. she is not used to it. and that reminds me that i must expect trouble tomorrow. all you fellows will want to kiss her." "and betty is going to be maid of honor. she, too, will have her troubles," remarked col. zane. "think of that, alfred," said isaac "a chance to kiss the two prettiest girls on the border--a chance of a lifetime." "it is customary, is it not?" said alfred coolly. "yes, it's a custom, if you can catch the girl," answered col. zane. betty's face flushed at alfred's cool assumption. how dared he? in spite of her will she could not resist the power that compelled her to look at him. as plainly as if it were written there, she saw in his steady blue eyes the light of a memory--the memory of a kiss. and betty dropped her head, her face burning, her heart on fire with shame, and love, and regret. "it'll be a good chance for me, too," said wetzel. his remark instantly turned attention to himself. "the idea is absurd," said isaac. "why, lew wetzel, you could not be made to kiss any girl." "i would not be backward about it," said col. zane. "you have forgotten the fuss you made when the boys were kissing me," said mrs. zane with a fine scorn. "my dear," said col. zane, in an aggrieved tone, "i did not make so much of a fuss, as you call it, until they had kissed you a great many times more than was reasonable." "isaac, tell us one thing more," said capt. boggs. "how did myeerah learn of your capture by cornplanter? surely she could not have trailed you?" "will you tell us?" said isaac to myeerah. "a bird sang it to me," answered myeerah. "she will never tell, that is certain," said isaac. "and for that reason i believe simon girty got word to her that i was in the hands of cornplanter. at the last moment when the indians were lashing me to the stake girty came to me and said he must have been too late." "yes, girty might have done that," said col. zane. "i suppose, though he dared not interfere in behalf of poor crawford." "isaac, can you get myeerah to talk? i love to hear her speak," said betty, in an aside. "myeerah, will you sing a huron love-song?" said isaac "or, if you do not wish to sing, tell a story. i want them to know how well you can speak our language." "what shall myeerah say?" she said, shyly. "tell them the legend of the standing stone." "a beautiful indian girl once dwelt in the pine forests," began myeerah, with her eyes cast down and her hand seeking isaac's. "her voice was like rippling waters, her beauty like the rising sun. from near and from far came warriors to see the fair face of this maiden. she smiled on them all and they called her smiling moon. now there lived on the great lake a wyandot chief. he was young and bold. no warrior was as great as tarhe. smiling moon cast a spell on his heart. he came many times to woo her and make her his wife. but smiling moon said: 'go, do great deeds, an come again.' "tarhe searched the east and the west. he brought her strange gifts from strange lands. she said: 'go and slay my enemies.' tarhe went forth in his war paint and killed the braves who named her smiling moon. he came again to her and she said: 'run swifter than the deer, be more cunning than the beaver, dive deeper than the loon.' "tarhe passed once more to the island where dwelt smiling moon. the ice was thick, the snow was deep. smiling moon turned not from her warm fire as she said: 'the chief is a great warrior, but smiling moon is not easily won. it is cold. change winter into summer and then smiling moon will love him.' "tarhe cried in a loud voice to the great spirit: 'make me a master.' "a voice out of the forest answered: 'tarhe, great warrior, wise chief, waste not thy time, go back to thy wigwam.' "tarhe unheeding cried 'tarhe wins or dies. make him a master so that he may drive the ice northward.' "stormed the wild tempest; thundered the rivers of ice; chill blew the north wind, the cold northwest wind, against the mild south wind; snow-spirits and hail-spirits fled before the warm raindrops; the white mountains melted, and lo! it was summer. "on the mountain top tarhe waited for his bride. never wearying, ever faithful he watched many years. there he turned to stone. there he stands to-day, the standing stone of ages. and smiling moon, changed by the great spirit into the night wind, forever wails her lament at dusk through the forest trees, and moans over the mountain tops." myeerah's story elicited cheers and praises from all. she was entreated to tell another, but smilingly shook her head. now that her shyness had worn off to some extent she took great interest in the jest and the general conversation. col. zane's fine old wine flowed like water. the custom was to fill a guest's cup as soon as it was empty. drinking much was rather encouraged than otherwise. but col. zane never allowed this custom to go too far in his house. "friends, the hour grows late," he said. "to-morrow, after the great event, we shall have games, shooting matches, running races, and contests of all kinds. capt. boggs and i have arranged to give prizes, and i expect the girls can give something to lend a zest to the competition." "will the girls have a chance in these races?" asked isaac. "if so, i should like to see betty and myeerah run." "betty can outrun any woman, red or white, on the border," said wetzel. "and she could make some of the men run their level best." "well, perhaps we shall give her one opportunity to-morrow," observed the colonel. "she used to be good at running but it seems to me that of late she has taken to books and--" "oh, eb! that is untrue," interrupted betty. col. zane laughed and patted his sister's cheek. "never mind, betty," and then, rising, he continued, "now let us drink to the bride and groom-to-be. capt. boggs, i call on you." "we drink to the bride's fair beauty; we drink to the groom's good luck," said capt. boggs, raising his cup. "do not forget the maid-of-honor," said isaac. "yes, and the maid-of-honor. mr. clarke, will you say something appropriate?" asked col. zane. rising, clarke said: "i would be glad to speak fittingly on this occasion, but i do not think i can do it justice. i believe as col. zane does, that this indian princess is the first link in that chain of peace which will some day unite the red men and the white men. instead of the white crane she should be called the white dove. gentlemen, rise and drink to her long life and happiness." the toast was drunk. then clarke refilled his cup and holding it high over his head he looked at betty. "gentlemen, to the maid-of-honor. miss zane, your health, your happiness, in this good old wine." "i thank you," murmured betty with downcast eyes. "i bid you all good-night. come, myeerah." once more alone with betty, the indian girl turned to her with eyes like twin stars. "my sister has made me very happy," whispered myeerah in her soft, low voice. "myeerah's heart is full." "i believe you are happy, for i know you love isaac dearly." "myeerah has always loved him. she will love his sister." "and i will love you," said betty. "i will love you because you have saved him. ah! myeerah, yours has been wonderful, wonderful love." "my sister is loved," whispered myeerah. "myeerah saw the look in the eyes of the great hunter. it was the sad light of the moon on the water. he loves you. and the other looked at my sister with eyes like the blue of northern skies. he, too, loves you." "hush!" whispered betty, trembling and hiding her face. "hush! myeerah, do not speak of him." chapter xi. he following afternoon the sun shone fair and warm; the sweet smell of the tan-bark pervaded the air and the birds sang their gladsome songs. the scene before the grim battle-scarred old fort was not without its picturesqueness. the low vine-covered cabins on the hill side looked more like picture houses than like real habitations of men; the mill with its burned-out roof--a reminder of the indians--and its great wheel, now silent and still, might have been from its lonely and dilapidated appearance a hundred years old. on a little knoll carpeted with velvety grass sat isaac and his indian bride. he had selected this vantage point because it afforded a fine view of the green square where the races and the matches were to take place. admiring women stood around him and gazed at his wife. they gossiped in whispers about her white skin, her little hands, her beauty. the girls stared with wide open and wondering eyes. the youngsters ran round and round the little group; they pushed each other over, and rolled in the long grass, and screamed with delight. it was to be a gala occasion and every man, woman and child in the settlement had assembled on the green. col. zane and sam were planting a post in the center of the square. it was to be used in the shooting matches. capt. boggs and major mccolloch were arranging the contestants in order. jonathan zane, will martin, alfred clarke--all the young men were carefully charging and priming their rifles. betty was sitting on the black stallion which col. zane had generously offered as first prize. she was in the gayest of moods and had just coaxed isaac to lift her on the tall horse, from which height she purposed watching the sports. wetzel alone did not seem infected by the spirit of gladsomeness which pervaded. he stood apart leaning on his long rifle and taking no interest in the proceedings behind him. he was absorbed in contemplating the forest on the opposite shore of the river. "well, boys, i guess we are ready for the fun," called col. zane, cheerily. "only one shot apiece, mind you, except in case of a tie. now, everybody shoot his best." the first contest was a shooting match known as "driving the nail." it was as the name indicated, nothing less than shooting at the head of a nail. in the absence of a nail--for nails were scarce--one was usually fashioned from a knife blade, or an old file, or even a piece of silver. the nail was driven lightly into the stake, the contestants shot at it from a distance as great as the eyesight permitted. to drive the nail hard and fast into the wood at one hundred yards was a feat seldom accomplished. by many hunters it was deemed more difficult than "snuffing the candle," another border pastime, which consisted of placing in the dark at any distance a lighted candle, and then putting out the flame with a single rifle ball. many settlers, particularly those who handled the plow more than the rifle, sighted from a rest, and placed a piece of moss under the rife-barrel to prevent its spring at the discharge. the match began. of the first six shooters jonathan zane and alfred clarke scored the best shots. each placed a bullet in the half-inch circle round the nail. "alfred, very good, indeed," said col. zane. "you have made a decided improvement since the last shooting-match." six other settlers took their turns. all were unsuccessful in getting a shot inside the little circle. thus a tie between alfred and jonathan had to be decided. "shoot close, alfred," yelled isaac. "i hope you beat him. he always won from me and then crowed over it." alfred's second shot went wide of the mark, and as jonathan placed another bullet in the circle, this time nearer the center, alfred had to acknowledge defeat. "here comes miller," said silas zane. "perhaps he will want a try." col. zane looked round. miller had joined the party. he carried his rifle and accoutrements, and evidently had just returned to the settlement. he nodded pleasantly to all. "miller, will you take a shot for the first prize, which i was about to award to jonathan?" said col. zane. "no. i am a little late, and not entitled to a shot. i will take a try for the others," answered miller. at the arrival of miller on the scene wetzel had changed his position to one nearer the crowd. the dog, tige, trotted closely at his heels. no one heard tige's low growl or wetzel's stern word to silence him. throwing his arm over betty's pony, wetzel apparently watched the shooters. in reality he studied intently miller's every movement. "i expect some good shooting for this prize," said col. zane, waving a beautifully embroidered buckskin bullet pouch, which was one of betty's donations. jonathan having won his prize was out of the lists and could compete no more. this entitled alfred to the first shot for second prize. he felt he would give anything he possessed to win the dainty trifle which the colonel had waved aloft. twice he raised his rifle in his exceeding earnestness to score a good shot and each time lowered the barrel. when finally he did shoot the bullet embedded itself in the second circle. it was a good shot, but he knew it would never win that prize. "a little nervous, eh?" remarked miller, with a half sneer on his swarthy face. several young settlers followed in succession, but their aims were poor. then little harry bennet took his stand. harry had won many prizes in former matches, and many of the pioneers considered him one of the best shots in the country. "only a few more after you, harry," said col. zane. "you have a good chance." "all right, colonel. that's betty's prize and somebody'll have to do some mighty tall shootin' to beat me," said the lad, his blue eyes flashing as he toed the mark. shouts and cheers of approval greeted his attempt. the bullet had passed into the wood so close to the nail that a knife blade could not have been inserted between. miller's turn came next. he was a fine marksman and he knew it. with the confidence born of long experience and knowledge of his weapon, he took a careful though quick aim and fired. he turned away satisfied that he would carry off the coveted prize. he had nicked the nail. but miller reckoned without his host. betty had seen the result of his shot and the self-satisfied smile on his face. she watched several of the settlers make poor attempts at the nail, and then, convinced that not one of the other contestants could do so well as miller, she slipped off the horse and ran around to where wetzel was standing by her pony. "lew, i believe miller will win my prize," she whispered, placing her hand on the hunter's arm. "he has scratched the nail, and i am sure no one except you can do better. i do not want miller to have anything of mine." "and, little girl, you want me to shoot fer you," said lewis. "yes, lew, please come and shoot for me." it was said of wetzel that he never wasted powder. he never entered into the races and shooting-matches of the settlers, yet it was well known that he was the fleetest runner and the most unerring shot on the frontier. therefore, it was with surprise and pleasure that col. zane heard the hunter say he guessed he would like one shot anyway. miller looked on with a grim smile. he knew that, wetzel or no wetzel, it would take a remarkably clever shot to beat his. "this shot's for betty," said wetzel as he stepped to the mark. he fastened his keen eyes on the stake. at that distance the head of the nail looked like a tiny black speck. wetzel took one of the locks of hair that waved over his broad shoulders and held it up in front of his eyes a moment. he thus ascertained that there was not any perceptible breeze. the long black barrel started slowly to rise--it seemed to the interested onlookers that it would never reach a level and when, at last, it became rigid, there was a single second in which man and rifle appeared as if carved out of stone. then followed a burst of red flame, a puff of white smoke, a clear ringing report. many thought the hunter had missed altogether. it seemed that the nail had not changed its position; there was no bullet hole in the white lime wash that had been smeared round the nail. but on close inspection the nail was found to have been driven to its head in the wood. "a wonderful shot!" exclaimed col. zane. "lewis, i don't remember having seen the like more than once or twice in my life." wetzel made no answer. he moved away to his former position and commenced to reload his rifle. betty came running up to him, holding in her hand the prize bullet pouch. "oh, lew, if i dared i would kiss you. it pleases me more for you to have won my prize than if any one else had won it. and it was the finest, straightest shot ever made." "betty, it's a little fancy for redskins, but it'll be a keepsake," answered lewis, his eyes reflecting the bright smile on her face. friendly rivalry in feats that called for strength, speed and daring was the diversion of the youth of that period, and the pioneers conducted this good-natured but spirited sport strictly on its merits. each contestant strove his utmost to outdo his opponent. it was hardly to be expected that alfred would carry off any of the laurels. used as he had been to comparative idleness he was no match for the hardy lads who had been brought up and trained to a life of action, wherein a ten mile walk behind a plow, or a cord of wood chopped in a day, were trifles. alfred lost in the foot-race and the sackrace, but by dint of exerting himself to the limit of his strength, he did manage to take one fall out of the best wrestler. he was content to stop here, and, throwing himself on the grass, endeavored to recover his breath. he felt happier today than for some time past. twice during the afternoon he had met betty's eyes and the look he encountered there made his heart stir with a strange feeling of fear and hope. while he was ruminating on what had happened between betty and himself he allowed his eyes to wander from one person to another. when his gaze alighted on wetzel it became riveted there. the hunter's attitude struck him as singular. wetzel had his face half turned toward the boys romping near him and he leaned carelessly against a white oak tree. but a close observer would have seen, as alfred did, that there was a certain alertness in that rigid and motionless figure. wetzel's eyes were fixed on the western end of the island. almost involuntarily alfred's eyes sought the same direction. the western end of the island ran out into a long low point covered with briars, rushes and saw-grass. as alfred directed his gaze along the water line of this point he distinctly saw a dark form flit from one bush to another. he was positive he had not been mistaken. he got up slowly and unconcernedly, and strolled over to wetzel. "wetzel, i saw an object just now," he said in a low tone. "it was moving behind those bushes at the head of the island. i am not sure whether it was an animal or an indian." "injuns. go back and be natur'l like. don't say nothin' and watch miller," whispered wetzel. much perturbed by the developments of the last few moments, and wondering what was going to happen, alfred turned away. he had scarcely reached the others when he heard betty's voice raised in indignant protest. "i tell you i did swim my pony across the river," cried betty. "it was just even with that point and the river was higher than it is now." "you probably overestimated your feat," said miller, with his disagreeable, doubtful smile. "i have seen the river so low that it could be waded, and then it would be a very easy matter to cross. but now your pony could not swim half the distance." "i'll show you," answered betty, her black eyes flashing. she put her foot in the stirrup and leaped on madcap. "now, betty, don't try that foolish ride again," implored mrs. zane. "what do you care whether strangers believe or not? eb, make her come back." col. bane only laughed and made no attempt to detain betty. he rather indulged her caprices. "stop her!" cried clarke. "betty, where are you goin'?" said wetzel, grabbing at madcap's bridle. but betty was too quick for him. she avoided the hunter, and with a saucy laugh she wheeled the fiery little pony and urged her over the bank. almost before any one could divine her purpose she had madcap in the water up to her knees. "betty, stop!" cried wetzel. she paid no attention to his call. in another moment the pony would be off the shoal and swimming. "stop! turn back, betty, or i'll shoot the pony," shouted wetzel, and this time there was a ring of deadly earnestness in his voice. with the words he had cocked and thrown forward the long rifle. betty heard, and in alarm she turned her pony. she looked up with great surprise and concern, for she knew wetzel was not one to trifle. "for god's sake!" exclaimed colonel zane, looking in amazement at the hunter's face, which was now white and stern. "why, lew, you do not mean you would shoot madcap?" said betty, reproachfully, as she reached the shore. all present in that watching crowd were silent, awaiting the hunter's answer. they felt that mysterious power which portends the revelation of strange events. col. zane and jonathan knew the instant they saw wetzel that something extraordinary was coming. his face had grown cold and gray; his lips were tightly compressed; his eyes dilated and shone with a peculiar lustre. "where were you headin' your pony?" asked wetzel. "i wanted to reach that point where the water is shallow," answered betty. "that's what i thought. well, betty, hostile injuns are hidin' and waitin' fer you in them high rushes right where you were makin' fer," said wetzel. then he shouldered his rifle and walked rapidly away. "oh, he cannot be serious!" cried betty. "oh, how foolish am i." "get back up from the river, everybody," commanded col. zane. "col. zane," said clarke, walking beside the colonel up the bank, "i saw wetzel watching the island in a manner that i thought odd, under the circumstances, and i watched too. presently i saw a dark form dart behind a bush. i went over and told wetzel, and he said there were indians on the island." "this is most d--n strange," said col. zane, frowning heavily. "wetzel's suspicions, miller turns up, teases betty attempting that foolhardy trick, and then--indians! it may be a coincidence, but it looks bad." "col. zane, don't you think wetzel may be mistaken?" said miller, coming up. "i came over from the other side this morning and i did not see any indian sign. probably wetzel has caused needless excitement." "it does not follow that because you came from over the river there are no indians there," answered col. zane, sharply. "do you presume to criticise wetzel's judgment?" "i saw an indian!" cried clarke, facing miller with blazing eyes. "and if you say i did not, you lie! what is more, i believe you know more than any one else about it. i watched you. i saw you were uneasy and that you looked across the river from time to time. perhaps you had better explain to col. zane the reason you taunted his sister into attempting that ride." with a snarl more like that of a tiger than of a human being, miller sprang at clarke. his face was dark with malignant hatred, as he reached for and drew an ugly knife. there were cries of fright from the children and screams from the women. alfred stepped aside with the wonderful quickness of the trained boxer and shot out his right arm. his fist caught miller a hard blow on the head, knocking him down and sending the knife flying in the air. it had all happened so quickly that everyone was as if paralyzed. the settlers stood still and watched miller rise slowly to his feet. "give me my knife!" he cried hoarsely. the knife had fallen at the feet of major mccolloch, who had concealed it with his foot. "let this end right here," ordered col. zane. "clarke, you have made a very strong statement. have you anything to substantiate your words?" "i think i have," said clarke. he was standing erect, his face white and his eyes like blue steel. "i knew him at ft. pitt. he was a liar and a drunkard there. he was a friend of the indians and of the british. what he was there he must be here. it was wetzel who told me to watch him. wetzel and i both think he knew the indians were on the island." "col. zane, it is false," said miller, huskily. "he is trying to put you against me. he hates me because your sister--" "you cur!" cried clarke, striking at miller. col. zane struck up the infuriated young man's arm. "give us knives, or anything," panted clarke. "yes, let us fight it out now," said miller. "capt. boggs, take clarke to the block-house. make him stay there if you have to lock him up," commanded col. zane. "miller, as for you, i cannot condemn you without proof. if i knew positively that there were indians on the island and that you were aware of it, you would be a dead man in less time than it takes to say it. i will give you the benefit of the doubt and twenty-four hours to leave the fort." the villagers dispersed and went to their homes. they were inclined to take clarke's side. miller had become disliked. his drinking habits and his arrogant and bold manner had slowly undermined the friendships he had made during the early part of his stay at ft. henry; while clarke's good humor and willingness to help any one, his gentleness with the children, and his several acts of heroism had strengthened their regard. "jonathan, this looks like some of girty's work. i wish i knew the truth," said col. zane, as he, his brothers and betty and myeerah entered the house. "confound it! we can't have even one afternoon of enjoyment. i must see lewis. i cannot be sure of clarke. he is evidently bitter against miller. that would have been a terrible fight. those fellows have had trouble before, and i am afraid we have not seen the last of their quarrel." "if they meet again--but how can you keep them apart?" said silas. "if miller leaves the fort without killing clarke he'll hide around in the woods and wait for a chance to shoot him." "not with wetzel here," answered col. zane. "betty, do you see what your--" he began, turning to his sister, but when he saw her white and miserable face he said no more. "don't mind, betts. it wasn't any fault of yours," said isaac, putting his arm tenderly round the trembling girl. "i for another believe clarke was right when he said miller knew there were indians over the river. it looks like a plot to abduct you. have no fear for alfred. he can take care of himself. he showed that pretty well." an hour later clarke had finished his supper and was sitting by his window smoking his pipe. his anger had cooled somewhat and his reflections were not of the pleasantest kind. he regretted that he lowered himself so far as to fight with a man little better than an outlaw. still there was a grim satisfaction in the thought of the blow he had given miller. he remembered he had asked for a knife and that his enemy and he be permitted to fight to the death. after all to have ended, then and there, the feud between them would have been the better course; for he well knew miller's desperate character, that he had killed more than one white man, and that now a fair fight might not be possible. well, he thought, what did it matter? he was not going to worry himself. he did not care much, one way or another. he had no home; he could not make one without the woman he loved. he was a soldier of fortune; he was at the mercy of fate, and he would drift along and let what came be welcome. a soft footfall on the stairs and a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "come in," he said. the door opened and wetzel strode into the room. "i come over to say somethin' to you," said the hunter taking the chair by the window and placing his rifle over his knee. "i will be pleased to listen or talk, as you desire," said alfred. "i don't mind tellin' you that the punch you give miller was what he deserved. if he and girty didn't hatch up that trick to ketch betty, i don't know nothin'. but we can't prove nothin' on him yet. mebbe he knew about the redskins; mebbe he didn't. personally, i think he did. but i can't kill a white man because i think somethin'. i'd have to know fer sure. what i want to say is to put you on your guard against the baddest man on the river." "i am aware of that," answered alfred. "i knew his record at ft. pitt. what would you have me do?" "keep close till he's gone." "that would be cowardly." "no, it wouldn't. he'd shoot you from behind some tree or cabin." "well, i'm much obliged to you for your kind advice, but for all that i won't stay in the house," said alfred, beginning to wonder at the hunter's earnest manner. "you're in love with betty, ain't you?" the question came with wetzel's usual bluntness and it staggered alfred. he could not be angry, and he did not know what to say. the hunter went on: "you needn't say so, because i know it. and i know she loves you and that's why i want you to look out fer miller." "my god! man, you're crazy," said alfred, laughing scornfully. "she cares nothing for me." "that's your great failin', young feller. you fly off'en the handle too easy. and so does betty. you both care fer each other and are unhappy about it. now, you don't know betty, and she keeps misunderstandin' you." "for heaven's sake! wetzel, if you know anything tell me. love her? why, the words are weak! i love her so well that an hour ago i would have welcomed death at miller's hands only to fall and die at her feet defending her. your words set me on fire. what right have you to say that? how do you know?" the hunter leaned forward and put his hand on alfred's shoulder. on his pale face was that sublime light which comes to great souls when they give up a life long secret, or when they sacrifice what is best beloved. his broad chest heaved: his deep voice trembled. "listen. i'm not a man fer words, and it's hard to tell. betty loves you. i've carried her in my arms when she was a baby. i've made her toys and played with her when she was a little girl. i know all her moods. i can read her like i do the moss, and the leaves, and the bark of the forest. i've loved her all my life. that's why i know she loves you. i can feel it. her happiness is the only dear thing left on earth fer me. and that's why i'm your friend." in the silence that followed his words the door opened and closed and he was gone. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * betty awoke with a start. she was wide awake in a second. the moonbeams came through the leaves of the maple tree near her window and cast fantastic shadows on the wall of her room. betty lay quiet, watching the fairy-like figures on the wall and listening intently. what had awakened her? the night was still; the crow of a cock in the distance proclaimed that the hour of dawn was near at hand. she waited for tige's bark under her window, or sam's voice, or the kicking and trampling of horses in the barn--sounds that usually broke her slumbers in the morning. but no such noises were forthcoming. suddenly she heard a light, quick tap, tap, and then a rattling in the corner. it was like no sound but that made by a pebble striking the floor, bounding and rolling across the room. there it was again. some one was tossing stones in at her window. she slipped out of bed, ran, and leaned on the window-sill and looked out. the moon was going down behind the hill, but there was light enough for her to distinguish objects. she saw a dark figure crouching by the fence. "who is it?" said betty, a little frightened, but more curious. "sh-h-h, it's miller," came the answer, spoken in low voice. the bent form straightened and stood erect. it stepped forward under betty's window. the light was dim, but betty recognized the dark face of miller. he carried a rifle in his hand and a pack on his shoulder. "go away, or i'll call my brother. i will not listen to you," said betty, making a move to leave the window. "sh-h-h, not so loud," said miller, in a quick, hoarse whisper. "you'd better listen. i am going across the border to join girty. he is going to bring the indians and the british here to burn the settlement. if you will go away with me i'll save the lives of your brothers and their families. i have aided girty and i have influence with him. if you won't go you'll be taken captive and you'll see all your friends and relatives scalped and burned. quick, your answer." "never, traitor! monster! i'd be burned at the stake before i'd go a step with you!" cried betty. "then remember that you've crossed a desperate man. if you escape the massacre you will beg on your knees to me. this settlement is doomed. now, go to your white-faced lover. you'll find him cold. ha! ha! ha!" and with a taunting laugh he leaped the fence and disappeared in the gloom. betty sank to the floor stunned, horrified. she shuddered at the malignity expressed in miller's words. how had she ever been deceived in him? he was in league with girty. at heart he was a savage, a renegade. betty went over his words, one by one. "your white-faced lover. you will find him cold," whispered betty. "what did he mean?" then came the thought. miller had murdered clarke. betty gave one agonized quiver, as if a knife had been thrust into her side, and then her paralyzed limbs recovered the power of action. she flew out into the passage-way and pounded on her brother's door. "eb! eb! get up! quickly, for god's sake!" she cried. a smothered exclamation, a woman's quick voice, the heavy thud of feet striking the floor followed betty's alarm. then the door opened. "hello, betts, what's up?" said col. zane, in his rapid voice. at the same moment the door at the end of the hall opened and isaac came out. "eb, betty, i heard voices out doors and in the house. what's the row?" "oh, isaac! oh, eb! something terrible has happened!" cried betty, breathlessly. "then it is no time to get excited," said the colonel, calmly. he placed his arm round betty and drew her into the room. "isaac, get down the rifles. now, betty, time is precious. tell me quickly, briefly." "i was awakened by a stone rolling on the floor. i ran to the window and saw a man by the fence. he came under my window and i saw it was miller. he said he was going to join girty. he said if i would go with him he would save the lives of all my relatives. if i would not they would all be killed, massacred, burned alive, and i would be taken away as his captive. i told him i'd rather die before i'd go with him. then he said we were all doomed, and that my white-faced lover was already cold. with that he gave a laugh which made my flesh creep and ran on toward the river. oh! he has murdered mr. clarke." "hell! what a fiend!" cried col. zane, hurriedly getting into his clothes. "betts, you had a gun in there. why didn't you shoot him? why didn't i pay more attention to wetzel's advice?" "you should have allowed clarke to kill him yesterday," said isaac. "like as not he'll have girty here with a lot of howling devils. what's to be done?" "i'll send wetzel after him and that'll soon wind up his ball of yarn," answered col. zane. "please--go--and find--if mr. clarke--" "yes, betty, i'll go at once. you must not lose courage, betty. it's quite probable that miller has killed alfred and that there's worse to follow." "i'll come, eb, as soon as i have told myeerah. she is scared half to death," said isaac, starting for the door. "all right, only hurry," said col. zane, grabbing his rifle. without wasting more words, and lacing up his hunting shirt as he went he ran out of the room. the first rays of dawn came streaking in at the window. the chill gray light brought no cheer with its herald of the birth of another day. for what might the morning sun disclose? it might shine on a long line of painted indians. the fresh breeze from over the river might bring the long war whoop of the savage. no wonder noah and his brother, awakened by the voice of their father, sat up in their little bed and looked about with frightened eyes. no wonder mrs. zane's face blanched. how many times she had seen her husband grasp his rifle and run out to meet danger! "bessie," said betty. "if it's true i will not be able to bear it. it's all my fault." "nonsense! you heard eb say miller and clarke had quarreled before. they hated each other before they ever saw you." a door banged, quick footsteps sounded on the stairs, and isaac came rushing into the room. betty, deathly pale, stood with her hands pressed to her bosom, and looked at isaac with a question in her eyes that her tongue could not speak. "betty, alfred's badly hurt, but he's alive. i can tell you no more now," said isaac. "bessie, bring your needle, silk linen, liniment--everything you need for a bad knife wound, and come quickly." betty's haggard face changed as if some warm light had been reflected on it; her lips moved, and with a sob of thankfulness she fled to her room. two hours later, while annie was serving breakfast to betty and myeerah, col. zane strode into the room. "well, one has to eat whatever happens," he said, his clouded face brightening somewhat. "betty, there's been bad work, bad work. when i got to clarke's room i found him lying on the bed with a knife sticking in him. as it is we are doubtful about pulling him through." "may i see him?" whispered betty, with pale lips. "if the worst comes to the worst i'll take you over. but it would do no good now and would surely unnerve you. he still has a fighting chance." "did they fight, or was mr. clarke stabbed in his sleep?" "miller climbed into clarke's window and knifed him in the dark. as i came over i met wetzel and told him i wanted him to trail miller and find if there is any truth in his threat about girty and the indians. sam just now found tige tied fast in the fence corner back of the barn. that explains the mystery of miller's getting so near the house. you know he always took pains to make friends with tige. the poor dog was helpless; his legs were tied and his jaws bound fast. oh, miller is as cunning as an indian! he has had this all planned out, and he has had more than one arrow to his bow. but, if i mistake not he has shot his last one." "miller must be safe from pursuit by this time," said betty. "safe for the present, yes," answered col. zane, "but while jonathan and wetzel live i would not give a snap of my fingers for miller's chances. hello, i hear some one talking. i sent for jack and the major." the colonel threw open the door. wetzel, major mccolloch, jonathan and silas zane were approaching. they were all heavily armed. wetzel was equipped for a long chase. double leggins were laced round his legs. a buckskin knapsack was strapped to his shoulders. "major, i want you and jonathan to watch the river," said col. zane. "silas, you are to go to the mouth of yellow creek and reconnoiter. we are in for a siege. it may be twenty-four hours and it may be ten days. in the meantime i will get the fort in shape to meet the attack. lewis, you have your orders. have you anything to suggest?" "i'll take the dog," answered wetzel. "he'll save time for me. i'll stick to miller's trail and find girty's forces. i've believed all along that miller was helpin' girty, and i'm thinkin' that where miller goes there i'll find girty and his redskins. if it's night when i get back i'll give the call of the hoot-owl three times, quick, so jack and the major will know i want to get back across the river." "all right, lewis, we'll be expecting you any time," said col. zane. "betty, i'm goin' now and i want to tell you somethin'," said wetzel, as betty appeared. "come as far as the end of the path with me." "i'm sorry you must go. but tige seems delighted," said betty, walking beside wetzel, while the dog ran on before. "betty, i wanted to tell you to stay close like to the house, fer this feller miller has been layin' traps fer you, and the injuns is on the war-path. don't ride your pony, and stay home now." "indeed, i shall never again do anything as foolish as i did yesterday. i have learned my lesson. and oh! lew, i am so grateful to you for saving me. when will you return to the fort?" "mebbe never, betty." "oh, no. don't say that. i know all this indian talk will blow over, as it always does, and you will come back and everything will be all right again." "i hope it'll be as you say, betty, but there's no tellin', there's no tellin'." "you are going to see if the indians are making preparations to besiege the fort?" "yes, i am goin' fer that. and if i happen to find miller on my way i'll give him betty's regards." betty shivered at his covert meaning. long ago in a moment of playfulness, betty had scratched her name on the hunter's rifle. ever after that wetzel called his fatal weapon by her name. "if you were going simply to avenge i would not let you go. that wretch will get his just due some day, never fear for that." "betty, 'taint likely he'll get away from me, and if he does there's jonathan. this mornin' when we trailed miller down to the river bank jonathan points across the river and says: 'you or me,' and i says: 'me,' so it's all settled." "will mr. clarke live?" said betty, in an altered tone, asking the question which was uppermost in her mind. "i think so, i hope so. he's a husky young chap and the cut wasn't bad. he lost so much blood. that's why he's so weak. if he gets well he'll have somethin' to tell you." "lew, what do you mean?" demanded betty, quickly. "me and him had a long talk last night and--" "you did not go to him and talk of me, did you?" said betty, reproachfully. they had now reached the end of the path. wetzel stopped and dropped the butt of his rifle on the ground. tige looked on and wagged his tail. presently the hunter spoke. "yes, we talked about you." "oh! lewis. what did--could you have said?" faltered betty. "you think i hadn't ought to speak to him of you?" "i do not see why you should. of course you are my good friend, but he--it is not like you to speak of me." "fer once i don't agree with you. i knew how it was with him so i told him. i knew how it was with you so i told him, and i know how it is with me, so i told him that too." "with you?" whispered betty. "yes, with me. that kind of gives me a right, don't it, considerin' it's all fer your happiness?" "with you?" echoed betty in a low tone. she was beginning to realize that she had not known this man. she looked up at him. his eyes were misty with an unutterable sadness. "oh, no! no! lew. say it is not true," she cried, piteously. all in a moment betty's burdens became too heavy for her. she wrung her little hands. her brother's kindly advice, bessie's warnings, and old grandmother watkins' words came back to her. for the first time she believed what they said--that wetzel loved her. all at once the scales fell from her eyes and she saw this man as he really was. all the thousand and one things he had done for her, his simple teaching, his thoughtfulness, his faithfulness, and his watchful protection--all came crowding on her as debts that she could never pay. for now what could she give this man to whom she owed more than her life? nothing. it was too late. her love could have reclaimed him, could have put an end to that solitary wandering, and have made him a good, happy man. "yes, betty, it's time to tell it. i've loved you always," he said softly. she covered her face and sobbed. wetzel put his arm round her and drew her to him until the dark head rested on his shoulder. thus they stood a moment. "don't cry, little one," he said, tenderly. "don't grieve fer me. my love fer you has been the only good in my life. it's been happiness to love you. don't think of me. i can see you and alfred in a happy home, surrounded by bright-eyed children. there'll be a brave lad named fer me, and when i come, if i ever do, i'll tell him stories, and learn him the secrets of the woods, and how to shoot, and things i know so well." "i am so wretched--so miserable. to think i have been so--so blind, and i have teased you--and--it might have been--only now it's too late," said betty, between her sobs. "yes, i know, and it's better so. this man you love rings true. he has learnin' and edication. i have nothin' but muscle and a quick eye. and that'll serve you and alfred when you are in danger. i'm goin' now. stand here till i'm out of sight." "kiss me goodbye," whispered betty. the hunter bent his head and kissed her on the brow. then he turned and with a rapid step went along the bluff toward the west. when he reached the laurel bushes which fringed the edge of the forest he looked back. he saw the slender gray clad figure standing motionless in the narrow path. he waved his hand and then turned and plunged into the forest. the dog looked back, raised his head and gave a long, mournful howl. then, he too disappeared. a mile west of the settlement wetzel abandoned the forest and picked his way down the steep bluff to the river. here he prepared to swim to the western shore. he took off his buckskin garments, spread them out on the ground, placed his knapsack in the middle, and rolling all into a small bundle tied it round his rifle. grasping the rifle just above the hammer he waded into the water up to his waist and then, turning easily on his back he held the rifle straight up, allowing the butt to rest on his breast. this left his right arm unhampered. with a powerful back-arm stroke he rapidly swam the river, which was deep and narrow at this point. in a quarter of an hour he was once more in his dry suit. he was now two miles below the island, where yesterday the indians had been concealed, and where this morning miller had crossed. wetzel knew miller expected to be trailed, and that he would use every art and cunning of woodcraft to elude his pursuers, or to lead them into a death-trap. wetzel believed miller had joined the indians, who had undoubtedly been waiting for him, or for a signal from him, and that he would use them to ambush the trail. therefore wetzel decided he would try to strike miller's tracks far west of the river. he risked a great deal in attempting this because it was possible he might fail to find any trace of the spy. but wetzel wasted not one second. his course was chosen. with all possible speed, which meant with him walking only when he could not run, he traveled northwest. if miller had taken the direction wetzel suspected, the trails of the two men would cross about ten miles from the ohio. but the hunter had not traversed more than a mile of the forest when the dog put his nose high in the air and growled. wetzel slowed down into a walk and moved cautiously onward, peering through the green aisles of the woods. a few rods farther on tige uttered another growl and put his nose to the ground. he found a trail. on examination wetzel discovered in the moss two moccasin tracks. two indians had passed that point that morning. they were going northwest directly toward the camp of wingenund. wetzel stuck close to the trail all that day and an hour before dusk he heard the sharp crack of a rifle. a moment afterward a doe came crashing through the thicket to wetzel's right and bounding across a little brook she disappeared. a tree with a bushy, leafy top had been uprooted by a storm and had fallen across the stream at this point. wetzel crawled among the branches. the dog followed and lay down beside him. before darkness set in wetzel saw that the clear water of the brook had been roiled; therefore, he concluded that somewhere upstream indians had waded into the brook. probably they had killed a deer and were getting their evening meal. hours passed. twilight deepened into darkness. one by one the stars appeared; then the crescent moon rose over the wooded hill in the west, and the hunter never moved. with his head leaning against the log he sat quiet and patient. at midnight he whispered to the dog, and crawling from his hiding place glided stealthily up the stream. far ahead from the dark depths of the forest peeped the flickering light of a camp-fire. wetzel consumed a half hour in approaching within one hundred feet of this light. then he got down on his hands and knees and crawled behind a tree on top of the little ridge which had obstructed a view of the camp scene. from this vantage point wetzel saw a clear space surrounded by pines and hemlocks. in the center of this glade a fire burned briskly. two indians lay wrapped in their blankets, sound asleep. wetzel pressed the dog close to the ground, laid aside his rifle, drew his tomahawk, and lying flat on his breast commenced to work his way, inch by inch, toward the sleeping savages. the tall ferns trembled as the hunter wormed his way among them, but there was no sound, not a snapping of a twig nor a rustling of a leaf. the nightwind sighed softly through the pines; it blew the bright sparks from the burning logs, and fanned the embers into a red glow; it swept caressingly over the sleeping savages, but it could not warn them that another wind, the wind-of-death, was near at hand. a quarter of an hour elapsed. nearer and nearer; slowly but surely drew the hunter. with what wonderful patience and self-control did this cold-blooded nemesis approach his victims! probably any other indian slayer would have fired his rifle and then rushed to combat with a knife or a tomahawk. not so wetzel. he scorned to use powder. he crept forward like a snake gliding upon its prey. he slid one hand in front of him and pressed it down on the moss, at first gently, then firmly, and when he had secured a good hold he slowly dragged his body forward the length of his arm. at last his dark form rose and stood over the unconscious indians, like a minister of doom. the tomahawk flashed once, twice in the firelight, and the indians, without a moan, and with a convulsive quivering and straightening of their bodies, passed from the tired sleep of nature to the eternal sleep of death. foregoing his usual custom of taking the scalps, wetzel hurriedly left the glade. he had found that the indians were shawnees and he had expected they were delawares. he knew miller's red comrades belonged to the latter tribe. the presence of shawnees so near the settlement confirmed his belief that a concerted movement was to be made on the whites in the near future. he would not have been surprised to find the woods full of redskins. he spent the remainder of that night close under the side of a log with the dog curled up beside him. next morning wetzel ran across the trail of a white man and six indians. he tracked them all that day and half of the night before he again rested. by noon of the following day he came in sight of the cliff from which jonathan zane had watched the sufferings of col. crawford. wetzel now made his favorite move, a wide detour, and came up on the other side of the encampment. from the top of the bluff he saw down into the village of the delawares. the valley was alive with indians; they were working like beavers; some with weapons, some painting themselves, and others dancing war-dances. packs were being strapped on the backs of ponies. everywhere was the hurry and bustle of the preparation for war. the dancing and the singing were kept up half the night. at daybreak wetzel was at his post. a little after sunrise he heard a long yell which he believed announced the arrival of an important party. and so it turned out. amid thrill yelling and whooping, the like of which wetzel had never before heard, simon girty rode into wingenund's camp at the head of one hundred shawnee warriors and two hundred british rangers from detroit. wetzel recoiled when he saw the red uniforms of the britishers and their bayonets. including pipe's and wingenund's braves the total force which was going to march against the fort exceeded six hundred. an impotent frenzy possessed wetzel as he watched the orderly marching of the rangers and the proud bearing of the indian warriors. miller had spoken the truth. ft. henry vas doomed. "tige, there's one of them struttin' turkey cocks as won't see the ohio," said wetzel to the dog. hurriedly slipping from round his neck the bullet-pouch that betty had given him, he shook out a bullet and with the point of his knife he scratched deep in the soft lead the letter w. then he cut the bullet half through. this done he detached the pouch from the cord and running the cord through the cut in the bullet he bit the lead. he tied the string round the neck of the dog and pointing eastward he said: "home." the intelligent animal understood perfectly. his duty was to get that warning home. his clear brown eyes as much as said: "i will not fail." he wagged his tail, licked the hunter's hand, bounded away and disappeared in the forest. wetzel rested easier in mind. he knew the dog would stop for nothing, and that he stood a far better chance of reaching the fort in safety than did he himself. with a lurid light in his eyes wetzel now turned to the indians. he would never leave that spot without sending a leaden messenger into the heart of someone in that camp. glancing on all sides he at length selected a place where it was possible he might approach near enough to the camp to get a shot. he carefully studied the lay of the ground, the trees, rocks, bushes, grass,--everything that could help screen him from the keen eye of savage scouts. when he had marked his course he commenced his perilous descent. in an hour he had reached the bottom of the cliff. dropping flat on the ground, he once more started his snail-like crawl. a stretch of swampy ground, luxuriant with rushes and saw-grass, made a part of the way easy for him, though it led through mud, and slime, and stagnant water. frogs and turtles warming their backs in the sunshine scampered in alarm from their logs. lizards blinked at him. moccasin snakes darted wicked forked tongues at him and then glided out of reach of his tomahawk. the frogs had stopped their deep bass notes. a swamp-blackbird rose in fright from her nest in the saw-grass, and twittering plaintively fluttered round and round over the pond. the flight of the bird worried wetzel. such little things as these might attract the attention of some indian scout. but he hoped that in the excitement of the war preparations these unusual disturbances would escape notice. at last he gained the other side of the swamp. at the end of the cornfield before him was the clump of laurel which he had marked from the cliff as his objective point. the indian corn was now about five feet high. wetzel passed through this field unseen. he reached the laurel bushes, where he dropped to the ground and lay quiet a few minutes. in the dash which he would soon make to the forest he needed all his breath and all his fleetness. he looked to the right to see how far the woods was from where he lay. not more than one hundred feet. he was safe. once in the dark shade of those trees, and with his foes behind him, he could defy the whole race of delawares. he looked to his rifle, freshened the powder in the pan, carefully adjusted the flint, and then rose quietly to his feet. wetzel's keen gaze, as he swept it from left to right, took in every detail of the camp. he was almost in the village. a tepee stood not twenty feet from his hiding-place. he could have tossed a stone in the midst of squaws, and braves, and chiefs. the main body of indians was in the center of the camp. the british were lined up further on. both indians and soldiers were resting on their arms and waiting. suddenly wetzel started and his heart leaped. under a maple tree not one hundred and fifty yards distant stood four men in earnest consultation. one was an indian. wetzel recognized the fierce, stern face, the haughty, erect figure. he knew that long, trailing war-bonnet. it could have adorned the head of but one chief--wingenund, the sachem of the delawares. a british officer, girdled and epauletted, stood next to wingenund. simon girty, the renegade, and miller, the traitor, completed the group. wetzel sank to his knees. the perspiration poured from his face. the mighty hunter trembled, but it was from eagerness. was not girty, the white savage, the bane of the poor settlers, within range of a weapon that never failed? was not the murderous chieftain, who had once whipped and tortured him, who had burned crawford alive, there in plain sight? wetzel revelled a moment in fiendish glee. he passed his hands tenderly over the long barrel of his rifle. in that moment as never before he gloried in his power--a power which enabled him to put a bullet in the eye of a squirrel at the distance these men were from him. but only for an instant did the hunter yield to this feeling. he knew too well the value of time and opportunity. he rose again to his feet and peered out from under the shading laurel branches. as he did so the dark face of miller turned full toward him. a tremor, like the intense thrill of a tiger when he is about to spring, ran over wetzel's frame. in his mad gladness at being within rifle-shot of his great indian foe, wetzel had forgotten the man he had trailed for two days. he had forgotten miller. he had only one shot--and betty was to be avenged. he gritted his teeth. the delaware chief was as safe as though he were a thousand miles away. this opportunity for which wetzel had waited so many years, and the successful issue of which would have gone so far toward the fulfillment of a life's purpose, was worse than useless. a great temptation assailed the hunter. wetzel's face was white when he raised the rifle; his dark eye, gleaming vengefully, ran along the barrel. the little bead on the front sight first covered the british officer, and then the broad breast of girty. it moved reluctantly and searched out the heart of wingenund, where it lingered for a fleeting instant. at last it rested upon the swarthy face of miller. "fer betty," muttered the hunter, between his clenched teeth as he pressed the trigger. the spiteful report awoke a thousand echoes. when the shot broke the stillness miller was talking and gesticulating. his hand dropped inertly; he stood upright for a second, his head slowly bowing and his body swaying perceptibly. then he plunged forward like a log, his face striking the sand. he never moved again. he was dead even before he struck the ground. blank silence followed this tragic denouement. wingenund, a cruel and relentless indian, but never a traitor, pointed to the small bloody hole in the middle of miller's forehead, and then nodded his head solemnly. the wondering indians stood aghast. then with loud yells the braves ran to the cornfield; they searched the laurel bushes. but they only discovered several moccasin prints in the sand, and a puff of white smoke wafting away upon the summer breeze. chapter xii. alfred clarke lay between life and death. miller's knife-thrust, although it had made a deep and dangerous wound, had not pierced any vital part; the amount of blood lost made alfred's condition precarious. indeed, he would not have lived through that first day but for a wonderful vitality. col. zane's wife, to whom had been consigned the delicate task of dressing the wound, shook her head when she first saw the direction of the cut. she found on a closer examination that the knife-blade had been deflected by a rib, and had just missed the lungs. the wound was bathed, sewed up, and bandaged, and the greatest precaution taken to prevent the sufferer from loosening the linen. every day when mrs. zane returned from the bedside of the young man she would be met at the door by betty, who, in that time of suspense, had lost her bloom, and whose pale face showed the effects of sleepless nights. "betty, would you mind going over to the fort and relieving mrs. martin an hour or two?" said mrs. zane one day as she came home, looking worn and weary. "we are both tired to death, and nell metzar was unable to come. clarke is unconscious, and will not know you, besides he is sleeping now." betty hurried over to capt. boggs' cabin, next the blockhouse, where alfred lay, and with a palpitating heart and a trepidation wholly out of keeping with the brave front she managed to assume, she knocked gently on the door. "ah, betty, 'tis you, bless your heart," said a matronly little woman who opened the door. "come right in. he is sleeping now, poor fellow, and it's the first real sleep he has had. he has been raving crazy forty-eight hours." "mrs. martin, what shall i do?" whispered betty. "oh, just watch him, my dear," answered the elder woman. "if you need me send one of the lads up to the house for me. i shall return as soon as i can. keep the flies away--they are bothersome--and bathe his head every little while. if he wakes and tries to sit up, as he does sometimes, hold him back. he is as weak as a cat. if he raves, soothe him by talking to him. i must go now, dearie." betty was left alone in the little room. though she had taken a seat near the bed where alfred lay, she had not dared to look at him. presently conquering her emotion, betty turned her gaze on the bed. alfred was lying easily on his back, and notwithstanding the warmth of the day he was covered with a quilt. the light from the window shone on his face. how deathly white it was! there was not a vestige of color in it; the brow looked like chiseled marble; dark shadows underlined the eyes, and the whole face was expressive of weariness and pain. there are times when a woman's love is all motherliness. all at once this man seemed to betty like a helpless child. she felt her heart go out to the poor sufferer with a feeling before unknown. she forgot her pride and her fears and her disappointments. she remembered only that this strong man lay there at death's door because he had resented an insult to her. the past with all its bitterness rolled away and was lost, and in its place welled up a tide of forgiveness strong and sweet and hopeful. her love, like a fire that had been choked and smothered, smouldering but never extinct, and which blazes up with the first breeze, warmed and quickened to life with the touch of her hand on his forehead. an hour passed. betty was now at her ease and happier than she had been for months. her patient continued to sleep peacefully and dreamlessly. with a feeling of womanly curiosity betty looked around the room. over the rude mantelpiece were hung a sword, a brace of pistols, and two pictures. these last interested betty very much. they were portraits; one of them was a likeness of a sweet-faced woman who betty instinctively knew was his mother. her eyes lingered tenderly on that face, so like the one lying on the pillow. the other portrait was of a beautiful girl whose dark, magnetic eyes challenged betty. was this his sister or--someone else? she could not restrain a jealous twinge, and she felt annoyed to find herself comparing that face with her own. she looked no longer at that portrait, but recommenced her survey of the room. upon the door hung a broad-brimmed hat with eagle plumes stuck in the band. a pair of hightopped riding-boots, a saddle, and a bridle lay on the floor in the corner. the table was covered with indian pipes, tobacco pouches, spurs, silk stocks, and other articles. suddenly betty felt that some one was watching her. she turned timidly toward the bed and became much frightened when she encountered the intense gaze from a pair of steel-blue eyes. she almost fell from the chair; but presently she recollected that alfred had been unconscious for days, and that he would not know who was watching by his bedside. "mother, is that you?" asked alfred, in a weak, low voice. "yes, i am here," answered betty, remembering the old woman's words about soothing the sufferer. "but i thought you were ill." "i was, but i am better now, and it is you who are ill." "my head hurts so." "let me bathe it for you." "how long have i been home?" betty bathed and cooled his heated brow. he caught and held her hands, looking wonderingly at her the while. "mother, somehow i thought you had died. i must have dreamed it. i am very happy; but tell me, did a message come for me to-day?" betty shook her head, for she could not speak. she saw he was living in the past, and he was praying for the letter which she would gladly have written had she but known. "no message, and it is now so long." "it will come to-morrow," whispered betty. "now, mother, that is what you always say," said the invalid, as he began to toss his head wearily to and fro. "will she never tell me? it is not like her to keep me in suspense. she was the sweetest, truest, loveliest girl in all the world. when i get well, mother, i ant going to find out if she loves me." "i am sure she does. i know she loves you," answered betty. "it is very good of you to say that," he went on in his rambling talk. "some day i'll bring her to you and we'll make her a queen here in the old home. i'll be a better son now and not run away from home again. i've given the dear old mother many a heartache, but that's all past now. the wanderer has come home. kiss me good-night, mother." betty looked down with tear-blurred eyes on the haggard face. unconsciously she had been running her fingers through the fair hair that lay so damp over his brow. her pity and tenderness had carried her far beyond herself, and at the last words she bent her head and kissed him on the lips. "who are you? you are not my mother. she is dead," he cried, starting up wildly, and looking at her with brilliant eyes. betty dropped the fan and rose quickly to her feet. what had she done? a terrible thought had flashed into her mind. suppose he were not delirious, and had been deceiving her. oh! for a hiding-place, or that the floor would swallow her. oh! if some one would only come. footsteps sounded on the stairs and betty ran to the door. to her great relief mrs. martin was coming up. "you can run home now, there's a dear," said the old lady. "we have several watchers for to-night. it will not be long now when he will commence to mend, or else he will die. poor boy, please god that he gets well. has he been good? did he call for any particular young lady? never fear, betty, i'll keep the secret. he'll never know you were here unless you tell him yourself." meanwhile the days had been busy ones for col. zane. in anticipation of an attack from the indians, the settlers had been fortifying their refuge and making the block-house as nearly impregnable as possible. everything that was movable and was of value they put inside the stockade fence, out of reach of the destructive redskins. all the horses and cattle were driven into the inclosure. wagon-loads of hay, grain and food were stored away in the block-house. never before had there been such excitement on the frontier. runners from ft. pitt, short creek, and other settlements confirmed the rumor that all the towns along the ohio were preparing for war. not since the outbreak of the revolution had there been so much confusion and alarm among the pioneers. to be sure, those on the very verge of the frontier, as at ft. henry, had heretofore little to fear from the british. during most of this time there had been comparative peace on the western border, excepting those occasional murders, raids, and massacres perpetrated by the different indian tribes, and instigated no doubt by girty and the british at detroit. now all kinds of rumors were afloat: washington was defeated; a close alliance between england and the confederated western tribes had been formed; girty had british power and wealth back of him. these and many more alarming reports travelled from settlement to settlement. the death of col. crawford had been a terrible shock to the whole country. on the border spread an universal gloom, and the low, sullen mutterings of revengeful wrath. crawford had been so prominent a man, so popular, and, except in his last and fatal expedition, such an efficient leader that his sudden taking off was almost a national calamity. in fact no one felt it more keenly than did washington himself, for crawford was his esteemed friend. col. zane believed ft. henry had been marked by the british and the indians. the last runner from ft. pitt had informed him that the description of miller tallied with that of one of the ten men who had deserted from ft. pitt in with the tories girth, mckee, and elliott. col. zane was now satisfied that miller was an agent of girty and therefore of the british. so since all the weaknesses of the fort, the number of the garrison, and the favorable conditions for a siege were known to girty, there was nothing left for col. zane and his men but to make a brave stand. jonathan zane and major mccolloch watched the river. wetzel had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. some pioneers said he would never return. but col. zane believed wetzel would walk into the fort, as he had done many times in the last ten years, with full information concerning the doings of the indians. however, the days passed and nothing happened. their work completed, the settlers waited for the first sign of an enemy. but as none came, gradually their fears were dispelled and they began to think the alarm had been a false one. all this time alfred clarke was recovering his health and strength. the day came when he was able to leave his bed and sit by the window. how glad it made him feel to look out on the green woods and the broad, winding river; how sweet to his ears were the songs of the birds; how soothing was the drowsy hum of the bees in the fragrant honeysuckle by his window. his hold on life had been slight and life was good. he smiled in pitying derision as he remembered his recklessness. he had not been in love with life. in his gloomy moods he had often thought life was hardly worth the living. what sickly sentiment! he had been on the brink of the grave, but he had been snatched back from the dark river of death. it needed but this to show him the joy of breathing, the glory of loving, the sweetness of living. he resolved that for him there would be no more drifting, no more purposelessness. if what wetzel had told him was true, if he really had not loved in vain, then his cup of happiness was overflowing. like a far-off and almost forgotten strain of music some memory struggled to take definite shape in his mind; but it was so hazy, so vague, so impalpable, that he could remember nothing clearly. isaac zane and his indian bride called on alfred that afternoon. "alfred, i can't tell you how glad i am to see you up again," said isaac, earnestly, as he wrung alfred's hand. "say, but it was a tight squeeze! it has been a bad time for you." nothing could have been more pleasing than myeerah's shy yet eloquent greeting. she gave alfred her little hand and said in her figurative style of speaking, "myeerah is happy for you and for others. you are strong like the west wind that never dies." "myeerah and i are going this afternoon, and we came over to say good-bye to you. we intend riding down the river fifteen miles and then crossing, to avoid running into any band of indians." "and how does myeerah like the settlement by this time?" "oh, she is getting on famously. betty and she have fallen in love with each other. it is amusing to hear betty try to talk in the wyandot tongue, and to see myeerah's consternation when betty gives her a lesson in deportment." "i rather fancy it would be interesting, too. are you not going back to the wyandots at a dangerous time?" "as to that i can't say. i believe, though, it is better that i get back to tarhe's camp before we have any trouble with the indians. i am anxious to get there before girty or some of his agents." "well, if you must go, good luck to you, and may we meet again." "it will not be long, i am sure. and, old man," he continued, with a bright smile, "when myeerah and i come again to ft. henry we expect to find all well with you. cheer up, and good-bye." all the preparations had been made for the departure of isaac and myeerah to their far-off indian home. they were to ride the indian ponies on which they had arrived at the fort. col. zane had given isaac one of his pack horses. this animal carried blankets, clothing, and food which insured comparative comfort in the long ride through the wilderness. "we will follow the old trail until we reach the hickory swale," isaac was saying to the colonel, "and then we will turn off and make for the river. once across the ohio we can make the trip in two days." "i think you'll make it all right," said col. zane. "even if i do meet indians i shall have no fear, for i have a protector here," answered isaac as he led myeerah's pony to the step. "good-bye, myeerah; he is yours, but do not forget he is dear to us," said betty, embracing and kissing the indian girl. "my sister does not know myeerah. the white eagle will return." "good-bye, betts, don't cry. i shall come home again. and when i do i hope i shall be in time to celebrate another event, this time with you as the heroine. good-bye. goodbye." the ponies cantered down the road. at the bend isaac and myeerah turned and waved their hands until the foliage of the trees hid them from view. "well, these things happen naturally enough. i suppose they must be. but i should much have preferred isaac staying here. hello! what the deuce is that? by lord! it's tige!" the exclamation following col. zane's remarks had been called forth by betty's dog. he came limping painfully up the road from the direction of the river. when he saw col. zane he whined and crawled to the colonel's feet. the dog was wet and covered with burrs, and his beautiful glossy coat, which had been betty's pride, was dripping with blood. "silas, jonathan, come here," cried col. zane. "here's tige, back without wetzel, and the poor dog has been shot almost to pieces. what does it mean?" "indians," said jonathan, coming out of the house with silas, and mrs. zane and betty, who had heard the colonel's call. "he has come a long way. look at his feet. they are torn and bruised," continued jonathan. "and he has been near wingenund's camp. you see that red clay on his paws. there is no red clay that i know of round here, and there are miles of it this side of the delaware camp." "what is the matter with tige?" asked betty. "he is done for. shot through, poor fellow. how did he ever reach home?" said silas. "oh, i hope not! dear old tige," said betty as she knelt and tenderly placed the head of the dog in her lap. "why, what is this? i never put that there. eb, jack, look here. there is a string around his neck," and betty pointed excitedly to a thin cord which was almost concealed in the thick curly hair. "good gracious! eb, look! it is the string off the prize bullet pouch i made, and that wetzel won on isaac's wedding day. it is a message from lew," said betty. "well, by heavens! this is strange. so it is. i remember that string. cut it off, jack," said col. zane. when jonathan had cut the string and held it up they all saw the lead bullet. col. zane examined it and showed them what had been rudely scratched on it. "a letter w. does that mean wetzel?" asked the colonel. "it means war. it's a warning from wetzel--not the slightest doubt of that," said jonathan. "wetzel sends this because he knows we are to be attacked, and because there must have been great doubt of his getting back to tell us. and tige has been shot on his way home." this called the attention to the dog, which had been momentarily forgotten. his head rolled from betty's knee; a quiver shook his frame; he struggled to rise to his feet, but his strength was too far spent; he crawled close to betty's feet; his eyes looked up at her with almost human affection; then they closed, and he lay still. tige was dead. "it is all over, betty. tige will romp no more. he will never be forgotten, for he was faithful to the end. jonathan, tell the major of wetzel's warning, and both of you go back to your posts on the river. silas, send capt. boggs to me." an hour after the death of tige the settlers were waiting for the ring of the meeting-house bell to summon them to the fort. supper at col. zane's that night was not the occasion of good-humored jest and pleasant conversation. mrs. zane's face wore a distressed and troubled look; betty was pale and quiet; even the colonel was gloomy; and the children, missing the usual cheerfulness of the evening meal, shrank close to their mother. darkness slowly settled down; and with it came a feeling of relief, at least for the night, for the indians rarely attacked the settlements after dark. capt. boggs came over and he and col. zane conversed in low tones. "the first thing in the morning i want you to ride over to short creek for reinforcements. i'll send the major also and by a different route. i expect to hear tonight from wetzel. twelve times has he crossed that threshold with the information which made an indian surprise impossible. and i feel sure he will come again." "what was that?" said betty, who was sitting on the doorstep. "sh-h!" whispered col. zane, holding up his finger. the night was warm and still. in the perfect quiet which followed the colonel's whispered exclamation the listeners heard the beating of their hearts. then from the river bank came the cry of an owl; low but clear it came floating to their ears, its single melancholy note thrilling them. faint and far off in the direction of the island sounded the answer. "i knew it. i told you. we shall know all presently," said col. zane. "the first call was jonathan's, and it was answered." the moments dragged away. the children had fallen asleep on the bearskin rug. mrs. zane and betty had heard the colonel's voice, and sat with white faces, waiting, waiting for they knew not what. a familiar, light-moccasined tread sounded on the path, a tall figure loomed up from the darkness; it came up the path, passed up the steps, and crossed the threshold. "wetzel!" exclaimed col. zane and capt. boggs. it was indeed the hunter. how startling was his appearance! the buckskin hunting coat and leggins were wet, torn and bespattered with mud; the water ran and dripped from him to form little muddy pools on the floor; only his rifle and powder horn were dry. his face was ghastly white except where a bullet wound appeared on his temple, from which the blood had oozed down over his cheek. an unearthly light gleamed from his eyes. in that moment wetzel was an appalling sight. "col. zane, i'd been here days before, but i run into some shawnees, and they gave me a hard chase. i have to report that girty, with four hundred injuns and two hundred britishers, are on the way to ft. henry." "my god!" exclaimed col. zane. strong man as he was the hunter's words had unnerved him. the loud and clear tone of the church-bell rang out on the still night air. only once it sounded, but it reverberated among the hills, and its single deep-toned ring was like a knell. the listeners almost expected to hear it followed by the fearful war-cry, that cry which betokened for many desolation and death. chapter xiii. morning found the settlers, with the exception of col. zane, his brother jonathan, the negro sam, and martin wetzel, all within the fort. col. zane had determined, long before, that in the event of another siege, he would use his house as an outpost. twice it had been destroyed by fire at the hands of the indians. therefore, surrounding himself by these men, who were all expert marksmen, col. zane resolved to protect his property and at the same time render valuable aid to the fort. early that morning a pirogue loaded with cannon balls, from ft. pitt and bound for louisville, had arrived and captain sullivan, with his crew of three men, had demanded admittance. in the absence of capt. boggs and major mccolloch, both of whom had been dispatched for reinforcements, col. zane had placed his brother silas in command of the fort. sullivan informed silas that he and his men had been fired on by indians and that they sought the protection of the fort. the services of himself and men, which he volunteered, were gratefully accepted. all told, the little force in the block-house did not exceed forty-two, and that counting the boys and the women who could handle rifles. the few preparations had been completed and now the settlers were awaiting the appearance of the enemy. few words were spoken. the children were secured where they would be out of the way of flying bullets. they were huddled together silent and frightened; pale-faced but resolute women passed up and down the length of the block-house; some carried buckets of water and baskets of food; others were tearing bandages; grim-faced men peered from the portholes; all were listening for the war-cry. they had not long to wait. before noon the well-known whoop came from the wooded shore of the river, and it was soon followed by the appearance of hundreds of indians. the river, which was low, at once became a scene of great animation. from a placid, smoothly flowing stream it was turned into a muddy, splashing, turbulent torrent. the mounted warriors urged their steeds down the bank and into the water; the unmounted improvised rafts and placed their weapons and ammunition upon them; then they swam and pushed, kicked and yelled their way across; other indians swam, holding the bridles of the pack-horses. a detachment of british soldiers followed the indians. in an hour the entire army appeared on the river bluff not three hundred yards from the fort. they were in no hurry to begin the attack. especially did the indians seem to enjoy the lull before the storm, and as they stalked to and fro in plain sight of the garrison, or stood in groups watching the fort, they were seen in all their hideous war-paint and formidable battle-array. they were exultant. their plumes and eagle feathers waved proudly in the morning breeze. now and then the long, peculiarly broken yell of the shawnees rang out clear and strong. the soldiers were drawn off to one side and well out of range of the settlers' guns. their red coats and flashing bayonets were new to most of the little band of men in the block-house. "ho, the fort!" it was a strong, authoritative voice and came from a man mounted on a black horse. "well, girty, what is it?" shouted silas zane. "we demand unconditional surrender," was the answer. "you will never get it," replied silas. "take more time to think it over. you see we have a force here large enough to take the fort in an hour." "that remains to be seen," shouted some one through porthole. an hour passed. the soldiers and the indians lounged around on the grass and walked to and fro on the bluff. at intervals a taunting indian yell, horrible in its suggestiveness came floating on the air. when the hour was up three mounted men rode out in advance of the waiting indians. one was clad in buckskin, another in the uniform of a british officer, and the third was an indian chief whose powerful form was naked except for his buckskin belt and legging. "will you surrender?" came in the harsh and arrogant voice of the renegade. "never! go back to your squaws!" yelled sullivan. "i am capt. pratt of the queen's rangers. if you surrender i will give you the best protection king george affords," shouted the officer. "to hell with lying george! go back to your hair-buying hamilton and tell him the whole british army could not make us surrender," roared hugh bennet. "if you do not give up, the fort will be attacked and burned. your men will be massacred and your women given to the indians," said girty. "you will never take a man, woman or child alive," yelled silas. "we remember crawford, you white traitor, and we are not going to give up to be butchered. come on with your red-jackets and your red-devils. we are ready." "we have captured and killed the messenger you sent out, and now all hope of succor must be abandoned. your doom is sealed." "what kind of a man was he?" shouted sullivan. "a fine, active young fellow," answered the outlaw. "that's a lie," snapped sullivan, "he was an old, gray haired man." as the officer and the outlaw chief turned, apparently to consult their companion, a small puff of white smoke shot forth from one of the portholes of the block-house. it was followed by the ringing report of a rifle. the indian chief clutched wildly at his breast, fell forward on his horse, and after vainly trying to keep his seat, slipped to the ground. he raised himself once, then fell backward and lay still. full two hundred yards was not proof against wetzel's deadly smallbore, and red fox, the foremost war chieftain of the shawnees, lay dead, a victim to the hunter's vengeance. it was characteristic of wetzel that he picked the chief, for he could have shot either the british officer or the renegade. they retreated out of range, leaving the body of the chief where it had fallen, while the horse, giving a frightened snort, galloped toward the woods. wetzel's yell coming quickly after his shot, excited the indians to a very frenzy, and they started on a run for the fort, discharging their rifles and screeching like so many demons. in the cloud of smoke which at once enveloped the scene the indians spread out and surrounded the fort. a tremendous rush by a large party of indians was made for the gate of the fort. they attacked it fiercely with their tomahawks, and a log which they used as a battering-ram. but the stout gate withstood their united efforts, and the galling fire from the portholes soon forced them to fall back and seek cover behind the trees and the rocks. from these points of vantage they kept up an uninterrupted fire. the soldiers had made a dash at the stockade-fence, yelling derision at the small french cannon which was mounted on top of the block-house. they thought it a "dummy" because they had learned that in the siege the garrison had no real cannon, but had tried to utilize a wooden one. they yelled and hooted and mocked at this piece and dared the garrison to fire it. sullivan, who was in charge of the cannon, bided his time. when the soldiers were massed closely together and making another rush for the stockade-fence sullivan turned loose the little "bulldog," spreading consternation and destruction in the british ranks. "stand back! stand back!" capt. pratt was heard to yell. "by god! there's no wood about that gun." after this the besiegers withdrew for a breathing spell. at this early stage of the siege the indians were seen to board sullivan's pirogue, and it was soon discovered they were carrying the cannon balls from the boat to the top of the bluff. in their simple minds they had conceived a happy thought. they procured a white-oak log probably a foot in diameter, split it through the middle and hollowed out the inside with their tomahawks. then with iron chains and bars, which they took from reihart's blacksmith shop, they bound and securely fastened the sides together. they dragged the improvised cannon nearer to the fort, placed it on two logs and weighted it down with stones. a heavy charge of powder and ball was then rammed into the wooden gun. the soldiers, though much interested in the manoeuvre, moved back to a safe distance, while many of the indians crowded round the new weapon. the torch was applied; there was a red flash--boom! the hillside was shaken by the tremendous explosion, and when the smoke lifted from the scene the naked forms of the indians could be seen writhing in agony on the ground. not a vestige of the wooden gun remained. the iron chains had proved terrible death-dealing missiles to the indians near the gun. the indians now took to their natural methods of warfare. they hid in the long grass, in the deserted cabins, behind the trees and up in the branches. not an indian was visible, but the rain of bullets pattered steadily against the block-house. every bush and every tree spouted little puffs of white smoke, and the leaden messengers of death whistled through the air. after another unsuccessful effort to destroy a section of the stockade-fence the soldiers had retired. their red jackets made them a conspicuous mark for the sharp-eyed settlers. capt. pratt had been shot through the thigh. he suffered great pain, and was deeply chagrined by the surprising and formidable defense of the garrison which he had been led to believe would fall an easy prey to the king's soldiers. he had lost one-third of his men. those who were left refused to run straight in the face of certain death. they had not been drilled to fight an unseen enemy. capt. pratt was compelled to order a retreat to the river bluff, where he conferred with girty. inside the block-house was great activity, but no confusion. that little band of fighters might have been drilled for a king's bodyguard. kneeling before each porthole on the river side of the fort was a man who would fight while there was breath left in him. he did not discharge his weapon aimlessly as the indians did, but waited until he saw the outline of an indian form, or a red coat, or a puff of white smoke; then he would thrust the rifle-barrel forward, take a quick aim and fire. by the side of every man stood a heroic woman whose face was blanched, but who spoke never a word as she put the muzzle of the hot rifle into a bucket of water, cooled the barrel, wiped it dry and passed it back to the man beside her. silas zane had been wounded at the first fire. a glancing ball had struck him on the head, inflicting a painful scalp wound. it was now being dressed by col. zane's wife, whose skilled fingers were already tired with the washing and the bandaging of the injuries received by the defenders. in all that horrible din of battle, the shrill yells of the savages, the hoarse shouts of the settlers, the boom of the cannon overhead, the cracking of rifles and the whistling of bullets; in all that din of appalling noise, and amid the stifling smoke, the smell of burned powder, the sickening sight of the desperately wounded and the already dead, the colonel's brave wife had never faltered. she was here and there; binding the wounds, helping lydia and betty mould bullets, encouraging the men, and by her example, enabling those women to whom border war was new to bear up under the awful strain. sullivan, who had been on top of the block-house, came down the ladder almost without touching it. blood was running down his bare arm and dripping from the ends of his fingers. "zane, martin has been shot," he said hoarsely. "the same indian who shot away these fingers did it. the bullets seem to come from some elevation. send some scout up there and find out where that damned indian is hiding." "martin shot? god, his poor wife! is he dead?" said silas. "not yet. bennet is bringing him down. here, i want this hand tied up, so that my gun won't be so slippery." wetzel was seen stalking from one porthole to another. his fearful yell sounded above all the others. he seemed to bear a charmed life, for not a bullet had so much as scratched him. silas communicated to him what sullivan had said. the hunter mounted the ladder and went up on the roof. soon he reappeared, descended into the room and ran into the west end of the block-house. he kneeled before a porthole through which he pushed the long black barrel of his rifle. silas and sullivan followed him and looked in the direction indicated by his weapon. it pointed toward the bushy top of a tall poplar tree which stood on the hill west of the fort. presently a little cloud of white smoke issued from the leafy branches, and it was no sooner seen than wetzel's rifle was discharged. there was a great commotion among the leaves, the branches swayed and thrashed, and then a dark body plunged downward to strike on the rocky slope of the bluff and roll swiftly out of sight. the hunter's unnatural yell pealed out. "great god! the man's crazy," cried sullivan, staring at wetzel's demon-like face. "no, no. it's his way," answered silas. at that moment the huge frame of bennet filled up the opening in the roof and started down the ladder. in one arm he carried the limp body of a young man. when he reached the floor he laid the body down and beckoned to mrs. zane. those watching saw that the young man was will martin, and that he was still alive. but it was evident that he had not long to live. his face had a leaden hue and his eyes were bright and glassy. alice, his wife, flung herself on her knees beside him and tenderly raised the drooping head. no words could express the agony in her face as she raised it to mrs. zane. in it was a mute appeal, an unutterable prayer for hope. mrs. zane turned sorrowfully to her task. there was no need of her skill here. alfred clarke, who had been ordered to take martin's place on top of the block-house, paused a moment in silent sympathy. when he saw that little hole in the bared chest, from which the blood welled up in an awful stream, he shuddered and passed on. betty looked up from her work and then turned away sick and faint. her mute lips moved as if in prayer. alice was left alone with her dying husband. she tenderly supported his head on her bosom, leaned her face against his and kissed the cold, numb lips. she murmured into his already deaf ear the old tender names. he knew her, for he made a feeble effort to pass his arm round her neck. a smile illumined his face. then death claimed him. with wild, distended eyes and with hands pressed tightly to her temples alice rose slowly to her feet. "oh, god! oh, god!" she cried. her prayer was answered. in a momentary lull in the battle was heard the deadly hiss of a bullet as it sped through one of the portholes. it ended with a slight sickening spat as the lead struck the flesh. then alice, without a cry, fell on the husband's breast. silas zane found her lying dead with the body of her husband clasped closely in her arms. he threw a blanket over them and went on his wearying round of the bastions. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * the besiegers had been greatly harassed and hampered by the continual fire from col. zane's house. it was exceedingly difficult for the indians, and impossible for the british, to approach near enough to the colonel's house to get an effective shot. col. zane and his men had the advantage of being on higher ground. also they had four rifles to a man, and they used every spare moment for reloading. thus they were enabled to pour a deadly fire into the ranks of the enemy, and to give the impression of being much stronger in force than they really were. about dusk the firing ceased and the indians repaired to the river bluff. shortly afterward their camp-fires were extinguished and all became dark and quiet. two hours passed. fortunately the clouds, which had at first obscured the moon, cleared away somewhat and enough light was shed on the scene to enable the watchers to discern objects near by. col. zane had just called together his men for a conference. he suspected some cunning deviltry on part of the indians. "sam, take what stuff to eat you can lay your hands on and go up to the loft. keep a sharp lookout and report anything to jonathan or me," said the colonel. all afternoon jonathan zane had loaded and fired his rifles in sullen and dogged determination. he had burst one rifle and disabled another. the other men were fine marksmen, but it was undoubtedly jonathan's unerring aim that made the house so unapproachable. he used an extremely heavy, large bore rifle. in the hands of a man strong enough to stand its fierce recoil it was a veritable cannon. the indians had soon learned to respect the range of that rifle, and they gave the cabin a wide berth. but now that darkness had enveloped the valley the advantage lay with the savages. col. zane glanced apprehensively at the blackened face of his brother. "do you think the fort can hold out?" he asked in a husky voice. he was a bold man, but he thought now of his wife and children. "i don't know," answered jonathan. "i saw that big shawnee chief today. his name is fire. he is well named. he is a fiend. girty has a picked band." "the fort has held out surprisingly well against such combined and fierce attacks. the indians are desperate. you can easily see that in the way in which they almost threw their lives away. the green square is covered with dead indians." "if help does not come in twenty-four hours not one man will escape alive. even wetzel could not break through that line of indians. but if we can hold the indians off a day longer they will get tired and discouraged. girty will not be able to hold them much longer. the british don't count. it's not their kind of war. they can't shoot, and so far as i can see they haven't done much damage." "to your posts, men, and every man think of the women and children in the block-house." for a long time, which seemed hours to the waiting and watching settlers, not a sound could be heard, nor any sign of the enemy seen. thin clouds had again drifted over the moon, allowing only a pale, wan light to shine down on the valley. time dragged on and the clouds grew thicker and denser until the moon and the stars were totally obscured. still no sign or sound of the savages. "what was that?" suddenly whispered col. zane. "it was a low whistle from sam. we'd better go up," said jonathan. they went up the stairs to the second floor from which they ascended to the loft by means of a ladder. the loft was as black as pitch. in that egyptian darkness it was no use to look for anything, so they crawled on their hands and knees over the piles of hides and leather which lay on the floor. when they reached the small window they made out the form of the negro. "what is it, sam?" whispered jonathan. "look, see thar, massa zane," came the answer in a hoarse whisper from the negro and at the same time he pointed down toward the ground. col. zane put his head alongside jonathan's and all three men peered out into the darkness. "jack, can you see anything?" said col. zane. "no, but wait a minute until the moon throws a light." a breeze had sprung up. the clouds were passing rapidly over the moon, and at long intervals a rift between the clouds let enough light through to brighten the square for an instant. "now, massa zane, thar!" exclaimed the slave. "i can't see a thing. can you, jack?" "i am not sure yet. i can see something, but whether it is a log or not i don't know." just then there was a faint light like the brightening of a firefly, or like the blowing of a tiny spark from a stick of burning wood. jonathan uttered a low curse. "d--n 'em! at their old tricks with fire. i thought all this quiet meant something. the grass out there is full of indians, and they are carrying lighted arrows under them so as to cover the light. but we'll fool the red devils this time" "i can see 'em, massa zane." "sh-h-h! no more talk," whispered col. zane. the men waited with cocked rifles. another spark rose seemingly out of the earth. this time it was nearer the house. no sooner had its feeble light disappeared than the report of the negro's rifle awoke the sleeping echoes. it was succeeded by a yell which seemed to come from under the window. several dark forms rose so suddenly that they appeared to spring out of the ground. then came the peculiar twang of indian bows. there were showers of sparks and little streaks of fire with long tails like comets winged their parabolic flight toward the cabin. falling short they hissed and sputtered in the grass. jonathan's rifle spoke and one of the fleeing forms tumbled to the earth. a series of long yells from all around the fort greeted this last shot, but not an indian fired a rifle. fire-tipped arrows were now shot at the block-house, but not one took effect, although a few struck the stockade-fence. col. zane had taken the precaution to have the high grass and the clusters of goldenrod cut down all round the fort. the wisdom of this course now became evident, for the wily savages could not crawl near enough to send their fiery arrows on the roof of the block-house. this attempt failing, the indians drew back to hatch up some other plot to burn the fort. "look!" suddenly exclaimed jonathan. far down the road, perhaps five hundred yards from the fort, a point of light had appeared. at first it was still, and then it took an odd jerky motion, to this side and to that, up and down like a jack-o-lantern. "what the hell?" muttered col. zane, sorely puzzled. "jack, by all that's strange it's getting bigger." sure enough the spark of fire, or whatever it was, grew larger and larger. col. zane thought it might be a light carried by a man on horseback. but if this were true where was the clatter of the horse's hoofs? on that rocky blur no horse could run noiselessly. it could not be a horse. fascinated and troubled by this new mystery which seemed to presage evil to them the watchers waited with that patience known only to those accustomed to danger. they knew that whatever it was, it was some satanic stratagem of the savages, and that it would come all too soon. the light was now zigzagging back and forth across the road, and approaching the fort with marvelous rapidity. now its motion was like the wide swinging of a lighted lantern on a dark night. a moment more of breathless suspense and the lithe form of an indian brave could be seen behind the light. he was running with almost incredible swiftness down the road in the direction of the fort. passing at full speed within seventy-five yards of the stockade-fence the indian shot his arrow. like a fiery serpent flying through the air the missile sped onward in its graceful flight, going clear over the block-house, and striking with a spiteful thud the roof of one of the cabins beyond. unhurt by the volley that was fired at him, the daring brave passed swiftly out of sight. deeds like this were dear to the hearts of the savages. they were deeds which made a warrior of a brave, and for which honor any indian would risk his life over and over again. the exultant yells which greeted this performance proclaimed its success. the breeze had already fanned the smouldering arrow into a blaze and the dry roof of the cabin had caught fire and was burning fiercely. "that infernal redskin is going to do that again," ejaculated jonathan. it was indeed true. that same small bright light could be seen coming down the road gathering headway with every second. no doubt the same indian, emboldened by his success, and maddened with that thirst for glory so often fatal to his kind, was again making the effort to fire the block-house. the eyes of col. zane and his companions were fastened on the light as it came nearer and nearer with its changing motion. the burning cabin brightened the square before the fort. the slender, shadowy figure of the indian could be plainly seen emerging from the gloom. so swiftly did he run that he seemed to have wings. now he was in the full glare of the light. what a magnificent nerve, what a terrible assurance there was in his action! it seemed to paralyze all. the red arrow emitted a shower of sparks as it was discharged. this time it winged its way straight and true and imbedded itself in the roof of the block-house. almost at the same instant a solitary rifle shot rang out and the daring warrior plunged headlong, sliding face downward in the dust of the road, while from the fort came that demoniac yell now grown so familiar. "wetzel's compliments," muttered jonathan. "but the mischief is done. look at that damned burning arrow. if it doesn't blow out the fort will go." the arrow was visible, but it seemed a mere spark. it alternately paled and glowed. one moment it almost went out, and the next it gleamed brightly. to the men, compelled to look on and powerless to prevent the burning of the now apparently doomed block-house, that spark was like the eye of hell. "ho, the fort," yelled col. zane with all the power of his strong lungs. "ho, silas, the roof is on fire!" pandemonium had now broken out among the indians. they could be plainly seen in the red glare thrown by the burning cabin. it had been a very dry season, the rough shingles were like tinder, and the inflammable material burst quickly into great flames, lighting up the valley as far as the edge of the forest. it was an awe-inspiring and a horrible spectacle. columns of yellow and black smoke rolled heavenward; every object seemed dyed a deep crimson; the trees assumed fantastic shapes; the river veiled itself under a red glow. above the roaring and crackling of the flames rose the inhuman yelling of the savages. like demons of the inferno they ran to and fro, their naked painted bodies shining in the glare. one group of savages formed a circle and danced hands-around a stump as gayly as a band of school-girls at a may party. they wrestled with and hugged one another; they hopped, skipped and jumped, and in every possible way manifested their fiendish joy. the british took no part in this revelry. to their credit it must be said they kept in the background as though ashamed of this horrible fire-war on people of their own blood. "why don't they fire the cannon?" impatiently said col. zane. "why don't they do something?" "perhaps it is disabled, or maybe they are short of ammunition," suggested jonathan. "the block-house will burn down before our eyes. look! the hell-hounds have set fire to the fence. i see men running and throwing water." "i see something on the roof of the block-house," cried jonathan. "there, down towards the east end of the roof and in the shadow of the chimney. and as i'm a living sinner it's a man crawling towards that blazing arrow. the indians have not discovered him yet. he is still in the shadow. but they'll see him. god! what a nervy thing to do in the face of all those redskins. it is almost certain death!" "yes, and they see him," said the colonel. with shrill yells the indians bounded forward and aimed and fired their rifles at the crouching figure of the man. some hid behind the logs they had rolled toward the fort; others boldly faced the steady fire now pouring from the portholes. the savages saw in the movement of that man an attempt to defeat their long-cherished hope of burning the fort. seeing he was discovered, the man did not hesitate, nor did he lose a second. swiftly he jumped and ran toward the end of the roof where the burning arrow, now surrounded by blazing shingles, was sticking in the roof. how he ever ran along that slanting roof and with a pail in his hand was incomprehensible. in moments like that men become superhuman. it all happened in an instant. he reached the arrow, kicked it over the wall, and then dashed the bucket of water on the blazing shingles. in that single instant, wherein his tall form was outlined against the bright light behind him, he presented the fairest kind of a mark for the indians. scores of rifles were levelled and discharged at him. the bullets pattered like hail on the roof of the block-house, but apparently none found their mark, for the man ran back and disappeared. "it was clarke!" exclaimed col. zane. "no one but clarke has such light hair. wasn't that a plucky thing?" "it has saved the block-house for to-night," answered jonathan. "see, the indians are falling back. they can't stand in the face of that shooting. hurrah! look at them fall! it could not have happened better. the light from the cabin will prevent any more close attacks for an hour and daylight is near." chapter xiv. the sun rose red. its ruddy rays peeped over the eastern hills, kissed the tree-tops, glinted along the stony bluffs, and chased away the gloom of night from the valley. its warm gleams penetrated the portholes of the fort and cast long bright shadows on the walls; but it brought little cheer to the sleepless and almost exhausted defenders. it brought to many of the settlers the familiar old sailor's maxim: "redness 'a the morning, sailor's warning." rising in its crimson glory the sun flooded the valley, dyeing the river, the leaves, the grass, the stones, tingeing everything with that awful color which stained the stairs, the benches, the floor, even the portholes of the block-house. historians call this the time that tried men's souls. if it tried the men think what it must have been to those grand, heroic women. though they had helped the men load and fire nearly forty-eight hours; though they had worked without a moment's rest and were now ready to succumb to exhaustion; though the long room was full of stifling smoke and the sickening odor of burned wood and powder, and though the row of silent, covered bodies had steadily lengthened, the thought of giving up never occurred to the women. death there would be sweet compared to what it would be at the hands of the redmen. at sunrise silas zane, bare-chested, his face dark and fierce, strode into the bastion which was connected with the blockhouse. it was a small shedlike room, and with portholes opening to the river and the forest. this bastion had seen the severest fighting. five men had been killed here. as silas entered four haggard and powder-begrimed men, who were kneeling before the portholes, looked up at him. a dead man lay in one corner. "smith's dead. that makes fifteen," said silas. "fifteen out of forty-two, that leaves twenty-seven. we must hold out. len, don't expose yourselves recklessly. how goes it at the south bastion?" "all right. there's been firin' over there all night," answered one of the men. "i guess it's been kinder warm over that way. but i ain't heard any shootin' for some time." "young bennet is over there, and if the men needed anything they would send him for it," answered silas. "i'll send some food and water. anything else?" "powder. we're nigh out of powder," replied the man addressed. "and we might jes as well make ready fer a high old time. the red devils hadn't been quiet all this last hour fer nothin'." silas passed along the narrow hallway which led from the bastion into the main room of the block-house. as he turned the corner at the head of the stairway he encountered a boy who was dragging himself up the steps. "hello! who's this? why, harry!" exclaimed silas, grasping the boy and drawing him into the room. once in the light silas saw that the lad was so weak he could hardly stand. he was covered with blood. it dripped from a bandage wound tightly about his arm; it oozed through a hole in his hunting shirt, and it flowed from a wound over his temple. the shadow of death was already stealing over the pallid face, but from the grey eyes shone an indomitable spirit, a spirit which nothing but death could quench. "quick!" the lad panted. "send men to the south wall. the redskins are breakin' in where the water from the spring runs under the fence." "where are metzar and the other men?" "dead! killed last night. i've been there alone all night. i kept on shootin'. then i gets plugged here under the chin. knowin' it's all up with me i deserted my post when i heard the injuns choppin' on the fence where it was on fire last night. but i only--run--because--they're gettin' in." "wetzel, bennet, clarke!" yelled silas, as he laid the boy on the bench. almost as silas spoke the tall form of the hunter confronted him. clarke and the other men were almost as prompt. "wetzel, run to the south wall. the indians are cutting a hole through the fence." wetzel turned, grabbed his rifle and an axe and was gone like a flash. "sullivan, you handle the men here. bessie, do what you can for this brave lad. come, bennet, clarke, we must follow wetzel," commanded silas. mrs. zane hastened to the side of the fainting lad. she washed away the blood from the wound over his temple. she saw that a bullet had glanced on the bone and that the wound was not deep or dangerous. she unlaced the hunting shirt at the neck and pulled the flaps apart. there on the right breast, on a line with the apex of the lung, was a horrible gaping wound. a murderous british slug had passed through the lad. from the hole at every heart-beat poured the dark, crimson life-tide. mrs. zane turned her white face away for a second; then she folded a small piece of linen, pressed it tightly over the wound, and wrapped a towel round the lad's breast. "don't waste time on me. it's all over," he whispered. "will you call betty here a minute?" betty came, white-faced and horror-stricken. for forty hours she had been living in a maze of terror. her movements had almost become mechanical. she had almost ceased to hear and feel. but the light in the eyes of this dying boy brought her back to the horrible reality of the present. "oh, harry! harry! harry!" was all betty could whisper. "i'm goin', betty. and i wanted--you to say a little prayer for me--and say good-bye to me," he panted. betty knelt by the bench and tried to pray. "i hated to run, betty, but i waited and waited and nobody came, and the injuns was getting' in. they'll find dead injuns in piles out there. i was shootin' fer you, betty, and every time i aimed i thought of you." the lad rambled on, his voice growing weaker and weaker and finally ceasing. the hand which had clasped betty's so closely loosened its hold. his eyes closed. betty thought he was dead, but no! he still breathed. suddenly his eyes opened. the shadow of pain was gone. in its place shone a beautiful radiance. "betty, i've cared a lot for you--and i'm dyin'--happy because i've fought fer you--and somethin' tells me--you'll--be saved. good-bye." a smile transformed his face and his gray eyes gazed steadily into hers. then his head fell back. with a sigh his brave spirit fled. hugh bennet looked once at the pale face of his son, then he ran down the stairs after silas and clarke. when the three men emerged from behind capt. boggs' cabin, which was adjacent to the block-house, and which hid the south wall from their view, they were two hundred feet from wetzel. they heard the heavy thump of a log being rammed against the fence; then a splitting and splintering of one of the six-inch oak planks. another and another smashing blow and the lower half of one of the planks fell inwards, leaving an aperture large enough to admit an indian. the men dashed forward to the assistance of wetzel, who stood by the hole with upraised axe. at the same moment a shot rang out. bennet stumbled and fell headlong. an indian had shot through the hole in the fence. silas and alfred sheered off toward the fence, out of line. when within twenty yards of wetzel they saw a swarthy-faced and athletic savage squeeze through the narrow crevice. he had not straightened up before the axe, wielded by the giant hunter, descended on his head, cracking his skull as if it were an eggshell. the savage sank to the earth without even a moan. another savage naked and powerful, slipped in. he had to stoop to get through. he raised himself, and seeing wetzel, he tried to dodge the lightning sweep of the axe. it missed his head, at which it had been aimed, but struck just over the shoulders, and buried itself in flesh and bone. the indian uttered an agonizing yell which ended in a choking, gurgling sound as the blood spurted from his throat. wetzel pulled the weapon from the body of his victim, and with the same motion he swung it around. this time the blunt end met the next indian's head with a thud like that made by the butcher when he strikes the bullock to the ground. the indian's rifle dropped, his tomahawk flew into the air, while his body rolled down the little embankment into the spring. another and another indian met the same fate. then two indians endeavored to get through the aperture. the awful axe swung by those steel arms, dispatched both of than in the twinkling of an eye. their bodies stuck in the hole. silas and alfred stood riveted to the spot. just then wetzel in all his horrible glory was a sight to freeze the marrow of any man. he had cast aside his hunting shirt in that run to the fence and was now stripped to the waist. he was covered with blood. the muscles of his broad back and his brawny arms swelled and rippled under the brown skin. at every swing of the gory axe he let out a yell the like of which had never before been heard by the white men. it was the hunter's mad yell of revenge. in his thirst for vengeance he had forgotten that he was defending the fort with its women and its children; he was fighting because he loved to kill. silas zane heard the increasing clamor outside and knew that hundreds of indians were being drawn to the spot. something must be done at once. he looked around and his eyes fell on a pile of white-oak logs that had been hauled inside the fort. they had been placed there by col. zane, with wise forethought. silas grabbed clarke and pulled him toward the pile of logs, at the same time communicating his plan. together they carried a log to the fence and dropped it in front of the hole. wetzel immediately stepped on it and took a vicious swing at an indian who was trying to poke his rifle sideways through the hole. this indian had discharged his weapon twice. while wetzel held the indians at bay, silas and clarke piled the logs one upon another, until the hole was closed. this effectually fortified and barricaded the weak place in the stockade fence. the settlers in the bastions were now pouring such a hot fire into the ranks of the savage that they were compelled to retreat out of range. while wetzel washed the blood from his arms and his shoulders silas and alfred hurried back to where bennet had fallen. they expected to find him dead, and were overjoyed to see the big settler calmly sitting by the brook binding up a wound in his shoulder. "it's nothin' much. jest a scratch, but it tumbled me over," he said. "i was comin' to help you. that was the wust injun scrap i ever saw. why didn't you keep on lettin' 'em come in? the red varmints would'a kept on comin' and wetzel was good fer the whole tribe. all you'd had to do was to drag the dead injuns aside and give him elbow room." wetzel joined them at this moment, and they hurried back to the block-house. the firing had ceased on the bluff. they met sullivan at the steps of the fort. he was evidently coming in search of them. "zane, the indians and the britishers are getting ready for more determined and persistent effort than any that has yet been made," said sullivan. "how so?" asked silas. "they have got hammers from the blacksmith's shop, and they boarded my boat and found a keg of nails. now they are making a number of ladders. if they make a rush all at once and place ladders against the fence we'll have the fort full of indians in ten minutes. they can't stand in the face of a cannon charge. we _must_ use the cannon." "clarke, go into capt. boggs' cabin and fetch out two kegs of powder," said silas. the young man turned in the direction of the cabin, while silas and the others ascended the stairs. "the firing seems to be all on the south side," said silas, "and is not so heavy as it was." "yes, as i said, the indians on the river front are busy with their new plans," answered sullivan. "why does not clarke return?" said silas, after waiting a few moments at the door of the long room. "we have no time to lose. i want to divide one keg of that powder among the men." clarke appeared at the moment. he was breathing heavily as though he had run up the stairs, or was laboring under a powerful emotion. his face was gray. "i could not find any powder!" he exclaimed. "i searched every nook and corner in capt. boggs' house. there is no powder there." a brief silence ensued. everyone in the block-house heard the young man's voice. no one moved. they all seemed waiting for someone to speak. finally silas zane burst out: "not find it? you surely could not have looked well. capt. boggs himself told me there were three kegs of powder in the storeroom. i will go and find it myself." alfred did not answer, but sat down on a bench with an odd numb feeling round his heart. he knew what was coming. he had been in the captain's house and had seen those kegs of powder. he knew exactly where they had been. now they were not on the accustomed shelf, nor at any other place in the storeroom. while he sat there waiting for the awful truth to dawn on the garrison, his eyes roved from one end of the room to the other. at last they found what they were seeking. a young woman knelt before a charcoal fire which she was blowing with a bellows. it was betty. her face was pale and weary, her hair dishevelled, her shapely arms blackened with charcoal, but notwithstanding she looked calm, resolute, self-contained. lydia was kneeling by her side holding a bullet-mould on a block of wood. betty lifted the ladle from the red coals and poured the hot metal with a steady hand and an admirable precision. too much or too little lead would make an imperfect ball. the little missile had to be just so for those soft-metal, smooth-bore rifles. then lydia dipped the mould in a bucket of water, removed it and knocked it on the floor. a small, shiny lead bullet rolled out. she rubbed it with a greasy rag and then dropped it in a jar. for nearly forty hours, without sleep or rest, almost without food, those brave girls had been at their post. silas zane came running into the room. his face was ghastly, even his lips were white and drawn. "sullivan, in god's name, what can we do? the powder is gone!" he cried in a strident voice. "gone?" repeated several voices. "gone?" echoed sullivan. "where?" "god knows. i found where the kegs stood a few days ago. there were marks in the dust. they have been moved." "perhaps boggs put them here somewhere," said sullivan. "we will look." "no use. no use. we were always careful to keep the powder out of here on account of fire. the kegs are gone, gone." "miller stole them," said wetzel in his calm voice. "what difference does that make now?" burst out silas, turning passionately on the hunter, whose quiet voice in that moment seemed so unfeeling. "they're gone!" in the silence which ensued after these words the men looked at each other with slowly whitening faces. there was no need of words. their eyes told one another what was coming. the fate which had overtaken so many border forts was to be theirs. they were lost! and every man thought not of himself, cared not for himself, but for those innocent children, those brave young girls and heroic women. a man can die. he is glorious when he calmly accepts death; but when he fights like a tiger, when he stands at bay his back to the wall, a broken weapon in his hand, bloody, defiant, game to the end, then he is sublime. then he wrings respect from the souls of even his bitterest foes. then he is avenged even in his death. but what can women do in times of war? they help, they cheer, they inspire, and if their cause is lost they must accept death or worse. few women have the courage for self-destruction. "to the victor belong the spoils," and women have ever been the spoils of war. no wonder silas zane and his men weakened in that moment. with only a few charges for their rifles and none for the cannon how could they hope to hold out against the savages? alone they could have drawn their tomahawks and have made a dash through the lines of indians, but with the women and the children that was impossible. "wetzel, what can we do? for god's sake, advise us!" said silas hoarsely. "we cannot hold the fort without powder. we cannot leave the women here. we had better tomahawk every woman in the block-house than let her fall into the hands of girty." "send someone fer powder," answered wetzel. "do you think it possible," said silas quickly, a ray of hope lighting up his haggard features. "there's plenty of powder in eb's cabin. whom shall we send? who will volunteer?" three men stepped forward, and others made a movement. "they'd plug a man full of lead afore he'd get ten foot from the gate," said wetzel. "i'd go myself, but it wouldn't do no good. send a boy, and one as can run like a streak." "there are no lads big enough to carry a keg of powder. harry bennett might go," said silas. "how is he, bessie?" "he is dead," answered mrs. zane. wetzel made a motion with his hands and turned away. a short, intense silence followed this indication of hopelessness from him. the women understood, for some of them covered their faces, while others sobbed. "i will go." it was betty's voice, and it rang clear and vibrant throughout the room. the miserable women raised their drooping heads, thrilled by that fresh young voice. the men looked stupefied. clarke seemed turned to stone. wetzel came quickly toward her. "impossible!" said sullivan. silas zane shook his head as if the idea were absurd. "let me go, brother, let me go?" pleaded betty as she placed her little hands softly, caressingly on her brother's bare arm. "i know it is only a forlorn chance, but still it is a chance. let me take it. i would rather die that way than remain here and wait for death." "silas, it ain't a bad plan," broke in wetzel. "betty can run like a deer. and bein' a woman they may let her get to the cabin without shootin'." silas stood with arms folded across his broad chest. as he gazed at his sister great tears coursed down his dark cheeks and splashed on the hands which so tenderly clasped his own. betty stood before him transformed; all signs of weariness had vanished; her eyes shone with a fateful resolve; her white and eager face was surpassingly beautiful with its light of hope, of prayer, of heroism. "let me go, brother. you know i can run, and oh! i will fly today. every moment is precious. who knows? perhaps capt. boggs is already near at hand with help. you cannot spare a man. let me go." "betty, heaven bless and save you, you shall go," said silas. "no! no! do not let her go!" cried clarke, throwing himself before them. he was trembling, his eyes were wild, and he had the appearance of a man suddenly gone mad. "she shall not go," he cried. "what authority have you here?" demanded silas zane, sternly. "what right have you to speak?" "none, unless it is that i love her and i will go for her," answered alfred desperately. "stand back!" cried wetzel, placing his powerful hard on clarke's breast and pushing him backward. "if you love her you don't want to have her wait here for them red devils," and he waved his hand toward the river. "if she gets back she'll save the fort. if she fails she'll at least escape girty." betty gazed into the hunter's eyes and then into alfred's. she understood both men. one was sending her out to her death because he knew it would be a thousand times more merciful than the fate which awaited her at the hands of the indians. the other had not the strength to watch her go to her death. he had offered himself rather than see her take such fearful chances. "i know. if it were possible you would both save me," said betty, simply. "now you can do nothing but pray that god may spare my life long enough to reach the gate. silas, i am ready." downstairs a little group of white-faced men were standing before the gateway. silas zane had withdrawn the iron bar. sullivan stood ready to swing in the ponderous gate. wetzel was speaking with a clearness and a rapidity which were wonderful under the circumstances. "when we let you out you'll have a clear path. run, but not very fast. save your speed. tell the colonel to empty a keg of powder in a table cloth. throw it over your shoulder and start back. run like you was racin' with me, and keep on comin' if you do get hit. now go!" the huge gate creaked and swung in. betty ran out, looking straight before her. she had covered half the distance between the fort and the colonel's house when long taunting yells filled the air. "squaw! waugh! squaw! waugh!" yelled the indians in contempt. not a shot did they fire. the yells ran all along the river front, showing that hundreds of indians had seen the slight figure running up the gentle slope toward the cabin. betty obeyed wetzel's instructions to the letter. she ran easily and not at all hurriedly, and was as cool as if there had not been an indian within miles. col. zane had seen the gate open and betty come forth. when she bounded up the steps he flung open that door and she ran into his arms. "betts, for god's sake! what's this?" he cried. "we are out of powder. empty a keg of powder into a table cloth. quick! i've not a second to lose," she answered, at the same time slipping off her outer skirt. she wanted nothing to hinder that run for the block-house. jonathan zane heard betty's first words and disappeared into the magazine-room. he came out with a keg in his arms. with one blow of an axe he smashed in the top of the keg. in a twinkling a long black stream of the precious stuff was piling up in a little hill in the center of the table. then the corners of the table cloth were caught up, turned and twisted, and the bag of powder was thrown over betty's shoulder. "brave girl, so help me god, you are going to do it!" cried col. zane, throwing open the door. "i know you can. run as you never ran in all your life." like an arrow sprung from a bow betty flashed past the colonel and out on the green. scarcely ten of the long hundred yards had been covered by her flying feet when a roar of angry shouts and yells warned betty that the keen-eyed savages saw the bag of powder and now knew they had been deceived by a girl. the cracking of rifles began at a point on the bluff nearest col. zane's house, and extended in a half circle to the eastern end of the clearing. the leaden messengers of death whistled past betty. they sped before her and behind her, scattering pebbles in her path, striking up the dust, and ploughing little furrows in the ground. a quarter of the distance covered! betty had passed the top of the knoll now and she was going down the gentle slope like the wind. none but a fine marksman could have hit that small, flitting figure. the yelling and screeching had become deafening. the reports of the rifles blended in a roar. yet above it all betty heard wetzel's stentorian yell. it lent wings to her feet. half the distance covered! a hot, stinging pain shot through betty's arm, but she heeded it not. the bullets were raining about her. they sang over her head; hissed close to her ears, and cut the grass in front of her; they pattered like hail on the stockade-fence, but still untouched, unharmed, the slender brown figure sped toward the gate. three-fourths of the distance covered! a tug at the flying hair, and a long, black tress cut off by a bullet, floated away on the breeze. betty saw the big gate swing; she saw the tall figure of the hunter; she saw her brother. only a few more yards! on! on! on! a blinding red mist obscured her sight. she lost the opening in the fence, but unheeding she rushed on. another second and she stumbled; she felt herself grasped by eager arms; she heard the gate slam and the iron bar shoot into place; then she felt and heard no more. silas zane bounded up the stairs with a doubly precious burden in his arms. a mighty cheer greeted his entrance. it aroused alfred clarke, who had bowed his head on the bench and had lost all sense of time and place. what were the women sobbing and crying over? to whom belonged that white face? of course, it was the face of the girl he loved. the face of the girl who had gone to her death. and he writhed in his agony. then something wonderful happened. a warm, living flush swept over that pale face. the eyelids fluttered; they opened, and the dark eyes, radiant, beautiful, gazed straight into alfred's. still alfred could not believe his eyes. that pale face and the wonderful eyes belonged to the ghost of his sweetheart. they had come back to haunt him. then he heard a voice. "o-h! but that brown place burns!" alfred saw a bare and shapely arm. its beauty was marred by a cruel red welt. he heard that same sweet voice laugh and cry together. then he came back to life and hope. with one bound he sprang to a porthole. "god, what a woman!" he said between his teeth, as he thrust the rifle forward. it was indeed not a time for inaction. the indians, realizing they had been tricked and had lost a golden opportunity, rushed at the fort with renewed energy. they attacked from all sides and with the persistent fury of savages long disappointed in their hopes. they were received with a scathing, deadly fire. bang! roared the cannon, and the detachment of savages dropped their ladders and fled. the little "bull dog" was turned on its swivel and directed at another rush of indians. bang! and the bullets, chainlinks, and bits of iron ploughed through the ranks of the enemy. the indians never lived who could stand in the face of well-aimed cannon-shot. they fell back. the settlers, inspired, carried beyond themselves by the heroism of a girl, fought as they had never fought before. every shot went to a redskin's heart, impelled by the powder for which a brave girl had offered her life, guided by hands and arms of iron, and aimed by eyes as fixed and stern as fate, every bullet shed the life-blood of a warrior. slowly and sullenly the red men gave way before that fire. foot by foot they retired. girty was seen no more. fire, the shawnee chief, lay dead in the road almost in the same spot where two days before his brother chief, red fox, had bit the dust. the british had long since retreated. when night came the exhausted and almost famished besiegers sought rest and food. the moon came out clear and beautiful, as if ashamed at her traitor's part of the night before, and brightened up the valley, bathing the fort, the river, and the forest in her silver light. shortly after daybreak the next morning the indians, despairing of success, held a pow-wow. while they were grouped in plain view of the garrison, and probably conferring over the question of raising the siege, the long, peculiar whoop of an indian spy, who had been sent out to watch for the approach of a relief party, rang out. this seemed a signal for retreat. scarcely had the shrill cry ceased to echo in the hills when the indians and the british, abandoning their dead, moved rapidly across the river. after a short interval a mounted force was seen galloping up the creek road. it proved to be capt. boggs, swearengen, and williamson with seventy men. great was the rejoicing. capt. boggs had expected to find only the ashes of the fort. and the gallant little garrison, although saddened by the loss of half its original number, rejoiced that it had repulsed the united forces of braves and british. chapter xv. peace and quiet reigned ones more at ft. henry. before the glorious autumn days had waned, the settlers had repaired the damage done to their cabins, and many of them were now occupied with the fall plowing. never had the fort experienced such busy days. many new faces were seen in the little meeting-house. pioneers from virginia, from ft. pitt, and eastward had learned that fort henry had repulsed the biggest force of indians and soldiers that governor hamilton and his minions could muster. settlers from all points along the river were flocking to col. zane's settlement. new cabins dotted the hillside; cabins and barns in all stages of construction could be seen. the sounds of hammers, the ringing stroke of the axe, and the crashing down of mighty pines or poplars were heard all day long. col. zane sat oftener and longer than ever before in his favorite seat on his doorstep. on this evening he had just returned from a hard day in the fields, and sat down to rest a moment before going to supper. a few days previous isaac zane and myeerah had come to the settlement. myeerah brought a treaty of peace signed by tarhe and the other wyandot chieftains. the once implacable huron was now ready to be friendly with the white people. col. zane and his brothers signed the treaty, and betty, by dint of much persuasion, prevailed on wetzel to bury the hatchet with the hurons. so myeerah's love, like the love of many other women, accomplished more than years of war and bloodshed. the genial and happy smile never left col. zane's face, and as he saw the well-laden rafts coming down the river, and the air of liveliness and animation about the growing settlement, his smile broadened into one of pride and satisfaction. the prophecy that he had made twelve years before was fulfilled. his dream was realized. the wild, beautiful spot where he had once built a bark shack and camped half a year without seeing a white man was now the scene of a bustling settlement; and he believed he would live to see that settlement grow into a prosperous city. he did not think of the thousands of acres which would one day make him a wealthy man. he was a pioneer at heart; he had opened up that rich new country; he had conquered all obstacles, and that was enough to make him content. "papa, when shall i be big enough to fight bars and bufflers and injuns?" asked noah, stopping in his play and straddling his father's knee. "my boy, did you not have indians enough a short time ago?" "but, papa, i did not get to see any. i heard the shooting and yelling. sammy was afraid, but i wasn't. i wanted to look out of the little holes, but they locked us up in the dark room." "if that boy ever grows up to be like jonathan or wetzel it will be the death of me," said the colonel's wife, who had heard the lad's chatter. "don't worry, bessie. when noah grows to be a man the indians will be gone." col. zane heard the galloping of a horse and looking up saw clarke coming down the road on his black thoroughbred. the colonel rose and walked out to the hitching-block, where clarke had reined in his fiery steed. "ah, alfred. been out for a ride?" "yes, i have been giving roger a little exercise." "that's a magnificent animal. i never get tired watching him move. he's the best bit of horseflesh on the river. by the way, we have not seen much of you since the siege. of course you have been busy. getting ready to put on the harness, eh? well, that's what we want the young men to do. come over and see us." "i have been trying to come. you know how it is with me--about betty, i mean. col. zane, i--i love her. that's all." "yes, i know, alfred, and i don't wonder at your fears. but i have always liked you, and now i guess it's about time for me to put a spoke in your wheel of fortune. if betty cares for you--and i have a sneaking idea she does--i will give her to you." "i have nothing. i gave up everything when i left home." "my lad, never mind about that," said the colonel, laying his hand on clarke's knee. "we don't need riches. i have so often said that we need nothing out here on the border but honest hearts and strong, willing hands. these you have. that is enough for me and for my people, and as for land, why, i have enough for an army of young men. i got my land cheap. that whole island there i bought from cornplanter. you can have that island or any tract of land along the river. some day i shall put you at the head of my men. it will take you years to cut that road through to maysville. oh, i have plenty of work for you." "col. zane, i cannot thank you," answered alfred, with emotion. "i shall try to merit your friendship and esteem. will you please tell your sister i shall come over in the morning and beg to see her alone." "that i will, alfred. goodnight." col. zane strode across his threshold with a happy smile on his face. he loved to joke and tease, and never lost an opportunity. "things seem to be working out all right. now for some fun with her highness," he said to himself. as the colonel surveyed the pleasant home scene he felt he had nothing more to wish for. the youngsters were playing with a shaggy little pup which had already taken tige's place in their fickle affections. his wife was crooning a lullaby as she gently rocked the cradle to and fro. a wonderful mite of humanity peacefully slumbered in that old cradle. annie was beginning to set the table for the evening meal. isaac lay with a contented smile on his face, fast asleep on the couch, where, only a short time before, he had been laid bleeding and almost dead. betty was reading to myeerah, whose eyes were rapturously bright as she leaned her head against her sister and listened to the low voice. "well, betty, what do you think?" said col. zane, stopping before the girls. "what do i think?" retorted betty. "why, i think you are very rude to interrupt me. i am reading to myeerah her first novel." "i have a very important message for you." "for me? what! from whom?" "guess." betty ran through a list of most of her acquaintances, but after each name her brother shook his head. "oh, well, i don't care," she finally said. the color in her cheeks had heightened noticeably. "very well. if you do not care, i will say nothing more," said col. zane. at this juncture annie called them to supper. later, when col. zane sat on the doorstep smoking, betty came and sat beside him with her head resting against his shoulder. the colonel smoked on in silence. presently the dusky head moved restlessly. "eb, tell me the message," whispered betty. "message? what message?" asked col. zone. "what are you talking about?" "do not tease--not now. tell me." there was an undercurrent of wistfulness in betty's voice which touched the kindhearted brother. "well, to-day a certain young man asked me if he could relieve me of the responsibility of looking after a certain young lady." "oh----" "wait a moment. i told him i would be delighted." "eb, that was unkind." "then he asked me to tell her he was coming over to-morrow morning to fix it up with her." "oh, horrible!" cried betty. "were those the words he used?" "betts, to tell the honest truth, he did not say much of anything. he just said: 'i love her,' and his eyes blazed." betty uttered a half articulate cry and ran to her room. her heart was throbbing. what could she do? she felt that if she looked once into her lover's eyes she would have no strength. how dared she allow herself to be so weak! yet she knew this was the end. she could deceive him no longer. for she felt a stir in her heart, stronger than all, beyond all resistance, an exquisite agony, the sweet, blind, tumultuous exultation of the woman who loves and is loved. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "bess, what do you think?" said col. zane, going into the kitchen next morning, after he had returned from the pasture. "clarke just came over and asked for betty. i called her. she came down looking as sweet and cool as one of the lilies out by the spring. she said: 'why, mr. clarke, you are almost a stranger. i am pleased to see you. indeed, we are all very glad to know you have recovered from your severe burns.' she went on talking like that for all the world like a girl who didn't care a snap for him. and she knows as well as i do. not only that, she has been actually breaking her heart over him all these months. how did she do it? oh, you women beat me all hollow!" "would you expect betty to fall into his arms?" asked the colonel's worthy spouse, indignantly. "not exactly. but she was too cool, too friendly. poor alfred looked as if he hadn't slept. he was nervous and scared to death. when betty ran up stairs i put a bug in alfred's ear. he'll be all right now, if he follows my advice." "humph! what did colonel ebenezer zane tell him?" asked bessie, in disgust. "oh, not much. i simply told him not to lose his nerve; that a woman never meant 'no'; that she often says it only to be made say 'yes.' and i ended up with telling him if she got a little skittish, as thoroughbreds do sometimes, to try a strong arm. that was my way." "col. zane, if my memory does not fail me, you were as humble and beseeching as the proudest girl could desire." "i beseeching? never!" "i hope alfred's wooing may go well. i like him very much. but i'm afraid. betty has such a spirit that it is quite likely she will refuse him for no other reason than that he built his cabin before he asked her." "nonsense. he asked her long ago. never fear, bess, my sister will come back as meek as a lamb." meanwhile betty and alfred were strolling down the familiar path toward the river. the october air was fresh with a suspicion of frost. the clear notes of a hunter's horn came floating down from the hills. a flock of wild geese had alighted on the marshy ground at the end of the island where they kept up a continual honk! honk! the brown hills, the red forest, and the yellow fields were now at the height of their autumnal beauty. soon the november north wind would thrash the trees bare, and bow the proud heads of the daisies and the goldenrod; but just now they flashed in the sun, and swayed back and forth in all their glory. "i see you limp. are you not entirely well?" betty was saying. "oh, i am getting along famously, thank you," said alfred. "this one foot was quite severely burned and is still tender." "you have had your share of injuries. i heard my brother say you had been wounded three times within a year." "four times." "jonathan told of the axe wound; then the wound miller gave you, and finally the burns. these make three, do they not?" "yes, but you see, all three could not be compared to the one you forgot to mention." "let us hurry past here," said betty, hastening to change the subject. "this is where you had the dreadful fight with miller." "as miller did go to meet girty, and as he did not return to the fort with the renegade, we must believe he is dead. of course, we do not know this to be actually a fact. but something makes me think so. jonathan and wetzel have not said anything; i can't get any satisfaction on that score from either; but i am sure neither of them would rest until miller was dead." "i think you are right. but we may never know. all i can tell you is that wetzel and jack trailed miller to the river, and then they both came back. i was the last to see lewis that night before he left on miller's trail. it isn't likely i shall forget what lewis said and how he looked. miller was a wicked man; yes, a traitor." "he was a bad man, and he nearly succeeded in every one of his plans. i have not the slightest doubt that had he refrained from taking part in the shooting match he would have succeeded in abducting you, in killing me, and in leading girty here long before he was expected." "there are many things that may never be explained, but one thing miller did always mystify us. how did he succeed in binding tige?" "to my way of thinking that was not so difficult as climbing into my room and almost killing me, or stealing the powder from capt. boggs' room." "the last, at least, gave me a chance to help," said betty, with a touch of her odd roguishness. "that was the grandest thing a woman ever did," said alfred, in a low tone. "oh, no, i only ran fast." "i would have given the world to have seen you, but i was lying on the bench wishing i were dead. i did not have strength to look out of a porthole. oh! that horrible time! i can never forget it. i lie awake at night and hear the yelling and shooting. then i dream of running over the burning roofs and it all comes back so vividly i can almost feel the flames and smell the burnt wood. then i wake up and think of that awful moment when you were carried into the blockhouse white, and, as i thought, dead." "but i wasn't. and i think it best for us to forget that horrible siege. it is past. it is a miracle that any one was spared. ebenezer says we should not grieve for those who are gone; they were heroic; they saved the fort. he says too, that we shall never again be troubled by indians. therefore let us forget and be happy. i have forgotten miller. you can afford to do the same." "yes, i forgive him." then, after a long silence, alfred continued, "will you go down to the old sycamore?" down the winding path they went. coming to a steep place in the rocky bank alfred jumped down and then turned to help betty. but she avoided his gaze, pretended to not see his outstretched hands, and leaped lightly down beside him. he looked at her with perplexity and anxiety in his eyes. before he could speak she ran on ahead of him and climbed down the bank to the pool. he followed slowly, thoughtfully. the supreme moment had come. he knew it, and somehow he did not feel the confidence the colonel had inspired in him. it had been easy for him to think of subduing this imperious young lady; but when the time came to assert his will he found he could not remember what he had intended to say, and his feelings were divided between his love for her and the horrible fear that he should lose her. when he reached the sycamore tree he found her sitting behind it with a cluster of yellow daisies in her lap. alfred gazed at her, conscious that all his hopes of happiness were dependent on the next few words that would issue from her smiling lips. the little brown hands, which were now rather nervously arranging the flowers, held more than his life. "are they not sweet?" asked betty, giving him a fleeting glance. "we call them 'black-eyed susans.' could anything be lovelier than that soft, dark brown?" "yes," answered alfred, looking into her eyes. "but--but you are not looking at my daisies at all," said betty, lowering her eyes. "no, i am not," said alfred. then suddenly: "a year ago this very day we were here." "here? oh, yes, i believe i do remember. it was the day we came in my canoe and had such fine fishing." "is that all you remember?" "i can recollect nothing in particular. it was so long ago." "i suppose you will say you had no idea why i wanted you to come to this spot in particular." "i supposed you simply wanted to take a walk, and it is very pleasant here." "then col. zane did not tell you?" demanded alfred. receiving no reply he went on. "did you read my letter?" "what letter?" "the letter old sam should have given you last fall. did you read it?" "yes," answered betty, faintly. "did your brother tell you i wanted to see you this morning?" "yes, he told me, and it made me very angry," said betty, raising her head. there was a bright red spot in each cheek. "you--you seemed to think you--that i--well--i did not like it." "i think i understand; but you are entirely wrong. i have never thought you cared for me. my wildest dreams never left me any confidence. col. zane and wetzel both had some deluded notion that you cared--" "but they had no right to say that or to think it," said betty, passionately. she sprang to her feet, scattering the daisies over the grass. "for them to presume that i cared for you is absurd. i never gave them any reason to think so, for--for i--i don't." "very well, then, there is nothing more to be said," answered alfred, in a voice that was calm and slightly cold. "i'm sorry if you have been annoyed. i have been mad, of course, but i promise you that you need fear no further annoyance from me. come, i think we should return to the house." and he turned and walked slowly up the path. he had taken perhaps a dozen steps when she called him. "mr. clarke, come back." alfred retraced his steps and stood before her again. then he saw a different betty. the haughty poise had disappeared. her head was bowed. her little hands were tightly pressed over a throbbing bosom. "well," said alfred, after a moment. "why--why are you in such a hurry to go?" "i have learned what i wanted to know. and after that i do not imagine i would be very agreeable. i am going back. are you coming?" "i did not mean quite what i said," whispered betty. "then what did you mean?" asked alfred, in a stern voice. "i don't know. please don't speak so." "betty, forgive my harshness. can you expect a man to feel as i do and remain calm? you know i love you. you must not trifle any longer. you must not fight any longer." "but i can't help fighting." "look at me," said alfred, taking her hands. "let me see your eyes. i believe you care a little for me, or else you wouldn't have called me back. i love you. can you understand that?" "yes, i can; and i think you should love me a great deal to make up for what you made me suffer." "betty, look at me." slowly she raised her head and lifted the downcast eyes. those telltale traitors no longer hid her secret. with a glad cry alfred caught her in his arms. she tried to hide her face, but he got his hand under her chin and held it firmly so that the sweet crimson lips were very near his own. then he slowly bent his head. betty saw his intention, closed her eyes and whispered. "alfred, please don't--it's not fair--i beg of you--oh!" that kiss was betty's undoing. she uttered a strange little cry. then her dark head found a hiding place over his heart, and her slender form, which a moment before had resisted so fiercely, sank yielding into his embrace. "betty, do you dare tell me now that you do not care for me?" alfred whispered into the dusky hair which rippled over his breast. betty was brave even in her surrender. her hands moved slowly upward along his arms, slipped over his shoulders, and clasped round his neck. then she lifted a flushed and tearstained face with tremulous lips and wonderful shining eyes. "alfred, i do love you--with my whole heart i love you. i never knew until now." the hours flew apace. the prolonged ringing of the dinner bell brought the lovers back to earth, and to the realization that the world held others than themselves. slowly they climbed the familiar path, but this time as never before. they walked hand in hand. from the blur they looked back. they wanted to make sure they were not dreaming. the water rushed over the fall more musically than ever before; the white patches of foam floated round and round the shady pool; the leaves of the sycamore rustled cheerily in the breeze. on a dead branch a wood-pecker hammered industriously. "before we get out of sight of that dear old tree i want to make a confession," said betty, as she stood before alfred. she was pulling at the fringe on his hunting-coat. "you need not make confessions to me." "but this was dreadful; it preys on my conscience." "very well, i will be your judge. your punishment shall be slight." "one day when you were lying unconscious from your wound, bessie sent me to watch you. i nursed you for hours; and--and--do not think badly of me--i--i kissed you." "my darling," cried the enraptured young man. when they at last reached the house they found col. zane on the doorstep. "where on earth have you been?" he said. "wetzel was here. he said he would not wait to see you. there he goes up the hill. he is behind that laurel." they looked and presently saw the tall figure of the hunter emerge from the bushes. he stopped and leaned on his rifle. for a minute he remained motionless. then he waved his hand and plunged into the thicket. betty sighed and alfred said: "poor wetzel! ever restless, ever roaming." "hello, there!" exclaimed a gay voice. the lovers turned to see the smiling face of isaac, and over his shoulder myeerah's happy face beaming on them. "alfred, you are a lucky dog. you can thank myeerah and me for this; because if i had not taken to the river and nearly drowned myself to give you that opportunity you would not wear that happy face to-day. blush away, betts, it becomes you mightily." "bessie, here they are!" cried col. zane, in his hearty voice. "she is tamed at last. no excuses, alfred, in to dinner you go." col. zane pushed the young people up the steps before him, and stopping on the threshold while he knocked the ashes from his pipe, he smiled contentedly. afterword. betty lived all her after life on the scene of her famous exploit. she became a happy wife and mother. when she grew to be an old lady, with her grandchildren about her knee, she delighted to tell them that when a girl she had run the gauntlet of the indians. col. zane became the friend of all redmen. he maintained a trading-post for many years, and his dealings were ever kind and honorable. after the country got settled he received from time to time various marks of distinction from the state, colonial, and national governments. his most noted achievement was completed about . president washington, desiring to open a national road from fort henry to maysville, kentucky, paid a great tribute to col. zane's ability by employing him to undertake the arduous task. his brother jonathan and the indian guide, tomepomehala, rendered valuable aid in blazing out the path through the wilderness. this road, famous for many years as zane's trace, opened the beautiful ohio valley to the ambitious pioneer. for this service congress granted col. zane the privilege of locating military warrants upon three sections of land, each a square mile in extent, which property the government eventually presented to him. col. zane was the founder of wheeling, zanesville, martin's ferry, and bridgeport. he died in . isaac zane received from the government a patent of ten thousand acres of land on mad river. he established his home in the center of this tract, where he lived with the wyandot until his death. a white settlement sprang up, prospered, and grew, and today it is the thriving city of zanesfield. jonathan zane settled down after peace was declared with the indians, found himself a wife, and eventually became an influential citizen. however, he never lost his love for the wild woods. at times he would take down the old rifle and disappear for two or three days. he always returned cheerful and happy from these lonely hunts. wetzel alone did not take kindly to the march of civilization; but then he was a hunter, not a pioneer. he kept his word of peace with his old enemies, the hurons, though he never abandoned his wandering and vengeful quests after the delawares. as the years passed wetzel grew more silent and taciturn. from time to time he visited ft. henry, and on these visits he spent hours playing with betty's children. but he was restless in the settlement, and his sojourns grew briefer and more infrequent as time rolled on. true to his conviction that no wife existed on earth for him, he never married. his home was the trackless wilds, where he was true to his calling--a foe to the redman. wonderful to relate his long, black hair never adorned the walls of an indian's lodge, where a warrior might point with grim pride and say: "no more does the deathwind blow over the hills and vales." we could tell of how his keen eye once again saw wingenund over the sights of his fatal rifle, and how he was once again a prisoner in the camp of that lifelong foe, but that's another story, which, perhaps, we may tell some day. to-day the beautiful city of wheeling rises on the banks of the ohio, where the yells of the indians once blanched the cheeks of the pioneers. the broad, winding river rolls on as of yore; it alone remains unchanged. what were indians and pioneers, forts and cities to it? eons of time before human beings lived it flowed slowly toward the sea, and ages after men and their works are dust, it will roll on placidly with its eternal scheme of nature. upon the island still stand noble beeches, oaks, and chestnuts--trees that long ago have covered up their bullet-scars, but they could tell, had they the power to speak, many a wild thrilling tale. beautiful parks and stately mansions grace the island; and polished equipages roll over the ground that once knew naught save the soft tread of the deer and the moccasin. mccolloch's rock still juts boldly out over the river as deep and rugged as when the brave major leaped to everlasting fame. wetzel's cave, so named to this day, remains on the side of the bluff overlooking the creek. the grapevines and wild rose-bushes still cluster round the cavern-entrance, where, long ago, the wily savage was wont to lie in wait for the settler, lured there by the false turkey-call. the boys visit the cave on saturday afternoons and play "injuns." not long since the writer spent a quiet afternoon there, listening to the musical flow of the brook, and dreaming of those who had lived and loved, fought and died by that stream one hundred and twenty years ago. the city with its long blocks of buildings, its spires and bridges, faded away, leaving the scene as it was in the days of fort henry--unobscured by smoke, the river undotted by pulling boats, and everywhere the green and verdant forest. nothing was wanting in that dream picture: betty tearing along on her pony; the pioneer plowing in the field; the stealthy approach of the savage; wetzel and jonathan watching the river; the deer browsing with the cows in the pasture, and the old fort, grim and menacing on the bluff--all were there as natural as in those times which tried men's souls. and as the writer awoke to the realities of life, that his dreams were of long ago, he was saddened by the thought that the labor of the pioneer is ended; his faithful, heroic wife's work is done. that beautiful country, which their sacrifices made ours, will ever be a monument to them. sad, too, is the thought that the poor indian is unmourned. he is almost forgotten; he is in the shadow; his songs are sung; no more will he sing to his dusky bride: his deeds are done; no more will he boast of his all-conquering arm or of his speed like the northwind; no more will his heart bound at the whistle of the stag, for he sleeps in the shade of the oaks, under the moss and the ferns. burning daylight by jack london part i chapter i it was a quiet night in the shovel. at the bar, which ranged along one side of the large chinked-log room, leaned half a dozen men, two of whom were discussing the relative merits of spruce-tea and lime-juice as remedies for scurvy. they argued with an air of depression and with intervals of morose silence. the other men scarcely heeded them. in a row, against the opposite wall, were the gambling games. the crap-table was deserted. one lone man was playing at the faro-table. the roulette-ball was not even spinning, and the gamekeeper stood by the roaring, red-hot stove, talking with the young, dark-eyed woman, comely of face and figure, who was known from juneau to fort yukon as the virgin. three men sat in at stud-poker, but they played with small chips and without enthusiasm, while there were no onlookers. on the floor of the dancing-room, which opened out at the rear, three couples were waltzing drearily to the strains of a violin and a piano. circle city was not deserted, nor was money tight. the miners were in from moseyed creek and the other diggings to the west, the summer washing had been good, and the men's pouches were heavy with dust and nuggets. the klondike had not yet been discovered, nor had the miners of the yukon learned the possibilities of deep digging and wood-firing. no work was done in the winter, and they made a practice of hibernating in the large camps like circle city during the long arctic night. time was heavy on their hands, their pouches were well filled, and the only social diversion to be found was in the saloons. yet the shovel was practically deserted, and the virgin, standing by the stove, yawned with uncovered mouth and said to charley bates:-- "if something don't happen soon, i'm gin' to bed. what's the matter with the camp, anyway? everybody dead?" bates did not even trouble to reply, but went on moodily rolling a cigarette. dan macdonald, pioneer saloonman and gambler on the upper yukon, owner and proprietor of the tivoli and all its games, wandered forlornly across the great vacant space of floor and joined the two at the stove. "anybody dead?" the virgin asked him. "looks like it," was the answer. "then it must be the whole camp," she said with an air of finality and with another yawn. macdonald grinned and nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, when the front door swung wide and a man appeared in the light. a rush of frost, turned to vapor by the heat of the room, swirled about him to his knees and poured on across the floor, growing thinner and thinner, and perishing a dozen feet from the stove. taking the wisp broom from its nail inside the door, the newcomer brushed the snow from his moccasins and high german socks. he would have appeared a large man had not a huge french-canadian stepped up to him from the bar and gripped his hand. "hello, daylight!" was his greeting. "by gar, you good for sore eyes!" "hello, louis, when did you-all blow in?" returned the newcomer. "come up and have a drink and tell us all about bone creek. why, dog-gone you-all, shake again. where's that pardner of yours? i'm looking for him." another huge man detached himself from the bar to shake hands. olaf henderson and french louis, partners together on bone creek, were the two largest men in the country, and though they were but half a head taller than the newcomer, between them he was dwarfed completely. "hello, olaf, you're my meat, savvee that," said the one called daylight. "to-morrow's my birthday, and i'm going to put you-all on your back--savvee? and you, too, louis. i can put you-all on your back on my birthday--savvee? come up and drink, olaf, and i'll tell you-all about it." the arrival of the newcomer seemed to send a flood of warmth through the place. "it's burning daylight," the virgin cried, the first to recognize him as he came into the light. charley bates' tight features relaxed at the sight, and macdonald went over and joined the three at the bar. with the advent of burning daylight the whole place became suddenly brighter and cheerier. the barkeepers were active. voices were raised. somebody laughed. and when the fiddler, peering into the front room, remarked to the pianist, "it's burning daylight," the waltz-time perceptibly quickened, and the dancers, catching the contagion, began to whirl about as if they really enjoyed it. it was known to them of old time that nothing languished when burning daylight was around. he turned from the bar and saw the woman by the stove and the eager look of welcome she extended him. "hello, virgin, old girl," he called. "hello, charley. what's the matter with you-all? why wear faces like that when coffins cost only three ounces? come up, you-all, and drink. come up, you unburied dead, and name your poison. come up, everybody. this is my night, and i'm going to ride it. to-morrow i'm thirty, and then i'll be an old man. it's the last fling of youth. are you-all with me? surge along, then. surge along. "hold on there, davis," he called to the faro-dealer, who had shoved his chair back from the table. "i'm going you one flutter to see whether you-all drink with me or we-all drink with you." pulling a heavy sack of gold-dust from his coat pocket, he dropped it on the high card. "fifty," he said. the faro-dealer slipped two cards. the high card won. he scribbled the amount on a pad, and the weigher at the bar balanced fifty dollars' worth of dust in the gold-scales and poured it into burning daylight's sack. the waltz in the back room being finished, the three couples, followed by the fiddler and the pianist and heading for the bar, caught daylight's eye. "surge along, you-all" he cried. "surge along and name it. this is my night, and it ain't a night that comes frequent. surge up, you siwashes and salmon-eaters. it's my night, i tell you-all--" "a blame mangy night," charley bates interpolated. "you're right, my son," burning daylight went on gaily. "a mangy night, but it's my night, you see. i'm the mangy old he-wolf. listen to me howl." and howl he did, like a lone gray timber wolf, till the virgin thrust her pretty fingers in her ears and shivered. a minute later she was whirled away in his arms to the dancing-floor, where, along with the other three women and their partners, a rollicking virginia reel was soon in progress. men and women danced in moccasins, and the place was soon a-roar, burning daylight the centre of it and the animating spark, with quip and jest and rough merriment rousing them out of the slough of despond in which he had found them. the atmosphere of the place changed with his coming. he seemed to fill it with his tremendous vitality. men who entered from the street felt it immediately, and in response to their queries the barkeepers nodded at the back room, and said comprehensively, "burning daylight's on the tear." and the men who entered remained, and kept the barkeepers busy. the gamblers took heart of life, and soon the tables were filled, the click of chips and whir of the roulette-ball rising monotonously and imperiously above the hoarse rumble of men's voices and their oaths and heavy laughs. few men knew elam harnish by any other name than burning daylight, the name which had been given him in the early days in the land because of his habit of routing his comrades out of their blankets with the complaint that daylight was burning. of the pioneers in that far arctic wilderness, where all men were pioneers, he was reckoned among the oldest. men like al mayo and jack mcquestion antedated him; but they had entered the land by crossing the rockies from the hudson bay country to the east. he, however, had been the pioneer over the chilcoot and chilcat passes. in the spring of , twelve years before, a stripling of eighteen, he had crossed over the chilcoot with five comrades. in the fall he had crossed back with one. four had perished by mischance in the bleak, uncharted vastness. and for twelve years elam harnish had continued to grope for gold among the shadows of the circle. and no man had groped so obstinately nor so enduringly. he had grown up with the land. he knew no other land. civilization was a dream of some previous life. camps like forty mile and circle city were to him metropolises. and not alone had he grown up with the land, for, raw as it was, he had helped to make it. he had made history and geography, and those that followed wrote of his traverses and charted the trails his feet had broken. heroes are seldom given to hero-worship, but among those of that young land, young as he was, he was accounted an elder hero. in point of time he was before them. in point of deed he was beyond them. in point of endurance it was acknowledged that he could kill the hardiest of them. furthermore, he was accounted a nervy man, a square man, and a white man. in all lands where life is a hazard lightly played with and lightly flung aside, men turn, almost automatically, to gambling for diversion and relaxation. in the yukon men gambled their lives for gold, and those that won gold from the ground gambled for it with one another. nor was elam harnish an exception. he was a man's man primarily, and the instinct in him to play the game of life was strong. environment had determined what form that game should take. he was born on an iowa farm, and his father had emigrated to eastern oregon, in which mining country elam's boyhood was lived. he had known nothing but hard knocks for big stakes. pluck and endurance counted in the game, but the great god chance dealt the cards. honest work for sure but meagre returns did not count. a man played big. he risked everything for everything, and anything less than everything meant that he was a loser. so for twelve yukon years, elam harnish had been a loser. true, on moosehide creek the past summer he had taken out twenty thousand dollars, and what was left in the ground was twenty thousand more. but, as he himself proclaimed, that was no more than getting his ante back. he had ante'd his life for a dozen years, and forty thousand was a small pot for such a stake--the price of a drink and a dance at the tivoli, of a winter's flutter at circle city, and a grubstake for the year to come. the men of the yukon reversed the old maxim till it read: hard come, easy go. at the end of the reel, elam harnish called the house up to drink again. drinks were a dollar apiece, gold rated at sixteen dollars an ounce; there were thirty in the house that accepted his invitation, and between every dance the house was elam's guest. this was his night, and nobody was to be allowed to pay for anything. not that elam harnish was a drinking man. whiskey meant little to him. he was too vital and robust, too untroubled in mind and body, to incline to the slavery of alcohol. he spent months at a time on trail and river when he drank nothing stronger than coffee, while he had gone a year at a time without even coffee. but he was gregarious, and since the sole social expression of the yukon was the saloon, he expressed himself that way. when he was a lad in the mining camps of the west, men had always done that. to him it was the proper way for a man to express himself socially. he knew no other way. he was a striking figure of a man, despite his garb being similar to that of all the men in the tivoli. soft-tanned moccasins of moose-hide, beaded in indian designs, covered his feet. his trousers were ordinary overalls, his coat was made from a blanket. long-gauntleted leather mittens, lined with wool, hung by his side. they were connected in the yukon fashion, by a leather thong passed around the neck and across the shoulders. on his head was a fur cap, the ear-flaps raised and the tying-cords dangling. his face, lean and slightly long, with the suggestion of hollows under the cheek-bones, seemed almost indian. the burnt skin and keen dark eyes contributed to this effect, though the bronze of the skin and the eyes themselves were essentially those of a white man. he looked older than thirty, and yet, smooth-shaven and without wrinkles, he was almost boyish. this impression of age was based on no tangible evidence. it came from the abstracter facts of the man, from what he had endured and survived, which was far beyond that of ordinary men. he had lived life naked and tensely, and something of all this smouldered in his eyes, vibrated in his voice, and seemed forever a-whisper on his lips. the lips themselves were thin, and prone to close tightly over the even, white teeth. but their harshness was retrieved by the upward curl at the corners of his mouth. this curl gave to him sweetness, as the minute puckers at the corners of the eyes gave him laughter. these necessary graces saved him from a nature that was essentially savage and that otherwise would have been cruel and bitter. the nose was lean, full-nostrilled, and delicate, and of a size to fit the face; while the high forehead, as if to atone for its narrowness, was splendidly domed and symmetrical. in line with the indian effect was his hair, very straight and very black, with a gloss to it that only health could give. "burning daylight's burning candlelight," laughed dan macdonald, as an outburst of exclamations and merriment came from the dancers. "an' he is der boy to do it, eh, louis?" said olaf henderson. "yes, by gar! you bet on dat," said french louis. "dat boy is all gold--" "and when god almighty washes daylight's soul out on the last big slucin' day," macdonald interrupted, "why, god almighty'll have to shovel gravel along with him into the sluice-boxes." "dot iss goot," olaf henderson muttered, regarding the gambler with profound admiration. "ver' good," affirmed french louis. "i t'ink we take a drink on dat one time, eh?" chapter ii it was two in the morning when the dancers, bent on getting something to eat, adjourned the dancing for half an hour. and it was at this moment that jack kearns suggested poker. jack kearns was a big, bluff-featured man, who, along with bettles, had made the disastrous attempt to found a post on the head-reaches of the koyokuk, far inside the arctic circle. after that, kearns had fallen back on his posts at forty mile and sixty mile and changed the direction of his ventures by sending out to the states for a small sawmill and a river steamer. the former was even then being sledded across chilcoot pass by indians and dogs, and would come down the yukon in the early summer after the ice-run. later in the summer, when bering sea and the mouth of the yukon cleared of ice, the steamer, put together at st. michaels, was to be expected up the river loaded to the guards with supplies. jack kearns suggested poker. french louis, dan macdonald, and hal campbell (who had make a strike on moosehide), all three of whom were not dancing because there were not girls enough to go around, inclined to the suggestion. they were looking for a fifth man when burning daylight emerged from the rear room, the virgin on his arm, the train of dancers in his wake. in response to the hail of the poker-players, he came over to their table in the corner. "want you to sit in," said campbell. "how's your luck?" "i sure got it to-night," burning daylight answered with enthusiasm, and at the same time felt the virgin press his arm warningly. she wanted him for the dancing. "i sure got my luck with me, but i'd sooner dance. i ain't hankerin' to take the money away from you-all." nobody urged. they took his refusal as final, and the virgin was pressing his arm to turn him away in pursuit of the supper-seekers, when he experienced a change of heart. it was not that he did not want to dance, nor that he wanted to hurt her; but that insistent pressure on his arm put his free man-nature in revolt. the thought in his mind was that he did not want any woman running him. himself a favorite with women, nevertheless they did not bulk big with him. they were toys, playthings, part of the relaxation from the bigger game of life. he met women along with the whiskey and gambling, and from observation he had found that it was far easier to break away from the drink and the cards than from a woman once the man was properly entangled. he was a slave to himself, which was natural in one with a healthy ego, but he rebelled in ways either murderous or panicky at being a slave to anybody else. love's sweet servitude was a thing of which he had no comprehension. men he had seen in love impressed him as lunatics, and lunacy was a thing he had never considered worth analyzing. but comradeship with men was different from love with women. there was no servitude in comradeship. it was a business proposition, a square deal between men who did not pursue each other, but who shared the risks of trail and river and mountain in the pursuit of life and treasure. men and women pursued each other, and one must needs bend the other to his will or hers. comradeship was different. there was no slavery about it; and though he, a strong man beyond strength's seeming, gave far more than he received, he gave not something due but in royal largess, his gifts of toil or heroic effort falling generously from his hands. to pack for days over the gale-swept passes or across the mosquito-ridden marshes, and to pack double the weight his comrade packed, did not involve unfairness or compulsion. each did his best. that was the business essence of it. some men were stronger than others--true; but so long as each man did his best it was fair exchange, the business spirit was observed, and the square deal obtained. but with women--no. women gave little and wanted all. women had apron-strings and were prone to tie them about any man who looked twice in their direction. there was the virgin, yawning her head off when he came in and mightily pleased that he asked her to dance. one dance was all very well, but because he danced twice and thrice with her and several times more, she squeezed his arm when they asked him to sit in at poker. it was the obnoxious apron-string, the first of the many compulsions she would exert upon him if he gave in. not that she was not a nice bit of a woman, healthy and strapping and good to look upon, also a very excellent dancer, but that she was a woman with all a woman's desire to rope him with her apron-strings and tie him hand and foot for the branding. better poker. besides, he liked poker as well as he did dancing. he resisted the pull on his arm by the mere negative mass of him, and said:-- "i sort of feel a hankering to give you-all a flutter." again came the pull on his arm. she was trying to pass the apron-string around him. for the fraction of an instant he was a savage, dominated by the wave of fear and murder that rose up in him. for that infinitesimal space of time he was to all purposes a frightened tiger filled with rage and terror at the apprehension of the trap. had he been no more than a savage, he would have leapt wildly from the place or else sprung upon her and destroyed her. but in that same instant there stirred in him the generations of discipline by which man had become an inadequate social animal. tact and sympathy strove with him, and he smiled with his eyes into the virgin's eyes as he said:-- "you-all go and get some grub. i ain't hungry. and we'll dance some more by and by. the night's young yet. go to it, old girl." he released his arm and thrust her playfully on the shoulder, at the same time turning to the poker-players. "take off the limit and i'll go you-all." "limit's the roof," said jack kearns. "take off the roof." the players glanced at one another, and kearns announced, "the roof's off." elam harnish dropped into the waiting chair, started to pull out his gold-sack, and changed his mind. the virgin pouted a moment, then followed in the wake of the other dancers. "i'll bring you a sandwich, daylight," she called back over her shoulder. he nodded. she was smiling her forgiveness. he had escaped the apron-string, and without hurting her feelings too severely. "let's play markers," he suggested. "chips do everlastingly clutter up the table....if it's agreeable to you-all?" "i'm willing," answered hal campbell. "let mine run at five hundred." "mine, too," answered harnish, while the others stated the values they put on their own markers, french louis, the most modest, issuing his at a hundred dollars each. in alaska, at that time, there were no rascals and no tin-horn gamblers. games were conducted honestly, and men trusted one another. a man's word was as good as his gold in the blower. a marker was a flat, oblong composition chip worth, perhaps, a cent. but when a man betted a marker in a game and said it was worth five hundred dollars, it was accepted as worth five hundred dollars. whoever won it knew that the man who issued it would redeem it with five hundred dollars' worth of dust weighed out on the scales. the markers being of different colors, there was no difficulty in identifying the owners. also, in that early yukon day, no one dreamed of playing table-stakes. a man was good in a game for all that he possessed, no matter where his possessions were or what was their nature. harnish cut and got the deal. at this good augury, and while shuffling the deck, he called to the barkeepers to set up the drinks for the house. as he dealt the first card to dan macdonald, on his left, he called out: "get down to the ground, you-all, malemutes, huskies, and siwash purps! get down and dig in! tighten up them traces! put your weight into the harness and bust the breast-bands! whoop-la! yow! we're off and bound for helen breakfast! and i tell you-all clear and plain there's goin' to be stiff grades and fast goin' to-night before we win to that same lady. and somebody's goin' to bump...hard." once started, it was a quiet game, with little or no conversation, though all about the players the place was a-roar. elam harnish had ignited the spark. more and more miners dropped in to the tivoli and remained. when burning daylight went on the tear, no man cared to miss it. the dancing-floor was full. owing to the shortage of women, many of the men tied bandanna handkerchiefs around their arms in token of femininity and danced with other men. all the games were crowded, and the voices of the men talking at the long bar and grouped about the stove were accompanied by the steady click of chips and the sharp whir, rising and falling, of the roulette-ball. all the materials of a proper yukon night were at hand and mixing. the luck at the table varied monotonously, no big hands being out. as a result, high play went on with small hands though no play lasted long. a filled straight belonging to french louis gave him a pot of five thousand against two sets of threes held by campbell and kearns. one pot of eight hundred dollars was won by a pair of treys on a showdown. and once harnish called kearns for two thousand dollars on a cold steal. when kearns laid down his hand it showed a bobtail flush, while harnish's hand proved that he had had the nerve to call on a pair of tens. but at three in the morning the big combination of hands arrived. it was the moment of moments that men wait weeks for in a poker game. the news of it tingled over the tivoli. the onlookers became quiet. the men farther away ceased talking and moved over to the table. the players deserted the other games, and the dancing-floor was forsaken, so that all stood at last, fivescore and more, in a compact and silent group, around the poker-table. the high betting had begun before the draw, and still the high betting went on, with the draw not in sight. kearns had dealt, and french louis had opened the pot with one marker--in his case one hundred dollars. campbell had merely "seen" it, but elam harnish, corning next, had tossed in five hundred dollars, with the remark to macdonald that he was letting him in easy. macdonald, glancing again at his hand, put in a thousand in markers. kearns, debating a long time over his hand, finally "saw." it then cost french louis nine hundred to remain in the game, which he contributed after a similar debate. it cost campbell likewise nine hundred to remain and draw cards, but to the surprise of all he saw the nine hundred and raised another thousand. "you-all are on the grade at last," harnish remarked, as he saw the fifteen hundred and raised a thousand in turn. "helen breakfast's sure on top this divide, and you-all had best look out for bustin' harness." "me for that same lady," accompanied macdonald's markers for two thousand and for an additional thousand-dollar raise. it was at this stage that the players sat up and knew beyond peradventure that big hands were out. though their features showed nothing, each man was beginning unconsciously to tense. each man strove to appear his natural self, and each natural self was different. hal campbell affected his customary cautiousness. french louis betrayed interest. macdonald retained his whole-souled benevolence, though it seemed to take on a slightly exaggerated tone. kearns was coolly dispassionate and noncommittal, while elam harnish appeared as quizzical and jocular as ever. eleven thousand dollars were already in the pot, and the markers were heaped in a confused pile in the centre of the table. "i ain't go no more markers," kearns remarked plaintively. "we'd best begin i.o.u.'s." "glad you're going to stay," was macdonald's cordial response. "i ain't stayed yet. i've got a thousand in already. how's it stand now?" "it'll cost you three thousand for a look in, but nobody will stop you from raising." "raise--hell. you must think i got a pat like yourself." kearns looked at his hand. "but i'll tell you what i'll do, mac. "i've got a hunch, and i'll just see that three thousand." he wrote the sum on a slip of paper, signed his name, and consigned it to the centre of the table. french louis became the focus of all eyes. he fingered his cards nervously for a space. then, with a "by gar! ah got not one leetle beet hunch," he regretfully tossed his hand into the discards. the next moment the hundred and odd pairs of eyes shifted to campbell. "i won't hump you, jack," he said, contenting himself with calling the requisite two thousand. the eyes shifted to harnish, who scribbled on a piece of paper and shoved it forward. "i'll just let you-all know this ain't no sunday-school society of philanthropy," he said. "i see you, jack, and i raise you a thousand. here's where you-all get action on your pat, mac." "action's what i fatten on, and i lift another thousand," was macdonald's rejoinder. "still got that hunch, jack?" "i still got the hunch." kearns fingered his cards a long time. "and i'll play it, but you've got to know how i stand. there's my steamer, the bella--worth twenty thousand if she's worth an ounce. there's sixty mile with five thousand in stock on the shelves. and you know i got a sawmill coming in. it's at linderman now, and the scow is building. am i good?" "dig in; you're sure good," was daylight's answer. "and while we're about it, i may mention casual that i got twenty thousand in mac's safe, there, and there's twenty thousand more in the ground on moosehide. you know the ground, campbell. is they that-all in the dirt?" "there sure is, daylight." "how much does it cost now?" kearns asked. "two thousand to see." "we'll sure hump you if you-all come in," daylight warned him. "it's an almighty good hunch," kearns said, adding his slip for two thousand to the growing heap. "i can feel her crawlin' up and down my back." "i ain't got a hunch, but i got a tolerable likeable hand," campbell announced, as he slid in his slip; "but it's not a raising hand." "mine is," daylight paused and wrote. "i see that thousand and raise her the same old thousand." the virgin, standing behind him, then did what a man's best friend was not privileged to do. reaching over daylight's shoulder, she picked up his hand and read it, at the same time shielding the faces of the five cards close to his chest. what she saw were three queens and a pair of eights, but nobody guessed what she saw. every player's eyes were on her face as she scanned the cards, but no sign did she give. her features might have been carved from ice, for her expression was precisely the same before, during, and after. not a muscle quivered; nor was there the slightest dilation of a nostril, nor the slightest increase of light in the eyes. she laid the hand face down again on the table, and slowly the lingering eyes withdrew from her, having learned nothing. macdonald smiled benevolently. "i see you, daylight, and i hump this time for two thousand. how's that hunch, jack?" "still a-crawling, mac. you got me now, but that hunch is a rip-snorter persuadin' sort of a critter, and it's my plain duty to ride it. i call for three thousand. and i got another hunch: daylight's going to call, too." "he sure is," daylight agreed, after campbell had thrown up his hand. "he knows when he's up against it, and he plays accordin'. i see that two thousand, and then i'll see the draw." in a dead silence, save for the low voices of the three players, the draw was made. thirty-four thousand dollars were already in the pot, and the play possibly not half over. to the virgin's amazement, daylight held up his three queens, discarding his eights and calling for two cards. and this time not even she dared look at what he had drawn. she knew her limit of control. nor did he look. the two new cards lay face down on the table where they had been dealt to him. "cards?" kearns asked of macdonald. "got enough," was the reply. "you can draw if you want to, you know," kearns warned him. "nope; this'll do me." kearns himself drew two cards, but did not look at them. still harnish let his cards lie. "i never bet in the teeth of a pat hand," he said slowly, looking at the saloon-keeper. "you-all start her rolling, mac." macdonald counted his cards carefully, to make double sure it was not a foul hand, wrote a sum on a paper slip, and slid it into the pot, with the simple utterance:-- "five thousand." kearns, with every eye upon him, looked at his two-card draw, counted the other three to dispel any doubt of holding more than five cards, and wrote on a betting slip. "i see you, mac," he said, "and i raise her a little thousand just so as not to keep daylight out." the concentrated gaze shifted to daylight. he likewise examined his draw and counted his five cards. "i see that six thousand, and i raise her five thousand...just to try and keep you out, jack." "and i raise you five thousand just to lend a hand at keeping jack out," macdonald said, in turn. his voice was slightly husky and strained, and a nervous twitch in the corner of his mouth followed speech. kearns was pale, and those who looked on noted that his hand trembled as he wrote his slip. but his voice was unchanged. "i lift her along for five thousand," he said. daylight was now the centre. the kerosene lamps above flung high lights from the rash of sweat on his forehead. the bronze of his cheeks was darkened by the accession of blood. his black eyes glittered, and his nostrils were distended and eager. they were large nostrils, tokening his descent from savage ancestors who had survived by virtue of deep lungs and generous air-passages. yet, unlike macdonald, his voice was firm and customary, and, unlike kearns, his hand did not tremble when he wrote. "i call, for ten thousand," he said. "not that i'm afraid of you-all, mac. it's that hunch of jack's." "i hump his hunch for five thousand just the same," said macdonald. "i had the best hand before the draw, and i still guess i got it." "mebbe this is a case where a hunch after the draw is better'n the hunch before," kearns remarked; "wherefore duty says, 'lift her, jack, lift her,' and so i lift her another five thousand." daylight leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the kerosene lamps while he computed aloud. "i was in nine thousand before the draw, and i saw and raised eleven thousand--that makes thirty. i'm only good for ten more." he leaned forward and looked at kearns. "so i call that ten thousand." "you can raise if you want," kearns answered. "your dogs are good for five thousand in this game." "nary dawg. you-all can win my dust and dirt, but nary one of my dawgs. i just call." macdonald considered for a long time. no one moved or whispered. not a muscle was relaxed on the part of the onlookers. not the weight of a body shifted from one leg to the other. it was a sacred silence. only could be heard the roaring draft of the huge stove, and from without, muffled by the log-walls, the howling of dogs. it was not every night that high stakes were played on the yukon, and for that matter, this was the highest in the history of the country. the saloon-keeper finally spoke. "if anybody else wins, they'll have to take a mortgage on the tivoli." the two other players nodded. "so i call, too." macdonald added his slip for five thousand. not one of them claimed the pot, and not one of them called the size of his hand. simultaneously and in silence they faced their cards on the table, while a general tiptoeing and craning of necks took place among the onlookers. daylight showed four queens and an ace; macdonald four jacks and an ace; and kearns four kings and a trey. kearns reached forward with an encircling movement of his arm and drew the pot in to him, his arm shaking as he did so. daylight picked the ace from his hand and tossed it over alongside macdonald's ace, saying:-- "that's what cheered me along, mac. i knowed it was only kings that could beat me, and he had them. "what did you-all have?" he asked, all interest, turning to campbell. "straight flush of four, open at both ends--a good drawing hand." "you bet! you could a' made a straight, a straight flush, or a flush out of it." "that's what i thought," campbell said sadly. "it cost me six thousand before i quit." "i wisht you-all'd drawn," daylight laughed. "then i wouldn't a' caught that fourth queen. now i've got to take billy rawlins' mail contract and mush for dyea. what's the size of the killing, jack?" kearns attempted to count the pot, but was too excited. daylight drew it across to him, with firm fingers separating and stacking the markers and i.o.u.'s and with clear brain adding the sum. "one hundred and twenty-seven thousand," he announced. "you-all can sell out now, jack, and head for home." the winner smiled and nodded, but seemed incapable of speech. "i'd shout the drinks," macdonald said, "only the house don't belong to me any more." "yes, it does," kearns replied, first wetting his lips with his tongue. "your note's good for any length of time. but the drinks are on me." "name your snake-juice, you-all--the winner pays!" daylight called out loudly to all about him, at the same time rising from his chair and catching the virgin by the arm. "come on for a reel, you-all dancers. the night's young yet, and it's helen breakfast and the mail contract for me in the morning. here, you-all rawlins, you--i hereby do take over that same contract, and i start for salt water at nine a.m.--savvee? come on, you-all! where's that fiddler?" chapter iii it was daylight's night. he was the centre and the head of the revel, unquenchably joyous, a contagion of fun. he multiplied himself, and in so doing multiplied the excitement. no prank he suggested was too wild for his followers, and all followed save those that developed into singing imbeciles and fell warbling by the wayside. yet never did trouble intrude. it was known on the yukon that when burning daylight made a night of it, wrath and evil were forbidden. on his nights men dared not quarrel. in the younger days such things had happened, and then men had known what real wrath was, and been man-handled as only burning daylight could man-handle. on his nights men must laugh and be happy or go home. daylight was inexhaustible. in between dances he paid over to kearns the twenty thousand in dust and transferred to him his moosehide claim. likewise he arranged the taking over of billy rawlins' mail contract, and made his preparations for the start. he despatched a messenger to rout out kama, his dog-driver--a tananaw indian, far-wandered from his tribal home in the service of the invading whites. kama entered the tivoli, tall, lean, muscular, and fur-clad, the pick of his barbaric race and barbaric still, unshaken and unabashed by the revellers that rioted about him while daylight gave his orders. "um," said kama, tabling his instructions on his fingers. "get um letters from rawlins. load um on sled. grub for selkirk--you think um plenty dog-grub stop selkirk?" "plenty dog-grub, kama." "um, bring sled this place nine um clock. bring um snowshoes. no bring um tent. mebbe bring um fly? um little fly?" "no fly," daylight answered decisively. "um much cold." "we travel light--savvee? we carry plenty letters out, plenty letters back. you are strong man. plenty cold, plenty travel, all right." "sure all right," kama muttered, with resignation. "much cold, no care a damn. um ready nine um clock." he turned on his moccasined heel and walked out, imperturbable, sphinx-like, neither giving nor receiving greetings nor looking to right or left. the virgin led daylight away into a corner. "look here, daylight," she said, in a low voice, "you're busted." "higher'n a kite." "i've eight thousand in mac's safe--" she began. but daylight interrupted. the apron-string loomed near and he shied like an unbroken colt. "it don't matter," he said. "busted i came into the world, busted i go out, and i've been busted most of the time since i arrived. come on; let's waltz." "but listen," she urged. "my money's doing nothing. i could lend it to you--a grub-stake," she added hurriedly, at sight of the alarm in his face. "nobody grub-stakes me," was the answer. "i stake myself, and when i make a killing it's sure all mine. no thank you, old girl. much obliged. i'll get my stake by running the mail out and in." "daylight," she murmured, in tender protest. but with a sudden well-assumed ebullition of spirits he drew her toward the dancing-floor, and as they swung around and around in a waltz she pondered on the iron heart of the man who held her in his arms and resisted all her wiles. at six the next morning, scorching with whiskey, yet ever himself, he stood at the bar putting every man's hand down. the way of it was that two men faced each other across a corner, their right elbows resting on the bar, their right hands gripped together, while each strove to press the other's hand down. man after man came against him, but no man put his hand down, even olaf henderson and french louis failing despite their hugeness. when they contended it was a trick, a trained muscular knack, he challenged them to another test. "look here, you-all" he cried. "i'm going to do two things: first, weigh my sack; and second, bet it that after you-all have lifted clean from the floor all the sacks of flour you-all are able, i'll put on two more sacks and lift the whole caboodle clean." "by gar! ah take dat!" french louis rumbled above the cheers. "hold on!" olaf henderson cried. "i ban yust as good as you, louis. i yump half that bet." put on the scales, daylight's sack was found to balance an even four hundred dollars, and louis and olaf divided the bet between them. fifty-pound sacks of flour were brought in from macdonald's cache. other men tested their strength first. they straddled on two chairs, the flour sacks beneath them on the floor and held together by rope-lashings. many of the men were able, in this manner, to lift four or five hundred pounds, while some succeeded with as high as six hundred. then the two giants took a hand, tying at seven hundred. french louis then added another sack, and swung seven hundred and fifty clear. olaf duplicated the performance, whereupon both failed to clear eight hundred. again and again they strove, their foreheads beaded with sweat, their frames crackling with the effort. both were able to shift the weight and to bump it, but clear the floor with it they could not. "by gar! daylight, dis tam you mek one beeg meestake," french louis said, straightening up and stepping down from the chairs. "only one damn iron man can do dat. one hundred pun' more--my frien', not ten poun' more." the sacks were unlashed, but when two sacks were added, kearns interfered. "only one sack more." "two!" some one cried. "two was the bet." "they didn't lift that last sack," kearns protested. "they only lifted seven hundred and fifty." but daylight grandly brushed aside the confusion. "what's the good of you-all botherin' around that way? what's one more sack? if i can't lift three more, i sure can't lift two. put 'em in." he stood upon the chairs, squatted, and bent his shoulders down till his hands closed on the rope. he shifted his feet slightly, tautened his muscles with a tentative pull, then relaxed again, questing for a perfect adjustment of all the levers of his body. french louis, looking on sceptically, cried out, "pool lak hell, daylight! pool lak hell!" daylight's muscles tautened a second time, and this time in earnest, until steadily all the energy of his splendid body was applied, and quite imperceptibly, without jerk or strain, the bulky nine hundred pounds rose from the door and swung back and forth, pendulum like, between his legs. olaf henderson sighed a vast audible sigh. the virgin, who had tensed unconsciously till her muscles hurt her, relaxed. while french louis murmured reverently:-- "m'sieu daylight, salut! ay am one beeg baby. you are one beeg man." daylight dropped his burden, leaped to the floor, and headed for the bar. "weigh in!" he cried, tossing his sack to the weigher, who transferred to it four hundred dollars from the sacks of the two losers. "surge up, everybody!" daylight went on. "name your snake-juice! the winner pays!" "this is my night!" he was shouting, ten minutes later. "i'm the lone he-wolf, and i've seen thirty winters. this is my birthday, my one day in the year, and i can put any man on his back. come on, you-all! i'm going to put you-all in the snow. come on, you chechaquos [ ] and sourdoughs[ ], and get your baptism!" the rout streamed out of doors, all save the barkeepers and the singing bacchuses. some fleeting thought of saving his own dignity entered macdonald's head, for he approached daylight with outstretched hand. "what? you first?" daylight laughed, clasping the other's hand as if in greeting. "no, no," the other hurriedly disclaimed. "just congratulations on your birthday. of course you can put me in the snow. what chance have i against a man that lifts nine hundred pounds?" macdonald weighed one hundred and eighty pounds, and daylight had him gripped solely by his hand; yet, by a sheer abrupt jerk, he took the saloon-keeper off his feet and flung him face downward in the snow. in quick succession, seizing the men nearest him, he threw half a dozen more. resistance was useless. they flew helter-skelter out of his grips, landing in all manner of attitudes, grotesquely and harmlessly, in the soft snow. it soon became difficult, in the dim starlight, to distinguish between those thrown and those waiting their turn, and he began feeling their backs and shoulders, determining their status by whether or not he found them powdered with snow. "baptized yet?" became his stereotyped question, as he reached out his terrible hands. several score lay down in the snow in a long row, while many others knelt in mock humility, scooping snow upon their heads and claiming the rite accomplished. but a group of five stood upright, backwoodsmen and frontiersmen, they, eager to contest any man's birthday. graduates of the hardest of man-handling schools, veterans of multitudes of rough-and-tumble battles, men of blood and sweat and endurance, they nevertheless lacked one thing that daylight possessed in high degree--namely, an almost perfect brain and muscular coordination. it was simple, in its way, and no virtue of his. he had been born with this endowment. his nerves carried messages more quickly than theirs; his mental processes, culminating in acts of will, were quicker than theirs; his muscles themselves, by some immediacy of chemistry, obeyed the messages of his will quicker than theirs. he was so made, his muscles were high-power explosives. the levers of his body snapped into play like the jaws of steel traps. and in addition to all this, his was that super-strength that is the dower of but one human in millions--a strength depending not on size but on degree, a supreme organic excellence residing in the stuff of the muscles themselves. thus, so swiftly could he apply a stress, that, before an opponent could become aware and resist, the aim of the stress had been accomplished. in turn, so swiftly did he become aware of a stress applied to him, that he saved himself by resistance or by delivering a lightning counter-stress. "it ain't no use you-all standing there," daylight addressed the waiting group. "you-all might as well get right down and take your baptizing. you-all might down me any other day in the year, but on my birthday i want you-all to know i'm the best man. is that pat hanrahan's mug looking hungry and willing? come on, pat." pat hanrahan, ex-bare-knuckle-prize fighter and roughhouse-expert, stepped forth. the two men came against each other in grips, and almost before he had exerted himself the irishman found himself in the merciless vise of a half-nelson that buried him head and shoulders in the snow. joe hines, ex-lumber-jack, came down with an impact equal to a fall from a two-story building--his overthrow accomplished by a cross-buttock, delivered, he claimed, before he was ready. there was nothing exhausting in all this to daylight. he did not heave and strain through long minutes. no time, practically, was occupied. his body exploded abruptly and terrifically in one instant, and on the next instant was relaxed. thus, doc watson, the gray-bearded, iron bodied man without a past, a fighting terror himself, was overthrown in the fraction of a second preceding his own onslaught. as he was in the act of gathering himself for a spring, daylight was upon him, and with such fearful suddenness as to crush him backward and down. olaf henderson, receiving his cue from this, attempted to take daylight unaware, rushing upon him from one side as he stooped with extended hand to help doc watson up. daylight dropped on his hands and knees, receiving in his side olaf's knees. olaf's momentum carried him clear over the obstruction in a long, flying fall. before he could rise, daylight had whirled him over on his back and was rubbing his face and ears with snow and shoving handfuls down his neck. "ay ban yust as good a man as you ban, daylight," olaf spluttered, as he pulled himself to his feet; "but by yupiter, i ban navver see a grip like that." french louis was the last of the five, and he had seen enough to make him cautious. he circled and baffled for a full minute before coming to grips; and for another full minute they strained and reeled without either winning the advantage. and then, just as the contest was becoming interesting, daylight effected one of his lightning shifts, changing all stresses and leverages and at the same time delivering one of his muscular explosions. french louis resisted till his huge frame crackled, and then, slowly, was forced over and under and downward. "the winner pays!" daylight cried; as he sprang to his feet and led the way back into the tivoli. "surge along you-all! this way to the snake-room!" they lined up against the long bar, in places two or three deep, stamping the frost from their moccasined feet, for outside the temperature was sixty below. bettles, himself one of the gamest of the old-timers in deeds and daring ceased from his drunken lay of the "sassafras root," and titubated over to congratulate daylight. but in the midst of it he felt impelled to make a speech, and raised his voice oratorically. "i tell you fellers i'm plum proud to call daylight my friend. we've hit the trail together afore now, and he's eighteen carat from his moccasins up, damn his mangy old hide, anyway. he was a shaver when he first hit this country. when you fellers was his age, you wa'n't dry behind the ears yet. he never was no kid. he was born a full-grown man. an' i tell you a man had to be a man in them days. this wa'n't no effete civilization like it's come to be now." bettles paused long enough to put his arm in a proper bear-hug around daylight's neck. "when you an' me mushed into the yukon in the good ole days, it didn't rain soup and they wa'n't no free-lunch joints. our camp fires was lit where we killed our game, and most of the time we lived on salmon-tracks and rabbit-bellies--ain't i right?" but at the roar of laughter that greeted his inversion, bettles released the bear-hug and turned fiercely on them. "laugh, you mangy short-horns, laugh! but i tell you plain and simple, the best of you ain't knee-high fit to tie daylight's moccasin strings. "ain't i right, campbell? ain't i right, mac? daylight's one of the old guard, one of the real sour-doughs. and in them days they wa'n't ary a steamboat or ary a trading-post, and we cusses had to live offen salmon-bellies and rabbit-tracks." he gazed triumphantly around, and in the applause that followed arose cries for a speech from daylight. he signified his consent. a chair was brought, and he was helped to stand upon it. he was no more sober than the crowd above which he now towered--a wild crowd, uncouthly garmented, every foot moccasined or muc-lucked[ ], with mittens dangling from necks and with furry ear-flaps raised so that they took on the seeming of the winged helmets of the norsemen. daylight's black eyes were flashing, and the flush of strong drink flooded darkly under the bronze of his cheeks. he was greeted with round on round of affectionate cheers, which brought a suspicious moisture to his eyes, albeit many of the voices were inarticulate and inebriate. and yet, men have so behaved since the world began, feasting, fighting, and carousing, whether in the dark cave-mouth or by the fire of the squatting-place, in the palaces of imperial rome and the rock strongholds of robber barons, or in the sky-aspiring hotels of modern times and in the boozing-dens of sailor-town. just so were these men, empire-builders in the arctic light, boastful and drunken and clamorous, winning surcease for a few wild moments from the grim reality of their heroic toil. modern heroes they, and in nowise different from the heroes of old time. "well, fellows, i don't know what to say to you-all," daylight began lamely, striving still to control his whirling brain. "i think i'll tell you-all a story. i had a pardner wunst, down in juneau. he come from north caroliney, and he used to tell this same story to me. it was down in the mountains in his country, and it was a wedding. there they was, the family and all the friends. the parson was just puttin' on the last touches, and he says, 'they as the lord have joined let no man put asunder.' "'parson,' says the bridegroom, 'i rises to question your grammar in that there sentence. i want this weddin' done right.' "when the smoke clears away, the bride she looks around and sees a dead parson, a dead bridegroom, a dead brother, two dead uncles, and five dead wedding-guests. "so she heaves a mighty strong sigh and says, 'them new-fangled, self-cocking revolvers sure has played hell with my prospects.' "and so i say to you-all," daylight added, as the roar of laughter died down, "that them four kings of jack kearns sure has played hell with my prospects. i'm busted higher'n a kite, and i'm hittin' the trail for dyea--" "goin' out?" some one called. a spasm of anger wrought on his face for a flashing instant, but in the next his good-humor was back again. "i know you-all are only pokin' fun asking such a question," he said, with a smile. "of course i ain't going out." "take the oath again, daylight," the same voice cried. "i sure will. i first come over chilcoot in ' . i went out over the pass in a fall blizzard, with a rag of a shirt and a cup of raw flour. i got my grub-stake in juneau that winter, and in the spring i went over the pass once more. and once more the famine drew me out. next spring i went in again, and i swore then that i'd never come out till i made my stake. well, i ain't made it, and here i am. and i ain't going out now. i get the mail and i come right back. i won't stop the night at dyea. i'll hit up chilcoot soon as i change the dogs and get the mail and grub. and so i swear once more, by the mill-tails of hell and the head of john the baptist, i'll never hit for the outside till i make my pile. and i tell you-all, here and now, it's got to be an almighty big pile." "how much might you call a pile?" bettles demanded from beneath, his arms clutched lovingly around daylight's legs. "yes, how much? what do you call a pile?" others cried. daylight steadied himself for a moment and debated. "four or five millions," he said slowly, and held up his hand for silence as his statement was received with derisive yells. "i'll be real conservative, and put the bottom notch at a million. and for not an ounce less'n that will i go out of the country." again his statement was received with an outburst of derision. not only had the total gold output of the yukon up to date been below five millions, but no man had ever made a strike of a hundred thousand, much less of a million. "you-all listen to me. you seen jack kearns get a hunch to-night. we had him sure beat before the draw. his ornery three kings was no good. but he just knew there was another king coming--that was his hunch--and he got it. and i tell you-all i got a hunch. there's a big strike coming on the yukon, and it's just about due. i don't mean no ornery moosehide, birch-creek kind of a strike. i mean a real rip-snorter hair-raiser. i tell you-all she's in the air and hell-bent for election. nothing can stop her, and she'll come up river. there's where you-all track my moccasins in the near future if you-all want to find me--somewhere in the country around stewart river, indian river, and klondike river. when i get back with the mail, i'll head that way so fast you-all won't see my trail for smoke. she's a-coming, fellows, gold from the grass roots down, a hundred dollars to the pan, and a stampede in from the outside fifty thousand strong. you-all'll think all hell's busted loose when that strike is made." he raised his glass to his lips. "here's kindness, and hoping you-all will be in on it." he drank and stepped down from the chair, falling into another one of bettles' bear-hugs. "if i was you, daylight, i wouldn't mush to-day," joe hines counselled, coming in from consulting the spirit thermometer outside the door. "we're in for a good cold snap. it's sixty-two below now, and still goin' down. better wait till she breaks." daylight laughed, and the old sour-doughs around him laughed. "just like you short-horns," bettles cried, "afeard of a little frost. and blamed little you know daylight, if you think frost kin stop 'm." "freeze his lungs if he travels in it," was the reply. "freeze pap and lollypop! look here, hines, you only ben in this here country three years. you ain't seasoned yet. i've seen daylight do fifty miles up on the koyokuk on a day when the thermometer busted at seventy-two." hines shook his head dolefully. "them's the kind that does freeze their lungs," he lamented. "if daylight pulls out before this snap breaks, he'll never get through--an' him travelin' without tent or fly." "it's a thousand miles to dyea," bettles announced, climbing on the chair and supporting his swaying body by an arm passed around daylight's neck. "it's a thousand miles, i'm sayin' an' most of the trail unbroke, but i bet any chechaquo--anything he wants--that daylight makes dyea in thirty days." "that's an average of over thirty-three miles a day," doc watson warned, "and i've travelled some myself. a blizzard on chilcoot would tie him up for a week." "yep," bettles retorted, "an' daylight'll do the second thousand back again on end in thirty days more, and i got five hundred dollars that says so, and damn the blizzards." to emphasize his remarks, he pulled out a gold-sack the size of a bologna sausage and thumped it down on the bar. doc watson thumped his own sack alongside. "hold on!" daylight cried. "bettles's right, and i want in on this. i bet five hundred that sixty days from now i pull up at the tivoli door with the dyea mail." a sceptical roar went up, and a dozen men pulled out their sacks. jack kearns crowded in close and caught daylight's attention. "i take you, daylight," he cried. "two to one you don't--not in seventy-five days." "no charity, jack," was the reply. "the bettin's even, and the time is sixty days." "seventy-five days, and two to one you don't," kearns insisted. "fifty mile'll be wide open and the rim-ice rotten." "what you win from me is yours," daylight went on. "and, by thunder, jack, you can't give it back that way. i won't bet with you. you're trying to give me money. but i tell you-all one thing, jack, i got another hunch. i'm goin' to win it back some one of these days. you-all just wait till the big strike up river. then you and me'll take the roof off and sit in a game that'll be full man's size. is it a go?" they shook hands. "of course he'll make it," kearns whispered in bettles' ear. "and there's five hundred daylight's back in sixty days," he added aloud. billy rawlins closed with the wager, and bettles hugged kearns ecstatically. "by yupiter, i ban take that bet," olaf henderson said, dragging daylight away from bettles and kearns. "winner pays!" daylight shouted, closing the wager. "and i'm sure going to win, and sixty days is a long time between drinks, so i pay now. name your brand, you hoochinoos! name your brand!" bettles, a glass of whiskey in hand, climbed back on his chair, and swaying back and forth, sang the one song he knew:-- "o, it's henry ward beecher and sunday-school teachers all sing of the sassafras-root; but you bet all the same, if it had its right name it's the juice of the forbidden fruit." the crowd roared out the chorus:-- "but you bet all the same if it had its right name it's the juice of the forbidden fruit." somebody opened the outer door. a vague gray light filtered in. "burning daylight, burning daylight," some one called warningly. daylight paused for nothing, heading for the door and pulling down his ear-flaps. kama stood outside by the sled, a long, narrow affair, sixteen inches wide and seven and a half feet in length, its slatted bottom raised six inches above the steel-shod runners. on it, lashed with thongs of moose-hide, were the light canvas bags that contained the mail, and the food and gear for dogs and men. in front of it, in a single line, lay curled five frost-rimed dogs. they were huskies, matched in size and color, all unusually large and all gray. from their cruel jaws to their bushy tails they were as like as peas in their likeness to timber-wolves. wolves they were, domesticated, it was true, but wolves in appearance and in all their characteristics. on top the sled load, thrust under the lashings and ready for immediate use, were two pairs of snowshoes. bettles pointed to a robe of arctic hare skins, the end of which showed in the mouth of a bag. "that's his bed," he said. "six pounds of rabbit skins. warmest thing he ever slept under, but i'm damned if it could keep me warm, and i can go some myself. daylight's a hell-fire furnace, that's what he is." "i'd hate to be that indian," doc watson remarked. "he'll kill'm, he'll kill'm sure," bettles chanted exultantly. "i know. i've ben with daylight on trail. that man ain't never ben tired in his life. don't know what it means. i seen him travel all day with wet socks at forty-five below. there ain't another man living can do that." while this talk went on, daylight was saying good-by to those that clustered around him. the virgin wanted to kiss him, and, fuddled slightly though he was with the whiskey, he saw his way out without compromising with the apron-string. he kissed the virgin, but he kissed the other three women with equal partiality. he pulled on his long mittens, roused the dogs to their feet, and took his place at the gee-pole.[ ] "mush, you beauties!" he cried. the animals threw their weights against their breastbands on the instant, crouching low to the snow, and digging in their claws. they whined eagerly, and before the sled had gone half a dozen lengths both daylight and kama (in the rear) were running to keep up. and so, running, man and dogs dipped over the bank and down to the frozen bed of the yukon, and in the gray light were gone. [ ] tenderfeet. [ ] old-timers. [ ] muc-luc: a water-tight, eskimo boot, made from walrus-hide and trimmed with fur. [ ] a gee-pole: stout pole projecting forward from one side of the front end of the sled, by which the sled is steered. chapter iv on the river, where was a packed trail and where snowshoes were unnecessary, the dogs averaged six miles an hour. to keep up with them, the two men were compelled to run. daylight and kama relieved each other regularly at the gee-pole, for here was the hard work of steering the flying sled and of keeping in advance of it. the man relieved dropped behind the sled, occasionally leaping upon it and resting. it was severe work, but of the sort that was exhilarating. they were flying, getting over the ground, making the most of the packed trail. later on they would come to the unbroken trail, where three miles an hour would constitute good going. then there would be no riding and resting, and no running. then the gee-pole would be the easier task, and a man would come back to it to rest after having completed his spell to the fore, breaking trail with the snowshoes for the dogs. such work was far from exhilarating also, they must expect places where for miles at a time they must toil over chaotic ice-jams, where they would be fortunate if they made two miles an hour. and there would be the inevitable bad jams, short ones, it was true, but so bad that a mile an hour would require terrific effort. kama and daylight did not talk. in the nature of the work they could not, nor in their own natures were they given to talking while they worked. at rare intervals, when necessary, they addressed each other in monosyllables, kama, for the most part, contenting himself with grunts. occasionally a dog whined or snarled, but in the main the team kept silent. only could be heard the sharp, jarring grate of the steel runners over the hard surface and the creak of the straining sled. as if through a wall, daylight had passed from the hum and roar of the tivoli into another world--a world of silence and immobility. nothing stirred. the yukon slept under a coat of ice three feet thick. no breath of wind blew. nor did the sap move in the hearts of the spruce trees that forested the river banks on either hand. the trees, burdened with the last infinitesimal pennyweight of snow their branches could hold, stood in absolute petrifaction. the slightest tremor would have dislodged the snow, and no snow was dislodged. the sled was the one point of life and motion in the midst of the solemn quietude, and the harsh churn of its runners but emphasized the silence through which it moved. it was a dead world, and furthermore, a gray world. the weather was sharp and clear; there was no moisture in the atmosphere, no fog nor haze; yet the sky was a gray pall. the reason for this was that, though there was no cloud in the sky to dim the brightness of day, there was no sun to give brightness. far to the south the sun climbed steadily to meridian, but between it and the frozen yukon intervened the bulge of the earth. the yukon lay in a night shadow, and the day itself was in reality a long twilight-light. at a quarter before twelve, where a wide bend of the river gave a long vista south, the sun showed its upper rim above the sky-line. but it did not rise perpendicularly. instead, it rose on a slant, so that by high noon it had barely lifted its lower rim clear of the horizon. it was a dim, wan sun. there was no heat to its rays, and a man could gaze squarely into the full orb of it without hurt to his eyes. no sooner had it reached meridian than it began its slant back beneath the horizon, and at quarter past twelve the earth threw its shadow again over the land. the men and dogs raced on. daylight and kama were both savages so far as their stomachs were concerned. they could eat irregularly in time and quantity, gorging hugely on occasion, and on occasion going long stretches without eating at all. as for the dogs, they ate but once a day, and then rarely did they receive more than a pound each of dried fish. they were ravenously hungry and at the same time splendidly in condition. like the wolves, their forebears, their nutritive processes were rigidly economical and perfect. there was no waste. the last least particle of what they consumed was transformed into energy. and kama and daylight were like them. descended themselves from the generations that had endured, they, too, endured. theirs was the simple, elemental economy. a little food equipped them with prodigious energy. nothing was lost. a man of soft civilization, sitting at a desk, would have grown lean and woe-begone on the fare that kept kama and daylight at the top-notch of physical efficiency. they knew, as the man at the desk never knows, what it is to be normally hungry all the time, so that they could eat any time. their appetites were always with them and on edge, so that they bit voraciously into whatever offered and with an entire innocence of indigestion. by three in the afternoon the long twilight faded into night. the stars came out, very near and sharp and bright, and by their light dogs and men still kept the trail. they were indefatigable. and this was no record run of a single day, but the first day of sixty such days. though daylight had passed a night without sleep, a night of dancing and carouse, it seemed to have left no effect. for this there were two explanations first, his remarkable vitality; and next, the fact that such nights were rare in his experience. again enters the man at the desk, whose physical efficiency would be more hurt by a cup of coffee at bedtime than could daylight's by a whole night long of strong drink and excitement. daylight travelled without a watch, feeling the passage of time and largely estimating it by subconscious processes. by what he considered must be six o'clock, he began looking for a camping-place. the trail, at a bend, plunged out across the river. not having found a likely spot, they held on for the opposite bank a mile away. but midway they encountered an ice-jam which took an hour of heavy work to cross. at last daylight glimpsed what he was looking for, a dead tree close by the bank. the sled was run in and up. kama grunted with satisfaction, and the work of making camp was begun. the division of labor was excellent. each knew what he must do. with one ax daylight chopped down the dead pine. kama, with a snowshoe and the other ax, cleared away the two feet of snow above the yukon ice and chopped a supply of ice for cooking purposes. a piece of dry birch bark started the fire, and daylight went ahead with the cooking while the indian unloaded the sled and fed the dogs their ration of dried fish. the food sacks he slung high in the trees beyond leaping-reach of the huskies. next, he chopped down a young spruce tree and trimmed off the boughs. close to the fire he trampled down the soft snow and covered the packed space with the boughs. on this flooring he tossed his own and daylight's gear-bags, containing dry socks and underwear and their sleeping-robes. kama, however, had two robes of rabbit skin to daylight's one. they worked on steadily, without speaking, losing no time. each did whatever was needed, without thought of leaving to the other the least task that presented itself to hand. thus, kama saw when more ice was needed and went and got it, while a snowshoe, pushed over by the lunge of a dog, was stuck on end again by daylight. while coffee was boiling, bacon frying, and flapjacks were being mixed, daylight found time to put on a big pot of beans. kama came back, sat down on the edge of the spruce boughs, and in the interval of waiting, mended harness. "i t'ink dat skookum and booga make um plenty fight maybe," kama remarked, as they sat down to eat. "keep an eye on them," was daylight's answer. and this was their sole conversation throughout the meal. once, with a muttered imprecation, kama leaped away, a stick of firewood in hand, and clubbed apart a tangle of fighting dogs. daylight, between mouthfuls, fed chunks of ice into the tin pot, where it thawed into water. the meal finished, kama replenished the fire, cut more wood for the morning, and returned to the spruce bough bed and his harness-mending. daylight cut up generous chunks of bacon and dropped them in the pot of bubbling beans. the moccasins of both men were wet, and this in spite of the intense cold; so when there was no further need for them to leave the oasis of spruce boughs, they took off their moccasins and hung them on short sticks to dry before the fire, turning them about from time to time. when the beans were finally cooked, daylight ran part of them into a bag of flour-sacking a foot and a half long and three inches in diameter. this he then laid on the snow to freeze. the remainder of the beans were left in the pot for breakfast. it was past nine o'clock, and they were ready for bed. the squabbling and bickering among the dogs had long since died down, and the weary animals were curled in the snow, each with his feet and nose bunched together and covered by his wolf's brush of a tail. kama spread his sleeping-furs and lighted his pipe. daylight rolled a brown-paper cigarette, and the second conversation of the evening took place. "i think we come near sixty miles," said daylight. "um, i t'ink so," said kama. they rolled into their robes, all-standing, each with a woolen mackinaw jacket on in place of the parkas[ ] they had worn all day. swiftly, almost on the instant they closed their eyes, they were asleep. the stars leaped and danced in the frosty air, and overhead the colored bars of the aurora borealis were shooting like great searchlights. in the darkness daylight awoke and roused kama. though the aurora still flamed, another day had begun. warmed-over flapjacks, warmed-over beans, fried bacon, and coffee composed the breakfast. the dogs got nothing, though they watched with wistful mien from a distance, sitting up in the snow, their tails curled around their paws. occasionally they lifted one fore paw or the other, with a restless movement, as if the frost tingled in their feet. it was bitter cold, at least sixty-five below zero, and when kama harnessed the dogs with naked hands he was compelled several times to go over to the fire and warm the numbing finger-tips. together the two men loaded and lashed the sled. they warmed their hands for the last time, pulled on their mittens, and mushed the dogs over the bank and down to the river-trail. according to daylight's estimate, it was around seven o'clock; but the stars danced just as brilliantly, and faint, luminous streaks of greenish aurora still pulsed overhead. two hours later it became suddenly dark--so dark that they kept to the trail largely by instinct; and daylight knew that his time-estimate had been right. it was the darkness before dawn, never anywhere more conspicuous than on the alaskan winter-trail. slowly the gray light came stealing through the gloom, imperceptibly at first, so that it was almost with surprise that they noticed the vague loom of the trail underfoot. next, they were able to see the wheel-dog, and then the whole string of running dogs and snow-stretches on either side. then the near bank loomed for a moment and was gone, loomed a second time and remained. in a few minutes the far bank, a mile away, unobtrusively came into view, and ahead and behind, the whole frozen river could be seen, with off to the left a wide-extending range of sharp-cut, snow-covered mountains. and that was all. no sun arose. the gray light remained gray. once, during the day, a lynx leaped lightly across the trail, under the very nose of the lead-dog, and vanished in the white woods. the dogs' wild impulses roused. they raised the hunting-cry of the pack, surged against their collars, and swerved aside in pursuit. daylight, yelling "whoa!" struggled with the gee-pole and managed to overturn the sled into the soft snow. the dogs gave up, the sled was righted, and five minutes later they were flying along the hard-packed trail again. the lynx was the only sign of life they had seen in two days, and it, leaping velvet-footed and vanishing, had been more like an apparition. at twelve o'clock, when the sun peeped over the earth-bulge, they stopped and built a small fire on the ice. daylight, with the ax, chopped chunks off the frozen sausage of beans. these, thawed and warmed in the frying-pan, constituted their meal. they had no coffee. he did not believe in the burning of daylight for such a luxury. the dogs stopped wrangling with one another, and looked on wistfully. only at night did they get their pound of fish. in the meantime they worked. the cold snap continued. only men of iron kept the trail at such low temperatures, and kama and daylight were picked men of their races. but kama knew the other was the better man, and thus, at the start, he was himself foredoomed to defeat. not that he slackened his effort or willingness by the slightest conscious degree, but that he was beaten by the burden he carried in his mind. his attitude toward daylight was worshipful. stoical, taciturn, proud of his physical prowess, he found all these qualities incarnated in his white companion. here was one that excelled in the things worth excelling in, a man-god ready to hand, and kama could not but worship--withal he gave no signs of it. no wonder the race of white men conquered, was his thought, when it bred men like this man. what chance had the indian against such a dogged, enduring breed? even the indians did not travel at such low temperatures, and theirs was the wisdom of thousands of generations; yet here was this daylight, from the soft southland, harder than they, laughing at their fears, and swinging along the trail ten and twelve hours a day. and this daylight thought that he could keep up a day's pace of thirty-three miles for sixty days! wait till a fresh fall of snow came down, or they struck the unbroken trail or the rotten rim-ice that fringed open water. in the meantime kama kept the pace, never grumbling, never shirking. sixty-five degrees below zero is very cold. since water freezes at thirty-two above, sixty-five below meant ninety-seven degrees below freezing-point. some idea of the significance of this may be gained by conceiving of an equal difference of temperature in the opposite direction. one hundred and twenty-nine on the thermometer constitutes a very hot day, yet such a temperature is but ninety-seven degrees above freezing. double this difference, and possibly some slight conception may be gained of the cold through which kama and daylight travelled between dark and dark and through the dark. kama froze the skin on his cheek-bones, despite frequent rubbings, and the flesh turned black and sore. also he slightly froze the edges of his lung-tissues--a dangerous thing, and the basic reason why a man should not unduly exert himself in the open at sixty-five below. but kama never complained, and daylight was a furnace of heat, sleeping as warmly under his six pounds of rabbit skins as the other did under twelve pounds. on the second night, fifty more miles to the good, they camped in the vicinity of the boundary between alaska and the northwest territory. the rest of the journey, save the last short stretch to dyea, would be travelled on canadian territory. with the hard trail, and in the absence of fresh snow, daylight planned to make the camp of forty mile on the fourth night. he told kama as much, but on the third day the temperature began to rise, and they knew snow was not far off; for on the yukon it must get warm in order to snow. also, on this day, they encountered ten miles of chaotic ice-jams, where, a thousand times, they lifted the loaded sled over the huge cakes by the strength of their arms and lowered it down again. here the dogs were well-nigh useless, and both they and the men were tried excessively by the roughness of the way. an hour's extra running that night caught up only part of the lost time. in the morning they awoke to find ten inches of snow on their robes. the dogs were buried under it and were loath to leave their comfortable nests. this new snow meant hard going. the sled runners would not slide over it so well, while one of the men must go in advance of the dogs and pack it down with snowshoes so that they should not wallow. quite different was it from the ordinary snow known to those of the southland. it was hard, and fine, and dry. it was more like sugar. kick it, and it flew with a hissing noise like sand. there was no cohesion among the particles, and it could not be moulded into snowballs. it was not composed of flakes, but of crystals--tiny, geometrical frost-crystals. in truth, it was not snow, but frost. the weather was warm, as well, barely twenty below zero, and the two men, with raised ear-flaps and dangling mittens, sweated as they toiled. they failed to make forty mile that night, and when they passed that camp next day daylight paused only long enough to get the mail and additional grub. on the afternoon of the following day they camped at the mouth of the klondike river. not a soul had they encountered since forty mile, and they had made their own trail. as yet, that winter, no one had travelled the river south of forty mile, and, for that matter, the whole winter through they might be the only ones to travel it. in that day the yukon was a lonely land. between the klondike river and salt water at dyea intervened six hundred miles of snow-covered wilderness, and in all that distance there were but two places where daylight might look forward to meeting men. both were isolated trading-posts, sixty mile and fort selkirk. in the summer-time indians might be met with at the mouths of the stewart and white rivers, at the big and little salmons, and on lake le barge; but in the winter, as he well knew, they would be on the trail of the moose-herds, following them back into the mountains. that night, camped at the mouth of the klondike, daylight did not turn in when the evening's work was done. had a white man been present, daylight would have remarked that he felt his "hunch" working. as it was, he tied on his snowshoes, left the dogs curled in the snow and kama breathing heavily under his rabbit skins, and climbed up to the big flat above the high earth-bank. but the spruce trees were too thick for an outlook, and he threaded his way across the flat and up the first steep slopes of the mountain at the back. here, flowing in from the east at right angles, he could see the klondike, and, bending grandly from the south, the yukon. to the left, and downstream, toward moosehide mountain, the huge splash of white, from which it took its name, showing clearly in the starlight. lieutenant schwatka had given it its name, but he, daylight, had first seen it long before that intrepid explorer had crossed the chilcoot and rafted down the yukon. but the mountain received only passing notice. daylight's interest was centered in the big flat itself, with deep water all along its edge for steamboat landings. "a sure enough likely town site," he muttered. "room for a camp of forty thousand men. all that's needed is the gold-strike." he meditated for a space. "ten dollars to the pan'll do it, and it'd be the all-firedest stampede alaska ever seen. and if it don't come here, it'll come somewhere hereabouts. it's a sure good idea to keep an eye out for town sites all the way up." he stood a while longer, gazing out over the lonely flat and visioning with constructive imagination the scene if the stampede did come. in fancy, he placed the sawmills, the big trading stores, the saloons, and dance-halls, and the long streets of miners' cabins. and along those streets he saw thousands of men passing up and down, while before the stores were the heavy freighting-sleds, with long strings of dogs attached. also he saw the heavy freighters pulling down the main street and heading up the frozen klondike toward the imagined somewhere where the diggings must be located. he laughed and shook the vision from his eyes, descended to the level, and crossed the flat to camp. five minutes after he had rolled up in his robe, he opened his eyes and sat up, amazed that he was not already asleep. he glanced at the indian sleeping beside him, at the embers of the dying fire, at the five dogs beyond, with their wolf's brushes curled over their noses, and at the four snowshoes standing upright in the snow. "it's sure hell the way that hunch works on me" he murmured. his mind reverted to the poker game. "four kings!" he grinned reminiscently. "that was a hunch!" he lay down again, pulled the edge of the robe around his neck and over his ear-flaps, closed his eyes, and this time fell asleep. [ ] parka: a light, hooded, smock-like garment made of cotton drill. chapter v at sixty mile they restocked provisions, added a few pounds of letters to their load, and held steadily on. from forty mile they had had unbroken trail, and they could look forward only to unbroken trail clear to dyea. daylight stood it magnificently, but the killing pace was beginning to tell on kama. his pride kept his mouth shut, but the result of the chilling of his lungs in the cold snap could not be concealed. microscopically small had been the edges of the lung-tissue touched by the frost, but they now began to slough off, giving rise to a dry, hacking cough. any unusually severe exertion precipitated spells of coughing, during which he was almost like a man in a fit. the blood congested in his eyes till they bulged, while the tears ran down his cheeks. a whiff of the smoke from frying bacon would start him off for a half-hour's paroxysm, and he kept carefully to windward when daylight was cooking. they plodded days upon days and without end over the soft, unpacked snow. it was hard, monotonous work, with none of the joy and blood-stir that went with flying over hard surface. now one man to the fore in the snowshoes, and now the other, it was a case of stubborn, unmitigated plod. a yard of powdery snow had to be pressed down, and the wide-webbed shoe, under a man's weight, sank a full dozen inches into the soft surface. snowshoe work, under such conditions, called for the use of muscles other than those used in ordinary walking. from step to step the rising foot could not come up and forward on a slant. it had to be raised perpendicularly. when the snowshoe was pressed into the snow, its nose was confronted by a vertical wall of snow twelve inches high. if the foot, in rising, slanted forward the slightest bit, the nose of the shoe penetrated the obstructing wall and tipped downward till the heel of the shoe struck the man's leg behind. thus up, straight up, twelve inches, each foot must be raised every time and all the time, ere the forward swing from the knee could begin. on this partially packed surface followed the dogs, the man at the gee-pole, and the sled. at the best, toiling as only picked men could toil, they made no more than three miles an hour. this meant longer hours of travel, and daylight, for good measure and for a margin against accidents, hit the trail for twelve hours a day. since three hours were consumed by making camp at night and cooking beans, by getting breakfast in the morning and breaking camp, and by thawing beans at the midday halt, nine hours were left for sleep and recuperation, and neither men nor dogs wasted many minutes of those nine hours. at selkirk, the trading post near pelly river, daylight suggested that kama lay over, rejoining him on the back trip from dyea. a strayed indian from lake le barge was willing to take his place; but kama was obdurate. he grunted with a slight intonation of resentment, and that was all. the dogs, however, daylight changed, leaving his own exhausted team to rest up against his return, while he went on with six fresh dogs. they travelled till ten o'clock the night they reached selkirk, and at six next morning they plunged ahead into the next stretch of wilderness of nearly five hundred miles that lay between selkirk and dyea. a second cold snap came on, but cold or warm it was all the same, an unbroken trail. when the thermometer went down to fifty below, it was even harder to travel, for at that low temperature the hard frost-crystals were more like sand-grains in the resistance they offered to the sled runners. the dogs had to pull harder than over the same snow at twenty or thirty below zero. daylight increased the day's travel to thirteen hours. he jealously guarded the margin he had gained, for he knew there were difficult stretches to come. it was not yet quite midwinter, and the turbulent fifty mile river vindicated his judgment. in many places it ran wide open, with precarious rim-ice fringing it on either side. in numerous places, where the water dashed against the steep-sided bluffs, rim-ice was unable to form. they turned and twisted, now crossing the river, now coming back again, sometimes making half a dozen attempts before they found a way over a particularly bad stretch. it was slow work. the ice-bridges had to be tested, and either daylight or kama went in advance, snowshoes on their feet, and long poles carried crosswise in their hands. thus, if they broke through, they could cling to the pole that bridged the hole made by their bodies. several such accidents were the share of each. at fifty below zero, a man wet to the waist cannot travel without freezing; so each ducking meant delay. as soon as rescued, the wet man ran up and down to keep up his circulation, while his dry companion built a fire. thus protected, a change of garments could be made and the wet ones dried against the next misadventure. to make matters worse, this dangerous river travel could not be done in the dark, and their working day was reduced to the six hours of twilight. every moment was precious, and they strove never to lose one. thus, before the first hint of the coming of gray day, camp was broken, sled loaded, dogs harnessed, and the two men crouched waiting over the fire. nor did they make the midday halt to eat. as it was, they were running far behind their schedule, each day eating into the margin they had run up. there were days when they made fifteen miles, and days when they made a dozen. and there was one bad stretch where in two days they covered nine miles, being compelled to turn their backs three times on the river and to portage sled and outfit over the mountains. at last they cleared the dread fifty mile river and came out on lake le barge. here was no open water nor jammed ice. for thirty miles or more the snow lay level as a table; withal it lay three feet deep and was soft as flour. three miles an hour was the best they could make, but daylight celebrated the passing of the fifty mile by traveling late. at eleven in the morning they emerged at the foot of the lake. at three in the afternoon, as the arctic night closed down, he caught his first sight of the head of the lake, and with the first stars took his bearings. at eight in the evening they left the lake behind and entered the mouth of the lewes river. here a halt of half an hour was made, while chunks of frozen boiled beans were thawed and the dogs were given an extra ration of fish. then they pulled on up the river till one in the morning, when they made their regular camp. they had hit the trail sixteen hours on end that day, the dogs had come in too tired to fight among themselves or even snarl, and kama had perceptibly limped the last several miles; yet daylight was on trail next morning at six o'clock. by eleven he was at the foot of white horse, and that night saw him camped beyond the box canon, the last bad river-stretch behind him, the string of lakes before him. there was no let up in his pace. twelve hours a day, six in the twilight, and six in the dark, they toiled on the trail. three hours were consumed in cooking, repairing harnesses, and making and breaking camp, and the remaining nine hours dogs and men slept as if dead. the iron strength of kama broke. day by day the terrific toil sapped him. day by day he consumed more of his reserves of strength. he became slower of movement, the resiliency went out of his muscles, and his limp became permanent. yet he labored stoically on, never shirking, never grunting a hint of complaint. daylight was thin-faced and tired. he looked tired; yet somehow, with that marvelous mechanism of a body that was his, he drove on, ever on, remorselessly on. never was he more a god in kama's mind than in the last days of the south-bound traverse, as the failing indian watched him, ever to the fore, pressing onward with urgency of endurance such as kama had never seen nor dreamed could thrive in human form. the time came when kama was unable to go in the lead and break trail, and it was a proof that he was far gone when he permitted daylight to toil all day at the heavy snowshoe work. lake by lake they crossed the string of lakes from marsh to linderman, and began the ascent of chilcoot. by all rights, daylight should have camped below the last pitch of the pass at the dim end of day; but he kept on and over and down to sheep camp, while behind him raged a snow-storm that would have delayed him twenty-four hours. this last excessive strain broke kama completely. in the morning he could not travel. at five, when called, he sat up after a struggle, groaned, and sank back again. daylight did the camp work of both, harnessed the dogs, and, when ready for the start, rolled the helpless indian in all three sleeping robes and lashed him on top of the sled. the going was good; they were on the last lap; and he raced the dogs down through dyea canon and along the hard-packed trail that led to dyea post. and running still, kama groaning on top the load, and daylight leaping at the gee-pole to avoid going under the runners of the flying sled, they arrived at dyea by the sea. true to his promise, daylight did not stop. an hour's time saw the sled loaded with the ingoing mail and grub, fresh dogs harnessed, and a fresh indian engaged. kama never spoke from the time of his arrival till the moment daylight, ready to depart, stood beside him to say good-by. they shook hands. "you kill um dat damn indian," kama said. "sawee, daylight? you kill um." "he'll sure last as far as pelly," daylight grinned. kama shook his head doubtfully, and rolled over on his side, turning his back in token of farewell. daylight won across chilcoot that same day, dropping down five hundred feet in the darkness and the flurrying snow to crater lake, where he camped. it was a 'cold' camp, far above the timber-line, and he had not burdened his sled with firewood. that night three feet of snow covered them, and in the black morning, when they dug themselves out, the indian tried to desert. he had had enough of traveling with what he considered a madman. but daylight persuaded him in grim ways to stay by the outfit, and they pulled on across deep lake and long lake and dropped down to the level-going of lake linderman. it was the same killing pace going in as coming out, and the indian did not stand it as well as kama. he, too, never complained. nor did he try again to desert. he toiled on and did his best, while he renewed his resolve to steer clear of daylight in the future. the days slipped into days, nights and twilight's alternating, cold snaps gave way to snow-falls, and cold snaps came on again, and all the while, through the long hours, the miles piled up behind them. but on the fifty mile accident befell them. crossing an ice-bridge, the dogs broke through and were swept under the down-stream ice. the traces that connected the team with the wheel-dog parted, and the team was never seen again. only the one wheel-dog remained, and daylight harnessed the indian and himself to the sled. but a man cannot take the place of a dog at such work, and the two men were attempting to do the work of five dogs. at the end of the first hour, daylight lightened up. dog-food, extra gear, and the spare ax were thrown away. under the extraordinary exertion the dog snapped a tendon the following day, and was hopelessly disabled. daylight shot it, and abandoned the sled. on his back he took one hundred and sixty pounds of mail and grub, and on the indian's put one hundred and twenty-five pounds. the stripping of gear was remorseless. the indian was appalled when he saw every pound of worthless mail matter retained, while beans, cups, pails, plates, and extra clothing were thrown by the board. one robe each was kept, one ax, one tin pail, and a scant supply of bacon and flour. bacon could be eaten raw on a pinch, and flour, stirred in hot water, could keep men going. even the rifle and the score of rounds of ammunition were left behind. and in this fashion they covered the two hundred miles to selkirk. daylight travelled late and early, the hours formerly used by camp-making and dog-tending being now devoted to the trail. at night they crouched over a small fire, wrapped in their robes, drinking flour broth and thawing bacon on the ends of sticks; and in the morning darkness, without a word, they arose, slipped on their packs, adjusted head-straps, and hit the trail. the last miles into selkirk, daylight drove the indian before him, a hollow-cheeked, gaunt-eyed wraith of a man who else would have lain down and slept or abandoned his burden of mail. at selkirk, the old team of dogs, fresh and in condition, were harnessed, and the same day saw daylight plodding on, alternating places at the gee-pole, as a matter of course, with the le barge indian who had volunteered on the way out. daylight was two days behind his schedule, and falling snow and unpacked trail kept him two days behind all the way to forty mile. and here the weather favored. it was time for a big cold snap, and he gambled on it, cutting down the weight of grub for dogs and men. the men of forty mile shook their heads ominously, and demanded to know what he would do if the snow still fell. "that cold snap's sure got to come," he laughed, and mushed out on the trail. a number of sleds had passed back and forth already that winter between forty mile and circle city, and the trail was well packed. and the cold snap came and remained, and circle city was only two hundred miles away. the le barge indian was a young man, unlearned yet in his own limitations, and filled with pride. he took daylight's pace with joy, and even dreamed, at first, that he would play the white man out. the first hundred miles he looked for signs of weakening, and marveled that he saw them not. throughout the second hundred miles he observed signs in himself, and gritted his teeth and kept up. and ever daylight flew on and on, running at the gee-pole or resting his spell on top the flying sled. the last day, clearer and colder than ever, gave perfect going, and they covered seventy miles. it was ten at night when they pulled up the earth-bank and flew along the main street of circle city; and the young indian, though it was his spell to ride, leaped off and ran behind the sled. it was honorable braggadocio, and despite the fact that he had found his limitations and was pressing desperately against them, he ran gamely on. chapter vi a crowd filled the tivoli--the old crowd that had seen daylight depart two months before; for this was the night of the sixtieth day, and opinion was divided as ever as to whether or not he would compass the achievement. at ten o'clock bets were still being made, though the odds rose, bet by bet, against his success. down in her heart the virgin believed he had failed, yet she made a bet of twenty ounces with charley bates, against forty ounces, that daylight would arrive before midnight. she it was who heard the first yelps of the dogs. "listen!" she cried. "it's daylight!" there was a general stampede for the door; but where the double storm-doors were thrown wide open, the crowd fell back. they heard the eager whining of dogs, the snap of a dog-whip, and the voice of daylight crying encouragement as the weary animals capped all they had done by dragging the sled in over the wooden floor. they came in with a rush, and with them rushed in the frost, a visible vapor of smoking white, through which their heads and backs showed, as they strained in the harness, till they had all the seeming of swimming in a river. behind them, at the gee-pole, came daylight, hidden to the knees by the swirling frost through which he appeared to wade. he was the same old daylight, withal lean and tired-looking, and his black eyes were sparkling and flashing brighter than ever. his parka of cotton drill hooded him like a monk, and fell in straight lines to his knees. grimed and scorched by camp-smoke and fire, the garment in itself told the story of his trip. a two-months' beard covered his face; and the beard, in turn, was matted with the ice of his breathing through the long seventy-mile run. his entry was spectacular, melodramatic; and he knew it. it was his life, and he was living it at the top of his bent. among his fellows he was a great man, an arctic hero. he was proud of the fact, and it was a high moment for him, fresh from two thousand miles of trail, to come surging into that bar-room, dogs, sled, mail, indian, paraphernalia, and all. he had performed one more exploit that would make the yukon ring with his name--he, burning daylight, the king of travelers and dog-mushers. he experienced a thrill of surprise as the roar of welcome went up and as every familiar detail of the tivoli greeted his vision--the long bar and the array of bottles, the gambling games, the big stove, the weigher at the gold-scales, the musicians, the men and women, the virgin, celia, and nellie, dan macdonald, bettles, billy rawlins, olaf henderson, doc watson,--all of them. it was just as he had left it, and in all seeming it might well be the very day he had left. the sixty days of incessant travel through the white wilderness suddenly telescoped, and had no existence in time. they were a moment, an incident. he had plunged out and into them through the wall of silence, and back through the wall of silence he had plunged, apparently the next instant, and into the roar and turmoil of the tivoli. a glance down at the sled with its canvas mail-bags was necessary to reassure him of the reality of those sixty days and the two thousand miles over the ice. as in a dream, he shook the hands that were thrust out to him. he felt a vast exaltation. life was magnificent. he loved it all. a great sense of humanness and comradeship swept over him. these were all his, his own kind. it was immense, tremendous. he felt melting in the heart of him, and he would have liked to shake hands with them all at once, to gather them to his breast in one mighty embrace. he drew a deep breath and cried: "the winner pays, and i'm the winner, ain't i? surge up, you-all malemutes and siwashes, and name your poison! there's your dyea mail, straight from salt water, and no hornswogglin about it! cast the lashings adrift, you-all, and wade into it!" a dozen pairs of hands were at the sled-lashings, when the young le barge indian, bending at the same task, suddenly and limply straightened up. in his eyes was a great surprise. he stared about him wildly, for the thing he was undergoing was new to him. he was profoundly struck by an unguessed limitation. he shook as with a palsy, and he gave at the knees, slowly sinking down to fall suddenly across the sled and to know the smashing blow of darkness across his consciousness. "exhaustion," said daylight. "take him off and put him to bed, some of you-all. he's sure a good indian." "daylight's right," was doc watson's verdict, a moment later. "the man's plumb tuckered out." the mail was taken charge of, the dogs driven away to quarters and fed, and bettles struck up the paean of the sassafras root as they lined up against the long bar to drink and talk and collect their debts. a few minutes later, daylight was whirling around the dance-floor, waltzing with the virgin. he had replaced his parka with his fur cap and blanket-cloth coat, kicked off his frozen moccasins, and was dancing in his stocking feet. after wetting himself to the knees late that afternoon, he had run on without changing his foot-gear, and to the knees his long german socks were matted with ice. in the warmth of the room it began to thaw and to break apart in clinging chunks. these chunks rattled together as his legs flew around, and every little while they fell clattering to the floor and were slipped upon by the other dancers. but everybody forgave daylight. he, who was one of the few that made the law in that far land, who set the ethical pace, and by conduct gave the standard of right and wrong, was nevertheless above the law. he was one of those rare and favored mortals who can do no wrong. what he did had to be right, whether others were permitted or not to do the same things. of course, such mortals are so favored by virtue of the fact that they almost always do the right and do it in finer and higher ways than other men. so daylight, an elder hero in that young land and at the same time younger than most of them, moved as a creature apart, as a man above men, as a man who was greatly man and all man. and small wonder it was that the virgin yielded herself to his arms, as they danced dance after dance, and was sick at heart at the knowledge that he found nothing in her more than a good friend and an excellent dancer. small consolation it was to know that he had never loved any woman. she was sick with love of him, and he danced with her as he would dance with any woman, as he would dance with a man who was a good dancer and upon whose arm was tied a handkerchief to conventionalize him into a woman. one such man daylight danced with that night. among frontiersmen it has always been a test of endurance for one man to whirl another down; and when ben davis, the faro-dealer, a gaudy bandanna on his arm, got daylight in a virginia reel, the fun began. the reel broke up and all fell back to watch. around and around the two men whirled, always in the one direction. word was passed on into the big bar-room, and bar and gambling tables were deserted. everybody wanted to see, and they packed and jammed the dance-room. the musicians played on and on, and on and on the two men whirled. davis was skilled at the trick, and on the yukon he had put many a strong man on his back. but after a few minutes it was clear that he, and not daylight, was going. for a while longer they spun around, and then daylight suddenly stood still, released his partner, and stepped back, reeling himself, and fluttering his hands aimlessly, as if to support himself against the air. but davis, a giddy smile of consternation on his face, gave sideways, turned in an attempt to recover balance, and pitched headlong to the floor. still reeling and staggering and clutching at the air with his hands, daylight caught the nearest girl and started on in a waltz. again he had done the big thing. weary from two thousand miles over the ice and a run that day of seventy miles, he had whirled a fresh man down, and that man ben davis. daylight loved the high places, and though few high places there were in his narrow experience, he had made a point of sitting in the highest he had ever glimpsed. the great world had never heard his name, but it was known far and wide in the vast silent north, by whites and indians and eskimos, from bering sea to the passes, from the head reaches of remotest rivers to the tundra shore of point barrow. desire for mastery was strong in him, and it was all one whether wrestling with the elements themselves, with men, or with luck in a gambling game. it was all a game, life and its affairs. and he was a gambler to the core. risk and chance were meat and drink. true, it was not altogether blind, for he applied wit and skill and strength; but behind it all was the everlasting luck, the thing that at times turned on its votaries and crushed the wise while it blessed the fools--luck, the thing all men sought and dreamed to conquer. and so he. deep in his life-processes life itself sang the siren song of its own majesty, ever a-whisper and urgent, counseling him that he could achieve more than other men, win out where they failed, ride to success where they perished. it was the urge of life healthy and strong, unaware of frailty and decay, drunken with sublime complacence, ego-mad, enchanted by its own mighty optimism. and ever in vaguest whisperings and clearest trumpet-calls came the message that sometime, somewhere, somehow, he would run luck down, make himself the master of luck, and tie it and brand it as his own. when he played poker, the whisper was of four aces and royal flushes. when he prospected, it was of gold in the grass-roots, gold on bed-rock, and gold all the way down. at the sharpest hazards of trail and river and famine, the message was that other men might die, but that he would pull through triumphant. it was the old, old lie of life fooling itself, believing itself--immortal and indestructible, bound to achieve over other lives and win to its heart's desire. and so, reversing at times, daylight waltzed off his dizziness and led the way to the bar. but a united protest went up. his theory that the winner paid was no longer to be tolerated. it was contrary to custom and common sense, and while it emphasized good-fellowship, nevertheless, in the name of good-fellowship it must cease. the drinks were rightfully on ben davis, and ben davis must buy them. furthermore, all drinks and general treats that daylight was guilty of ought to be paid by the house, for daylight brought much custom to it whenever he made a night. bettles was the spokesman, and his argument, tersely and offensively vernacular, was unanimously applauded. daylight grinned, stepped aside to the roulette-table, and bought a stack of yellow chips. at the end of ten minutes he weighed in at the scales, and two thousand dollars in gold-dust was poured into his own and an extra sack. luck, a mere flutter of luck, but it was his. elation was added to elation. he was living, and the night was his. he turned upon his well-wishing critics. "now the winner sure does pay," he said. and they surrendered. there was no withstanding daylight when he vaulted on the back of life, and rode it bitted and spurred. at one in the morning he saw elijah davis herding henry finn and joe hines, the lumber-jack, toward the door. daylight interfered. "where are you-all going?" he demanded, attempting to draw them to the bar. "bed," elijah davis answered. he was a lean tobacco-chewing new englander, the one daring spirit in his family that had heard and answered the call of the west shouting through the mount desert back odd-lots. "got to," joe hines added apologetically. "we're mushing out in the mornin'." daylight still detained them. "where to? what's the excitement?" "no excitement," elijah explained. "we're just a-goin' to play your hunch, an' tackle the upper country. don't you want to come along?" "i sure do," daylight affirmed. but the question had been put in fun, and elijah ignored the acceptance. "we're tacklin' the stewart," he went on. "al mayo told me he seen some likely lookin' bars first time he come down the stewart, and we're goin' to sample 'em while the river's froze. you listen, daylight, an' mark my words, the time's comin' when winter diggin's'll be all the go. there'll be men in them days that'll laugh at our summer stratchin' an' ground-wallerin'." at that time, winter mining was undreamed of on the yukon. from the moss and grass the land was frozen to bed-rock, and frozen gravel, hard as granite, defied pick and shovel. in the summer the men stripped the earth down as fast as the sun thawed it. then was the time they did their mining. during the winter they freighted their provisions, went moose-hunting, got all ready for the summer's work, and then loafed the bleak, dark months through in the big central camps such as circle city and forty mile. "winter diggin's sure comin'," daylight agreed. "wait till that big strike is made up river. then you-all'll see a new kind of mining. what's to prevent wood-burning and sinking shafts and drifting along bed-rock? won't need to timber. that frozen muck and gravel'll stand till hell is froze and its mill-tails is turned to ice-cream. why, they'll be working pay-streaks a hundred feet deep in them days that's comin'. i'm sure going along with you-all, elijah." elijah laughed, gathered his two partners up, and was making a second attempt to reach the door. "hold on," daylight called. "i sure mean it." the three men turned back suddenly upon him, in their faces surprise, delight, and incredulity. "g'wan, you're foolin'," said finn, the other lumberjack, a quiet, steady, wisconsin man. "there's my dawgs and sled," daylight answered. "that'll make two teams and halve the loads--though we-all'll have to travel easy for a spell, for them dawgs is sure tired." the three men were overjoyed, but still a trifle incredulous. "now look here," joe hines blurted out, "none of your foolin, daylight. we mean business. will you come?" daylight extended his hand and shook. "then you'd best be gettin' to bed," elijah advised. "we're mushin' out at six, and four hours' sleep is none so long." "mebbe we ought to lay over a day and let him rest up," finn suggested. daylight's pride was touched. "no you don't," he cried. "we all start at six. what time do you-all want to be called? five? all right, i'll rouse you-all out." "you oughter have some sleep," elijah counselled gravely. "you can't go on forever." daylight was tired, profoundly tired. even his iron body acknowledged weariness. every muscle was clamoring for bed and rest, was appalled at continuance of exertion and at thought of the trail again. all this physical protest welled up into his brain in a wave of revolt. but deeper down, scornful and defiant, was life itself, the essential fire of it, whispering that all daylight's fellows were looking on, that now was the time to pile deed upon deed, to flaunt his strength in the face of strength. it was merely life, whispering its ancient lies. and in league with it was whiskey, with all its consummate effrontery and vain-glory. "mebbe you-all think i ain't weaned yet?" daylight demanded. "why, i ain't had a drink, or a dance, or seen a soul in two months. you-all get to bed. i'll call you-all at five." and for the rest of the night he danced on in his stocking feet, and at five in the morning, rapping thunderously on the door of his new partners' cabin, he could be heard singing the song that had given him his name:-- "burning daylight, you-all stewart river hunchers! burning daylight! burning daylight! burning daylight!" chapter vii this time the trail was easier. it was better packed, and they were not carrying mail against time. the day's run was shorter, and likewise the hours on trail. on his mail run daylight had played out three indians; but his present partners knew that they must not be played out when they arrived at the stewart bars, so they set the slower pace. and under this milder toil, where his companions nevertheless grew weary, daylight recuperated and rested up. at forty mile they laid over two days for the sake of the dogs, and at sixty mile daylight's team was left with the trader. unlike daylight, after the terrible run from selkirk to circle city, they had been unable to recuperate on the back trail. so the four men pulled on from sixty mile with a fresh team of dogs on daylight's sled. the following night they camped in the cluster of islands at the mouth of the stewart. daylight talked town sites, and, though the others laughed at him, he staked the whole maze of high, wooded islands. "just supposing the big strike does come on the stewart," he argued. "mebbe you-all'll be in on it, and then again mebbe you-all won't. but i sure will. you-all'd better reconsider and go in with me on it." but they were stubborn. "you're as bad as harper and joe ladue," said joe hines. "they're always at that game. you know that big flat jest below the klondike and under moosehide mountain? well, the recorder at forty mile was tellin' me they staked that not a month ago--the harper & ladue town site. ha! ha! ha!" elijah and finn joined him in his laughter; but daylight was gravely in earnest. "there she is!" he cried. "the hunch is working! it's in the air, i tell you-all! what'd they-all stake the big flat for if they-all didn't get the hunch? wish i'd staked it." the regret in his voice was provocative of a second burst of laughter. "laugh, you-all, laugh! that's what's the trouble with you-all. you-all think gold-hunting is the only way to make a stake. but let me tell you-all that when the big strike sure does come, you-all'll do a little surface-scratchin' and muck-raking, but danged little you-all'll have to show for it. you-all laugh at quicksilver in the riffles and think flour gold was manufactured by god almighty for the express purpose of fooling suckers and chechaquos. nothing but coarse gold for you-all, that's your way, not getting half of it out of the ground and losing into the tailings half of what you-all do get. "but the men that land big will be them that stake the town sites, organize the tradin' companies, start the banks--" here the explosion of mirth drowned him out. banks in alaska! the idea of it was excruciating. "yep, and start the stock exchanges--" again they were convulsed. joe hines rolled over on his sleeping-robe, holding his sides. "and after them will come the big mining sharks that buy whole creeks where you-all have been scratching like a lot of picayune hens, and they-all will go to hydraulicking in summer and steam-thawing in winter--" steam-thawing! that was the limit. daylight was certainly exceeding himself in his consummate fun-making. steam-thawing--when even wood-burning was an untried experiment, a dream in the air! "laugh, dang you, laugh! why your eyes ain't open yet. you-all are a bunch of little mewing kittens. i tell you-all if that strike comes on klondike, harper and ladue will be millionaires. and if it comes on stewart, you-all watch the elam harnish town site boom. in them days, when you-all come around makin' poor mouths..." he heaved a sigh of resignation. "well, i suppose i'll have to give you-all a grub-stake or soup, or something or other." daylight had vision. his scope had been rigidly limited, yet whatever he saw, he saw big. his mind was orderly, his imagination practical, and he never dreamed idly. when he superimposed a feverish metropolis on a waste of timbered, snow-covered flat, he predicated first the gold-strike that made the city possible, and next he had an eye for steamboat landings, sawmill and warehouse locations, and all the needs of a far-northern mining city. but this, in turn, was the mere setting for something bigger, namely, the play of temperament. opportunities swarmed in the streets and buildings and human and economic relations of the city of his dream. it was a larger table for gambling. the limit was the sky, with the southland on one side and the aurora borealis on the other. the play would be big, bigger than any yukoner had ever imagined, and he, burning daylight, would see that he got in on that play. in the meantime there was naught to show for it but the hunch. but it was coming. as he would stake his last ounce on a good poker hand, so he staked his life and effort on the hunch that the future held in store a big strike on the upper river. so he and his three companions, with dogs, and sleds, and snowshoes, toiled up the frozen breast of the stewart, toiled on and on through the white wilderness where the unending stillness was never broken by the voices of men, the stroke of an ax, or the distant crack of a rifle. they alone moved through the vast and frozen quiet, little mites of earth-men, crawling their score of miles a day, melting the ice that they might have water to drink, camping in the snow at night, their wolf-dogs curled in frost-rimed, hairy bunches, their eight snowshoes stuck on end in the snow beside the sleds. no signs of other men did they see, though once they passed a rude poling-boat, cached on a platform by the river bank. whoever had cached it had never come back for it; and they wondered and mushed on. another time they chanced upon the site of an indian village, but the indians had disappeared; undoubtedly they were on the higher reaches of the stewart in pursuit of the moose-herds. two hundred miles up from the yukon, they came upon what elijah decided were the bars mentioned by al mayo. a permanent camp was made, their outfit of food cached on a high platform to keep it from the dogs, and they started work on the bars, cutting their way down to gravel through the rim of ice. it was a hard and simple life. breakfast over, and they were at work by the first gray light; and when night descended, they did their cooking and camp-chores, smoked and yarned for a while, then rolled up in their sleeping-robes, and slept while the aurora borealis flamed overhead and the stars leaped and danced in the great cold. their fare was monotonous: sour-dough bread, bacon, beans, and an occasional dish of rice cooked along with a handful of prunes. fresh meat they failed to obtain. there was an unwonted absence of animal life. at rare intervals they chanced upon the trail of a snowshoe rabbit or an ermine; but in the main it seemed that all life had fled the land. it was a condition not unknown to them, for in all their experience, at one time or another, they had travelled one year through a region teeming with game, where, a year or two or three years later, no game at all would be found. gold they found on the bars, but not in paying quantities. elijah, while on a hunt for moose fifty miles away, had panned the surface gravel of a large creek and found good colors. they harnessed their dogs, and with light outfits sledded to the place. here, and possibly for the first time in the history of the yukon, wood-burning, in sinking a shaft, was tried. it was daylight's initiative. after clearing away the moss and grass, a fire of dry spruce was built. six hours of burning thawed eight inches of muck. their picks drove full depth into it, and, when they had shoveled out, another fire was started. they worked early and late, excited over the success of the experiment. six feet of frozen muck brought them to gravel, likewise frozen. here progress was slower. but they learned to handle their fires better, and were soon able to thaw five and six inches at a burning. flour gold was in this gravel, and after two feet it gave away again to muck. at seventeen feet they struck a thin streak of gravel, and in it coarse gold, testpans running as high as six and eight dollars. unfortunately, this streak of gravel was not more than an inch thick. beneath it was more muck, tangled with the trunks of ancient trees and containing fossil bones of forgotten monsters. but gold they had found--coarse gold; and what more likely than that the big deposit would be found on bed-rock? down to bed-rock they would go, if it were forty feet away. they divided into two shifts, working day and night, on two shafts, and the smoke of their burning rose continually. it was at this time that they ran short of beans and that elijah was despatched to the main camp to bring up more grub. elijah was one of the hard-bitten old-time travelers himself. the round trip was a hundred miles, but he promised to be back on the third day, one day going light, two days returning heavy. instead, he arrived on the night of the second day. they had just gone to bed when they heard him coming. "what in hell's the matter now?" henry finn demanded, as the empty sled came into the circle of firelight and as he noted that elijah's long, serious face was longer and even more serious. joe hines threw wood on the fire, and the three men, wrapped in their robes, huddled up close to the warmth. elijah's whiskered face was matted with ice, as were his eyebrows, so that, what of his fur garb, he looked like a new england caricature of father christmas. "you recollect that big spruce that held up the corner of the cache next to the river?" elijah began. the disaster was quickly told. the big tree, with all the seeming of hardihood, promising to stand for centuries to come, had suffered from a hidden decay. in some way its rooted grip on the earth had weakened. the added burden of the cache and the winter snow had been too much for it; the balance it had so long maintained with the forces of its environment had been overthrown; it had toppled and crashed to the ground, wrecking the cache and, in turn, overthrowing the balance with environment that the four men and eleven dogs had been maintaining. their supply of grub was gone. the wolverines had got into the wrecked cache, and what they had not eaten they had destroyed. "they plumb e't all the bacon and prunes and sugar and dog-food," elijah reported, "and gosh darn my buttons, if they didn't gnaw open the sacks and scatter the flour and beans and rice from dan to beersheba. i found empty sacks where they'd dragged them a quarter of a mile away." nobody spoke for a long minute. it was nothing less than a catastrophe, in the dead of an arctic winter and in a game-abandoned land, to lose their grub. they were not panic-stricken, but they were busy looking the situation squarely in the face and considering. joe hines was the first to speak. "we can pan the snow for the beans and rice... though there wa'n't more'n eight or ten pounds of rice left." "and somebody will have to take a team and pull for sixty mile," daylight said next. "i'll go," said finn. they considered a while longer. "but how are we going to feed the other team and three men till he gets back?" hines demanded. "only one thing to it," was elijah's contribution. "you'll have to take the other team, joe, and pull up the stewart till you find them indians. then you come back with a load of meat. you'll get here long before henry can make it from sixty mile, and while you're gone there'll only be daylight and me to feed, and we'll feed good and small." "and in the morning we-all'll pull for the cache and pan snow to find what grub we've got." daylight lay back, as he spoke, and rolled in his robe to sleep, then added: "better turn in for an early start. two of you can take the dogs down. elijah and me'll skin out on both sides and see if we-all can scare up a moose on the way down." chapter viii no time was lost. hines and finn, with the dogs, already on short rations, were two days in pulling down. at noon of the third day elijah arrived, reporting no moose sign. that night daylight came in with a similar report. as fast as they arrived, the men had started careful panning of the snow all around the cache. it was a large task, for they found stray beans fully a hundred yards from the cache. one more day all the men toiled. the result was pitiful, and the four showed their caliber in the division of the few pounds of food that had been recovered. little as it was, the lion's share was left with daylight and elijah. the men who pulled on with the dogs, one up the stewart and one down, would come more quickly to grub. the two who remained would have to last out till the others returned. furthermore, while the dogs, on several ounces each of beans a day, would travel slowly, nevertheless, the men who travelled with them, on a pinch, would have the dogs themselves to eat. but the men who remained, when the pinch came, would have no dogs. it was for this reason that daylight and elijah took the more desperate chance. they could not do less, nor did they care to do less. the days passed, and the winter began merging imperceptibly into the northland spring that comes like a thunderbolt of suddenness. it was the spring of that was preparing. each day the sun rose farther east of south, remained longer in the sky, and set farther to the west. march ended and april began, and daylight and elijah, lean and hungry, wondered what had become of their two comrades. granting every delay, and throwing in generous margins for good measure, the time was long since passed when they should have returned. without doubt they had met with disaster. the party had considered the possibility of disaster for one man, and that had been the principal reason for despatching the two in different directions. but that disaster should have come to both of them was the final blow. in the meantime, hoping against hope, daylight and elija eked out a meagre existence. the thaw had not yet begun, so they were able to gather the snow about the ruined cache and melt it in pots and pails and gold pans. allowed to stand for a while, when poured off, a thin deposit of slime was found on the bottoms of the vessels. this was the flour, the infinitesimal trace of it scattered through thousands of cubic yards of snow. also, in this slime occurred at intervals a water-soaked tea-leaf or coffee-ground, and there were in it fragments of earth and litter. but the farther they worked away from the site of the cache, the thinner became the trace of flour, the smaller the deposit of slime. elijah was the older man, and he weakened first, so that he came to lie up most of the time in his furs. an occasional tree-squirrel kept them alive. the hunting fell upon daylight, and it was hard work. with but thirty rounds of ammunition, he dared not risk a miss; and, since his rifle was a - , he was compelled to shoot the small creatures through the head. there were very few of them, and days went by without seeing one. when he did see one, he took infinite precautions. he would stalk it for hours. a score of times, with arms that shook from weakness, he would draw a sight on the animal and refrain from pulling the trigger. his inhibition was a thing of iron. he was the master. not til absolute certitude was his did he shoot. no matter how sharp the pangs of hunger and desire for that palpitating morsel of chattering life, he refused to take the slightest risk of a miss. he, born gambler, was gambling in the bigger way. his life was the stake, his cards were the cartridges, and he played as only a big gambler could play, with infinite precaution, with infinite consideration. each shot meant a squirrel, and though days elapsed between shots, it never changed his method of play. of the squirrels, nothing was lost. even the skins were boiled to make broth, the bones pounded into fragments that could be chewed and swallowed. daylight prospected through the snow, and found occasional patches of mossberries. at the best, mossberries were composed practically of seeds and water, with a tough rind of skin about them; but the berries he found were of the preceding year, dry and shrivelled, and the nourishment they contained verged on the minus quality. scarcely better was the bark of young saplings, stewed for an hour and swallowed after prodigious chewing. april drew toward its close, and spring smote the land. the days stretched out their length. under the heat of the sun, the snow began to melt, while from down under the snow arose the trickling of tiny streams. for twenty-four hours the chinook wind blew, and in that twenty-four hours the snow was diminished fully a foot in depth. in the late afternoons the melting snow froze again, so that its surface became ice capable of supporting a man's weight. tiny white snow-birds appeared from the south, lingered a day, and resumed their journey into the north. once, high in the air, looking for open water and ahead of the season, a wedged squadron of wild geese honked northwards. and down by the river bank a clump of dwarf willows burst into bud. these young buds, stewed, seemed to posess an encouraging nutrition. elijah took heart of hope, though he was cast down again when daylight failed to find another clump of willows. the sap was rising in the trees, and daily the trickle of unseen streamlets became louder as the frozen land came back to life. but the river held in its bonds of frost. winter had been long months in riveting them, and not in a day were they to be broken, not even by the thunderbolt of spring. may came, and stray last-year's mosquitoes, full-grown but harmless, crawled out of rock crevices and rotten logs. crickets began to chirp, and more geese and ducks flew overhead. and still the river held. by may tenth, the ice of the stewart, with a great rending and snapping, tore loose from the banks and rose three feet. but it did not go down-stream. the lower yukon, up to where the stewart flowed into it, must first break and move on. until then the ice of the stewart could only rise higher and higher on the increasing flood beneath. when the yukon would break was problematical. two thousand miles away it flowed into bering sea, and it was the ice conditions of bering sea that would determine when the yukon could rid itself of the millions of tons of ice that cluttered its breast. on the twelfth of may, carrying their sleeping-robes, a pail, an ax, and the precious rifle, the two men started down the river on the ice. their plan was to gain to the cached poling-boat they had seen, so that at the first open water they could launch it and drift with the stream to sixty mile. in their weak condition, without food, the going was slow and difficult. elijah developed a habit of falling down and being unable to rise. daylight gave of his own strength to lift him to his feet, whereupon the older man would stagger automatically on until he stumbled and fell again. on the day they should have reached the boat, elijah collapsed utterly. when daylight raised him, he fell again. daylight essayed to walk with him, supporting him, but such was daylight's own weakness that they fell together. dragging elijah to the bank, a rude camp was made, and daylight started out in search of squirrels. it was at this time that he likewise developed the falling habit. in the evening he found his first squirrel, but darkness came on without his getting a certain shot. with primitive patience he waited till next day, and then, within the hour, the squirrel was his. the major portion he fed to elijah, reserving for himself the tougher parts and the bones. but such is the chemistry of life, that this small creature, this trifle of meat that moved, by being eaten, transmuted to the meat of the men the same power to move. no longer did the squirrel run up spruce trees, leap from branch to branch, or cling chattering to giddy perches. instead, the same energy that had done these things flowed into the wasted muscles and reeling wills of the men, making them move--nay, moving them--till they tottered the several intervening miles to the cached boat, underneath which they fell together and lay motionless a long time. light as the task would have been for a strong man to lower the small boat to the ground, it took daylight hours. and many hours more, day by day, he dragged himself around it, lying on his side to calk the gaping seams with moss. yet, when this was done, the river still held. its ice had risen many feet, but would not start down-stream. and one more task waited, the launching of the boat when the river ran water to receive it. vainly daylight staggered and stumbled and fell and crept through the snow that was wet with thaw, or across it when the night's frost still crusted it beyond the weight of a man, searching for one more squirrel, striving to achieve one more transmutation of furry leap and scolding chatter into the lifts and tugs of a man's body that would hoist the boat over the rim of shore-ice and slide it down into the stream. not till the twentieth of may did the river break. the down-stream movement began at five in the morning, and already were the days so long that daylight sat up and watched the ice-run. elijah was too far gone to be interested in the spectacle. though vaguely conscious, he lay without movement while the ice tore by, great cakes of it caroming against the bank, uprooting trees, and gouging out earth by hundreds of tons. all about them the land shook and reeled from the shock of these tremendous collisions. at the end of an hour the run stopped. somewhere below it was blocked by a jam. then the river began to rise, lifting the ice on its breast till it was higher than the bank. from behind ever more water bore down, and ever more millions of tons of ice added their weight to the congestion. the pressures and stresses became terrific. huge cakes of ice were squeezed out till they popped into the air like melon seeds squeezed from between the thumb and forefinger of a child, while all along the banks a wall of ice was forced up. when the jam broke, the noise of grinding and smashing redoubled. for another hour the run continued. the river fell rapidly. but the wall of ice on top the bank, and extending down into the falling water, remained. the tail of the ice-run passed, and for the first time in six months daylight saw open water. he knew that the ice had not yet passed out from the upper reaches of the stewart, that it lay in packs and jams in those upper reaches, and that it might break loose and come down in a second run any time; but the need was too desperate for him to linger. elijah was so far gone that he might pass at any moment. as for himself, he was not sure that enough strength remained in his wasted muscles to launch the boat. it was all a gamble. if he waited for the second ice-run, elijah would surely die, and most probably himself. if he succeeded in launching the boat, if he kept ahead of the second ice-run, if he did not get caught by some of the runs from the upper yukon; if luck favored in all these essential particulars, as well as in a score of minor ones, they would reach sixty mile and be saved, if--and again the if--he had strength enough to land the boat at sixty mile and not go by. he set to work. the wall of ice was five feet above the ground on which the boat rested. first prospecting for the best launching-place, he found where a huge cake of ice shelved upward from the river that ran fifteen feet below to the top of the wall. this was a score of feet away, and at the end of an hour he had managed to get the boat that far. he was sick with nausea from his exertions, and at times it seemed that blindness smote him, for he could not see, his eyes vexed with spots and points of light that were as excruciating as diamond-dust, his heart pounding up in his throat and suffocating him. elijah betrayed no interest, did not move nor open his eyes; and daylight fought out his battle alone. at last, falling on his knees from the shock of exertion, he got the boat poised on a secure balance on top the wall. crawling on hands and knees, he placed in the boat his rabbit-skin robe, the rifle, and the pail. he did not bother with the ax. it meant an additional crawl of twenty feet and back, and if the need for it should arise he well knew he would be past all need. elijah proved a bigger task than he had anticipated. a few inches at a time, resting in between, he dragged him over the ground and up a broken rubble of ice to the side of the boat. but into the boat he could not get him. elijah's limp body was far more difficult to lift and handle than an equal weight of like dimensions but rigid. daylight failed to hoist him, for the body collapsed at the middle like a part-empty sack of corn. getting into the boat, daylight tried vainly to drag his comrade in after him. the best he could do was to get elijah's head and shoulders on top the gunwale. when he released his hold, to heave from farther down the body, elijah promptly gave at the middle and came down on the ice. in despair, daylight changed his tactics. he struck the other in the face. "god almighty, ain't you-all a man?" he cried. "there! damn you-all! there!" at each curse he struck him on the cheeks, the nose, the mouth, striving, by the shock of the hurt, to bring back the sinking soul and far-wandering will of the man. the eyes fluttered open. "now listen!" he shouted hoarsely. "when i get your head to the gunwale, hang on! hear me? hang on! bite into it with your teeth, but hang on!" the eyes fluttered down, but daylight knew the message had been received. again he got the helpless man's head and shoulders on the gunwale. "hang on, damn you! bite in!" he shouted, as he shifted his grip lower down. one weak hand slipped off the gunwale, the fingers of the other hand relaxed, but elijah obeyed, and his teeth held on. when the lift came, his face ground forward, and the splintery wood tore and crushed the skin from nose, lips, and chin; and, face downward, he slipped on and down to the bottom of the boat till his limp middle collapsed across the gunwale and his legs hung down outside. but they were only his legs, and daylight shoved them in; after him. breathing heavily, he turned elijah over on his back, and covered him with his robes. the final task remained--the launching of the boat. this, of necessity, was the severest of all, for he had been compelled to load his comrade in aft of the balance. it meant a supreme effort at lifting. daylight steeled himself and began. something must have snapped, for, though he was unaware of it, the next he knew he was lying doubled on his stomach across the sharp stern of the boat. evidently, and for the first time in his life, he had fainted. furthermore, it seemed to him that he was finished, that he had not one more movement left in him, and that, strangest of all, he did not care. visions came to him, clear-cut and real, and concepts sharp as steel cutting-edges. he, who all his days had looked on naked life, had never seen so much of life's nakedness before. for the first time he experienced a doubt of his own glorious personality. for the moment life faltered and forgot to lie. after all, he was a little earth-maggot, just like all the other earth-maggots, like the squirrel he had eaten, like the other men he had seen fail and die, like joe hines and henry finn, who had already failed and were surely dead, like elijah lying there uncaring, with his skinned face, in the bottom of the boat. daylight's position was such that from where he lay he could look up river to the bend, around which, sooner or later, the next ice-run would come. and as he looked he seemed to see back through the past to a time when neither white man nor indian was in the land, and ever he saw the same stewart river, winter upon winter, breasted with ice, and spring upon spring bursting that ice asunder and running free. and he saw also into an illimitable future, when the last generations of men were gone from off the face of alaska, when he, too, would be gone, and he saw, ever remaining, that river, freezing and fresheting, and running on and on. life was a liar and a cheat. it fooled all creatures. it had fooled him, burning daylight, one of its chiefest and most joyous exponents. he was nothing--a mere bunch of flesh and nerves and sensitiveness that crawled in the muck for gold, that dreamed and aspired and gambled, and that passed and was gone. only the dead things remained, the things that were not flesh and nerves and sensitiveness, the sand and muck and gravel, the stretching flats, the mountains, the river itself, freezing and breaking, year by year, down all the years. when all was said and done, it was a scurvy game. the dice were loaded. those that died did not win, and all died. who won? not even life, the stool-pigeon, the arch-capper for the game--life, the ever flourishing graveyard, the everlasting funeral procession. he drifted back to the immediate present for a moment and noted that the river still ran wide open, and that a moose-bird, perched on the bow of the boat, was surveying him impudently. then he drifted dreamily back to his meditations. there was no escaping the end of the game. he was doomed surely to be out of it all. and what of it? he pondered that question again and again. conventional religion had passed daylight by. he had lived a sort of religion in his square dealing and right playing with other men, and he had not indulged in vain metaphysics about future life. death ended all. he had always believed that, and been unafraid. and at this moment, the boat fifteen feet above the water and immovable, himself fainting with weakness and without a particle of strength left in him, he still believed that death ended all, and he was still unafraid. his views were too simply and solidly based to be overthrown by the first squirm, or the last, of death-fearing life. he had seen men and animals die, and into the field of his vision, by scores, came such deaths. he saw them over again, just as he had seen them at the time, and they did not shake him. what of it? they were dead, and dead long since. they weren't bothering about it. they weren't lying on their bellies across a boat and waiting to die. death was easy--easier than he had ever imagined; and, now that it was near, the thought of it made him glad. a new vision came to him. he saw the feverish city of his dream--the gold metropolis of the north, perched above the yukon on a high earth-bank and far-spreading across the flat. he saw the river steamers tied to the bank and lined against it three deep; he saw the sawmills working and the long dog-teams, with double sleds behind, freighting supplies to the diggings. and he saw, further, the gambling-houses, banks, stock-exchanges, and all the gear and chips and markers, the chances and opportunities, of a vastly bigger gambling game than any he had ever seen. it was sure hell, he thought, with the hunch a-working and that big strike coming, to be out of it all. life thrilled and stirred at the thought and once more began uttering his ancient lies. daylight rolled over and off the boat, leaning against it as he sat on the ice. he wanted to be in on that strike. and why shouldn't he? somewhere in all those wasted muscles of his was enough strength, if he could gather it all at once, to up-end the boat and launch it. quite irrelevantly the idea suggested itself of buying a share in the klondike town site from harper and joe ladue. they would surely sell a third interest cheap. then, if the strike came on the stewart, he would be well in on it with the elam harnish town site; if on the klondike, he would not be quite out of it. in the meantime, he would gather strength. he stretched out on the ice full length, face downward, and for half an hour he lay and rested. then he arose, shook the flashing blindness from his eyes, and took hold of the boat. he knew his condition accurately. if the first effort failed, the following efforts were doomed to fail. he must pull all his rallied strength into the one effort, and so thoroughly must he put all of it in that there would be none left for other attempts. he lifted, and he lifted with the soul of him as well as with the body, consuming himself, body and spirit, in the effort. the boat rose. he thought he was going to faint, but he continued to lift. he felt the boat give, as it started on its downward slide. with the last shred of his strength he precipitated himself into it, landing in a sick heap on elijah's legs. he was beyond attempting to rise, and as he lay he heard and felt the boat take the water. by watching the tree-tops he knew it was whirling. a smashing shock and flying fragments of ice told him that it had struck the bank. a dozen times it whirled and struck, and then it floated easily and free. daylight came to, and decided he had been asleep. the sun denoted that several hours had passed. it was early afternoon. he dragged himself into the stern and sat up. the boat was in the middle of the stream. the wooded banks, with their base-lines of flashing ice, were slipping by. near him floated a huge, uprooted pine. a freak of the current brought the boat against it. crawling forward, he fastened the painter to a root. the tree, deeper in the water, was travelling faster, and the painter tautened as the boat took the tow. then, with a last giddy look around, wherein he saw the banks tilting and swaying and the sun swinging in pendulum-sweep across the sky, daylight wrapped himself in his rabbit-skin robe, lay down in the bottom, and fell asleep. when he awoke, it was dark night. he was lying on his back, and he could see the stars shining. a subdued murmur of swollen waters could be heard. a sharp jerk informed him that the boat, swerving slack into the painter, had been straightened out by the swifter-moving pine tree. a piece of stray drift-ice thumped against the boat and grated along its side. well, the following jam hadn't caught him yet, was his thought, as he closed his eyes and slept again. it was bright day when next he opened his eyes. the sun showed it to be midday. a glance around at the far-away banks, and he knew that he was on the mighty yukon. sixty mile could not be far away. he was abominably weak. his movements were slow, fumbling, and inaccurate, accompanied by panting and head-swimming, as he dragged himself into a sitting-up position in the stern, his rifle beside him. he looked a long time at elijah, but could not see whether he breathed or not, and he was too immeasurably far away to make an investigation. he fell to dreaming and meditating again, dreams and thoughts being often broken by sketches of blankness, wherein he neither slept, nor was unconscious, nor was aware of anything. it seemed to him more like cogs slipping in his brain. and in this intermittent way he reviewed the situation. he was still alive, and most likely would be saved, but how came it that he was not lying dead across the boat on top the ice-rim? then he recollected the great final effort he had made. but why had he made it? he asked himself. it had not been fear of death. he had not been afraid, that was sure. then he remembered the hunch and the big strike he believed was coming, and he knew that the spur had been his desire to sit in for a hand at that big game. and again why? what if he made his million? he would die, just the same as those that never won more than grub-stakes. then again why? but the blank stretches in his thinking process began to come more frequently, and he surrendered to the delightful lassitude that was creeping over him. he roused with a start. something had whispered in him that he must awake. abruptly he saw sixty mile, not a hundred feet away. the current had brought him to the very door. but the same current was now sweeping him past and on into the down-river wilderness. no one was in sight. the place might have been deserted, save for the smoke he saw rising from the kitchen chimney. he tried to call, but found he had no voice left. an unearthly guttural hiss alternately rattled and wheezed in his throat. he fumbled for the rifle, got it to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. the recoil of the discharge tore through his frame, racking it with a thousand agonies. the rifle had fallen across his knees, and an attempt to lift it to his shoulder failed. he knew he must be quick, and felt that he was fainting, so he pulled the trigger of the gun where it lay. this time it kicked off and overboard. but just before darkness rushed over him, he saw the kitchen door open, and a woman look out of the big log house that was dancing a monstrous jig among the trees. chapter ix ten days later, harper and joe ladue arrived at sixty mile, and daylight, still a trifle weak, but strong enough to obey the hunch that had come to him, traded a third interest in his stewart town site for a third interest in theirs on the klondike. they had faith in the upper country, and harper left down-stream, with a raft-load of supplies, to start a small post at the mouth of the klondike. "why don't you tackle indian river, daylight?" harper advised, at parting. "there's whole slathers of creeks and draws draining in up there, and somewhere gold just crying to be found. that's my hunch. there's a big strike coming, and indian river ain't going to be a million miles away." "and the place is swarming with moose," joe ladue added. "bob henderson's up there somewhere, been there three years now, swearing something big is going to happen, living off'n straight moose and prospecting around like a crazy man." daylight decided to go indian river a flutter, as he expressed it; but elijah could not be persuaded into accompanying him. elijah's soul had been seared by famine, and he was obsessed by fear of repeating the experience. "i jest can't bear to separate from grub," he explained. "i know it's downright foolishness, but i jest can't help it. it's all i can do to tear myself away from the table when i know i'm full to bustin' and ain't got storage for another bite. i'm going back to circle to camp by a cache until i get cured." daylight lingered a few days longer, gathering strength and arranging his meagre outfit. he planned to go in light, carrying a pack of seventy-five pounds and making his five dogs pack as well, indian fashion, loading them with thirty pounds each. depending on the report of ladue, he intended to follow bob henderson's example and live practically on straight meat. when jack kearns' scow, laden with the sawmill from lake linderman, tied up at sixty mile, daylight bundled his outfit and dogs on board, turned his town-site application over to elijah to be filed, and the same day was landed at the mouth of indian river. forty miles up the river, at what had been described to him as quartz creek, he came upon signs of bob henderson's work, and also at australia creek, thirty miles farther on. the weeks came and went, but daylight never encountered the other man. however, he found moose plentiful, and he and his dogs prospered on the meat diet. he found "pay" that was no more than "wages" on a dozen surface bars, and from the generous spread of flour gold in the muck and gravel of a score of creeks, he was more confident than ever that coarse gold in quantity was waiting to be unearthed. often he turned his eyes to the northward ridge of hills, and pondered if the gold came from them. in the end, he ascended dominion creek to its head, crossed the divide, and came down on the tributary to the klondike that was later to be called hunker creek. while on the divide, had he kept the big dome on his right, he would have come down on the gold bottom, so named by bob henderson, whom he would have found at work on it, taking out the first pay-gold ever panned on the klondike. instead, daylight continued down hunker to the klondike, and on to the summer fishing camp of the indians on the yukon. here for a day he camped with carmack, a squaw-man, and his indian brother-in-law, skookum jim, bought a boat, and, with his dogs on board, drifted down the yukon to forty mile. august was drawing to a close, the days were growing shorter, and winter was coming on. still with unbounded faith in his hunch that a strike was coming in the upper country, his plan was to get together a party of four or five, and, if that was impossible, at least a partner, and to pole back up the river before the freeze-up to do winter prospecting. but the men of forty mile were without faith. the diggings to the westward were good enough for them. then it was that carmack, his brother-in-law, skookum jim, and cultus charlie, another indian, arrived in a canoe at forty mile, went straight to the gold commissioner, and recorded three claims and a discovery claim on bonanza creek. after that, in the sourdough saloon, that night, they exhibited coarse gold to the sceptical crowd. men grinned and shook their heads. they had seen the motions of a gold strike gone through before. this was too patently a scheme of harper's and joe ladue's, trying to entice prospecting in the vicinity of their town site and trading post. and who was carmack? a squaw-man. and who ever heard of a squaw-man striking anything? and what was bonanza creek? merely a moose pasture, entering the klondike just above its mouth, and known to old-timers as rabbit creek. now if daylight or bob henderson had recorded claims and shown coarse gold, they'd known there was something in it. but carmack, the squaw-man! and skookum jim! and cultus charlie! no, no; that was asking too much. daylight, too, was sceptical, and this despite his faith in the upper country. had he not, only a few days before, seen carmack loafing with his indians and with never a thought of prospecting? but at eleven that night, sitting on the edge of his bunk and unlacing his moccasins, a thought came to him. he put on his coat and hat and went back to the sourdough. carmack was still there, flashing his coarse gold in the eyes of an unbelieving generation. daylight ranged alongside of him and emptied carmack's sack into a blower. this he studied for a long time. then, from his own sack, into another blower, he emptied several ounces of circle city and forty mile gold. again, for a long time, he studied and compared. finally, he pocketed his own gold, returned carmack's, and held up his hand for silence. "boys, i want to tell you-all something," he said. "she's sure come--the up-river strike. and i tell you-all, clear and forcible, this is it. there ain't never been gold like that in a blower in this country before. it's new gold. it's got more silver in it. you-all can see it by the color. carmack's sure made a strike. who-all's got faith to come along with me?" there were no volunteers. instead, laughter and jeers went up. "mebbe you got a town site up there," some one suggested. "i sure have," was the retort, "and a third interest in harper and ladue's. and i can see my corner lots selling out for more than your hen-scratching ever turned up on birch creek." "that's all right, daylight," one curly parson interposed soothingly. "you've got a reputation, and we know you're dead sure on the square. but you're as likely as any to be mistook on a flimflam game, such as these loafers is putting up. i ask you straight: when did carmack do this here prospecting? you said yourself he was lying in camp, fishing salmon along with his siwash relations, and that was only the other day." "and daylight told the truth," carmack interrupted excitedly. "and i'm telling the truth, the gospel truth. i wasn't prospecting. hadn't no idea of it. but when daylight pulls out, the very same day, who drifts in, down river, on a raft-load of supplies, but bob henderson. he'd come out to sixty mile, planning to go back up indian river and portage the grub across the divide between quartz creek and gold bottom--" "where in hell's gold bottom?" curly parsons demanded. "over beyond bonanza that was rabbit creek," the squaw-man went on. "it's a draw of a big creek that runs into the klondike. that's the way i went up, but i come back by crossing the divide, keeping along the crest several miles, and dropping down into bonanza. 'come along with me, carmack, and get staked,' says bob henderson to me. 'i've hit it this time, on gold bottom. i've took out forty-five ounces already.' and i went along, skookum jim and cultus charlie, too. and we all staked on gold bottom. i come back by bonanza on the chance of finding a moose. along down bonanza we stopped and cooked grub. i went to sleep, and what does skookum jim do but try his hand at prospecting. he'd been watching henderson, you see. he goes right slap up to the foot of a birch tree, first pan, fills it with dirt, and washes out more'n a dollar coarse gold. then he wakes me up, and i goes at it. i got two and a half the first lick. then i named the creek 'bonanza,' staked discovery, and we come here and recorded." he looked about him anxiously for signs of belief, but found himself in a circle of incredulous faces--all save daylight, who had studied his countenance while he told his story. "how much is harper and ladue givin' you for manufacturing a stampede?" some one asked. "they don't know nothing about it," carmack answered. "i tell you it's the god almighty's truth. i washed out three ounces in an hour." "and there's the gold," daylight said. "i tell you-all boys they ain't never been gold like that in the blower before. look at the color of it." "a trifle darker," curly parson said. "most likely carmack's been carrying a couple of silver dollars along in the same sack. and what's more, if there's anything in it, why ain't bob henderson smoking along to record?" "he's up on gold bottom," carmack explained. "we made the strike coming back." a burst of laughter was his reward. "who-all'll go pardners with me and pull out in a poling-boat to-morrow for this here bonanza?" daylight asked. no one volunteered. "then who-all'll take a job from me, cash wages in advance, to pole up a thousand pounds of grub?" curly parsons and another, pat monahan, accepted, and, with his customary speed, daylight paid them their wages in advance and arranged the purchase of the supplies, though he emptied his sack in doing so. he was leaving the sourdough, when he suddenly turned back to the bar from the door. "got another hunch?" was the query. "i sure have," he answered. "flour's sure going to be worth what a man will pay for it this winter up on the klondike. who'll lend me some money?" on the instant a score of the men who had declined to accompany him on the wild-goose chase were crowding about him with proffered gold-sacks. "how much flour do you want?" asked the alaska commercial company's storekeeper. "about two ton." the proffered gold-sacks were not withdrawn, though their owners were guilty of an outrageous burst of merriment. "what are you going to do with two tons?" the store-keeper demanded. "son," daylight made reply, "you-all ain't been in this country long enough to know all its curves. i'm going to start a sauerkraut factory and combined dandruff remedy." he borrowed money right and left, engaging and paying six other men to bring up the flour in half as many more poling-boats. again his sack was empty, and he was heavily in debt. curly parsons bowed his head on the bar with a gesture of despair. "what gets me," he moaned, "is what you're going to do with it all." "i'll tell you-all in simple a, b, c and one, two, three." daylight held up one finger and began checking off. "hunch number one: a big strike coming in upper country. hunch number two: carmack's made it. hunch number three: ain't no hunch at all. it's a cinch. if one and two is right, then flour just has to go sky-high. if i'm riding hunches one and two, i just got to ride this cinch, which is number three. if i'm right, flour'll balance gold on the scales this winter. i tell you-all boys, when you-all got a hunch, play it for all it's worth. what's luck good for, if you-all ain't to ride it? and when you-all ride it, ride like hell. i've been years in this country, just waiting for the right hunch to come along. and here she is. well, i'm going to play her, that's all. good night, you-all; good night." chapter x still men were without faith in the strike. when daylight, with his heavy outfit of flour, arrived at the mouth of the klondike, he found the big flat as desolate and tenantless as ever. down close by the river, chief isaac and his indians were camped beside the frames on which they were drying salmon. several old-timers were also in camp there. having finished their summer work on ten mile creek, they had come down the yukon, bound for circle city. but at sixty mile they had learned of the strike, and stopped off to look over the ground. they had just returned to their boat when daylight landed his flour, and their report was pessimistic. "damned moose-pasture," quoth one, long jim harney, pausing to blow into his tin mug of tea. "don't you have nothin' to do with it, daylight. it's a blamed rotten sell. they're just going through the motions of a strike. harper and ladue's behind it, and carmack's the stool-pigeon. whoever heard of mining a moose-pasture half a mile between rim-rock and god alone knows how far to bed-rock!" daylight nodded sympathetically, and considered for a space. "did you-all pan any?" he asked finally. "pan hell!" was the indignant answer. "think i was born yesterday! only a chechaquo'd fool around that pasture long enough to fill a pan of dirt. you don't catch me at any such foolishness. one look was enough for me. we're pulling on in the morning for circle city. i ain't never had faith in this upper country. head-reaches of the tanana is good enough for me from now on, and mark my words, when the big strike comes, she'll come down river. johnny, here, staked a couple of miles below discovery, but he don't know no better." johnny looked shamefaced. "i just did it for fun," he explained. "i'd give my chance in the creek for a pound of star plug." "i'll go you," daylight said promptly. "but don't you-all come squealing if i take twenty or thirty thousand out of it." johnny grinned cheerfully. "gimme the tobacco," he said. "wish i'd staked alongside," long jim murmured plaintively. "it ain't too late," daylight replied. "but it's a twenty-mile walk there and back." "i'll stake it for you to-morrow when i go up," daylight offered. "then you do the same as johnny. get the fees from tim logan. he's tending bar in the sourdough, and he'll lend it to me. then fill in your own name, transfer to me, and turn the papers over to tim." "me, too," chimed in the third old-timer. and for three pounds of star plug chewing tobacco, daylight bought outright three five-hundred-foot claims on bonanza. he could still stake another claim in his own name, the others being merely transfers. "must say you're almighty brash with your chewin' tobacco," long jim grinned. "got a factory somewheres?" "nope, but i got a hunch," was the retort, "and i tell you-all it's cheaper than dirt to ride her at the rate of three plugs for three claims." but an hour later, at his own camp, joe ladue strode in, fresh from bonanza creek. at first, non-committal over carmack's strike, then, later, dubious, he finally offered daylight a hundred dollars for his share in the town site. "cash?" daylight queried. "sure. there she is." so saying, ladue pulled out his gold-sack. daylight hefted it absent-mindedly, and, still absent-mindedly, untied the strings and ran some of the gold-dust out on his palm. it showed darker than any dust he had ever seen, with the exception of carmack's. he ran the gold back tied the mouth of the sack, and returned it to ladue. "i guess you-all need it more'n i do," was daylight's comment. "nope; got plenty more," the other assured him. "where that come from?" daylight was all innocence as he asked the question, and ladue received the question as stolidly as an indian. yet for a swift instant they looked into each other's eyes, and in that instant an intangible something seemed to flash out from all the body and spirit of joe ladue. and it seemed to daylight that he had caught this flash, sensed a secret something in the knowledge and plans behind the other's eyes. "you-all know the creek better'n me," daylight went on. "and if my share in the town site's worth a hundred to you-all with what you-all know, it's worth a hundred to me whether i know it or not." "i'll give you three hundred," ladue offered desperately. "still the same reasoning. no matter what i don't know, it's worth to me whatever you-all are willing to pay for it." then it was that joe ladue shamelessly gave over. he led daylight away from the camp and men and told him things in confidence. "she's sure there," he said in conclusion. "i didn't sluice it, or cradle it. i panned it, all in that sack, yesterday, on the rim-rock. i tell you, you can shake it out of the grassroots. and what's on bed-rock down in the bottom of the creek they ain't no way of tellin'. but she's big, i tell you, big. keep it quiet, and locate all you can. it's in spots, but i wouldn't be none surprised if some of them claims yielded as high as fifty thousand. the only trouble is that it's spotted." * * * a month passed by, and bonanza creek remained quiet. a sprinkling of men had staked; but most of them, after staking, had gone on down to forty mile and circle city. the few that possessed sufficient faith to remain were busy building log cabins against the coming of winter. carmack and his indian relatives were occupied in building a sluice box and getting a head of water. the work was slow, for they had to saw their lumber by hand from the standing forest. but farther down bonanza were four men who had drifted in from up river, dan mcgilvary, dave mckay, dave edwards, and harry waugh. they were a quiet party, neither asking nor giving confidences, and they herded by themselves. but daylight, who had panned the spotted rim of carmack's claim and shaken coarse gold from the grass-roots, and who had panned the rim at a hundred other places up and down the length of the creek and found nothing, was curious to know what lay on bed-rock. he had noted the four quiet men sinking a shaft close by the stream, and he had heard their whip-saw going as they made lumber for the sluice boxes. he did not wait for an invitation, but he was present the first day they sluiced. and at the end of five hours' shovelling for one man, he saw them take out thirteen ounces and a half of gold. it was coarse gold, running from pinheads to a twelve-dollar nugget, and it had come from off bed-rock. the first fall snow was flying that day, and the arctic winter was closing down; but daylight had no eyes for the bleak-gray sadness of the dying, short-lived summer. he saw his vision coming true, and on the big flat was upreared anew his golden city of the snows. gold had been found on bed-rock. that was the big thing. carmack's strike was assured. daylight staked a claim in his own name adjoining the three he had purchased with his plug tobacco. this gave him a block of property two thousand feet long and extending in width from rim-rock to rim-rock. returning that night to his camp at the mouth of klondike, he found in it kama, the indian he had left at dyea. kama was travelling by canoe, bringing in the last mail of the year. in his possession was some two hundred dollars in gold-dust, which daylight immediately borrowed. in return, he arranged to stake a claim for him, which he was to record when he passed through forty mile. when kama departed next morning, he carried a number of letters for daylight, addressed to all the old-timers down river, in which they were urged to come up immediately and stake. also kama carried letters of similar import, given him by the other men on bonanza. "it will sure be the gosh-dangdest stampede that ever was," daylight chuckled, as he tried to vision the excited populations of forty mile and circle city tumbling into poling-boats and racing the hundreds of miles up the yukon; for he knew that his word would be unquestioningly accepted. with the arrival of the first stampeders, bonanza creek woke up, and thereupon began a long-distance race between unveracity and truth, wherein, lie no matter how fast, men were continually overtaken and passed by truth. when men who doubted carmack's report of two and a half to the pan, themselves panned two and a half, they lied and said that they were getting an ounce. and long ere the lie was fairly on its way, they were getting not one ounce but five ounces. this they claimed was ten ounces; but when they filled a pan of dirt to prove the lie, they washed out twelve ounces. and so it went. they continued valiantly to lie, but the truth continued to outrun them. one day in december daylight filled a pan from bed rock on his own claim and carried it into his cabin. here a fire burned and enabled him to keep water unfrozen in a canvas tank. he squatted over the tank and began to wash. earth and gravel seemed to fill the pan. as he imparted to it a circular movement, the lighter, coarser particles washed out over the edge. at times he combed the surface with his fingers, raking out handfuls of gravel. the contents of the pan diminished. as it drew near to the bottom, for the purpose of fleeting and tentative examination, he gave the pan a sudden sloshing movement, emptying it of water. and the whole bottom showed as if covered with butter. thus the yellow gold flashed up as the muddy water was flirted away. it was gold--gold-dust, coarse gold, nuggets, large nuggets. he was all alone. he set the pan down for a moment and thought long thoughts. then he finished the washing, and weighed the result in his scales. at the rate of sixteen dollars to the ounce, the pan had contained seven hundred and odd dollars. it was beyond anything that even he had dreamed. his fondest anticipation's had gone no farther than twenty or thirty thousand dollars to a claim; but here were claims worth half a million each at the least, even if they were spotted. he did not go back to work in the shaft that day, nor the next, nor the next. instead, capped and mittened, a light stampeding outfit, including his rabbit skin robe, strapped on his back, he was out and away on a many-days' tramp over creeks and divides, inspecting the whole neighboring territory. on each creek he was entitled to locate one claim, but he was chary in thus surrendering up his chances. on hunker creek only did he stake a claim. bonanza creek he found staked from mouth to source, while every little draw and pup and gulch that drained into it was like-wise staked. little faith was had in these side-streams. they had been staked by the hundreds of men who had failed to get in on bonanza. the most popular of these creeks was adams. the one least fancied was eldorado, which flowed into bonanza, just above karmack's discovery claim. even daylight disliked the looks of eldorado; but, still riding his hunch, he bought a half share in one claim on it for half a sack of flour. a month later he paid eight hundred dollars for the adjoining claim. three months later, enlarging this block of property, he paid forty thousand for a third claim; and, though it was concealed in the future, he was destined, not long after, to pay one hundred and fifty thousand for a fourth claim on the creek that had been the least liked of all the creeks. in the meantime, and from the day he washed seven hundred dollars from a single pan and squatted over it and thought a long thought, he never again touched hand to pick and shovel. as he said to joe ladue the night of that wonderful washing:-- "joe, i ain't never going to work hard again. here's where i begin to use my brains. i'm going to farm gold. gold will grow gold if you-all have the savvee and can get hold of some for seed. when i seen them seven hundred dollars in the bottom of the pan, i knew i had the seed at last." "where are you going to plant it?" joe ladue had asked. and daylight, with a wave of his hand, definitely indicated the whole landscape and the creeks that lay beyond the divides. "there she is," he said, "and you-all just watch my smoke. there's millions here for the man who can see them. and i seen all them millions this afternoon when them seven hundred dollars peeped up at me from the bottom of the pan and chirruped, 'well, if here ain't burning daylight come at last.'" chapter xi the hero of the yukon in the younger days before the carmack strike, burning daylight now became the hero of the strike. the story of his hunch and how he rode it was told up and down the land. certainly he had ridden it far and away beyond the boldest, for no five of the luckiest held the value in claims that he held. and, furthermore, he was still riding the hunch, and with no diminution of daring. the wise ones shook their heads and prophesied that he would lose every ounce he had won. he was speculating, they contended, as if the whole country was made of gold, and no man could win who played a placer strike in that fashion. on the other hand, his holdings were reckoned as worth millions, and there were men so sanguine that they held the man a fool who coppered[ ] any bet daylight laid. behind his magnificent free-handedness and careless disregard for money were hard, practical judgment, imagination and vision, and the daring of the big gambler. he foresaw what with his own eyes he had never seen, and he played to win much or lose all. "there's too much gold here in bonanza to be just a pocket," he argued. "it's sure come from a mother-lode somewhere, and other creeks will show up. you-all keep your eyes on indian river. the creeks that drain that side the klondike watershed are just as likely to have gold as the creeks that drain this side." and he backed this opinion to the extent of grub-staking half a dozen parties of prospectors across the big divide into the indian river region. other men, themselves failing to stake on lucky creeks, he put to work on his bonanza claims. and he paid them well--sixteen dollars a day for an eight-hour shift, and he ran three shifts. he had grub to start them on, and when, on the last water, the bella arrived loaded with provisions, he traded a warehouse site to jack kearns for a supply of grub that lasted all his men through the winter of . and that winter, when famine pinched, and flour sold for two dollars a pound, he kept three shifts of men at work on all four of the bonanza claims. other mine-owners paid fifteen dollars a day to their men; but he had been the first to put men to work, and from the first he paid them a full ounce a day. one result was that his were picked men, and they more than earned their higher pay. one of his wildest plays took place in the early winter after the freeze-up. hundreds of stampeders, after staking on other creeks than bonanza, had gone on disgruntled down river to forty mile and circle city. daylight mortgaged one of his bonanza dumps with the alaska commercial company, and tucked a letter of credit into his pouch. then he harnessed his dogs and went down on the ice at a pace that only he could travel. one indian down, another indian back, and four teams of dogs was his record. and at forty mile and circle city he bought claims by the score. many of these were to prove utterly worthless, but some few of them were to show up more astoundingly than any on bonanza. he bought right and left, paying as low as fifty dollars and as high as five thousand. this highest one he bought in the tivoli saloon. it was an upper claim on eldorado, and when he agreed to the price, jacob wilkins, an old-timer just returned from a look at the moose-pasture, got up and left the room, saying:-- "daylight, i've known you seven year, and you've always seemed sensible till now. and now you're just letting them rob you right and left. that's what it is--robbery. five thousand for a claim on that damned moose-pasture is bunco. i just can't stay in the room and see you buncoed that way." "i tell you-all," daylight answered, "wilkins, carmack's strike's so big that we-all can't see it all. it's a lottery. every claim i buy is a ticket. and there's sure going to be some capital prizes." jacob wilkins, standing in the open door, sniffed incredulously. "now supposing, wilkins," daylight went on, "supposing you-all knew it was going to rain soup. what'd you-all do? buy spoons, of course. well, i'm sure buying spoons. she's going to rain soup up there on the klondike, and them that has forks won't be catching none of it." but wilkins here slammed the door behind him, and daylight broke off to finish the purchase of the claim. back in dawson, though he remained true to his word and never touched hand to pick and shovel, he worked as hard as ever in his life. he had a thousand irons in the fire, and they kept him busy. representation work was expensive, and he was compelled to travel often over the various creeks in order to decide which claims should lapse and which should be retained. a quartz miner himself in his early youth, before coming to alaska, he dreamed of finding the mother-lode. a placer camp he knew was ephemeral, while a quartz camp abided, and he kept a score of men in the quest for months. the mother-lode was never found, and, years afterward, he estimated that the search for it had cost him fifty thousand dollars. but he was playing big. heavy as were his expenses, he won more heavily. he took lays, bought half shares, shared with the men he grub-staked, and made personal locations. day and night his dogs were ready, and he owned the fastest teams; so that when a stampede to a new discovery was on, it was burning daylight to the fore through the longest, coldest nights till he blazed his stakes next to discovery. in one way or another (to say nothing of the many worthless creeks) he came into possession of properties on the good creeks, such as sulphur, dominion, excelsis, siwash, cristo, alhambra, and doolittle. the thousands he poured out flowed back in tens of thousands. forty mile men told the story of his two tons of flour, and made calculations of what it had returned him that ranged from half a million to a million. one thing was known beyond all doubt, namely, that the half share in the first eldorado claim, bought by him for a half sack of flour, was worth five hundred thousand. on the other hand, it was told that when freda, the dancer, arrived from over the passes in a peterborough canoe in the midst of a drive of mush-ice on the yukon, and when she offered a thousand dollars for ten sacks and could find no sellers, he sent the flour to her as a present without ever seeing her. in the same way ten sacks were sent to the lone catholic priest who was starting the first hospital. his generosity was lavish. others called it insane. at a time when, riding his hunch, he was getting half a million for half a sack of flour, it was nothing less than insanity to give twenty whole sacks to a dancing-girl and a priest. but it was his way. money was only a marker. it was the game that counted with him. the possession of millions made little change in him, except that he played the game more passionately. temperate as he had always been, save on rare occasions, now that he had the wherewithal for unlimited drinks and had daily access to them, he drank even less. the most radical change lay in that, except when on trail, he no longer did his own cooking. a broken-down miner lived in his log cabin with him and now cooked for him. but it was the same food: bacon, beans, flour, prunes, dried fruits, and rice. he still dressed as formerly: overalls, german socks, moccasins, flannel shirt, fur cap, and blanket coat. he did not take up with cigars, which cost, the cheapest, from half a dollar to a dollar each. the same bull durham and brown-paper cigarette, hand-rolled, contented him. it was true that he kept more dogs, and paid enormous prices for them. they were not a luxury, but a matter of business. he needed speed in his travelling and stampeding. and by the same token, he hired a cook. he was too busy to cook for himself, that was all. it was poor business, playing for millions, to spend time building fires and boiling water. dawson grew rapidly that winter of . money poured in on daylight from the sale of town lots. he promptly invested it where it would gather more. in fact, he played the dangerous game of pyramiding, and no more perilous pyramiding than in a placer camp could be imagined. but he played with his eyes wide open. "you-all just wait till the news of this strike reaches the outside," he told his old-timer cronies in the moosehorn saloon. "the news won't get out till next spring. then there's going to be three rushes. a summer rush of men coming in light; a fall rush of men with outfits; and a spring rush, the next year after that, of fifty thousand. you-all won't be able to see the landscape for chechaquos. well, there's the summer and fall rush of to commence with. what are you-all going to do about it?" "what are you going to do about it?" a friend demanded. "nothing," he answered. "i've sure already done it. i've got a dozen gangs strung out up the yukon getting out logs. you-all'll see their rafts coming down after the river breaks. cabins! they sure will be worth what a man can pay for them next fall. lumber! it will sure go to top-notch. i've got two sawmills freighting in over the passes. they'll come down as soon as the lakes open up. and if you-all are thinking of needing lumber, i'll make you-all contracts right now--three hundred dollars a thousand, undressed." corner lots in desirable locations sold that winter for from ten to thirty thousand dollars. daylight sent word out over the trails and passes for the newcomers to bring down log-rafts, and, as a result, the summer of saw his sawmills working day and night, on three shifts, and still he had logs left over with which to build cabins. these cabins, land included, sold at from one to several thousand dollars. two-story log buildings, in the business part of town, brought him from forty to fifty thousand dollars apiece. these fresh accretions of capital were immediately invested in other ventures. he turned gold over and over, until everything that he touched seemed to turn to gold. but that first wild winter of carmack's strike taught daylight many things. despite the prodigality of his nature, he had poise. he watched the lavish waste of the mushroom millionaires, and failed quite to understand it. according to his nature and outlook, it was all very well to toss an ante away in a night's frolic. that was what he had done the night of the poker-game in circle city when he lost fifty thousand--all that he possessed. but he had looked on that fifty thousand as a mere ante. when it came to millions, it was different. such a fortune was a stake, and was not to be sown on bar-room floors, literally sown, flung broadcast out of the moosehide sacks by drunken millionaires who had lost all sense of proportion. there was mcmann, who ran up a single bar-room bill of thirty-eight thousand dollars; and jimmie the rough, who spent one hundred thousand a month for four months in riotous living, and then fell down drunk in the snow one march night and was frozen to death; and swiftwater bill, who, after spending three valuable claims in an extravagance of debauchery, borrowed three thousand dollars with which to leave the country, and who, out of this sum, because the lady-love that had jilted him liked eggs, cornered the one hundred and ten dozen eggs on the dawson market, paying twenty-four dollars a dozen for them and promptly feeding them to the wolf-dogs. champagne sold at from forty to fifty dollars a quart, and canned oyster stew at fifteen dollars. daylight indulged in no such luxuries. he did not mind treating a bar-room of men to whiskey at fifty cents a drink, but there was somewhere in his own extravagant nature a sense of fitness and arithmetic that revolted against paying fifteen dollars for the contents of an oyster can. on the other hand, he possibly spent more money in relieving hard-luck cases than did the wildest of the new millionaires on insane debauchery. father judge, of the hospital, could have told of far more important donations than that first ten sacks of flour. and old-timers who came to daylight invariably went away relieved according to their need. but fifty dollars for a quart of fizzy champagne! that was appalling. and yet he still, on occasion, made one of his old-time hell-roaring nights. but he did so for different reasons. first, it was expected of him because it had been his way in the old days. and second, he could afford it. but he no longer cared quite so much for that form of diversion. he had developed, in a new way, the taste for power. it had become a lust with him. by far the wealthiest miner in alaska, he wanted to be still wealthier. it was a big game he was playing in, and he liked it better than any other game. in a way, the part he played was creative. he was doing something. and at no time, striking another chord of his nature, could he take the joy in a million-dollar eldorado dump that was at all equivalent to the joy he took in watching his two sawmills working and the big down river log-rafts swinging into the bank in the big eddy just above moosehide mountain. gold, even on the scales, was, after all, an abstraction. it represented things and the power to do. but the sawmills were the things themselves, concrete and tangible, and they were things that were a means to the doing of more things. they were dreams come true, hard and indubitable realizations of fairy gossamers. with the summer rush from the outside came special correspondents for the big newspapers and magazines, and one and all, using unlimited space, they wrote daylight up; so that, so far as the world was concerned, daylight loomed the largest figure in alaska. of course, after several months, the world became interested in the spanish war, and forgot all about him; but in the klondike itself daylight still remained the most prominent figure. passing along the streets of dawson, all heads turned to follow him, and in the saloons chechaquos watched him awesomely, scarcely taking their eyes from him as long as he remained in their range of vision. not alone was he the richest man in the country, but he was burning daylight, the pioneer, the man who, almost in the midst of antiquity of that young land, had crossed the chilcoot and drifted down the yukon to meet those elder giants, al mayo and jack mcquestion. he was the burning daylight of scores of wild adventures, the man who carried word to the ice-bound whaling fleet across the tundra wilderness to the arctic sea, who raced the mail from circle to salt water and back again in sixty days, who saved the whole tanana tribe from perishing in the winter of ' --in short, the man who smote the chechaquos' imaginations more violently than any other dozen men rolled into one. he had the fatal facility for self-advertisement. things he did, no matter how adventitious or spontaneous, struck the popular imagination as remarkable. and the latest thing he had done was always on men's lips, whether it was being first in the heartbreaking stampede to danish creek, in killing the record baldface grizzly over on sulphur creek, or in winning the single-paddle canoe race on the queen's birthday, after being forced to participate at the last moment by the failure of the sourdough representative to appear. thus, one night in the moosehorn, he locked horns with jack kearns in the long-promised return game of poker. the sky and eight o'clock in the morning were made the limits, and at the close of the game daylight's winnings were two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. to jack kearns, already a several-times millionaire, this loss was not vital. but the whole community was thrilled by the size of the stakes, and each one of the dozen correspondents in the field sent out a sensational article. [ ] to copper: a term in faro, meaning to play a card to lose. chapter xii despite his many sources of revenue, daylight's pyramiding kept him pinched for cash throughout the first winter. the pay-gravel, thawed on bed-rock and hoisted to the surface, immediately froze again. thus his dumps, containing several millions of gold, were inaccessible. not until the returning sun thawed the dumps and melted the water to wash them was he able to handle the gold they contained. and then he found himself with a surplus of gold, deposited in the two newly organized banks; and he was promptly besieged by men and groups of men to enlist his capital in their enterprises. but he elected to play his own game, and he entered combinations only when they were generally defensive or offensive. thus, though he had paid the highest wages, he joined the mine-owners' association, engineered the fight, and effectually curbed the growing insubordination of the wage-earners. times had changed. the old days were gone forever. this was a new era, and daylight, the wealthy mine-owner, was loyal to his class affiliations. it was true, the old-timers who worked for him, in order to be saved from the club of the organized owners, were made foremen over the gang of chechaquos; but this, with daylight, was a matter of heart, not head. in his heart he could not forget the old days, while with his head he played the economic game according to the latest and most practical methods. but outside of such group-combinations of exploiters, he refused to bind himself to any man's game. he was playing a great lone hand, and he needed all his money for his own backing. the newly founded stock-exchange interested him keenly. he had never before seen such an institution, but he was quick to see its virtues and to utilize it. most of all, it was gambling, and on many an occasion not necessary for the advancement of his own schemes, he, as he called it, went the stock-exchange a flutter, out of sheer wantonness and fun. "it sure beats faro," was his comment one day, when, after keeping the dawson speculators in a fever for a week by alternate bulling and bearing, he showed his hand and cleaned up what would have been a fortune to any other man. other men, having made their strike, had headed south for the states, taking a furlough from the grim arctic battle. but, asked when he was going outside, daylight always laughed and said when he had finished playing his hand. he also added that a man was a fool to quit a game just when a winning hand had been dealt him. it was held by the thousands of hero-worshipping chechaquos that daylight was a man absolutely without fear. but bettles and dan macdonald and other sourdoughs shook their heads and laughed as they mentioned women. and they were right. he had always been afraid of them from the time, himself a lad of seventeen, when queen anne, of juneau, made open and ridiculous love to him. for that matter, he never had known women. born in a mining-camp where they were rare and mysterious, having no sisters, his mother dying while he was an infant, he had never been in contact with them. true, running away from queen anne, he had later encountered them on the yukon and cultivated an acquaintance with them--the pioneer ones who crossed the passes on the trail of the men who had opened up the first diggings. but no lamb had ever walked with a wolf in greater fear and trembling than had he walked with them. it was a matter of masculine pride that he should walk with them, and he had done so in fair seeming; but women had remained to him a closed book, and he preferred a game of solo or seven-up any time. and now, known as the king of the klondike, carrying several other royal titles, such as eldorado king, bonanza king, the lumber baron, and the prince of the stampeders, not to omit the proudest appellation of all, namely, the father of the sourdoughs, he was more afraid of women than ever. as never before they held out their arms to him, and more women were flocking into the country day by day. it mattered not whether he sat at dinner in the gold commissioner's house, called for the drinks in a dancehall, or submitted to an interview from the woman representative of the new york sun, one and all of them held out their arms. there was one exception, and that was freda, the girl that danced, and to whom he had given the flour. she was the only woman in whose company he felt at ease, for she alone never reached out her arms. and yet it was from her that he was destined to receive next to his severest fright. it came about in the fall of . he was returning from one of his dashes, this time to inspect henderson, a creek that entered the yukon just below the stewart. winter had come on with a rush, and he fought his way down the yukon seventy miles in a frail peterborough canoe in the midst of a run of mush-ice. hugging the rim-ice that had already solidly formed, he shot across the ice-spewing mouth of the klondike just in time to see a lone man dancing excitedly on the rim and pointing into the water. next, he saw the fur-clad body of a woman, face under, sinking in the midst of the driving mush-ice. a lane opening in the swirl of the current, it was a matter of seconds to drive the canoe to the spot, reach to the shoulder in the water, and draw the woman gingerly to the canoe's side. it was freda. and all might yet have been well with him, had she not, later, when brought back to consciousness, blazed at him with angry blue eyes and demanded: "why did you? oh, why did you?" this worried him. in the nights that followed, instead of sinking immediately to sleep as was his wont, he lay awake, visioning her face and that blue blaze of wrath, and conning her words over and over. they rang with sincerity. the reproach was genuine. she had meant just what she said. and still he pondered. the next time he encountered her she had turned away from him angrily and contemptuously. and yet again, she came to him to beg his pardon, and she dropped a hint of a man somewhere, sometime,--she said not how,--who had left her with no desire to live. her speech was frank, but incoherent, and all he gleaned from it was that the event, whatever it was, had happened years before. also, he gleaned that she had loved the man. that was the thing--love. it caused the trouble. it was more terrible than frost or famine. women were all very well, in themselves good to look upon and likable; but along came this thing called love, and they were seared to the bone by it, made so irrational that one could never guess what they would do next. this freda-woman was a splendid creature, full-bodied, beautiful, and nobody's fool; but love had come along and soured her on the world, driving her to the klondike and to suicide so compellingly that she was made to hate the man that saved her life. well, he had escaped love so far, just as he had escaped smallpox; yet there it was, as contagious as smallpox, and a whole lot worse in running its course. it made men and women do such fearful and unreasonable things. it was like delirium tremens, only worse. and if he, daylight, caught it, he might have it as badly as any of them. it was lunacy, stark lunacy, and contagious on top of it all. a half dozen young fellows were crazy over freda. they all wanted to marry her. yet she, in turn, was crazy over that some other fellow on the other side of the world, and would have nothing to do with them. but it was left to the virgin to give him his final fright. she was found one morning dead in her cabin. a shot through the head had done it, and she had left no message, no explanation. then came the talk. some wit, voicing public opinion, called it a case of too much daylight. she had killed herself because of him. everybody knew this, and said so. the correspondents wrote it up, and once more burning daylight, king of the klondike, was sensationally featured in the sunday supplements of the united states. the virgin had straightened up, so the feature-stories ran, and correctly so. never had she entered a dawson city dance-hall. when she first arrived from circle city, she had earned her living by washing clothes. next, she had bought a sewing-machine and made men's drill parkas, fur caps, and moosehide mittens. then she had gone as a clerk into the first yukon bank. all this, and more, was known and told, though one and all were agreed that daylight, while the cause, had been the innocent cause of her untimely end. and the worst of it was that daylight knew it was true. always would he remember that last night he had seen her. he had thought nothing of it at the time; but, looking back, he was haunted by every little thing that had happened. in the light of the tragic event, he could understand everything--her quietness, that calm certitude as if all vexing questions of living had been smoothed out and were gone, and that certain ethereal sweetness about all that she had said and done that had been almost maternal. he remembered the way she had looked at him, how she had laughed when he narrated mickey dolan's mistake in staking the fraction on skookum gulch. her laughter had been lightly joyous, while at the same time it had lacked its oldtime robustness. not that she had been grave or subdued. on the contrary, she had been so patently content, so filled with peace. she had fooled him, fool that he was. he had even thought that night that her feeling for him had passed, and he had taken delight in the thought, and caught visions of the satisfying future friendship that would be theirs with this perturbing love out of the way. and then, when he stood at the door, cap in hand, and said good night. it had struck him at the time as a funny and embarrassing thing, her bending over his hand and kissing it. he had felt like a fool, but he shivered now when he looked back on it and felt again the touch of her lips on his hand. she was saying good-by, an eternal good-by, and he had never guessed. at that very moment, and for all the moments of the evening, coolly and deliberately, as he well knew her way, she had been resolved to die. if he had only known it! untouched by the contagious malady himself, nevertheless he would have married her if he had had the slightest inkling of what she contemplated. and yet he knew, furthermore, that hers was a certain stiff-kneed pride that would not have permitted her to accept marriage as an act of philanthropy. there had really been no saving her, after all. the love-disease had fastened upon her, and she had been doomed from the first to perish of it. her one possible chance had been that he, too, should have caught it. and he had failed to catch it. most likely, if he had, it would have been from freda or some other woman. there was dartworthy, the college man who had staked the rich fraction on bonanza above discovery. everybody knew that old doolittle's daughter, bertha, was madly in love with him. yet, when he contracted the disease, of all women, it had been with the wife of colonel walthstone, the great guggenhammer mining expert. result, three lunacy cases: dartworthy selling out his mine for one-tenth its value; the poor woman sacrificing her respectability and sheltered nook in society to flee with him in an open boat down the yukon; and colonel walthstone, breathing murder and destruction, taking out after them in another open boat. the whole impending tragedy had moved on down the muddy yukon, passing forty mile and circle and losing itself in the wilderness beyond. but there it was, love, disorganizing men's and women's lives, driving toward destruction and death, turning topsy-turvy everything that was sensible and considerate, making bawds or suicides out of virtuous women, and scoundrels and murderers out of men who had always been clean and square. for the first time in his life daylight lost his nerve. he was badly and avowedly frightened. women were terrible creatures, and the love-germ was especially plentiful in their neighborhood. and they were so reckless, so devoid of fear. they were not frightened by what had happened to the virgin. they held out their arms to him more seductively than ever. even without his fortune, reckoned as a mere man, just past thirty, magnificently strong and equally good-looking and good-natured, he was a prize for most normal women. but when to his natural excellences were added the romance that linked with his name and the enormous wealth that was his, practically every free woman he encountered measured him with an appraising and delighted eye, to say nothing of more than one woman who was not free. other men might have been spoiled by this and led to lose their heads; but the only effect on him was to increase his fright. as a result he refused most invitations to houses where women might be met, and frequented bachelor boards and the moosehorn saloon, which had no dance-hall attached. chapter xiii six thousand spent the winter of in dawson, work on the creeks went on apace, while beyond the passes it was reported that one hundred thousand more were waiting for the spring. late one brief afternoon, daylight, on the benches between french hill and skookum hill, caught a wider vision of things. beneath him lay the richest part of eldorado creek, while up and down bonanza he could see for miles. it was a scene of a vast devastation. the hills, to their tops, had been shorn of trees, and their naked sides showed signs of goring and perforating that even the mantle of snow could not hide. beneath him, in every direction were the cabins of men. but not many men were visible. a blanket of smoke filled the valleys and turned the gray day to melancholy twilight. smoke arose from a thousand holes in the snow, where, deep down on bed-rock, in the frozen muck and gravel, men crept and scratched and dug, and ever built more fires to break the grip of the frost. here and there, where new shafts were starting, these fires flamed redly. figures of men crawled out of the holes, or disappeared into them, or, on raised platforms of hand-hewn timber, windlassed the thawed gravel to the surface, where it immediately froze. the wreckage of the spring washing appeared everywhere--piles of sluice-boxes, sections of elevated flumes, huge water-wheels,--all the debris of an army of gold-mad men. "it-all's plain gophering," daylight muttered aloud. he looked at the naked hills and realized the enormous wastage of wood that had taken place. from this bird's-eye view he realized the monstrous confusion of their excited workings. it was a gigantic inadequacy. each worked for himself, and the result was chaos. in this richest of diggings it cost out by their feverish, unthinking methods another dollar was left hopelessly in the earth. given another year, and most of the claims would be worked out, and the sum of the gold taken out would no more than equal what was left behind. organization was what was needed, he decided; and his quick imagination sketched eldorado creek, from mouth to source, and from mountain top to mountain top, in the hands of one capable management. even steam-thawing, as yet untried, but bound to come, he saw would be a makeshift. what should be done was to hydraulic the valley sides and benches, and then, on the creek bottom, to use gold-dredges such as he had heard described as operating in california. there was the very chance for another big killing. he had wondered just what was precisely the reason for the guggenhammers and the big english concerns sending in their high-salaried experts. that was their scheme. that was why they had approached him for the sale of worked-out claims and tailings. they were content to let the small mine-owners gopher out what they could, for there would be millions in the leavings. and, gazing down on the smoky inferno of crude effort, daylight outlined the new game he would play, a game in which the guggenhammers and the rest would have to reckon with him. cut along with the delight in the new conception came a weariness. he was tired of the long arctic years, and he was curious about the outside--the great world of which he had heard other men talk and of which he was as ignorant as a child. there were games out there to play. it was a larger table, and there was no reason why he with his millions should not sit in and take a hand. so it was, that afternoon on skookum hill, that he resolved to play this last best klondike hand and pull for the outside. it took time, however. he put trusted agents to work on the heels of great experts, and on the creeks where they began to buy he likewise bought. wherever they tried to corner a worked-out creek, they found him standing in the way, owning blocks of claims or artfully scattered claims that put all their plans to naught. "i play you-all wide open to win--am i right" he told them once, in a heated conference. followed wars, truces, compromises, victories, and defeats. by , sixty thousand men were on the klondike and all their fortunes and affairs rocked back and forth and were affected by the battles daylight fought. and more and more the taste for the larger game urged in daylight's mouth. here he was already locked in grapples with the great guggenhammers, and winning, fiercely winning. possibly the severest struggle was waged on ophir, the veriest of moose-pastures, whose low-grade dirt was valuable only because of its vastness. the ownership of a block of seven claims in the heart of it gave daylight his grip and they could not come to terms. the guggenhammer experts concluded that it was too big for him to handle, and when they gave him an ultimatum to that effect he accepted and bought them out. the plan was his own, but he sent down to the states for competent engineers to carry it out. in the rinkabilly watershed, eighty miles away, he built his reservoir, and for eighty miles the huge wooden conduit carried the water across country to ophir. estimated at three millions, the reservoir and conduit cost nearer four. nor did he stop with this. electric power plants were installed, and his workings were lighted as well as run by electricity. other sourdoughs, who had struck it rich in excess of all their dreams, shook their heads gloomily, warned him that he would go broke, and declined to invest in so extravagant a venture. but daylight smiled, and sold out the remainder of his town-site holdings. he sold at the right time, at the height of the placer boom. when he prophesied to his old cronies, in the moosehorn saloon, that within five years town lots in dawson could not be given away, while the cabins would be chopped up for firewood, he was laughed at roundly, and assured that the mother-lode would be found ere that time. but he went ahead, when his need for lumber was finished, selling out his sawmills as well. likewise, he began to get rid of his scattered holdings on the various creeks, and without thanks to any one he finished his conduit, built his dredges, imported his machinery, and made the gold of ophir immediately accessible. and he, who five years before had crossed over the divide from indian river and threaded the silent wilderness, his dogs packing indian fashion, himself living indian fashion on straight moose meat, now heard the hoarse whistles calling his hundreds of laborers to work, and watched them toil under the white glare of the arc-lamps. but having done the thing, he was ready to depart. and when he let the word go out, the guggenhammers vied with the english concerns and with a new french company in bidding for ophir and all its plant. the guggenhammers bid highest, and the price they paid netted daylight a clean million. it was current rumor that he was worth anywhere from twenty to thirty millions. but he alone knew just how he stood, and that, with his last claim sold and the table swept clean of his winnings, he had ridden his hunch to the tune of just a trifle over eleven millions. his departure was a thing that passed into the history of the yukon along with his other deeds. all the yukon was his guest, dawson the seat of the festivity. on that one last night no man's dust save his own was good. drinks were not to be purchased. every saloon ran open, with extra relays of exhausted bartenders, and the drinks were given away. a man who refused this hospitality, and persisted in paying, found a dozen fights on his hands. the veriest chechaquos rose up to defend the name of daylight from such insult. and through it all, on moccasined feet, moved daylight, hell-roaring burning daylight, over-spilling with good nature and camaraderie, howling his he-wolf howl and claiming the night as his, bending men's arms down on the bars, performing feats of strength, his bronzed face flushed with drink, his black eyes flashing, clad in overalls and blanket coat, his ear-flaps dangling and his gauntleted mittens swinging from the cord across the shoulders. but this time it was neither an ante nor a stake that he threw away, but a mere marker in the game that he who held so many markers would not miss. as a night, it eclipsed anything that dawson had ever seen. it was daylight's desire to make it memorable, and his attempt was a success. a goodly portion of dawson got drunk that night. the fall weather was on, and, though the freeze-up of the yukon still delayed, the thermometer was down to twenty-five below zero and falling. wherefore, it was necessary to organize gangs of life-savers, who patrolled the streets to pick up drunken men from where they fell in the snow and where an hour's sleep would be fatal. daylight, whose whim it was to make them drunk by hundreds and by thousands, was the one who initiated this life saving. he wanted dawson to have its night, but, in his deeper processes never careless nor wanton, he saw to it that it was a night without accident. and, like his olden nights, his ukase went forth that there should be no quarrelling nor fighting, offenders to be dealt with by him personally. nor did he have to deal with any. hundreds of devoted followers saw to it that the evilly disposed were rolled in the snow and hustled off to bed. in the great world, where great captains of industry die, all wheels under their erstwhile management are stopped for a minute. but in the klondike, such was its hilarious sorrow at the departure of its captain, that for twenty-four hours no wheels revolved. even great ophir, with its thousand men on the pay-roll, closed down. on the day after the night there were no men present or fit to go to work. next morning, at break of day, dawson said good-by. the thousands that lined the bank wore mittens and their ear-flaps pulled down and tied. it was thirty below zero, the rim-ice was thickening, and the yukon carried a run of mush-ice. from the deck of the seattle, daylight waved and called his farewells. as the lines were cast off and the steamer swung out into the current, those near him saw the moisture well up in daylight's eyes. in a way, it was to him departure from his native land, this grim arctic region which was practically the only land he had known. he tore off his cap and waved it. "good-by, you-all!" he called. "good-by, you-all!" part ii chapter i in no blaze of glory did burning daylight descend upon san francisco. not only had he been forgotten, but the klondike along with him. the world was interested in other things, and the alaskan adventure, like the spanish war, was an old story. many things had happened since then. exciting things were happening every day, and the sensation-space of newspapers was limited. the effect of being ignored, however, was an exhilaration. big man as he had been in the arctic game, it merely showed how much bigger was this new game, when a man worth eleven millions, and with a history such as his, passed unnoticed. he settled down in st. francis hotel, was interviewed by the cub-reporters on the hotel-run, and received brief paragraphs of notice for twenty-four hours. he grinned to himself, and began to look around and get acquainted with the new order of beings and things. he was very awkward and very self-possessed. in addition to the stiffening afforded his backbone by the conscious ownership of eleven millions, he possessed an enormous certitude. nothing abashed him, nor was he appalled by the display and culture and power around him. it was another kind of wilderness, that was all; and it was for him to learn the ways of it, the signs and trails and water-holes where good hunting lay, and the bad stretches of field and flood to be avoided. as usual, he fought shy of the women. he was still too badly scared to come to close quarters with the dazzling and resplendent creatures his own millions made accessible. they looked and longed, but he so concealed his timidity that he had all the seeming of moving boldly among them. nor was it his wealth alone that attracted them. he was too much a man, and too much an unusual type of man. young yet, barely thirty-six, eminently handsome, magnificently strong, almost bursting with a splendid virility, his free trail-stride, never learned on pavements, and his black eyes, hinting of great spaces and unwearied with the close perspective of the city dwellers, drew many a curious and wayward feminine glance. he saw, grinned knowingly to himself, and faced them as so many dangers, with a cool demeanor that was a far greater personal achievement than had they been famine, frost, or flood. he had come down to the states to play the man's game, not the woman's game; and the men he had not yet learned. they struck him as soft--soft physically; yet he divined them hard in their dealings, but hard under an exterior of supple softness. it struck him that there was something cat-like about them. he met them in the clubs, and wondered how real was the good-fellowship they displayed and how quickly they would unsheathe their claws and gouge and rend. "that's the proposition," he repeated to himself; "what will they-all do when the play is close and down to brass tacks?" he felt unwarrantably suspicious of them. "they're sure slick," was his secret judgment; and from bits of gossip dropped now and again he felt his judgment well buttressed. on the other hand, they radiated an atmosphere of manliness and the fair play that goes with manliness. they might gouge and rend in a fight--which was no more than natural; but he felt, somehow, that they would gouge and rend according to rule. this was the impression he got of them--a generalization tempered by knowledge that there was bound to be a certain percentage of scoundrels among them. several months passed in san francisco during which time he studied the game and its rules, and prepared himself to take a hand. he even took private instruction in english, and succeeded in eliminating his worst faults, though in moments of excitement he was prone to lapse into "you-all," "knowed," "sure," and similar solecisms. he learned to eat and dress and generally comport himself after the manner of civilized man; but through it all he remained himself, not unduly reverential nor considerative, and never hesitating to stride rough-shod over any soft-faced convention if it got in his way and the provocation were great enough. also, and unlike the average run of weaker men coming from back countries and far places, he failed to reverence the particular tin gods worshipped variously by the civilized tribes of men. he had seen totems before, and knew them for what they were. tiring of being merely an onlooker, he ran up to nevada, where the new gold-mining boom was fairly started--"just to try a flutter," as he phrased it to himself. the flutter on the tonopah stock exchange lasted just ten days, during which time his smashing, wild-bull game played ducks and drakes with the more stereotyped gamblers, and at the end of which time, having gambled floridel into his fist, he let go for a net profit of half a million. whereupon, smacking his lips, he departed for san francisco and the st. francis hotel. it tasted good, and his hunger for the game became more acute. and once more the papers sensationalized him. burning daylight was a big-letter headline again. interviewers flocked about him. old files of magazines and newspapers were searched through, and the romantic and historic elam harnish, adventurer of the frost, king of the klondike, and father of the sourdoughs, strode upon the breakfast table of a million homes along with the toast and breakfast foods. even before his elected time, he was forcibly launched into the game. financiers and promoters, and all the flotsam and jetsam of the sea of speculation surged upon the shores of his eleven millions. in self-defence he was compelled to open offices. he had made them sit up and take notice, and now, willy-nilly, they were dealing him hands and clamoring for him to play. well, play he would; he'd show 'em; even despite the elated prophesies made of how swiftly he would be trimmed--prophesies coupled with descriptions of the bucolic game he would play and of his wild and woolly appearance. he dabbled in little things at first--"stalling for time," as he explained it to holdsworthy, a friend he had made at the alta-pacific club. daylight himself was a member of the club, and holdsworthy had proposed him. and it was well that daylight played closely at first, for he was astounded by the multitudes of sharks--"ground-sharks," he called them--that flocked about him. he saw through their schemes readily enough, and even marveled that such numbers of them could find sufficient prey to keep them going. their rascality and general dubiousness was so transparent that he could not understand how any one could be taken in by them. and then he found that there were sharks and sharks. holdsworthy treated him more like a brother than a mere fellow-clubman, watching over him, advising him, and introducing him to the magnates of the local financial world. holdsworthy's family lived in a delightful bungalow near menlo park, and here daylight spent a number of weekends, seeing a fineness and kindness of home life of which he had never dreamed. holdsworthy was an enthusiast over flowers, and a half lunatic over raising prize poultry; and these engrossing madnesses were a source of perpetual joy to daylight, who looked on in tolerant good humor. such amiable weaknesses tokened the healthfulness of the man, and drew daylight closer to him. a prosperous, successful business man without great ambition, was daylight's estimate of him--a man too easily satisfied with the small stakes of the game ever to launch out in big play. on one such week-end visit, holdsworthy let him in on a good thing, a good little thing, a brickyard at glen ellen. daylight listened closely to the other's description of the situation. it was a most reasonable venture, and daylight's one objection was that it was so small a matter and so far out of his line; and he went into it only as a matter of friendship, holdsworthy explaining that he was himself already in a bit, and that while it was a good thing, he would be compelled to make sacrifices in other directions in order to develop it. daylight advanced the capital, fifty thousand dollars, and, as he laughingly explained afterward, "i was stung, all right, but it wasn't holdsworthy that did it half as much as those blamed chickens and fruit-trees of his." it was a good lesson, however, for he learned that there were few faiths in the business world, and that even the simple, homely faith of breaking bread and eating salt counted for little in the face of a worthless brickyard and fifty thousand dollars in cash. but the sharks and sharks of various orders and degrees, he concluded, were on the surface. deep down, he divined, were the integrities and the stabilities. these big captains of industry and masters of finance, he decided, were the men to work with. by the very nature of their huge deals and enterprises they had to play fair. no room there for little sharpers' tricks and bunco games. it was to be expected that little men should salt gold-mines with a shotgun and work off worthless brick-yards on their friends, but in high finance such methods were not worth while. there the men were engaged in developing the country, organizing its railroads, opening up its mines, making accessible its vast natural resources. their play was bound to be big and stable. "they sure can't afford tin-horn tactics," was his summing up. so it was that he resolved to leave the little men, the holdsworthys, alone; and, while he met them in good-fellowship, he chummed with none, and formed no deep friendships. he did not dislike the little men, the men of the alta-pacific, for instance. he merely did not elect to choose them for partners in the big game in which he intended to play. what that big game was, even he did not know. he was waiting to find it. and in the meantime he played small hands, investing in several arid-lands reclamation projects and keeping his eyes open for the big chance when it should come along. and then he met john dowsett, the great john dowsett. the whole thing was fortuitous. this cannot be doubted, as daylight himself knew, it was by the merest chance, when in los angeles, that he heard the tuna were running strong at santa catalina, and went over to the island instead of returning directly to san francisco as he had planned. there he met john dowsett, resting off for several days in the middle of a flying western trip. dowsett had of course heard of the spectacular klondike king and his rumored thirty millions, and he certainly found himself interested by the man in the acquaintance that was formed. somewhere along in this acquaintanceship the idea must have popped into his brain. but he did not broach it, preferring to mature it carefully. so he talked in large general ways, and did his best to be agreeable and win daylight's friendship. it was the first big magnate daylight had met face to face, and he was pleased and charmed. there was such a kindly humanness about the man, such a genial democraticness, that daylight found it hard to realize that this was the john dowsett, president of a string of banks, insurance manipulator, reputed ally of the lieutenants of standard oil, and known ally of the guggenhammers. nor did his looks belie his reputation and his manner. physically, he guaranteed all that daylight knew of him. despite his sixty years and snow-white hair, his hand-shake was firmly hearty, and he showed no signs of decrepitude, walking with a quick, snappy step, making all movements definitely and decisively. his skin was a healthy pink, and his thin, clean lips knew the way to writhe heartily over a joke. he had honest blue eyes of palest blue; they looked out at one keenly and frankly from under shaggy gray brows. his mind showed itself disciplined and orderly, and its workings struck daylight as having all the certitude of a steel trap. he was a man who knew and who never decorated his knowledge with foolish frills of sentiment or emotion. that he was accustomed to command was patent, and every word and gesture tingled with power. combined with this was his sympathy and tact, and daylight could note easily enough all the earmarks that distinguished him from a little man of the holdsworthy caliber. daylight knew also his history, the prime old american stock from which he had descended, his own war record, the john dowsett before him who had been one of the banking buttresses of the cause of the union, the commodore dowsett of the war of the general dowsett of revolutionary fame, and that first far dowsett, owner of lands and slaves in early new england. "he's sure the real thing," he told one of his fellow-clubmen afterwards, in the smoking-room of the alta-pacific. "i tell you, gallon, he was a genuine surprise to me. i knew the big ones had to be like that, but i had to see him to really know it. he's one of the fellows that does things. you can see it sticking out all over him. he's one in a thousand, that's straight, a man to tie to. there's no limit to any game he plays, and you can stack on it that he plays right up to the handle. i bet he can lose or win half a dozen million without batting an eye." gallon puffed at his cigar, and at the conclusion of the panegyric regarded the other curiously; but daylight, ordering cocktails, failed to note this curious stare. "going in with him on some deal, i suppose," gallon remarked. "nope, not the slightest idea. here's kindness. i was just explaining that i'd come to understand how these big fellows do big things. why, d'ye know, he gave me such a feeling that he knew everything, that i was plumb ashamed of myself." "i guess i could give him cards and spades when it comes to driving a dog-team, though," daylight observed, after a meditative pause. "and i really believe i could put him on to a few wrinkles in poker and placer mining, and maybe in paddling a birch canoe. and maybe i stand a better chance to learn the game he's been playing all his life than he would stand of learning the game i played up north." chapter ii it was not long afterward that daylight came on to new york. a letter from john dowsett had been the cause--a simple little typewritten letter of several lines. but daylight had thrilled as he read it. he remembered the thrill that was his, a callow youth of fifteen, when, in tempas butte, through lack of a fourth man, tom galsworthy, the gambler, had said, "get in, kid; take a hand." that thrill was his now. the bald, typewritten sentences seemed gorged with mystery. "our mr. howison will call upon you at your hotel. he is to be trusted. we must not be seen together. you will understand after we have had our talk." daylight conned the words over and over. that was it. the big game had arrived, and it looked as if he were being invited to sit in and take a hand. surely, for no other reason would one man so peremptorily invite another man to make a journey across the continent. they met--thanks to "our" mr. howison,--up the hudson, in a magnificent country home. daylight, according to instructions, arrived in a private motor-car which had been furnished him. whose car it was he did not know any more than did he know the owner of the house, with its generous, rolling, tree-studded lawns. dowsett was already there, and another man whom daylight recognized before the introduction was begun. it was nathaniel letton, and none other. daylight had seen his face a score of times in the magazines and newspapers, and read about his standing in the financial world and about his endowed university of daratona. he, likewise, struck daylight as a man of power, though he was puzzled in that he could find no likeness to dowsett. except in the matter of cleanness,--a cleanness that seemed to go down to the deepest fibers of him,--nathaniel letton was unlike the other in every particular. thin to emaciation, he seemed a cold flame of a man, a man of a mysterious, chemic sort of flame, who, under a glacier-like exterior, conveyed, somehow, the impression of the ardent heat of a thousand suns. his large gray eyes were mainly responsible for this feeling, and they blazed out feverishly from what was almost a death's-head, so thin was the face, the skin of which was a ghastly, dull, dead white. not more than fifty, thatched with a sparse growth of iron-gray hair, he looked several times the age of dowsett. yet nathaniel letton possessed control--daylight could see that plainly. he was a thin-faced ascetic, living in a state of high, attenuated calm--a molten planet under a transcontinental ice sheet. and yet, above all most of all, daylight was impressed by the terrific and almost awful cleanness of the man. there was no dross in him. he had all the seeming of having been purged by fire. daylight had the feeling that a healthy man-oath would be a deadly offence to his ears, a sacrilege and a blasphemy. they drank--that is, nathaniel letton took mineral water served by the smoothly operating machine of a lackey who inhabited the place, while dowsett took scotch and soda and daylight a cocktail. nobody seemed to notice the unusualness of a martini at midnight, though daylight looked sharply for that very thing; for he had long since learned that martinis had their strictly appointed times and places. but he liked martinis, and, being a natural man, he chose deliberately to drink when and how he pleased. others had noticed this peculiar habit of his, but not so dowsett and letton; and daylight's secret thought was: "they sure wouldn't bat an eye if i called for a glass of corrosive sublimate." leon guggenhammer arrived in the midst of the drink, and ordered scotch. daylight studied him curiously. this was one of the great guggenhammer family; a younger one, but nevertheless one of the crowd with which he had locked grapples in the north. nor did leon guggenhammer fail to mention cognizance of that old affair. he complimented daylight on his prowess--"the echoes of ophir came down to us, you know. and i must say, mr. daylight--er, mr. harnish, that you whipped us roundly in that affair." echoes! daylight could not escape the shock of the phrase--echoes had come down to them of the fight into which he had flung all his strength and the strength of his klondike millions. the guggenhammers sure must go some when a fight of that dimension was no more than a skirmish of which they deigned to hear echoes. "they sure play an almighty big game down here," was his conclusion, accompanied by a corresponding elation that it was just precisely that almighty big game in which he was about to be invited to play a hand. for the moment he poignantly regretted that rumor was not true, and that his eleven millions were not in reality thirty millions. well, that much he would be frank about; he would let them know exactly how many stacks of chips he could buy. leon guggenhammer was young and fat. not a day more than thirty, his face, save for the adumbrated puff sacks under the eyes, was as smooth and lineless as a boy's. he, too, gave the impression of cleanness. he showed in the pink of health; his unblemished, smooth-shaven skin shouted advertisement of his splendid physical condition. in the face of that perfect skin, his very fatness and mature, rotund paunch could be nothing other than normal. he was constituted to be prone to fatness, that was all. the talk soon centred down to business, though guggenhammer had first to say his say about the forthcoming international yacht race and about his own palatial steam yacht, the electra, whose recent engines were already antiquated. dowsett broached the plan, aided by an occasional remark from the other two, while daylight asked questions. whatever the proposition was, he was going into it with his eyes open. and they filled his eyes with the practical vision of what they had in mind. "they will never dream you are with us," guggenhammer interjected, as the outlining of the matter drew to a close, his handsome jewish eyes flashing enthusiastically. "they'll think you are raiding on your own in proper buccaneer style." "of course, you understand, mr. harnish, the absolute need for keeping our alliance in the dark," nathaniel letton warned gravely. daylight nodded his head. "and you also understand," letton went on, "that the result can only be productive of good. the thing is legitimate and right, and the only ones who may be hurt are the stock gamblers themselves. it is not an attempt to smash the market. as you see yourself, you are to bull the market. the honest investor will be the gainer." "yes, that's the very thing," dowsett said. "the commercial need for copper is continually increasing. ward valley copper, and all that it stands for,--practically one-quarter of the world's supply, as i have shown you,--is a big thing, how big, even we can scarcely estimate. our arrangements are made. we have plenty of capital ourselves, and yet we want more. also, there is too much ward valley out to suit our present plans. thus we kill both birds with one stone--" "and i am the stone," daylight broke in with a smile. "yes, just that. not only will you bull ward valley, but you will at the same time gather ward valley in. this will be of inestimable advantage to us, while you and all of us will profit by it as well. and as mr. letton has pointed out, the thing is legitimate and square. on the eighteenth the directors meet, and, instead of the customary dividend, a double dividend will be declared." "and where will the shorts be then?" leon guggenhammer cried excitedly. "the shorts will be the speculators," nathaniel letton explained, "the gamblers, the froth of wall street--you understand. the genuine investors will not be hurt. furthermore, they will have learned for the thousandth time to have confidence in ward valley. and with their confidence we can carry through the large developments we have outlined to you." "there will be all sorts of rumors on the street," dowsett warned daylight, "but do not let them frighten you. these rumors may even originate with us. you can see how and why clearly. but rumors are to be no concern of yours. you are on the inside. all you have to do is buy, buy, buy, and keep on buying to the last stroke, when the directors declare the double dividend. ward valley will jump so that it won't be feasible to buy after that." "what we want," letton took up the strain, pausing significantly to sip his mineral water, "what we want is to take large blocks of ward valley off the hands of the public. we could do this easily enough by depressing the market and frightening the holders. and we could do it more cheaply in such fashion. but we are absolute masters of the situation, and we are fair enough to buy ward valley on a rising market. not that we are philanthropists, but that we need the investors in our big development scheme. nor do we lose directly by the transaction. the instant the action of the directors becomes known, ward valley will rush heavenward. in addition, and outside the legitimate field of the transaction, we will pinch the shorts for a very large sum. but that is only incidental, you understand, and in a way, unavoidable. on the other hand, we shall not turn up our noses at that phase of it. the shorts shall be the veriest gamblers, of course, and they will get no more than they deserve." "and one other thing, mr. harnish," guggenhammer said, "if you exceed your available cash, or the amount you care to invest in the venture, don't fail immediately to call on us. remember, we are behind you." "yes, we are behind you," dowsett repeated. nathaniel letton nodded his head in affirmation. "now about that double dividend on the eighteenth--" john dowsett drew a slip of paper from his note-book and adjusted his glasses. "let me show you the figures. here, you see..." and thereupon he entered into a long technical and historical explanation of the earnings and dividends of ward valley from the day of its organization. the whole conference lasted not more than an hour, during which time daylight lived at the topmost of the highest peak of life that he had ever scaled. these men were big players. they were powers. true, as he knew himself, they were not the real inner circle. they did not rank with the morgans and harrimans. and yet they were in touch with those giants and were themselves lesser giants. he was pleased, too, with their attitude toward him. they met him deferentially, but not patronizingly. it was the deference of equality, and daylight could not escape the subtle flattery of it; for he was fully aware that in experience as well as wealth they were far and away beyond him. "we'll shake up the speculating crowd," leon guggenhammer proclaimed jubilantly, as they rose to go. "and you are the man to do it, mr. harnish. they are bound to think you are on your own, and their shears are all sharpened for the trimming of newcomers like you." "they will certainly be misled," letton agreed, his eerie gray eyes blazing out from the voluminous folds of the huge mueller with which he was swathing his neck to the ears. "their minds run in ruts. it is the unexpected that upsets their stereotyped calculations--any new combination, any strange factor, any fresh variant. and you will be all that to them, mr. harnish. and i repeat, they are gamblers, and they will deserve all that befalls them. they clog and cumber all legitimate enterprise. you have no idea of the trouble they cause men like us--sometimes, by their gambling tactics, upsetting the soundest plans, even overturning the stablest institutions." dowsett and young guggenhammer went away in one motor-car, and letton by himself in another. daylight, with still in the forefront of his consciousness all that had occurred in the preceding hour, was deeply impressed by the scene at the moment of departure. the three machines stood like weird night monsters at the gravelled foot of the wide stairway under the unlighted porte-cochere. it was a dark night, and the lights of the motor-cars cut as sharply through the blackness as knives would cut through solid substance. the obsequious lackey--the automatic genie of the house which belonged to none of the three men,--stood like a graven statue after having helped them in. the fur-coated chauffeurs bulked dimly in their seats. one after the other, like spurred steeds, the cars leaped into the blackness, took the curve of the driveway, and were gone. daylight's car was the last, and, peering out, he caught a glimpse of the unlighted house that loomed hugely through the darkness like a mountain. whose was it? he wondered. how came they to use it for their secret conference? would the lackey talk? how about the chauffeurs? were they trusted men like "our" mr. howison? mystery? the affair was alive with it. and hand in hand with mystery walked power. he leaned back and inhaled his cigarette. big things were afoot. the cards were shuffled even then for a mighty deal, and he was in on it. he remembered back to his poker games with jack kearns, and laughed aloud. he had played for thousands in those days on the turn of a card; but now he was playing for millions. and on the eighteenth, when that dividend was declared, he chuckled at the confusion that would inevitably descend upon the men with the sharpened shears waiting to trim him--him, burning daylight. chapter iii back at his hotel, though nearly two in the morning, he found the reporters waiting to interview him. next morning there were more. and thus, with blare of paper trumpet, was he received by new york. once more, with beating of toms-toms and wild hullaballoo, his picturesque figure strode across the printed sheet. the king of the klondike, the hero of the arctic, the thirty-million-dollar millionaire of the north, had come to new york. what had he come for? to trim the new yorkers as he had trimmed the tonopah crowd in nevada? wall street had best watch out, for the wild man of klondike had just come to town. or, perchance, would wall street trim him? wall street had trimmed many wild men; would this be burning daylight's fate? daylight grinned to himself, and gave out ambiguous interviews. it helped the game, and he grinned again, as he meditated that wall street would sure have to go some before it trimmed him. they were prepared for him to play, and, when heavy buying of ward valley began, it was quickly decided that he was the operator. financial gossip buzzed and hummed. he was after the guggenhammers once more. the story of ophir was told over again and sensationalized until even daylight scarcely recognized it. still, it was all grist to his mill. the stock gamblers were clearly befooled. each day he increased his buying, and so eager were the sellers that ward valley rose but slowly. "it sure beats poker," daylight whispered gleefully to himself, as he noted the perturbation he was causing. the newspapers hazarded countless guesses and surmises, and daylight was constantly dogged by a small battalion of reporters. his own interviews were gems. discovering the delight the newspapers took in his vernacular, in his "you-alls," and "sures," and "surge-ups," he even exaggerated these particularities of speech, exploiting the phrases he had heard other frontiersmen use, and inventing occasionally a new one of his own. a wildly exciting time was his during the week preceding thursday the eighteenth. not only was he gambling as he had never gambled before, but he was gambling at the biggest table in the world and for stakes so large that even the case-hardened habitues of that table were compelled to sit up. in spite of the unlimited selling, his persistent buying compelled ward valley steadily to rise, and as thursday approached, the situation became acute. something had to smash. how much ward valley was this klondike gambler going to buy? how much could he buy? what was the ward valley crowd doing all this time? daylight appreciated the interviews with them that appeared--interviews delightfully placid and non-committal. leon guggenhammer even hazarded the opinion that this northland croesus might possibly be making a mistake. but not that they cared, john dowsett explained. nor did they object. while in the dark regarding his intentions, of one thing they were certain; namely, that he was bulling ward valley. and they did not mind that. no matter what happened to him and his spectacular operations, ward valley was all right, and would remain all right, as firm as the rock of gibraltar. no; they had no ward valley to sell, thank you. this purely fictitious state of the market was bound shortly to pass, and ward valley was not to be induced to change the even tenor of its way by any insane stock exchange flurry. "it is purely gambling from beginning to end," were nathaniel letton's words; "and we refuse to have anything to do with it or to take notice of it in any way." during this time daylight had several secret meetings with his partners--one with leon guggenhammer, one with john dowsett, and two with mr. howison. beyond congratulations, they really amounted to nothing; for, as he was informed, everything was going satisfactorily. but on tuesday morning a rumor that was disconcerting came to daylight's ears. it was also published in the wall street journal, and it was to the effect, on apparently straight inside information, that on thursday, when the directors of ward valley met, instead of the customary dividend being declared, an assessment would be levied. it was the first check daylight had received. it came to him with a shock that if the thing were so he was a broken man. and it also came to him that all this colossal operating of his was being done on his own money. dowsett, guggenhammer, and letton were risking nothing. it was a panic, short-lived, it was true, but sharp enough while it lasted to make him remember holdsworthy and the brick-yard, and to impel him to cancel all buying orders while he rushed to a telephone. "nothing in it--only a rumor," came leon guggenhammer's throaty voice in the receiver. "as you know," said nathaniel letton, "i am one of the directors, and i should certainly be aware of it were such action contemplated." and john dowsett: "i warned you against just such rumors. there is not an iota of truth in it--certainly not. i tell you on my honor as a gentleman." heartily ashamed of himself for his temporary loss of nerve, daylight returned to his task. the cessation of buying had turned the stock exchange into a bedlam, and down all the line of stocks the bears were smashing. ward valley, as the ape, received the brunt of the shock, and was already beginning to tumble. daylight calmly doubled his buying orders. and all through tuesday and wednesday, and thursday morning, he went on buying, while ward valley rose triumphantly higher. still they sold, and still he bought, exceeding his power to buy many times over, when delivery was taken into account. what of that? on this day the double dividend would be declared, he assured himself. the pinch of delivery would be on the shorts. they would be making terms with him. and then the thunderbolt struck. true to the rumor, ward valley levied the assessment. daylight threw up his arms. he verified the report and quit. not alone ward valley, but all securities were being hammered down by the triumphant bears. as for ward valley, daylight did not even trouble to learn if it had fetched bottom or was still tumbling. not stunned, not even bewildered, while wall street went mad, daylight withdrew from the field to think it over. after a short conference with his brokers, he proceeded to his hotel, on the way picking up the evening papers and glancing at the head-lines. burning daylight cleaned out, he read; daylight gets his; another westerner fails to find easy money. as he entered his hotel, a later edition announced the suicide of a young man, a lamb, who had followed daylight's play. what in hell did he want to kill himself for? was daylight's muttered comment. he passed up to his rooms, ordered a martini cocktail, took off his shoes, and sat down to think. after half an hour he roused himself to take the drink, and as he felt the liquor pass warmingly through his body, his features relaxed into a slow, deliberate, yet genuine grin. he was laughing at himself. "buncoed, by gosh!" he muttered. then the grin died away, and his face grew bleak and serious. leaving out his interests in the several western reclamation projects (which were still assessing heavily), he was a ruined man. but harder hit than this was his pride. he had been so easy. they had gold-bricked him, and he had nothing to show for it. the simplest farmer would have had documents, while he had nothing but a gentleman's agreement, and a verbal one at that. gentleman's agreement. he snorted over it. john dowsett's voice, just as he had heard it in the telephone receiver, sounded in his ears the words, "on my honor as a gentleman." they were sneak-thieves and swindlers, that was what they were, and they had given him the double-cross. the newspapers were right. he had come to new york to be trimmed, and messrs. dowsett, letton, and guggenhammer had done it. he was a little fish, and they had played with him ten days--ample time in which to swallow him, along with his eleven millions. of course, they had been unloading on him all the time, and now they were buying ward valley back for a song ere the market righted itself. most probably, out of his share of the swag, nathaniel letton would erect a couple of new buildings for that university of his. leon guggenhammer would buy new engines for that yacht, or a whole fleet of yachts. but what the devil dowsett would do with his whack, was beyond him--most likely start another string of banks. and daylight sat and consumed cocktails and saw back in his life to alaska, and lived over the grim years in which he had battled for his eleven millions. for a while murder ate at his heart, and wild ideas and sketchy plans of killing his betrayers flashed through his mind. that was what that young man should have done instead of killing himself. he should have gone gunning. daylight unlocked his grip and took out his automatic pistol--a big colt's . . he released the safety catch with his thumb, and operating the sliding outer barrel, ran the contents of the clip through the mechanism. the eight cartridges slid out in a stream. he refilled the clip, threw a cartridge into the chamber, and, with the trigger at full cock, thrust up the safety ratchet. he shoved the weapon into the side pocket of his coat, ordered another martini, and resumed his seat. he thought steadily for an hour, but he grinned no more. lines formed in his face, and in those lines were the travail of the north, the bite of the frost, all that he had achieved and suffered--the long, unending weeks of trail, the bleak tundra shore of point barrow, the smashing ice-jam of the yukon, the battles with animals and men, the lean-dragged days of famine, the long months of stinging hell among the mosquitoes of the koyokuk, the toil of pick and shovel, the scars and mars of pack-strap and tump-line, the straight meat diet with the dogs, and all the long procession of twenty full years of toil and sweat and endeavor. at ten o'clock he arose and pored over the city directory. then he put on his shoes, took a cab, and departed into the night. twice he changed cabs, and finally fetched up at the night office of a detective agency. he superintended the thing himself, laid down money in advance in profuse quantities, selected the six men he needed, and gave them their instructions. never, for so simple a task, had they been so well paid; for, to each, in addition to office charges, he gave a five-hundred-dollar bill, with the promise of another if he succeeded. some time next day, he was convinced, if not sooner, his three silent partners would come together. to each one two of his detectives were to be attached. time and place was all he wanted to learn. "stop at nothing, boys," were his final instructions. "i must have this information. whatever you do, whatever happens, i'll sure see you through." returning to his hotel, he changed cabs as before, went up to his room, and with one more cocktail for a nightcap, went to bed and to sleep. in the morning he dressed and shaved, ordered breakfast and the newspapers sent up, and waited. but he did not drink. by nine o'clock his telephone began to ring and the reports to come in. nathaniel letton was taking the train at tarrytown. john dowsett was coming down by the subway. leon guggenhammer had not stirred out yet, though he was assuredly within. and in this fashion, with a map of the city spread out before him, daylight followed the movements of his three men as they drew together. nathaniel letton was at his offices in the mutual-solander building. next arrived guggenhammer. dowsett was still in his own offices. but at eleven came the word that he also had arrived, and several minutes later daylight was in a hired motor-car and speeding for the mutual-solander building. chapter iv nathaniel letton was talking when the door opened; he ceased, and with his two companions gazed with controlled perturbation at burning daylight striding into the room. the free, swinging movements of the trail-traveler were unconsciously exaggerated in that stride of his. in truth, it seemed to him that he felt the trail beneath his feet. "howdy, gentlemen, howdy," he remarked, ignoring the unnatural calm with which they greeted his entrance. he shook hands with them in turn, striding from one to another and gripping their hands so heartily that nathaniel letton could not forbear to wince. daylight flung himself into a massive chair and sprawled lazily, with an appearance of fatigue. the leather grip he had brought into the room he dropped carelessly beside him on the floor. "goddle mighty, but i've sure been going some," he sighed. "we sure trimmed them beautiful. it was real slick. and the beauty of the play never dawned on me till the very end. it was pure and simple knock down and drag out. and the way they fell for it was amazin'." the geniality in his lazy western drawl reassured them. he was not so formidable, after all. despite the act that he had effected an entrance in the face of letton's instructions to the outer office, he showed no indication of making a scene or playing rough. "well," daylight demanded good-humoredly, "ain't you-all got a good word for your pardner? or has his sure enough brilliance plumb dazzled you-all?" letton made a dry sound in his throat. dowsett sat quietly and waited, while leon guggenhammer struggled into articulation. "you have certainly raised cain," he said. daylight's black eyes flashed in a pleased way. "didn't i, though!" he proclaimed jubilantly. "and didn't we fool'em! i was totally surprised. i never dreamed they would be that easy. "and now," he went on, not permitting the pause to grow awkward, "we-all might as well have an accounting. i'm pullin' west this afternoon on that blamed twentieth century." he tugged at his grip, got it open, and dipped into it with both his hands. "but don't forget, boys, when you-all want me to hornswoggle wall street another flutter, all you-all have to do is whisper the word. i'll sure be right there with the goods." his hands emerged, clutching a great mass of stubs, check-books, and broker's receipts. these he deposited in a heap on the big table, and dipping again, he fished out the stragglers and added them to the pile. he consulted a slip of paper, drawn from his coat pocket, and read aloud:-- "ten million twenty-seven thousand and forty-two dollars and sixty-eight cents is my figurin' on my expenses. of course that-all's taken from the winnings before we-all get to figurin' on the whack-up. where's your figures? it must a' been a goddle mighty big clean-up." the three men looked their bepuzzlement at one another. the man was a bigger fool than they had imagined, or else he was playing a game which they could not divine. nathaniel letton moistened his lips and spoke up. "it will take some hours yet, mr. harnish, before the full accounting can be made. mr. howison is at work upon it now. we--ah--as you say, it has been a gratifying clean-up. suppose we have lunch together and talk it over. i'll have the clerks work through the noon hour, so that you will have ample time to catch your train." dowsett and guggenhammer manifested a relief that was almost obvious. the situation was clearing. it was disconcerting, under the circumstances, to be pent in the same room with this heavy-muscled, indian-like man whom they had robbed. they remembered unpleasantly the many stories of his strength and recklessness. if letton could only put him off long enough for them to escape into the policed world outside the office door, all would be well; and daylight showed all the signs of being put off. "i'm real glad to hear that," he said. "i don't want to miss that train, and you-all have done me proud, gentlemen, letting me in on this deal. i just do appreciate it without being able to express my feelings. but i am sure almighty curious, and i'd like terrible to know, mr. letton, what your figures of our winning is. can you-all give me a rough estimate?" nathaniel letton did not look appealingly at his two friends, but in the brief pause they felt that appeal pass out from him. dowsett, of sterner mould than the others, began to divine that the klondiker was playing. but the other two were still under the blandishment of his child-like innocence. "it is extremely--er--difficult," leon guggenhammer began. "you see, ward valley has fluctuated so, er--" "that no estimate can possibly be made in advance," letton supplemented. "approximate it, approximate it," daylight counselled cheerfully. "it don't hurt if you-all are a million or so out one side or the other. the figures'll straighten that up. but i'm that curious i'm just itching all over. what d'ye say?" "why continue to play at cross purposes?" dowsett demanded abruptly and coldly. "let us have the explanation here and now. mr. harnish is laboring under a false impression, and he should be set straight. in this deal--" but daylight interrupted. he had played too much poker to be unaware or unappreciative of the psychological factor, and he headed dowsett off in order to play the denouncement of the present game in his own way. "speaking of deals," he said, "reminds me of a poker game i once seen in reno, nevada. it wa'n't what you-all would call a square game. they-all was tin-horns that sat in. but they was a tenderfoot--short-horns they-all are called out there. he stands behind the dealer and sees that same dealer give hisself four aces offen the bottom of the deck. the tenderfoot is sure shocked. he slides around to the player facin' the dealer across the table. "'say,' he whispers, 'i seen the dealer deal hisself four aces.' "'well, an' what of it?" says the player. "'i'm tryin' to tell you-all because i thought you-all ought to know,' says the tenderfoot. 'i tell you-all i seen him deal hisself four aces.' "'say, mister,' says the player, 'you-all'd better get outa here. you-all don't understand the game. it's his deal, ain't it?'" the laughter that greeted his story was hollow and perfunctory, but daylight appeared not to notice it. "your story has some meaning, i suppose," dowsett said pointedly. daylight looked at him innocently and did not reply. he turned jovially to nathaniel letton. "fire away," he said. "give us an approximation of our winning. as i said before, a million out one way or the other won't matter, it's bound to be such an almighty big winning." by this time letton was stiffened by the attitude dowsett had taken, and his answer was prompt and definite. "i fear you are under a misapprehension, mr. harnish. there are no winnings to be divided with you. now don't get excited, i beg of you. i have but to press this button..." far from excited, daylight had all the seeming of being stunned. he felt absently in his vest pocket for a match, lighted it, and discovered that he had no cigarette. the three men watched him with the tense closeness of cats. now that it had come, they knew that they had a nasty few minutes before them. "do you-all mind saying that over again?" daylight said. "seems to me i ain't got it just exactly right. you-all said...?" he hung with painful expectancy on nathaniel letton's utterance. "i said you were under a misapprehension, mr. harnish, that was all. you have been stock gambling, and you have been hard hit. but neither ward valley, nor i, nor my associates, feel that we owe you anything." daylight pointed at the heap of receipts and stubs on the table. "that-all represents ten million twenty-seven thousand and forty-two dollars and sixty-eight cents, hard cash. ain't it good for anything here?" letton smiled and shrugged his shoulders. daylight looked at dowsett and murmured:-- "i guess that story of mine had some meaning, after all." he laughed in a sickly fashion. "it was your deal all right, and you-all dole them right, too. well, i ain't kicking. i'm like the player in that poker game. it was your deal, and you-all had a right to do your best. and you done it--cleaned me out slicker'n a whistle." he gazed at the heap on the table with an air of stupefaction. "and that-all ain't worth the paper it's written on. gol dast it, you-all can sure deal 'em 'round when you get a chance. oh, no, i ain't a-kicking. it was your deal, and you-all certainly done me, and a man ain't half a man that squeals on another man's deal. and now the hand is played out, and the cards are on the table, and the deal's over, but..." his hand, dipping swiftly into his inside breast pocket, appeared with the big colt's automatic. "as i was saying, the old deal's finished. now it's my deal, and i'm a-going to see if i can hold them four aces-- "take your hand away, you whited sepulchre!" he cried sharply. nathaniel letton's hand, creeping toward the push-button on the desk, was abruptly arrested. "change chairs," daylight commanded. "take that chair over there, you gangrene-livered skunk. jump! by god! or i'll make you leak till folks'll think your father was a water hydrant and your mother a sprinkling-cart. you-all move your chair alongside, guggenhammer; and you-all dowsett, sit right there, while i just irrelevantly explain the virtues of this here automatic. she's loaded for big game and she goes off eight times. she's a sure hummer when she gets started. "preliminary remarks being over, i now proceed to deal. remember, i ain't making no remarks about your deal. you done your darndest, and it was all right. but this is my deal, and it's up to me to do my darndest. in the first place, you-all know me. i'm burning daylight--savvee? ain't afraid of god, devil, death, nor destruction. them's my four aces, and they sure copper your bets. look at that there living skeleton. letton, you're sure afraid to die. your bones is all rattling together you're that scared. and look at that fat jew there. this little weapon's sure put the fear of god in his heart. he's yellow as a sick persimmon. dowsett, you're a cool one. you-all ain't batted an eye nor turned a hair. that's because you're great on arithmetic. and that makes you-all dead easy in this deal of mine. you're sitting there and adding two and two together, and you-all know i sure got you skinned. you know me, and that i ain't afraid of nothing. and you-all adds up all your money and knows you ain't a-going to die if you can help it." "i'll see you hanged," was dowsett's retort. "not by a damned sight. when the fun starts, you're the first i plug. i'll hang all right, but you-all won't live to see it. you-all die here and now while i'll die subject to the law's delay--savvee? being dead, with grass growing out of your carcasses, you won't know when i hang, but i'll sure have the pleasure a long time of knowing you-all beat me to it." daylight paused. "you surely wouldn't kill us?" letton asked in a queer, thin voice. daylight shook his head. "it's sure too expensive. you-all ain't worth it. i'd sooner have my chips back. and i guess you-all'd sooner give my chips back than go to the dead-house." a long silence followed. "well, i've done dealt. it's up to you-all to play. but while you're deliberating, i want to give you-all a warning: if that door opens and any one of you cusses lets on there's anything unusual, right here and then i sure start plugging. they ain't a soul'll get out the room except feet first." a long session of three hours followed. the deciding factor was not the big automatic pistol, but the certitude that daylight would use it. not alone were the three men convinced of this, but daylight himself was convinced. he was firmly resolved to kill the men if his money was not forthcoming. it was not an easy matter, on the spur of the moment, to raise ten millions in paper currency, and there were vexatious delays. a dozen times mr. howison and the head clerk were summoned into the room. on these occasions the pistol lay on daylight's lap, covered carelessly by a newspaper, while he was usually engaged in rolling or lighting his brown-paper cigarettes. but in the end, the thing was accomplished. a suit-case was brought up by one of the clerks from the waiting motor-car, and daylight snapped it shut on the last package of bills. he paused at the door to make his final remarks. "there's three several things i sure want to tell you-all. when i get outside this door, you-all'll be set free to act, and i just want to warn you-all about what to do. in the first place, no warrants for my arrest--savvee? this money's mine, and i ain't robbed you of it. if it gets out how you gave me the double-cross and how i done you back again, the laugh'll be on you, and it'll sure be an almighty big laugh. you-all can't afford that laugh. besides, having got back my stake that you-all robbed me of, if you arrest me and try to rob me a second time, i'll go gunning for you-all, and i'll sure get you. no little fraid-cat shrimps like you-all can skin burning daylight. if you win you lose, and there'll sure be some several unexpected funerals around this burg. "just look me in the eye, and you-all'll savvee i mean business. them stubs and receipts on the table is all yourn. good day." as the door shut behind him, nathaniel letton sprang for the telephone, and dowsett intercepted him. "what are you going to do?" dowsett demanded. "the police. it's downright robbery. i won't stand it. i tell you i won't stand it." dowsett smiled grimly, but at the same time bore the slender financier back and down into his chair. "we'll talk it over," he said; and in leon guggenhammer he found an anxious ally. and nothing ever came of it. the thing remained a secret with the three men. nor did daylight ever give the secret away, though that afternoon, leaning back in his stateroom on the twentieth century, his shoes off, and feet on a chair, he chuckled long and heartily. new york remained forever puzzled over the affair; nor could it hit upon a rational explanation. by all rights, burning daylight should have gone broke, yet it was known that he immediately reappeared in san francisco possessing an apparently unimpaired capital. this was evidenced by the magnitude of the enterprises he engaged in, such as, for instance, panama mail, by sheer weight of money and fighting power wresting the control away from shiftily and selling out in two months to the harriman interests at a rumored enormous advance. chapter v back in san francisco, daylight quickly added to his reputation in ways it was not an enviable reputation. men were afraid of him. he became known as a fighter, a fiend, a tiger. his play was a ripping and smashing one, and no one knew where or how his next blow would fall. the element of surprise was large. he balked on the unexpected, and, fresh from the wild north, his mind not operating in stereotyped channels, he was able in unusual degree to devise new tricks and stratagems. and once he won the advantage, he pressed it remorselessly. "as relentless as a red indian," was said of him, and it was said truly. on the other hand, he was known as "square." his word was as good as his bond, and this despite the fact that he accepted nobody's word. he always shied at propositions based on gentlemen's agreements, and a man who ventured his honor as a gentleman, in dealing with daylight, inevitably was treated to an unpleasant time. daylight never gave his own word unless he held the whip-hand. it was a case with the other fellow taking it or nothing. legitimate investment had no place in daylight's play. it tied up his money, and reduced the element of risk. it was the gambling side of business that fascinated him, and to play in his slashing manner required that his money must be ready to hand. it was never tied up save for short intervals, for he was principally engaged in turning it over and over, raiding here, there, and everywhere, a veritable pirate of the financial main. a five-per cent safe investment had no attraction for him; but to risk millions in sharp, harsh skirmish, standing to lose everything or to win fifty or a hundred per cent, was the savor of life to him. he played according to the rules of the game, but he played mercilessly. when he got a man or a corporation down and they squealed, he gouged no less hard. appeals for financial mercy fell on deaf ears. he was a free lance, and had no friendly business associations. such alliances as were formed from time to time were purely affairs of expediency, and he regarded his allies as men who would give him the double-cross or ruin him if a profitable chance presented. in spite of this point of view, he was faithful to his allies. but he was faithful just as long as they were and no longer. the treason had to come from them, and then it was 'ware daylight. the business men and financiers of the pacific coast never forgot the lesson of charles klinkner and the california & altamont trust company. klinkner was the president. in partnership with daylight, the pair raided the san jose interurban. the powerful lake power & electric lighting corporation came to the rescue, and klinkner, seeing what he thought was the opportunity, went over to the enemy in the thick of the pitched battle. daylight lost three millions before he was done with it, and before he was done with it he saw the california & altamont trust company hopelessly wrecked, and charles klinkner a suicide in a felon's cell. not only did daylight lose his grip on san jose interurban, but in the crash of his battle front he lost heavily all along the line. it was conceded by those competent to judge that he could have compromised and saved much. but, instead, he deliberately threw up the battle with san jose interurban and lake power, and, apparently defeated, with napoleonic suddenness struck at klinkner. it was the last unexpected thing klinkner would have dreamed of, and daylight knew it. he knew, further, that the california & altamont trust company has an intrinsically sound institution, but that just then it was in a precarious condition due to klinkner's speculations with its money. he knew, also, that in a few months the trust company would be more firmly on its feet than ever, thanks to those same speculations, and that if he were to strike he must strike immediately. "it's just that much money in pocket and a whole lot more," he was reported to have said in connection with his heavy losses. "it's just so much insurance against the future. henceforth, men who go in with me on deals will think twice before they try to double-cross me, and then some." the reason for his savageness was that he despised the men with whom he played. he had a conviction that not one in a hundred of them was intrinsically square; and as for the square ones, he prophesied that, playing in a crooked game, they were sure to lose and in the long run go broke. his new york experience had opened his eyes. he tore the veils of illusion from the business game, and saw its nakedness. he generalized upon industry and society somewhat as follows:-- society, as organized, was a vast bunco game. there were many hereditary inefficients--men and women who were not weak enough to be confined in feeble-minded homes, but who were not strong enough to be ought else than hewers of wood and drawers of water. then there were the fools who took the organized bunco game seriously, honoring and respecting it. they were easy game for the others, who saw clearly and knew the bunco game for what it was. work, legitimate work, was the source of all wealth. that was to say, whether it was a sack of potatoes, a grand piano, or a seven-passenger touring car, it came into being only by the performance of work. where the bunco came in was in the distribution of these things after labor had created them. he failed to see the horny-handed sons of toil enjoying grand pianos or riding in automobiles. how this came about was explained by the bunco. by tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands men sat up nights and schemed how they could get between the workers and the things the workers produced. these schemers were the business men. when they got between the worker and his product, they took a whack out of it for themselves the size of the whack was determined by no rule of equity; but by their own strength and swinishness. it was always a case of "all the traffic can bear." he saw all men in the business game doing this. one day, in a mellow mood (induced by a string of cocktails and a hearty lunch), he started a conversation with jones, the elevator boy. jones was a slender, mop-headed, man-grown, truculent flame of an individual who seemed to go out of his way to insult his passengers. it was this that attracted daylight's interest, and he was not long in finding out what was the matter with jones. he was a proletarian, according to his own aggressive classification, and he had wanted to write for a living. failing to win with the magazines, and compelled to find himself in food and shelter, he had gone to the little valley of petacha, not a hundred miles from los angeles. here, toiling in the day-time, he planned to write and study at night. but the railroad charged all the traffic would bear. petacha was a desert valley, and produced only three things: cattle, fire-wood, and charcoal. for freight to los angeles on a carload of cattle the railroad charged eight dollars. this, jones explained, was due to the fact that the cattle had legs and could be driven to los angeles at a cost equivalent to the charge per car load. but firewood had no legs, and the railroad charged just precisely twenty-four dollars a carload. this was a fine adjustment, for by working hammer-and-tongs through a twelve-hour day, after freight had been deducted from the selling price of the wood in los angeles, the wood-chopper received one dollar and sixty cents. jones had thought to get ahead of the game by turning his wood into charcoal. his estimates were satisfactory. but the railroad also made estimates. it issued a rate of forty-two dollars a car on charcoal. at the end of three months, jones went over his figures, and found that he was still making one dollar and sixty cents a day. "so i quit," jones concluded. "i went hobbling for a year, and i got back at the railroads. leaving out the little things, i came across the sierras in the summer and touched a match to the snow-sheds. they only had a little thirty-thousand-dollar fire. i guess that squared up all balances due on petacha." "son, ain't you afraid to be turning loose such information?" daylight gravely demanded. "not on your life," quoth jones. "they can't prove it. you could say i said so, and i could say i didn't say so, and a hell of a lot that evidence would amount to with a jury." daylight went into his office and meditated awhile. that was it: all the traffic would bear. from top to bottom, that was the rule of the game; and what kept the game going was the fact that a sucker was born every minute. if a jones were born every minute, the game wouldn't last very long. lucky for the players that the workers weren't joneses. but there were other and larger phases of the game. little business men, shopkeepers, and such ilk took what whack they could out of the product of the worker; but, after all, it was the large business men who formed the workers through the little business men. when all was said and done, the latter, like jones in petacha valley, got no more than wages out of their whack. in truth, they were hired men for the large business men. still again, higher up, were the big fellows. they used vast and complicated paraphernalia for the purpose, on a large scale of getting between hundreds of thousands of workers and their products. these men were not so much mere robbers as gamblers. and, not content with their direct winnings, being essentially gamblers, they raided one another. they called this feature of the game high finance. they were all engaged primarily in robbing the worker, but every little while they formed combinations and robbed one another of the accumulated loot. this explained the fifty-thousand-dollar raid on him by holdsworthy and the ten-million-dollar raid on him by dowsett, letton, and guggenhammer. and when he raided panama mail he had done exactly the same thing. well, he concluded, it was finer sport robbing the robbers than robbing the poor stupid workers. thus, all unread in philosophy, daylight preempted for himself the position and vocation of a twentieth-century superman. he found, with rare and mythical exceptions, that there was no noblesse oblige among the business and financial supermen. as a clever traveler had announced in an after-dinner speech at the alta-pacific, "there was honor amongst thieves, and this was what distinguished thieves from honest men." that was it. it hit the nail on the head. these modern supermen were a lot of sordid banditti who had the successful effrontery to preach a code of right and wrong to their victims which they themselves did not practise. with them, a man's word was good just as long as he was compelled to keep it. thou shalt not steal was only applicable to the honest worker. they, the supermen, were above such commandments. they certainly stole and were honored by their fellows according to the magnitude of their stealings. the more daylight played the game, the clearer the situation grew. despite the fact that every robber was keen to rob every other robber, the band was well organized. it practically controlled the political machinery of society, from the ward politician up to the senate of the united states. it passed laws that gave it privilege to rob. it enforced these laws by means of the police, the marshals, the militia and regular army, and the courts. and it was a snap. a superman's chiefest danger was his fellow-superman. the great stupid mass of the people did not count. they were constituted of such inferior clay that the veriest chicanery fooled them. the superman manipulated the strings, and when robbery of the workers became too slow or monotonous, they turned loose and robbed one another. daylight was philosophical, but not a philosopher. he had never read the books. he was a hard-headed, practical man, and farthest from him was any intention of ever reading the books. he had lived life in the simple, where books were not necessary for an understanding of life, and now life in the complex appeared just as simple. he saw through its frauds and fictions, and found it as elemental as on the yukon. men were made of the same stuff. they had the same passions and desires. finance was poker on a larger scale. the men who played were the men who had stakes. the workers were the fellows toiling for grubstakes. he saw the game played out according to the everlasting rules, and he played a hand himself. the gigantic futility of humanity organized and befuddled by the bandits did not shock him. it was the natural order. practically all human endeavors were futile. he had seen so much of it. his partners had starved and died on the stewart. hundreds of old-timers had failed to locate on bonanza and eldorado, while swedes and chechaquos had come in on the moose-pasture and blindly staked millions. it was life, and life was a savage proposition at best. men in civilization robbed because they were so made. they robbed just as cats scratched, famine pinched, and frost bit. so it was that daylight became a successful financier. he did not go in for swindling the workers. not only did he not have the heart for it, but it did not strike him as a sporting proposition. the workers were so easy, so stupid. it was more like slaughtering fat hand-reared pheasants on the english preserves he had heard about. the sport to him, was in waylaying the successful robbers and taking their spoils from them. there was fun and excitement in that, and sometimes they put up the very devil of a fight. like robin hood of old, daylight proceeded to rob the rich; and, in a small way, to distribute to the needy. but he was charitable after his own fashion. the great mass of human misery meant nothing to him. that was part of the everlasting order. he had no patience with the organized charities and the professional charity mongers. nor, on the other hand, was what he gave a conscience dole. he owed no man, and restitution was unthinkable. what he gave was a largess, a free, spontaneous gift; and it was for those about him. he never contributed to an earthquake fund in japan nor to an open-air fund in new york city. instead, he financed jones, the elevator boy, for a year that he might write a book. when he learned that the wife of his waiter at the st. francis was suffering from tuberculosis, he sent her to arizona, and later, when her case was declared hopeless, he sent the husband, too, to be with her to the end. likewise, he bought a string of horse-hair bridles from a convict in a western penitentiary, who spread the good news until it seemed to daylight that half the convicts in that institution were making bridles for him. he bought them all, paying from twenty to fifty dollars each for them. they were beautiful and honest things, and he decorated all the available wall-space of his bedroom with them. the grim yukon life had failed to make daylight hard. it required civilization to produce this result. in the fierce, savage game he now played, his habitual geniality imperceptibly slipped away from him, as did his lazy western drawl. as his speech became sharp and nervous, so did his mental processes. in the swift rush of the game he found less and less time to spend on being merely good-natured. the change marked his face itself. the lines grew sterner. less often appeared the playful curl of his lips, the smile in the wrinkling corners of his eyes. the eyes themselves, black and flashing, like an indian's, betrayed glints of cruelty and brutal consciousness of power. his tremendous vitality remained, and radiated from all his being, but it was vitality under the new aspect of the man-trampling man-conqueror. his battles with elemental nature had been, in a way, impersonal; his present battles were wholly with the males of his species, and the hardships of the trail, the river, and the frost marred him far less than the bitter keenness of the struggle with his fellows. he still had recrudescence of geniality, but they were largely periodical and forced, and they were usually due to the cocktails he took prior to meal-time. in the north, he had drunk deeply and at irregular intervals; but now his drinking became systematic and disciplined. it was an unconscious development, but it was based upon physical and mental condition. the cocktails served as an inhibition. without reasoning or thinking about it, the strain of the office, which was essentially due to the daring and audacity of his ventures, required check or cessation; and he found, through the weeks and months, that the cocktails supplied this very thing. they constituted a stone wall. he never drank during the morning, nor in office hours; but the instant he left the office he proceeded to rear this wall of alcoholic inhibition athwart his consciousness. the office became immediately a closed affair. it ceased to exist. in the afternoon, after lunch, it lived again for one or two hours, when, leaving it, he rebuilt the wall of inhibition. of course, there were exceptions to this; and, such was the rigor of his discipline, that if he had a dinner or a conference before him in which, in a business way, he encountered enemies or allies and planned or prosecuted campaigns, he abstained from drinking. but the instant the business was settled, his everlasting call went out for a martini, and for a double-martini at that, served in a long glass so as not to excite comment. chapter vi into daylight's life came dede mason. she came rather imperceptibly. he had accepted her impersonally along with the office furnishing, the office boy, morrison, the chief, confidential, and only clerk, and all the rest of the accessories of a superman's gambling place of business. had he been asked any time during the first months she was in his employ, he would have been unable to tell the color of her eyes. from the fact that she was a demiblonde, there resided dimly in his subconsciousness a conception that she was a brunette. likewise he had an idea that she was not thin, while there was an absence in his mind of any idea that she was fat. as to how she dressed, he had no ideas at all. he had no trained eye in such matters, nor was he interested. he took it for granted, in the lack of any impression to the contrary, that she was dressed some how. he knew her as "miss mason," and that was all, though he was aware that as a stenographer she seemed quick and accurate. this impression, however, was quite vague, for he had had no experience with other stenographers, and naturally believed that they were all quick and accurate. one morning, signing up letters, he came upon an i shall. glancing quickly over the page for similar constructions, he found a number of i wills. the i shall was alone. it stood out conspicuously. he pressed the call-bell twice, and a moment later dede mason entered. "did i say that, miss mason?" he asked, extending the letter to her and pointing out the criminal phrase. a shade of annoyance crossed her face. she stood convicted. "my mistake," she said. "i am sorry. but it's not a mistake, you know," she added quickly. "how do you make that out?" challenged daylight. "it sure don't sound right, in my way of thinking." she had reached the door by this time, and now turned the offending letter in her hand. "it's right just the same." "but that would make all those i wills wrong, then," he argued. "it does," was her audacious answer. "shall i change them?" "i shall be over to look that affair up on monday." daylight repeated the sentence from the letter aloud. he did it with a grave, serious air, listening intently to the sound of his own voice. he shook his head. "it don't sound right, miss mason. it just don't sound right. why, nobody writes to me that way. they all say i will--educated men, too, some of them. ain't that so?" "yes," she acknowledged, and passed out to her machine to make the correction. it chanced that day that among the several men with whom he sat at luncheon was a young englishman, a mining engineer. had it happened any other time it would have passed unnoticed, but, fresh from the tilt with his stenographer, daylight was struck immediately by the englishman's i shall. several times, in the course of the meal, the phrase was repeated, and daylight was certain there was no mistake about it. after luncheon he cornered macintosh, one of the members whom he knew to have been a college man, because of his football reputation. "look here, bunny," daylight demanded, "which is right, i shall be over to look that affair up on monday, or i will be over to look that affair up on monday?" the ex-football captain debated painfully for a minute. "blessed if i know," he confessed. "which way do i say it?" "oh, i will, of course." "then the other is right, depend upon it. i always was rotten on grammar." on the way back to the office, daylight dropped into a bookstore and bought a grammar; and for a solid hour, his feet up on the desk, he toiled through its pages. "knock off my head with little apples if the girl ain't right," he communed aloud at the end of the session. for the first time it struck him that there was something about his stenographer. he had accepted her up to then, as a female creature and a bit of office furnishing. but now, having demonstrated that she knew more grammar than did business men and college graduates, she became an individual. she seemed to stand out in his consciousness as conspicuously as the i shall had stood out on the typed page, and he began to take notice. he managed to watch her leaving that afternoon, and he was aware for the first time that she was well-formed, and that her manner of dress was satisfying. he knew none of the details of women's dress, and he saw none of the details of her neat shirt-waist and well-cut tailor suit. he saw only the effect in a general, sketchy way. she looked right. this was in the absence of anything wrong or out of the way. "she's a trim little good-looker," was his verdict, when the outer office door closed on her. the next morning, dictating, he concluded that he liked the way she did her hair, though for the life of him he could have given no description of it. the impression was pleasing, that was all. she sat between him and the window, and he noted that her hair was light brown, with hints of golden bronze. a pale sun, shining in, touched the golden bronze into smouldering fires that were very pleasing to behold. funny, he thought, that he had never observed this phenomenon before. in the midst of the letter he came to the construction which had caused the trouble the day before. he remembered his wrestle with the grammar, and dictated. "i shall meet you halfway this proposition--" miss mason gave a quick look up at him. the action was purely involuntary, and, in fact, had been half a startle of surprise. the next instant her eyes had dropped again, and she sat waiting to go on with the dictation. but in that moment of her glance daylight had noted that her eyes were gray. he was later to learn that at times there were golden lights in those same gray eyes; but he had seen enough, as it was, to surprise him, for he became suddenly aware that he had always taken her for a brunette with brown eyes, as a matter of course. "you were right, after all," he confessed, with a sheepish grin that sat incongruously on his stern, indian-like features. again he was rewarded by an upward glance and an acknowledging smile, and this time he verified the fact that her eyes were gray. "but it don't sound right, just the same," he complained. at this she laughed outright. "i beg your pardon," she hastened to make amends, and then spoiled it by adding, "but you are so funny." daylight began to feel a slight awkwardness, and the sun would persist in setting her hair a-smouldering. "i didn't mean to be funny," he said. "that was why i laughed. but it is right, and perfectly good grammar." "all right," he sighed--"i shall meet you halfway in this proposition--got that?" and the dictation went on. he discovered that in the intervals, when she had nothing to do, she read books and magazines, or worked on some sort of feminine fancy work. passing her desk, once, he picked up a volume of kipling's poems and glanced bepuzzled through the pages. "you like reading, miss mason?" he said, laying the book down. "oh, yes," was her answer; "very much." another time it was a book of wells', the wheels of change. "what's it all about?" daylight asked. "oh, it's just a novel, a love-story." she stopped, but he still stood waiting, and she felt it incumbent to go on. "it's about a little cockney draper's assistant, who takes a vacation on his bicycle, and falls in with a young girl very much above him. her mother is a popular writer and all that. and the situation is very curious, and sad, too, and tragic. would you care to read it?" "does he get her?" daylight demanded. "no; that's the point of it. he wasn't--" "and he doesn't get her, and you've read all them pages, hundreds of them, to find that out?" daylight muttered in amazement. miss mason was nettled as well as amused. "but you read the mining and financial news by the hour," she retorted. "but i sure get something out of that. it's business, and it's different. i get money out of it. what do you get out of books?" "points of view, new ideas, life." "not worth a cent cash." "but life's worth more than cash," she argued. "oh, well," he said, with easy masculine tolerance, "so long as you enjoy it. that's what counts, i suppose; and there's no accounting for taste." despite his own superior point of view, he had an idea that she knew a lot, and he experienced a fleeting feeling like that of a barbarian face to face with the evidence of some tremendous culture. to daylight culture was a worthless thing, and yet, somehow, he was vaguely troubled by a sense that there was more in culture than he imagined. again, on her desk, in passing, he noticed a book with which he was familiar. this time he did not stop, for he had recognized the cover. it was a magazine correspondent's book on the klondike, and he knew that he and his photograph figured in it and he knew, also, of a certain sensational chapter concerned with a woman's suicide, and with one "too much daylight." after that he did not talk with her again about books. he imagined what erroneous conclusions she had drawn from that particular chapter, and it stung him the more in that they were undeserved. of all unlikely things, to have the reputation of being a lady-killer,--he, burning daylight,--and to have a woman kill herself out of love for him. he felt that he was a most unfortunate man and wondered by what luck that one book of all the thousands of books should have fallen into his stenographer's hands. for some days afterward he had an uncomfortable sensation of guiltiness whenever he was in miss mason's presence; and once he was positive that he caught her looking at him with a curious, intent gaze, as if studying what manner of man he was. he pumped morrison, the clerk, who had first to vent his personal grievance against miss mason before he could tell what little he knew of her. "she comes from siskiyou county. she's very nice to work with in the office, of course, but she's rather stuck on herself--exclusive, you know." "how do you make that out?" daylight queried. "well, she thinks too much of herself to associate with those she works with, in the office here, for instance. she won't have anything to do with a fellow, you see. i've asked her out repeatedly, to the theatre and the chutes and such things. but nothing doing. says she likes plenty of sleep, and can't stay up late, and has to go all the way to berkeley--that's where she lives." this phase of the report gave daylight a distinct satisfaction. she was a bit above the ordinary, and no doubt about it. but morrison's next words carried a hurt. "but that's all hot air. she's running with the university boys, that's what she's doing. she needs lots of sleep and can't go to the theatre with me, but she can dance all hours with them. i've heard it pretty straight that she goes to all their hops and such things. rather stylish and high-toned for a stenographer, i'd say. and she keeps a horse, too. she rides astride all over those hills out there. i saw her one sunday myself. oh, she's a high-flyer, and i wonder how she does it. sixty-five a month don't go far. then she has a sick brother, too." "live with her people?" daylight asked. "no; hasn't got any. they were well to do, i've heard. they must have been, or that brother of hers couldn't have gone to the university of california. her father had a big cattle-ranch, but he got to fooling with mines or something, and went broke before he died. her mother died long before that. her brother must cost a lot of money. he was a husky once, played football, was great on hunting and being out in the mountains and such things. he got his accident breaking horses, and then rheumatism or something got into him. one leg is shorter than the other and withered up some. he has to walk on crutches. i saw her out with him once--crossing the ferry. the doctors have been experimenting on him for years, and he's in the french hospital now, i think." all of which side-lights on miss mason went to increase daylight's interest in her. yet, much as he desired, he failed to get acquainted with her. he had thoughts of asking her to luncheon, but his was the innate chivalry of the frontiersman, and the thoughts never came to anything. he knew a self-respecting, square-dealing man was not supposed to take his stenographer to luncheon. such things did happen, he knew, for he heard the chaffing gossip of the club; but he did not think much of such men and felt sorry for the girls. he had a strange notion that a man had less rights over those he employed than over mere acquaintances or strangers. thus, had miss mason not been his employee, he was confident that he would have had her to luncheon or the theatre in no time. but he felt that it was an imposition for an employer, because he bought the time of an employee in working hours, to presume in any way upon any of the rest of that employee's time. to do so was to act like a bully. the situation was unfair. it was taking advantage of the fact that the employee was dependent on one for a livelihood. the employee might permit the imposition through fear of angering the employer and not through any personal inclination at all. in his own case he felt that such an imposition would be peculiarly obnoxious, for had she not read that cursed klondike correspondent's book? a pretty idea she must have of him, a girl that was too high-toned to have anything to do with a good-looking, gentlemanly fellow like morrison. also, and down under all his other reasons, daylight was timid. the only thing he had ever been afraid of in his life was woman, and he had been afraid all his life. nor was that timidity to be put easily to flight now that he felt the first glimmering need and desire for woman. the specter of the apron-string still haunted him, and helped him to find excuses for getting on no forwarder with dede mason. chapter vii not being favored by chance in getting acquainted with dede mason, daylight's interest in her slowly waned. this was but natural, for he was plunged deep in hazardous operations, and the fascinations of the game and the magnitude of it accounted for all the energy that even his magnificent organism could generate. such was his absorption that the pretty stenographer slowly and imperceptibly faded from the forefront of his consciousness. thus, the first faint spur, in the best sense, of his need for woman ceased to prod. so far as dede mason was concerned, he possessed no more than a complacent feeling of satisfaction in that he had a very nice stenographer. and, completely to put the quietus on any last lingering hopes he might have had of her, he was in the thick of his spectacular and intensely bitter fight with the coastwise steam navigation company, and the hawaiian, nicaraguan, and pacific-mexican steamship-company. he stirred up a bigger muss than he had anticipated, and even he was astounded at the wide ramifications of the struggle and at the unexpected and incongruous interests that were drawn into it. every newspaper in san francisco turned upon him. it was true, one or two of them had first intimated that they were open to subsidization, but daylight's judgment was that the situation did not warrant such expenditure. up to this time the press had been amusingly tolerant and good-naturedly sensational about him, but now he was to learn what virulent scrupulousness an antagonized press was capable of. every episode of his life was resurrected to serve as foundations for malicious fabrications. daylight was frankly amazed at the new interpretation put upon all he had accomplished and the deeds he had done. from an alaskan hero he was metamorphosed into an alaskan bully, liar, desperado, and all around "bad man." not content with this, lies upon lies, out of whole cloth, were manufactured about him. he never replied, though once he went to the extent of disburdening his mind to half a dozen reporters. "do your damnedest," he told them. "burning daylight's bucked bigger things than your dirty, lying sheets. and i don't blame you, boys... that is, not much. you can't help it. you've got to live. there's a mighty lot of women in this world that make their living in similar fashion to yours, because they're not able to do anything better. somebody's got to do the dirty work, and it might as well be you. you're paid for it, and you ain't got the backbone to rustle cleaner jobs." the socialist press of the city jubilantly exploited this utterance, scattering it broadcast over san francisco in tens of thousands of paper dodgers. and the journalists, stung to the quick, retaliated with the only means in their power-printer's ink abuse. the attack became bitterer than ever. the whole affair sank to the deeper deeps of rancor and savageness. the poor woman who had killed herself was dragged out of her grave and paraded on thousands of reams of paper as a martyr and a victim to daylight's ferocious brutality. staid, statistical articles were published, proving that he had made his start by robbing poor miners of their claims, and that the capstone to his fortune had been put in place by his treacherous violation of faith with the guggenhammers in the deal on ophir. and there were editorials written in which he was called an enemy of society, possessed of the manners and culture of a caveman, a fomenter of wasteful business troubles, the destroyer of the city's prosperity in commerce and trade, an anarchist of dire menace; and one editorial gravely recommended that hanging would be a lesson to him and his ilk, and concluded with the fervent hope that some day his big motor-car would smash up and smash him with it. he was like a big bear raiding a bee-hive and, regardless of the stings, he obstinately persisted in pawing for the honey. he gritted his teeth and struck back. beginning with a raid on two steamship companies, it developed into a pitched battle with a city, a state, and a continental coastline. very well; they wanted fight, and they would get it. it was what he wanted, and he felt justified in having come down from the klondike, for here he was gambling at a bigger table than ever the yukon had supplied. allied with him, on a splendid salary, with princely pickings thrown in, was a lawyer, larry hegan, a young irishman with a reputation to make, and whose peculiar genius had been unrecognized until daylight picked up with him. hegan had celtic imagination and daring, and to such degree that daylight's cooler head was necessary as a check on his wilder visions. hegan's was a napoleonic legal mind, without balance, and it was just this balance that daylight supplied. alone, the irishman was doomed to failure, but directed by daylight, he was on the highroad to fortune and recognition. also, he was possessed of no more personal or civic conscience than napoleon. it was hegan who guided daylight through the intricacies of modern politics, labor organization, and commercial and corporation law. it was hegan, prolific of resource and suggestion, who opened daylight's eyes to undreamed possibilities in twentieth-century warfare; and it was daylight, rejecting, accepting, and elaborating, who planned the campaigns and prosecuted them. with the pacific coast from peugeot sound to panama, buzzing and humming, and with san francisco furiously about his ears, the two big steamship companies had all the appearance of winning. it looked as if burning daylight was being beaten slowly to his knees. and then he struck--at the steamship companies, at san francisco, at the whole pacific coast. it was not much of a blow at first. a christian endeavor convention being held in san francisco, a row was started by express drivers' union no. over the handling of a small heap of baggage at the ferry building. a few heads were broken, a score of arrests made, and the baggage was delivered. no one would have guessed that behind this petty wrangle was the fine irish hand of hegan, made potent by the klondike gold of burning daylight. it was an insignificant affair at best--or so it seemed. but the teamsters' union took up the quarrel, backed by the whole water front federation. step by step, the strike became involved. a refusal of cooks and waiters to serve scab teamsters or teamsters' employers brought out the cooks and waiters. the butchers and meat-cutters refused to handle meat destined for unfair restaurants. the combined employers' associations put up a solid front, and found facing them the , organized laborers of san francisco. the restaurant bakers and the bakery wagon drivers struck, followed by the milkers, milk drivers, and chicken pickers. the building trades asserted its position in unambiguous terms, and all san francisco was in turmoil. but still, it was only san francisco. hegan's intrigues were masterly, and daylight's campaign steadily developed. the powerful fighting organization known as the pacific slope seaman's union refused to work vessels the cargoes of which were to be handled by scab longshoremen and freight-handlers. the union presented its ultimatum, and then called a strike. this had been daylight's objective all the time. every incoming coastwise vessel was boarded by the union officials and its crew sent ashore. and with the seamen went the firemen, the engineers, and the sea cooks and waiters. daily the number of idle steamers increased. it was impossible to get scab crews, for the men of the seaman's union were fighters trained in the hard school of the sea, and when they went out it meant blood and death to scabs. this phase of the strike spread up and down the entire pacific coast, until all the ports were filled with idle ships, and sea transportation was at a standstill. the days and weeks dragged out, and the strike held. the coastwise steam navigation company, and the hawaiian, nicaraguan, and pacific-mexican steamship company were tied up completely. the expenses of combating the strike were tremendous, and they were earning nothing, while daily the situation went from bad to worse, until "peace at any price" became the cry. and still there was no peace, until daylight and his allies played out their hand, raked in the winnings, and allowed a goodly portion of a continent to resume business. it was noted, in following years, that several leaders of workmen built themselves houses and blocks of renting flats and took trips to the old countries, while, more immediately, other leaders and "dark horses" came to political preferment and the control of the municipal government and the municipal moneys. in fact, san francisco's boss-ridden condition was due in greater degree to daylight's widespreading battle than even san francisco ever dreamed. for the part he had played, the details of which were practically all rumor and guesswork, quickly leaked out, and in consequence he became a much-execrated and well-hated man. nor had daylight himself dreamed that his raid on the steamship companies would have grown to such colossal proportions. but he had got what he was after. he had played an exciting hand and won, beating the steamship companies down into the dust and mercilessly robbing the stockholders by perfectly legal methods before he let go. of course, in addition to the large sums of money he had paid over, his allies had rewarded themselves by gobbling the advantages which later enabled them to loot the city. his alliance with a gang of cutthroats had brought about a lot of cutthroating. but his conscience suffered no twinges. he remembered what he had once heard an old preacher utter, namely, that they who rose by the sword perished by the sword. one took his chances when he played with cutting throats, and his, daylight's, throat was still intact. that was it! and he had won. it was all gamble and war between the strong men. the fools did not count. they were always getting hurt; and that they always had been getting hurt was the conclusion he drew from what little he knew of history. san francisco had wanted war, and he had given it war. it was the game. all the big fellows did the same, and they did much worse, too. "don't talk to me about morality and civic duty," he replied to a persistent interviewer. "if you quit your job tomorrow and went to work on another paper, you would write just what you were told to write. it's morality and civic duty now with you; on the new job it would be backing up a thieving railroad with... morality and civic duty, i suppose. your price, my son, is just about thirty per week. that's what you sell for. but your paper would sell for a bit more. pay its price to-day, and it would shift its present rotten policy to some other rotten policy; but it would never let up on morality and civic duty. "and all because a sucker is born every minute. so long as the people stand for it, they'll get it good and plenty, my son. and the shareholders and business interests might as well shut up squawking about how much they've been hurt. you never hear ary squeal out of them when they've got the other fellow down and are gouging him. this is the time they got gouged, and that's all there is to it. talk about mollycoddles! son, those same fellows would steal crusts from starving men and pull gold fillings from the mouths of corpses, yep, and squawk like sam scratch if some blamed corpse hit back. they're all tarred with the same brush, little and big. look at your sugar trust--with all its millions stealing water like a common thief from new york city, and short-weighing the government on its phoney scales. morality and civic duty! son, forget it." chapter viii daylight's coming to civilization had not improved him. true, he wore better clothes, had learned slightly better manners, and spoke better english. as a gambler and a man-trampler he had developed remarkable efficiency. also, he had become used to a higher standard of living, and he had whetted his wits to razor sharpness in the fierce, complicated struggle of fighting males. but he had hardened, and at the expense of his old-time, whole-souled geniality. of the essential refinements of civilization he knew nothing. he did not know they existed. he had become cynical, bitter, and brutal. power had its effect on him that it had on all men. suspicious of the big exploiters, despising the fools of the exploited herd, he had faith only in himself. this led to an undue and erroneous exaltation of his ego, while kindly consideration of others--nay, even simple respect--was destroyed, until naught was left for him but to worship at the shrine of self. physically, he was not the man of iron muscles who had come down out of the arctic. he did not exercise sufficiently, ate more than was good for him, and drank altogether too much. his muscles were getting flabby, and his tailor called attention to his increasing waistband. in fact, daylight was developing a definite paunch. this physical deterioration was manifest likewise in his face. the lean indian visage was suffering a city change. the slight hollows in the cheeks under the high cheek-bones had filled out. the beginning of puff-sacks under the eyes was faintly visible. the girth of the neck had increased, and the first crease and fold of a double chin were becoming plainly discernible. the old effect of asceticism, bred of terrific hardships and toil, had vanished; the features had become broader and heavier, betraying all the stigmata of the life he lived, advertising the man's self-indulgence, harshness, and brutality. even his human affiliations were descending. playing a lone hand, contemptuous of most of the men with whom he played, lacking in sympathy or understanding of them, and certainly independent of them, he found little in common with those to be encountered, say at the alta-pacific. in point of fact, when the battle with the steamship companies was at its height and his raid was inflicting incalculable damage on all business interests, he had been asked to resign from the alta-pacific. the idea had been rather to his liking, and he had found new quarters in clubs like the riverside, organized and practically maintained by the city bosses. he found that he really liked such men better. they were more primitive and simple, and they did not put on airs. they were honest buccaneers, frankly in the game for what they could get out of it, on the surface more raw and savage, but at least not glossed over with oily or graceful hypocrisy. the alta-pacific had suggested that his resignation be kept a private matter, and then had privily informed the newspapers. the latter had made great capital out of the forced resignation, but daylight had grinned and silently gone his way, though registering a black mark against more than one club member who was destined to feel, in the days to come, the crushing weight of the klondiker's financial paw. the storm-centre of a combined newspaper attack lasting for months, daylight's character had been torn to shreds. there was no fact in his history that had not been distorted into a criminality or a vice. this public making of him over into an iniquitous monster had pretty well crushed any lingering hope he had of getting acquainted with dede mason. he felt that there was no chance for her ever to look kindly on a man of his caliber, and, beyond increasing her salary to seventy-five dollars a month, he proceeded gradually to forget about her. the increase was made known to her through morrison, and later she thanked daylight, and that was the end of it. one week-end, feeling heavy and depressed and tired of the city and its ways, he obeyed the impulse of a whim that was later to play an important part in his life. the desire to get out of the city for a whiff of country air and for a change of scene was the cause. yet, to himself, he made the excuse of going to glen ellen for the purpose of inspecting the brickyard with which holdsworthy had goldbricked him. he spent the night in the little country hotel, and on sunday morning, astride a saddle-horse rented from the glen ellen butcher, rode out of the village. the brickyard was close at hand on the flat beside the sonoma creek. the kilns were visible among the trees, when he glanced to the left and caught sight of a cluster of wooded knolls half a mile away, perched on the rolling slopes of sonoma mountain. the mountain, itself wooded, towered behind. the trees on the knolls seemed to beckon to him. the dry, early-summer air, shot through with sunshine, was wine to him. unconsciously he drank it in deep breaths. the prospect of the brickyard was uninviting. he was jaded with all things business, and the wooded knolls were calling to him. a horse was between his legs--a good horse, he decided; one that sent him back to the cayuses he had ridden during his eastern oregon boyhood. he had been somewhat of a rider in those early days, and the champ of bit and creak of saddle-leather sounded good to him now. resolving to have his fun first, and to look over the brickyard afterward, he rode on up the hill, prospecting for a way across country to get to the knolls. he left the country road at the first gate he came to and cantered through a hayfield. the grain was waist-high on either side the wagon road, and he sniffed the warm aroma of it with delighted nostrils. larks flew up before him, and from everywhere came mellow notes. from the appearance of the road it was patent that it had been used for hauling clay to the now idle brickyard. salving his conscience with the idea that this was part of the inspection, he rode on to the clay-pit--a huge scar in a hillside. but he did not linger long, swinging off again to the left and leaving the road. not a farm-house was in sight, and the change from the city crowding was essentially satisfying. he rode now through open woods, across little flower-scattered glades, till he came upon a spring. flat on the ground, he drank deeply of the clear water, and, looking about him, felt with a shock the beauty of the world. it came to him like a discovery; he had never realized it before, he concluded, and also, he had forgotten much. one could not sit in at high finance and keep track of such things. as he drank in the air, the scene, and the distant song of larks, he felt like a poker-player rising from a night-long table and coming forth from the pent atmosphere to taste the freshness of the morn. at the base of the knolls he encountered a tumble-down stake-and-rider fence. from the look of it he judged it must be forty years old at least--the work of some first pioneer who had taken up the land when the days of gold had ended. the woods were very thick here, yet fairly clear of underbrush, so that, while the blue sky was screened by the arched branches, he was able to ride beneath. he now found himself in a nook of several acres, where the oak and manzanita and madrono gave way to clusters of stately redwoods. against the foot of a steep-sloped knoll he came upon a magnificent group of redwoods that seemed to have gathered about a tiny gurgling spring. he halted his horse, for beside the spring uprose a wild california lily. it was a wonderful flower, growing there in the cathedral nave of lofty trees. at least eight feet in height, its stem rose straight and slender, green and bare for two-thirds its length, and then burst into a shower of snow-white waxen bells. there were hundreds of these blossoms, all from the one stem, delicately poised and ethereally frail. daylight had never seen anything like it. slowly his gaze wandered from it to all that was about him. he took off his hat, with almost a vague religious feeling. this was different. no room for contempt and evil here. this was clean and fresh and beautiful-something he could respect. it was like a church. the atmosphere was one of holy calm. here man felt the prompting of nobler things. much of this and more was in daylight's heart as he looked about him. but it was not a concept of his mind. he merely felt it without thinking about it at all. on the steep incline above the spring grew tiny maidenhair ferns, while higher up were larger ferns and brakes. great, moss-covered trunks of fallen trees lay here and there, slowly sinking back and merging into the level of the forest mould. beyond, in a slightly clearer space, wild grape and honeysuckle swung in green riot from gnarled old oak trees. a gray douglas squirrel crept out on a branch and watched him. from somewhere came the distant knocking of a woodpecker. this sound did not disturb the hush and awe of the place. quiet woods, noises belonged there and made the solitude complete. the tiny bubbling ripple of the spring and the gray flash of tree-squirrel were as yardsticks with which to measure the silence and motionless repose. "might be a million miles from anywhere," daylight whispered to himself. but ever his gaze returned to the wonderful lily beside the bubbling spring. he tethered the horse and wandered on foot among the knolls. their tops were crowned with century-old spruce trees, and their sides clothed with oaks and madronos and native holly. but to the perfect redwoods belonged the small but deep canon that threaded its way among the knolls. here he found no passage out for his horse, and he returned to the lily beside the spring. on foot, tripping, stumbling, leading the animal, he forced his way up the hillside. and ever the ferns carpeted the way of his feet, ever the forest climbed with him and arched overhead, and ever the clean joy and sweetness stole in upon his senses. on the crest he came through an amazing thicket of velvet-trunked young madronos, and emerged on an open hillside that led down into a tiny valley. the sunshine was at first dazzling in its brightness, and he paused and rested, for he was panting from the exertion. not of old had he known shortness of breath such as this, and muscles that so easily tired at a stiff climb. a tiny stream ran down the tiny valley through a tiny meadow that was carpeted knee-high with grass and blue and white nemophila. the hillside was covered with mariposa lilies and wild hyacinth, down through which his horse dropped slowly, with circumspect feet and reluctant gait. crossing the stream, daylight followed a faint cattle trail over a low, rocky hill and through a wine-wooded forest of manzanita, and emerged upon another tiny valley, down which filtered another spring-fed, meadow-bordered streamlet. a jack-rabbit bounded from a bush under his horse's nose, leaped the stream, and vanished up the opposite hillside of scrub-oak. daylight watched it admiringly as he rode on to the head of the meadow. here he startled up a many-pronged buck, that seemed to soar across the meadow, and to soar over the stake-and-rider fence, and, still soaring, disappeared in a friendly copse beyond. daylight's delight was unbounded. it seemed to him that he had never been so happy. his old woods' training was aroused, and he was keenly interested in everything in the moss on the trees and branches; in the bunches of mistletoe hanging in the oaks; in the nest of a wood-rat; in the water-cress growing in the sheltered eddies of the little stream; in the butterflies drifting through the rifted sunshine and shadow; in the blue jays that flashed in splashes of gorgeous color across the forest aisles; in the tiny birds, like wrens, that hopped among the bushes and imitated certain minor quail-calls; and in the crimson-crested woodpecker that ceased its knocking and cocked its head on one side to survey him. crossing the stream, he struck faint vestiges of a wood-road, used, evidently, a generation back, when the meadow had been cleared of its oaks. he found a hawk's nest on the lightning-shattered tipmost top of a six-foot redwood. and to complete it all his horse stumbled upon several large broods of half-grown quail, and the air was filled with the thrum of their flight. he halted and watched the young ones "petrifying" and disappearing on the ground before his eyes, and listening to the anxious calls of the old ones hidden in the thickets. "it sure beats country places and bungalows at menlo park," he communed aloud; "and if ever i get the hankering for country life, it's me for this every time." the old wood-road led him to a clearing, where a dozen acres of grapes grew on wine-red soil. a cow-path, more trees and thickets, and he dropped down a hillside to the southeast exposure. here, poised above a big forested canon, and looking out upon sonoma valley, was a small farm-house. with its barn and outhouses it snuggled into a nook in the hillside, which protected it from west and north. it was the erosion from this hillside, he judged, that had formed the little level stretch of vegetable garden. the soil was fat and black, and there was water in plenty, for he saw several faucets running wide open. forgotten was the brickyard. nobody was at home, but daylight dismounted and ranged the vegetable garden, eating strawberries and green peas, inspecting the old adobe barn and the rusty plough and harrow, and rolling and smoking cigarettes while he watched the antics of several broods of young chickens and the mother hens. a foottrail that led down the wall of the big canyon invited him, and he proceeded to follow it. a water-pipe, usually above ground, paralleled the trail, which he concluded led upstream to the bed of the creek. the wall of the canon was several hundred feet from top to bottom, and magnificent were the untouched trees that the place was plunged in perpetual shade. he measured with his eye spruces five and six feet in diameter and redwoods even larger. one such he passed, a twister that was at least ten or eleven feet through. the trail led straight to a small dam where was the intake for the pipe that watered the vegetable garden. here, beside the stream, were alders and laurel trees, and he walked through fern-brakes higher than his head. velvety moss was everywhere, out of which grew maiden-hair and gold-back ferns. save for the dam, it was a virgin wild. no ax had invaded, and the trees died only of old age and stress of winter storm. the huge trunks of those that had fallen lay moss-covered, slowly resolving back into the soil from which they sprang. some had lain so long that they were quite gone, though their faint outlines, level with the mould, could still be seen. others bridged the stream, and from beneath the bulk of one monster half a dozen younger trees, overthrown and crushed by the fall, growing out along the ground, still lived and prospered, their roots bathed by the stream, their upshooting branches catching the sunlight through the gap that had been made in the forest roof. back at the farm-house, daylight mounted and rode on away from the ranch and into the wilder canons and steeper steeps beyond. nothing could satisfy his holiday spirit now but the ascent of sonoma mountain. and here on the crest, three hours afterward, he emerged, tired and sweaty, garments torn and face and hands scratched, but with sparkling eyes and an unwonted zestfulness of expression. he felt the illicit pleasure of a schoolboy playing truant. the big gambling table of san francisco seemed very far away. but there was more than illicit pleasure in his mood. it was as though he were going through a sort of cleansing bath. no room here for all the sordidness, meanness, and viciousness that filled the dirty pool of city existence. without pondering in detail upon the matter at all, his sensations were of purification and uplift. had he been asked to state how he felt, he would merely have said that he was having a good time; for he was unaware in his self-consciousness of the potent charm of nature that was percolating through his city-rotted body and brain--potent, in that he came of an abysmal past of wilderness dwellers, while he was himself coated with but the thinnest rind of crowded civilization. there were no houses in the summit of sonoma mountain, and, all alone under the azure california sky, he reined in on the southern edge of the peak. he saw open pasture country, intersected with wooded canons, descending to the south and west from his feet, crease on crease and roll on roll, from lower level to lower level, to the floor of petaluma valley, flat as a billiard-table, a cardboard affair, all patches and squares of geometrical regularity where the fat freeholds were farmed. beyond, to the west, rose range on range of mountains cuddling purple mists of atmosphere in their valleys; and still beyond, over the last range of all, he saw the silver sheen of the pacific. swinging his horse, he surveyed the west and north, from santa rosa to st. helena, and on to the east, across sonoma to the chaparral-covered range that shut off the view of napa valley. here, part way up the eastern wall of sonoma valley, in range of a line intersecting the little village of glen ellen, he made out a scar upon a hillside. his first thought was that it was the dump of a mine tunnel, but remembering that he was not in gold-bearing country, he dismissed the scar from his mind and continued the circle of his survey to the southeast, where, across the waters of san pablo bay, he could see, sharp and distant, the twin peaks of mount diablo. to the south was mount tamalpais, and, yes, he was right, fifty miles away, where the draughty winds of the pacific blew in the golden gate, the smoke of san francisco made a low-lying haze against the sky. "i ain't seen so much country all at once in many a day," he thought aloud. he was loath to depart, and it was not for an hour that he was able to tear himself away and take the descent of the mountain. working out a new route just for the fun of it, late afternoon was upon him when he arrived back at the wooded knolls. here, on the top of one of them, his keen eyes caught a glimpse of a shade of green sharply differentiated from any he had seen all day. studying it for a minute, he concluded that it was composed of three cypress trees, and he knew that nothing else than the hand of man could have planted them there. impelled by curiosity purely boyish, he made up his mind to investigate. so densely wooded was the knoll, and so steep, that he had to dismount and go up on foot, at times even on hands and knees struggling hard to force a way through the thicker underbrush. he came out abruptly upon the cypresses. they were enclosed in a small square of ancient fence; the pickets he could plainly see had been hewn and sharpened by hand. inside were the mounds of two children's graves. two wooden headboards, likewise hand-hewn, told the state little david, born , died ; and little roy, born , died . "the poor little kids," daylight muttered. the graves showed signs of recent care. withered bouquets of wild flowers were on the mounds, and the lettering on the headboards was freshly painted. guided by these clews, daylight cast about for a trail, and found one leading down the side opposite to his ascent. circling the base of the knoll, he picked up with his horse and rode on to the farm-house. smoke was rising from the chimney and he was quickly in conversation with a nervous, slender young man, who, he learned, was only a tenant on the ranch. how large was it? a matter of one hundred and eighty acres, though it seemed much larger. this was because it was so irregularly shaped. yes, it included the clay-pit and all the knolls, and its boundary that ran along the big canon was over a mile long. "you see," the young man said, "it was so rough and broken that when they began to farm this country the farmers bought in the good land to the edge of it. that's why its boundaries are all gouged and jagged. "oh, yes, he and his wife managed to scratch a living without working too hard. they didn't have to pay much rent. hillard, the owner, depended on the income from the clay-pit. hillard was well off, and had big ranches and vineyards down on the flat of the valley. the brickyard paid ten cents a cubic yard for the clay. as for the rest of the ranch, the land was good in patches, where it was cleared, like the vegetable garden and the vineyard, but the rest of it was too much up-and-down." "you're not a farmer," daylight said. the young man laughed and shook his head. "no; i'm a telegraph operator. but the wife and i decided to take a two years' vacation, and ... here we are. but the time's about up. i'm going back into the office this fall after i get the grapes off." yes, there were about eleven acres in the vineyard--wine grapes. the price was usually good. he grew most of what they ate. if he owned the place, he'd clear a patch of land on the side-hill above the vineyard and plant a small home orchard. the soil was good. there was plenty of pasturage all over the ranch, and there were several cleared patches, amounting to about fifteen acres in all, where he grew as much mountain hay as could be found. it sold for three to five dollars more a ton than the rank-stalked valley hay. daylight listened, there came to him a sudden envy of this young fellow living right in the midst of all this which daylight had travelled through the last few hours. "what in thunder are you going back to the telegraph office for?" he demanded. the young man smiled with a certain wistfulness. "because we can't get ahead here..." (he hesitated an instant), "and because there are added expenses coming. the rent, small as it is, counts; and besides, i'm not strong enough to effectually farm the place. if i owned it, or if i were a real husky like you, i'd ask nothing better. nor would the wife." again the wistful smile hovered on his face. "you see, we're country born, and after bucking with cities for a few years, we kind of feel we like the country best. we've planned to get ahead, though, and then some day we'll buy a patch of land and stay with it." the graves of the children? yes, he had relettered them and hoed the weeds out. it had become the custom. whoever lived on the ranch did that. for years, the story ran, the father and mother had returned each summer to the graves. but there had come a time when they came no more, and then old hillard started the custom. the scar across the valley? an old mine. it had never paid. the men had worked on it, off and on, for years, for the indications had been good. but that was years and years ago. no paying mine had ever been struck in the valley, though there had been no end of prospect-holes put down and there had been a sort of rush there thirty years back. a frail-looking young woman came to the door to call the young man to supper. daylight's first thought was that city living had not agreed with her. and then he noted the slight tan and healthy glow that seemed added to her face, and he decided that the country was the place for her. declining an invitation to supper, he rode on for glen ellen sitting slack-kneed in the saddle and softly humming forgotten songs. he dropped down the rough, winding road through covered pasture, with here and there thickets of manzanita and vistas of open glades. he listened greedily to the quail calling, and laughed outright, once, in sheer joy, at a tiny chipmunk that fled scolding up a bank, slipping on the crumbly surface and falling down, then dashing across the road under his horse's nose and, still scolding, scrabbling up a protecting oak. daylight could not persuade himself to keep to the travelled roads that day, and another cut across country to glen ellen brought him upon a canon that so blocked his way that he was glad to follow a friendly cow-path. this led him to a small frame cabin. the doors and windows were open, and a cat was nursing a litter of kittens in the doorway, but no one seemed at home. he descended the trail that evidently crossed the canon. part way down, he met an old man coming up through the sunset. in his hand he carried a pail of foamy milk. he wore no hat, and in his face, framed with snow-white hair and beard, was the ruddy glow and content of the passing summer day. daylight thought that he had never seen so contented-looking a being. "how old are you, daddy?" he queried. "eighty-four," was the reply. "yes, sirree, eighty-four, and spryer than most." "you must a' taken good care of yourself," daylight suggested. "i don't know about that. i ain't loafed none. i walked across the plains with an ox-team and fit injuns in ' , and i was a family man then with seven youngsters. i reckon i was as old then as you are now, or pretty nigh on to it." "don't you find it lonely here?" the old man shifted the pail of milk and reflected. "that all depends," he said oracularly. "i ain't never been lonely except when the old wife died. some fellers are lonely in a crowd, and i'm one of them. that's the only time i'm lonely, is when i go to 'frisco. but i don't go no more, thank you 'most to death. this is good enough for me. i've ben right here in this valley since ' --one of the first settlers after the spaniards." daylight started his horse, saying:-- "well, good night, daddy. stick with it. you got all the young bloods skinned, and i guess you've sure buried a mighty sight of them." the old man chuckled, and daylight rode on, singularly at peace with himself and all the world. it seemed that the old contentment of trail and camp he had known on the yukon had come back to him. he could not shake from his eyes the picture of the old pioneer coming up the trail through the sunset light. he was certainly going some for eighty-four. the thought of following his example entered daylight's mind, but the big game of san francisco vetoed the idea. "well, anyway," he decided, "when i get old and quit the game, i'll settle down in a place something like this, and the city can go to hell." chapter ix instead of returning to the city on monday, daylight rented the butcher's horse for another day and crossed the bed of the valley to its eastern hills to look at the mine. it was dryer and rockier here than where he had been the day before, and the ascending slopes supported mainly chaparral, scrubby and dense and impossible to penetrate on horseback. but in the canyons water was plentiful and also a luxuriant forest growth. the mine was an abandoned affair, but he enjoyed the half-hour's scramble around. he had had experience in quartz-mining before he went to alaska, and he enjoyed the recrudescence of his old wisdom in such matters. the story was simple to him: good prospects that warranted the starting of the tunnel into the sidehill; the three months' work and the getting short of money; the lay-off while the men went away and got jobs; then the return and a new stretch of work, with the "pay" ever luring and ever receding into the mountain, until, after years of hope, the men had given up and vanished. most likely they were dead by now, daylight thought, as he turned in the saddle and looked back across the canyon at the ancient dump and dark mouth of the tunnel. as on the previous day, just for the joy of it, he followed cattle-trails at haphazard and worked his way up toward the summits. coming out on a wagon road that led upward, he followed it for several miles, emerging in a small, mountain-encircled valley, where half a dozen poor ranchers farmed the wine-grapes on the steep slopes. beyond, the road pitched upward. dense chaparral covered the exposed hillsides but in the creases of the canons huge spruce trees grew, and wild oats and flowers. half an hour later, sheltering under the summits themselves, he came out on a clearing. here and there, in irregular patches where the steep and the soil favored, wine grapes were growing. daylight could see that it had been a stiff struggle, and that wild nature showed fresh signs of winning--chaparral that had invaded the clearings; patches and parts of patches of vineyard, unpruned, grassgrown, and abandoned; and everywhere old stake-and-rider fences vainly striving to remain intact. here, at a small farm-house surrounded by large outbuildings, the road ended. beyond, the chaparral blocked the way. he came upon an old woman forking manure in the barnyard, and reined in by the fence. "hello, mother," was his greeting; "ain't you got any men-folk around to do that for you?" she leaned on her pitchfork, hitched her skirt in at the waist, and regarded him cheerfully. he saw that her toil-worn, weather-exposed hands were like a man's, callused, large-knuckled, and gnarled, and that her stockingless feet were thrust into heavy man's brogans. "nary a man," she answered. "and where be you from, and all the way up here? won't you stop and hitch and have a glass of wine?" striding clumsily but efficiently, like a laboring-man, she led him into the largest building, where daylight saw a hand-press and all the paraphernalia on a small scale for the making of wine. it was too far and too bad a road to haul the grapes to the valley wineries, she explained, and so they were compelled to do it themselves. "they," he learned, were she and her daughter, the latter a widow of forty-odd. it had been easier before the grandson died and before he went away to fight savages in the philippines. he had died out there in battle. daylight drank a full tumbler of excellent riesling, talked a few minutes, and accounted for a second tumbler. yes, they just managed not to starve. her husband and she had taken up this government land in ' and cleared it and farmed it ever since, until he died, when she had carried it on. it actually didn't pay for the toil, but what were they to do? there was the wine trust, and wine was down. that riesling? she delivered it to the railroad down in the valley for twenty-two cents a gallon. and it was a long haul. it took a day for the round trip. her daughter was gone now with a load. daylight knew that in the hotels, riesling, not quite so good even, was charged for at from a dollar and a half to two dollars a quart. and she got twenty-two cents a gallon. that was the game. she was one of the stupid lowly, she and her people before her--the ones that did the work, drove their oxen across the plains, cleared and broke the virgin land, toiled all days and all hours, paid their taxes, and sent their sons and grandsons out to fight and die for the flag that gave them such ample protection that they were able to sell their wine for twenty-two cents. the same wine was served to him at the st. francis for two dollars a quart, or eight dollars a short gallon. that was it. between her and her hand-press on the mountain clearing and him ordering his wine in the hotel was a difference of seven dollars and seventy-eight cents. a clique of sleek men in the city got between her and him to just about that amount. and, besides them, there was a horde of others that took their whack. they called it railroading, high finance, banking, wholesaling, real estate, and such things, but the point was that they got it, while she got what was left,--twenty-two cents. oh, well, a sucker was born every minute, he sighed to himself, and nobody was to blame; it was all a game, and only a few could win, but it was damned hard on the suckers. "how old are you, mother?" he asked. "seventy-nine come next january." "worked pretty hard, i suppose?" "sense i was seven. i was bound out in michigan state until i was woman-grown. then i married, and i reckon the work got harder and harder." "when are you going to take a rest?" she looked at him, as though she chose to think his question facetious, and did not reply. "do you believe in god?" she nodded her head. "then you get it all back," he assured her; but in his heart he was wondering about god, that allowed so many suckers to be born and that did not break up the gambling game by which they were robbed from the cradle to the grave. "how much of that riesling you got?" she ran her eyes over the casks and calculated. "just short of eight hundred gallons." he wondered what he could do with all of it, and speculated as to whom he could give it away. "what would you do if you got a dollar a gallon for it?" he asked. "drop dead, i suppose." "no; speaking seriously." "get me some false teeth, shingle the house, and buy a new wagon. the road's mighty hard on wagons." "and after that?" "buy me a coffin." "well, they're yours, mother, coffin and all." she looked her incredulity. "no; i mean it. and there's fifty to bind the bargain. never mind the receipt. it's the rich ones that need watching, their memories being so infernal short, you know. here's my address. you've got to deliver it to the railroad. and now, show me the way out of here. i want to get up to the top." on through the chaparral he went, following faint cattle trails and working slowly upward till he came out on the divide and gazed down into napa valley and back across to sonoma mountain... "a sweet land," he muttered, "an almighty sweet land." circling around to the right and dropping down along the cattle-trails, he quested for another way back to sonoma valley; but the cattle-trails seemed to fade out, and the chaparral to grow thicker with a deliberate viciousness and even when he won through in places, the canon and small feeders were too precipitous for his horse, and turned him back. but there was no irritation about it. he enjoyed it all, for he was back at his old game of bucking nature. late in the afternoon he broke through, and followed a well-defined trail down a dry canon. here he got a fresh thrill. he had heard the baying of the hound some minutes before, and suddenly, across the bare face of the hill above him, he saw a large buck in flight. and not far behind came the deer-hound, a magnificent animal. daylight sat tense in his saddle and watched until they disappeared, his breath just a trifle shorter, as if he, too, were in the chase, his nostrils distended, and in his bones the old hunting ache and memories of the days before he came to live in cities. the dry canon gave place to one with a slender ribbon of running water. the trail ran into a wood-road, and the wood-road emerged across a small flat upon a slightly travelled county road. there were no farms in this immediate section, and no houses. the soil was meagre, the bed-rock either close to the surface or constituting the surface itself. manzanita and scrub-oak, however, flourished and walled the road on either side with a jungle growth. and out a runway through this growth a man suddenly scuttled in a way that reminded daylight of a rabbit. he was a little man, in patched overalls; bareheaded, with a cotton shirt open at the throat and down the chest. the sun was ruddy-brown in his face, and by it his sandy hair was bleached on the ends to peroxide blond. he signed to daylight to halt, and held up a letter. "if you're going to town, i'd be obliged if you mail this." "i sure will." daylight put it into his coat pocket. "do you live hereabouts, stranger?" but the little man did not answer. he was gazing at daylight in a surprised and steadfast fashion. "i know you," the little man announced. "you're elam harnish--burning daylight, the papers call you. am i right?" daylight nodded. "but what under the sun are you doing here in the chaparral?" daylight grinned as he answered, "drumming up trade for a free rural delivery route." "well, i'm glad i wrote that letter this afternoon," the little man went on, "or else i'd have missed seeing you. i've seen your photo in the papers many a time, and i've a good memory for faces. i recognized you at once. my name's ferguson." "do you live hereabouts?" daylight repeated his query. "oh, yes. i've got a little shack back here in the bush a hundred yards, and a pretty spring, and a few fruit trees and berry bushes. come in and take a look. and that spring is a dandy. you never tasted water like it. come in and try it." walking and leading his horse, daylight followed the quick-stepping eager little man through the green tunnel and emerged abruptly upon the clearing, if clearing it might be called, where wild nature and man's earth-scratching were inextricably blended. it was a tiny nook in the hills, protected by the steep walls of a canon mouth. here were several large oaks, evidencing a richer soil. the erosion of ages from the hillside had slowly formed this deposit of fat earth. under the oaks, almost buried in them, stood a rough, unpainted cabin, the wide verandah of which, with chairs and hammocks, advertised an out-of doors bedchamber. daylight's keen eyes took in every thing. the clearing was irregular, following the patches of the best soil, and every fruit tree and berry bush, and even each vegetable plant, had the water personally conducted to it. the tiny irrigation channels were every where, and along some of them the water was running. ferguson looked eagerly into his visitor's face for signs of approbation. "what do you think of it, eh?" "hand-reared and manicured, every blessed tree," daylight laughed, but the joy and satisfaction that shone in his eyes contented the little man. "why, d'ye know, i know every one of those trees as if they were sons of mine. i planted them, nursed them, fed them, and brought them up. come on and peep at the spring." "it's sure a hummer," was daylight's verdict, after due inspection and sampling, as they turned back for the house. the interior was a surprise. the cooking being done in the small, lean-to kitchen, the whole cabin formed a large living room. a great table in the middle was comfortably littered with books and magazines. all the available wall space, from floor to ceiling, was occupied by filled bookshelves. it seemed to daylight that he had never seen so many books assembled in one place. skins of wildcat, 'coon, and deer lay about on the pine-board floor. "shot them myself, and tanned them, too," ferguson proudly asserted. the crowning feature of the room was a huge fireplace of rough stones and boulders. "built it myself," ferguson proclaimed, "and, by god, she drew! never a wisp of smoke anywhere save in the pointed channel, and that during the big southeasters." daylight found himself charmed and made curious by the little man. why was he hiding away here in the chaparral, he and his books? he was nobody's fool, anybody could see that. then why? the whole affair had a tinge of adventure, and daylight accepted an invitation to supper, half prepared to find his host a raw-fruit-and-nut-eater or some similar sort of health faddest. at table, while eating rice and jack-rabbit curry (the latter shot by ferguson), they talked it over, and daylight found the little man had no food "views." he ate whatever he liked, and all he wanted, avoiding only such combinations that experience had taught him disagreed with his digestion. next, daylight surmised that he might be touched with religion; but, quest about as he would, in a conversation covering the most divergent topics, he could find no hint of queerness or unusualness. so it was, when between them they had washed and wiped the dishes and put them away, and had settled down to a comfortable smoke, that daylight put his question. "look here, ferguson. ever since we got together, i've been casting about to find out what's wrong with you, to locate a screw loose somewhere, but i'll be danged if i've succeeded. what are you doing here, anyway? what made you come here? what were you doing for a living before you came here? go ahead and elucidate yourself." ferguson frankly showed his pleasure at the questions. "first of all," he began, "the doctors wound up by losing all hope for me. gave me a few months at best, and that, after a course in sanatoriums and a trip to europe and another to hawaii. they tried electricity, and forced feeding, and fasting. i was a graduate of about everything in the curriculum. they kept me poor with their bills while i went from bad to worse. the trouble with me was two fold: first, i was a born weakling; and next, i was living unnaturally--too much work, and responsibility, and strain. i was managing editor of the times-tribune--" daylight gasped mentally, for the times-tribune was the biggest and most influential paper in san francisco, and always had been so. "--and i wasn't strong enough for the strain. of course my body went back on me, and my mind, too, for that matter. it had to be bolstered up with whiskey, which wasn't good for it any more than was the living in clubs and hotels good for my stomach and the rest of me. that was what ailed me; i was living all wrong." he shrugged his shoulders and drew at his pipe. "when the doctors gave me up, i wound up my affairs and gave the doctors up. that was fifteen years ago. i'd been hunting through here when i was a boy, on vacations from college, and when i was all down and out it seemed a yearning came to me to go back to the country. so i quit, quit everything, absolutely, and came to live in the valley of the moon--that's the indian name, you know, for sonoma valley. i lived in the lean-to the first year; then i built the cabin and sent for my books. i never knew what happiness was before, nor health. look at me now and dare to tell me that i look forty-seven." "i wouldn't give a day over forty," daylight confessed. "yet the day i came here i looked nearer sixty, and that was fifteen years ago." they talked along, and daylight looked at the world from new angles. here was a man, neither bitter nor cynical, who laughed at the city-dwellers and called them lunatics; a man who did not care for money, and in whom the lust for power had long since died. as for the friendship of the city-dwellers, his host spoke in no uncertain terms. "what did they do, all the chaps i knew, the chaps in the clubs with whom i'd been cheek by jowl for heaven knows how long? i was not beholden to them for anything, and when i slipped out there was not one of them to drop me a line and say, 'how are you, old man? anything i can do for you?' for several weeks it was: 'what's become of ferguson?' after that i became a reminiscence and a memory. yet every last one of them knew i had nothing but my salary and that i'd always lived a lap ahead of it." "but what do you do now?" was daylight's query. "you must need cash to buy clothes and magazines?" "a week's work or a month's work, now and again, ploughing in the winter, or picking grapes in the fall, and there's always odd jobs with the farmers through the summer. i don't need much, so i don't have to work much. most of my time i spend fooling around the place. i could do hack work for the magazines and newspapers; but i prefer the ploughing and the grape picking. just look at me and you can see why. i'm hard as rocks. and i like the work. but i tell you a chap's got to break in to it. it's a great thing when he's learned to pick grapes a whole long day and come home at the end of it with that tired happy feeling, instead of being in a state of physical collapse. that fireplace--those big stones--i was soft, then, a little, anemic, alcoholic degenerate, with the spunk of a rabbit and about one per cent as much stamina, and some of those big stones nearly broke my back and my heart. but i persevered, and used my body in the way nature intended it should be used--not bending over a desk and swilling whiskey... and, well, here i am, a better man for it, and there's the fireplace, fine and dandy, eh? "and now tell me about the klondike, and how you turned san francisco upside down with that last raid of yours. you're a bonny fighter, you know, and you touch my imagination, though my cooler reason tells me that you are a lunatic like the rest. the lust for power! it's a dreadful affliction. why didn't you stay in your klondike? or why don't you clear out and live a natural life, for instance, like mine? you see, i can ask questions, too. now you talk and let me listen for a while." it was not until ten o'clock that daylight parted from ferguson. as he rode along through the starlight, the idea came to him of buying the ranch on the other side of the valley. there was no thought in his mind of ever intending to live on it. his game was in san francisco. but he liked the ranch, and as soon as he got back to the office he would open up negotiations with hillard. besides, the ranch included the clay-pit, and it would give him the whip-hand over holdsworthy if he ever tried to cut up any didoes. chapter x the time passed, and daylight played on at the game. but the game had entered upon a new phase. the lust for power in the mere gambling and winning was metamorphosing into the lust for power in order to revenge. there were many men in san francisco against whom he had registered black marks, and now and again, with one of his lightning strokes, he erased such a mark. he asked no quarter; he gave no quarter. men feared and hated him, and no one loved him, except larry hegan, his lawyer, who would have laid down his life for him. but he was the only man with whom daylight was really intimate, though he was on terms of friendliest camaraderie with the rough and unprincipled following of the bosses who ruled the riverside club. on the other hand, san francisco's attitude toward daylight had undergone a change. while he, with his slashing buccaneer methods, was a distinct menace to the more orthodox financial gamblers, he was nevertheless so grave a menace that they were glad enough to leave him alone. he had already taught them the excellence of letting a sleeping dog lie. many of the men, who knew that they were in danger of his big bear-paw when it reached out for the honey vats, even made efforts to placate him, to get on the friendly side of him. the alta-pacific approached him confidentially with an offer of reinstatement, which he promptly declined. he was after a number of men in that club, and, whenever opportunity offered, he reached out for them and mangled them. even the newspapers, with one or two blackmailing exceptions, ceased abusing him and became respectful. in short, he was looked upon as a bald-faced grizzly from the arctic wilds to whom it was considered expedient to give the trail. at the time he raided the steamship companies, they had yapped at him and worried him, the whole pack of them, only to have him whirl around and whip them in the fiercest pitched battle san francisco had ever known. not easily forgotten was the pacific slope seaman's strike and the giving over of the municipal government to the labor bosses and grafters. the destruction of charles klinkner and the california and altamont trust company had been a warning. but it was an isolated case; they had been confident in strength in numbers--until he taught them better. daylight still engaged in daring speculations, as, for instance, at the impending outbreak of the japanese-russian war, when, in the face of the experience and power of the shipping gamblers, he reached out and clutched practically a monopoly of available steamer-charters. there was scarcely a battered tramp on the seven seas that was not his on time charter. as usual, his position was, "you've got to come and see me"; which they did, and, to use another of his phrases, they "paid through the nose" for the privilege. and all his venturing and fighting had now but one motive. some day, as he confided to hegan, when he'd made a sufficient stake, he was going back to new york and knock the spots out of messrs. dowsett, letton, and guggenhammer. he'd show them what an all-around general buzz-saw he was and what a mistake they'd made ever to monkey with him. but he never lost his head, and he knew that he was not yet strong enough to go into death-grapples with those three early enemies. in the meantime the black marks against them remained for a future easement day. dede mason was still in the office. he had made no more overtures, discussed no more books and no more grammar. he had no active interest in her, and she was to him a pleasant memory of what had never happened, a joy, which, by his essential nature, he was barred from ever knowing. yet, while his interest had gone to sleep and his energy was consumed in the endless battles he waged, he knew every trick of the light on her hair, every quick denote mannerism of movement, every line of her figure as expounded by her tailor-made gowns. several times, six months or so apart, he had increased her salary, until now she was receiving ninety dollars a month. beyond this he dared not go, though he had got around it by making the work easier. this he had accomplished after her return from a vacation, by retaining her substitute as an assistant. also, he had changed his office suite, so that now the two girls had a room by themselves. his eye had become quite critical wherever dede mason was concerned. he had long since noted her pride of carriage. it was unobtrusive, yet it was there. he decided, from the way she carried it, that she deemed her body a thing to be proud of, to be cared for as a beautiful and valued possession. in this, and in the way she carried her clothes, he compared her with her assistant, with the stenographers he encountered in other offices, with the women he saw on the sidewalks. "she's sure well put up," he communed with himself; "and she sure knows how to dress and carry it off without being stuck on herself and without laying it on thick." the more he saw of her, and the more he thought he knew of her, the more unapproachable did she seem to him. but since he had no intention of approaching her, this was anything but an unsatisfactory fact. he was glad he had her in his office, and hoped she'd stay, and that was about all. daylight did not improve with the passing years. the life was not good for him. he was growing stout and soft, and there was unwonted flabbiness in his muscles. the more he drank cocktails, the more he was compelled to drink in order to get the desired result, the inhibitions that eased him down from the concert pitch of his operations. and with this went wine, too, at meals, and the long drinks after dinner of scotch and soda at the riverside. then, too, his body suffered from lack of exercise; and, from lack of decent human associations, his moral fibres were weakening. never a man to hide anything, some of his escapades became public, such as speeding, and of joy-rides in his big red motor-car down to san jose with companions distinctly sporty--incidents that were narrated as good fun and comically in the newspapers. nor was there anything to save him. religion had passed him by. "a long time dead" was his epitome of that phase of speculation. he was not interested in humanity. according to his rough-hewn sociology, it was all a gamble. god was a whimsical, abstract, mad thing called luck. as to how one happened to be born--whether a sucker or a robber--was a gamble to begin with; luck dealt out the cards, and the little babies picked up the hands allotted them. protest was vain. those were their cards and they had to play them, willy-nilly, hunchbacked or straight backed, crippled or clean-limbed, addle-pated or clear-headed. there was no fairness in it. the cards most picked up put them into the sucker class; the cards of a few enabled them to become robbers. the playing of the cards was life--the crowd of players, society. the table was the earth, and the earth, in lumps and chunks, from loaves of bread to big red motor-cars, was the stake. and in the end, lucky and unlucky, they were all a long time dead. it was hard on the stupid lowly, for they were coppered to lose from the start; but the more he saw of the others, the apparent winners, the less it seemed to him that they had anything to brag about. they, too, were a long time dead, and their living did not amount to much. it was a wild animal fight; the strong trampled the weak, and the strong, he had already discovered,--men like dowsett, and letton, and guggenhammer,--were not necessarily the best. he remembered his miner comrades of the arctic. they were the stupid lowly, they did the hard work and were robbed of the fruit of their toil just as was the old woman making wine in the sonoma hills; and yet they had finer qualities of truth, and loyalty, and square-dealing than did the men who robbed them. the winners seemed to be the crooked ones, the unfaithful ones, the wicked ones. and even they had no say in the matter. they played the cards that were given them; and luck, the monstrous, mad-god thing, the owner of the whole shebang, looked on and grinned. it was he who stacked the universal card-deck of existence. there was no justice in the deal. the little men that came, the little pulpy babies, were not even asked if they wanted to try a flutter at the game. they had no choice. luck jerked them into life, slammed them up against the jostling table, and told them: "now play, damn you, play!" and they did their best, poor little devils. the play of some led to steam yachts and mansions; of others, to the asylum or the pauper's ward. some played the one same card, over and over, and made wine all their days in the chaparral, hoping, at the end, to pull down a set of false teeth and a coffin. others quit the game early, having drawn cards that called for violent death, or famine in the barrens, or loathsome and lingering disease. the hands of some called for kingship and irresponsible and numerated power; other hands called for ambition, for wealth in untold sums, for disgrace and shame, or for women and wine. as for himself, he had drawn a lucky hand, though he could not see all the cards. somebody or something might get him yet. the mad god, luck, might be tricking him along to some such end. an unfortunate set of circumstances, and in a month's time the robber gang might be war-dancing around his financial carcass. this very day a street-car might run him down, or a sign fall from a building and smash in his skull. or there was disease, ever rampant, one of luck's grimmest whims. who could say? to-morrow, or some other day, a ptomaine bug, or some other of a thousand bugs, might jump out upon him and drag him down. there was doctor bascom, lee bascom who had stood beside him a week ago and talked and argued, a picture of magnificent youth, and strength, and health. and in three days he was dead--pneumonia, rheumatism of the heart, and heaven knew what else--at the end screaming in agony that could be heard a block away. that had been terrible. it was a fresh, raw stroke in daylight's consciousness. and when would his own turn come? who could say? in the meantime there was nothing to do but play the cards he could see in his hand, and they were battle, revenge, and cocktails. and luck sat over all and grinned. chapter xi one sunday, late in the afternoon, found daylight across the bay in the piedmont hills back of oakland. as usual, he was in a big motor-car, though not his own, the guest of swiftwater bill, luck's own darling, who had come down to spend the clean-up of the seventh fortune wrung from the frozen arctic gravel. a notorious spender, his latest pile was already on the fair road to follow the previous six. he it was, in the first year of dawson, who had cracked an ocean of champagne at fifty dollars a quart; who, with the bottom of his gold-sack in sight, had cornered the egg-market, at twenty-four dollars per dozen, to the tune of one hundred and ten dozen, in order to pique the lady-love who had jilted him; and he it was, paying like a prince for speed, who had chartered special trains and broken all records between san francisco and new york. and here he was once more, the "luck-pup of hell," as daylight called him, throwing his latest fortune away with the same old-time facility. it was a merry party, and they had made a merry day of it, circling the bay from san francisco around by san jose and up to oakland, having been thrice arrested for speeding, the third time, however, on the haywards stretch, running away with their captor. fearing that a telephone message to arrest them had been flashed ahead, they had turned into the back-road through the hills, and now, rushing in upon oakland by a new route, were boisterously discussing what disposition they should make of the constable. "we'll come out at blair park in ten minutes," one of the men announced. "look here, swiftwater, there's a crossroads right ahead, with lots of gates, but it'll take us backcountry clear into berkeley. then we can come back into oakland from the other side, sneak across on the ferry, and send the machine back around to-night with the chauffeur." but swiftwater bill failed to see why he should not go into oakland by way of blair park, and so decided. the next moment, flying around a bend, the back-road they were not going to take appeared. inside the gate leaning out from her saddle and just closing it, was a young woman on a chestnut sorrel. with his first glimpse, daylight felt there was something strangely familiar about her. the next moment, straightening up in the saddle with a movement he could not fail to identify, she put the horse into a gallop, riding away with her back toward them. it was dede mason--he remembered what morrison had told him about her keeping a riding horse, and he was glad she had not seen him in this riotous company. swiftwater bill stood up, clinging with one hand to the back of the front seat and waving the other to attract her attention. his lips were pursed for the piercing whistle for which he was famous and which daylight knew of old, when daylight, with a hook of his leg and a yank on the shoulder, slammed the startled bill down into his seat. "you m-m-must know the lady," swiftwater bill spluttered. "i sure do," daylight answered, "so shut up." "well, i congratulate your good taste, daylight. she's a peach, and she rides like one, too." intervening trees at that moment shut her from view, and swiftwater bill plunged into the problem of disposing of their constable, while daylight, leaning back with closed eyes, was still seeing dede mason gallop off down the country road. swiftwater bill was right. she certainly could ride. and, sitting astride, her seat was perfect. good for dede! that was an added point, her having the courage to ride in the only natural and logical manner. her head as screwed on right, that was one thing sure. on monday morning, coming in for dictation, he looked at her with new interest, though he gave no sign of it; and the stereotyped business passed off in the stereotyped way. but the following sunday found him on a horse himself, across the bay and riding through the piedmont hills. he made a long day of it, but no glimpse did he catch of dede mason, though he even took the back-road of many gates and rode on into berkeley. here, along the lines of multitudinous houses, up one street and down another, he wondered which of them might be occupied by her. morrison had said long ago that she lived in berkeley, and she had been headed that way in the late afternoon of the previous sunday--evidently returning home. it had been a fruitless day, so far as she was concerned; and yet not entirely fruitless, for he had enjoyed the open air and the horse under him to such purpose that, on monday, his instructions were out to the dealers to look for the best chestnut sorrel that money could buy. at odd times during the week he examined numbers of chestnut sorrels, tried several, and was unsatisfied. it was not till saturday that he came upon bob. daylight knew him for what he wanted the moment he laid eyes on him. a large horse for a riding animal, he was none too large for a big man like daylight. in splendid condition, bob's coat in the sunlight was a flame of fire, his arched neck a jeweled conflagration. "he's a sure winner," was daylight's comment; but the dealer was not so sanguine. he was selling the horse on commission, and its owner had insisted on bob's true character being given. the dealer gave it. "not what you'd call a real vicious horse, but a dangerous one. full of vinegar and all-round cussedness, but without malice. just as soon kill you as not, but in a playful sort of way, you understand, without meaning to at all. personally, i wouldn't think of riding him. but he's a stayer. look at them lungs. and look at them legs. not a blemish. he's never been hurt or worked. nobody ever succeeded in taking it out of him. mountain horse, too, trail-broke and all that, being raised in rough country. sure-footed as a goat, so long as he don't get it into his head to cut up. don't shy. ain't really afraid, but makes believe. don't buck, but rears. got to ride him with a martingale. has a bad trick of whirling around without cause it's his idea of a joke on his rider. it's all just how he feels one day he'll ride along peaceable and pleasant for twenty miles. next day, before you get started, he's well-nigh unmanageable. knows automobiles so he can lay down alongside of one and sleep or eat hay out of it. he'll let nineteen go by without batting an eye, and mebbe the twentieth, just because he's feeling frisky, he'll cut up over like a range cayuse. generally speaking, too lively for a gentleman, and too unexpected. present owner nicknamed him judas iscariot, and refuses to sell without the buyer knowing all about him first. there, that's about all i know, except look at that mane and tail. ever see anything like it? hair as fine as a baby's." the dealer was right. daylight examined the mane and found it finer than any horse's hair he had ever seen. also, its color was unusual in that it was almost auburn. while he ran his fingers through it, bob turned his head and playfully nuzzled daylight's shoulder. "saddle him up, and i'll try him," he told the dealer. "i wonder if he's used to spurs. no english saddle, mind. give me a good mexican and a curb bit--not too severe, seeing as he likes to rear." daylight superintended the preparations, adjusting the curb strap and the stirrup length, and doing the cinching. he shook his head at the martingale, but yielded to the dealer's advice and allowed it to go on. and bob, beyond spirited restlessness and a few playful attempts, gave no trouble. nor in the hour's ride that followed, save for some permissible curveting and prancing, did he misbehave. daylight was delighted; the purchase was immediately made; and bob, with riding gear and personal equipment, was despatched across the bay forthwith to take up his quarters in the stables of the oakland riding academy. the next day being sunday, daylight was away early, crossing on the ferry and taking with him wolf, the leader of his sled team, the one dog which he had selected to bring with him when he left alaska. quest as he would through the piedmont hills and along the many-gated back-road to berkeley, daylight saw nothing of dede mason and her chestnut sorrel. but he had little time for disappointment, for his own chestnut sorrel kept him busy. bob proved a handful of impishness and contrariety, and he tried out his rider as much as his rider tried him out. all of daylight's horse knowledge and horse sense was called into play, while bob, in turn, worked every trick in his lexicon. discovering that his martingale had more slack in it than usual, he proceeded to give an exhibition of rearing and hind-leg walking. after ten hopeless minutes of it, daylight slipped off and tightened the martingale, whereupon bob gave an exhibition of angelic goodness. he fooled daylight completely. at the end of half an hour of goodness, daylight, lured into confidence, was riding along at a walk and rolling a cigarette, with slack knees and relaxed seat, the reins lying on the animal's neck. bob whirled abruptly and with lightning swiftness, pivoting on his hind legs, his fore legs just lifted clear of the ground. daylight found himself with his right foot out of the stirrup and his arms around the animal's neck; and bob took advantage of the situation to bolt down the road. with a hope that he should not encounter dede mason at that moment, daylight regained his seat and checked in the horse. arrived back at the same spot, bob whirled again. this time daylight kept his seat, but, beyond a futile rein across the neck, did nothing to prevent the evolution. he noted that bob whirled to the right, and resolved to keep him straightened out by a spur on the left. but so abrupt and swift was the whirl that warning and accomplishment were practically simultaneous. "well, bob," he addressed the animal, at the same time wiping the sweat from his own eyes, "i'm free to confess that you're sure the blamedest all-fired quickest creature i ever saw. i guess the way to fix you is to keep the spur just a-touching--ah! you brute!" for, the moment the spur touched him, his left hind leg had reached forward in a kick that struck the stirrup a smart blow. several times, out of curiosity, daylight attempted the spur, and each time bob's hoof landed the stirrup. then daylight, following the horse's example of the unexpected, suddenly drove both spurs into him and reached him underneath with the quirt. "you ain't never had a real licking before," he muttered as bob, thus rudely jerked out of the circle of his own impish mental processes, shot ahead. half a dozen times spurs and quirt bit into him, and then daylight settled down to enjoy the mad magnificent gallop. no longer punished, at the end of a half mile bob eased down into a fast canter. wolf, toiling in the rear, was catching up, and everything was going nicely. "i'll give you a few pointers on this whirling game, my boy," daylight was saying to him, when bob whirled. he did it on a gallop, breaking the gallop off short by fore legs stiffly planted. daylight fetched up against his steed's neck with clasped arms, and at the same instant, with fore feet clear of the ground, bob whirled around. only an excellent rider could have escaped being unhorsed, and as it was, daylight was nastily near to it. by the time he recovered his seat, bob was in full career, bolting the way he had come, and making wolf side-jump to the bushes. "all right, darn you!" daylight grunted, driving in spurs and quirt again and again. "back-track you want to go, and back-track you sure will go till you're dead sick of it." when, after a time, bob attempted to ease down the mad pace, spurs and quirt went into him again with undiminished vim and put him to renewed effort. and when, at last, daylight decided that the horse had had enough, he turned him around abruptly and put him into a gentle canter on the forward track. after a time he reined him in to a stop to see if he were breathing painfully. standing for a minute, bob turned his head and nuzzled his rider's stirrup in a roguish, impatient way, as much as to intimate that it was time they were going on. "well, i'll be plumb gosh darned!" was daylight's comment. "no ill-will, no grudge, no nothing-and after that lambasting! you're sure a hummer, bob." once again daylight was lulled into fancied security. for an hour bob was all that could be desired of a spirited mount, when, and as usual without warning, he took to whirling and bolting. daylight put a stop to this with spurs and quirt, running him several punishing miles in the direction of his bolt. but when he turned him around and started forward, bob proceeded to feign fright at trees, cows, bushes, wolf, his own shadow--in short, at every ridiculously conceivable object. at such times, wolf lay down in the shade and looked on, while daylight wrestled it out. so the day passed. among other things, bob developed a trick of making believe to whirl and not whirling. this was as exasperating as the real thing, for each time daylight was fooled into tightening his leg grip and into a general muscular tensing of all his body. and then, after a few make-believe attempts, bob actually did whirl and caught daylight napping again and landed him in the old position with clasped arms around the neck. and to the end of the day, bob continued to be up to one trick or another; after passing a dozen automobiles on the way into oakland, suddenly electing to go mad with fright at a most ordinary little runabout. and just before he arrived back at the stable he capped the day with a combined whirling and rearing that broke the martingale and enabled him to gain a perpendicular position on his hind legs. at this juncture a rotten stirrup leather parted, and daylight was all but unhorsed. but he had taken a liking to the animal, and repented not of his bargain. he realized that bob was not vicious nor mean, the trouble being that he was bursting with high spirits and was endowed with more than the average horse's intelligence. it was the spirits and the intelligence, combined with inordinate roguishness, that made him what he was. what was required to control him was a strong hand, with tempered sternness and yet with the requisite touch of brutal dominance. "it's you or me, bob," daylight told him more than once that day. and to the stableman, that night:-- "my, but ain't he a looker! ever see anything like him? best piece of horseflesh i ever straddled, and i've seen a few in my time." and to bob, who had turned his head and was up to his playful nuzzling:-- "good-by, you little bit of all right. see you again next sunday a.m., and just you bring along your whole basket of tricks, you old son-of-a-gun." chapter xii throughout the week daylight found himself almost as much interested in bob as in dede; and, not being in the thick of any big deals, he was probably more interested in both of them than in the business game. bob's trick of whirling was of especial moment to him. how to overcome it,--that was the thing. suppose he did meet with dede out in the hills; and suppose, by some lucky stroke of fate, he should manage to be riding alongside of her; then that whirl of bob's would be most disconcerting and embarrassing. he was not particularly anxious for her to see him thrown forward on bob's neck. on the other hand, suddenly to leave her and go dashing down the back-track, plying quirt and spurs, wouldn't do, either. what was wanted was a method wherewith to prevent that lightning whirl. he must stop the animal before it got around. the reins would not do this. neither would the spurs. remained the quirt. but how to accomplish it? absent-minded moments were many that week, when, sitting in his office chair, in fancy he was astride the wonderful chestnut sorrel and trying to prevent an anticipated whirl. one such moment, toward the end of the week, occurred in the middle of a conference with hegan. hegan, elaborating a new and dazzling legal vision, became aware that daylight was not listening. his eyes had gone lack-lustre, and he, too, was seeing with inner vision. "got it" he cried suddenly. "hegan, congratulate me. it's as simple as rolling off a log. all i've got to do is hit him on the nose, and hit him hard." then he explained to the startled hegan, and became a good listener again, though he could not refrain now and again from making audible chuckles of satisfaction and delight. that was the scheme. bob always whirled to the right. very well. he would double the quirt in his hand and, the instant of the whirl, that doubled quirt would rap bob on the nose. the horse didn't live, after it had once learned the lesson, that would whirl in the face of the doubled quirt. more keenly than ever, during that week in the office did daylight realize that he had no social, nor even human contacts with dede. the situation was such that he could not ask her the simple question whether or not she was going riding next sunday. it was a hardship of a new sort, this being the employer of a pretty girl. he looked at her often, when the routine work of the day was going on, the question he could not ask her tickling at the founts of speech--was she going riding next sunday? and as he looked, he wondered how old she was, and what love passages she had had, must have had, with those college whippersnappers with whom, according to morrison, she herded and danced. his mind was very full of her, those six days between the sundays, and one thing he came to know thoroughly well; he wanted her. and so much did he want her that his old timidity of the apron-string was put to rout. he, who had run away from women most of his life, had now grown so courageous as to pursue. some sunday, sooner or later, he would meet her outside the office, somewhere in the hills, and then, if they did not get acquainted, it would be because she did not care to get acquainted. thus he found another card in the hand the mad god had dealt him. how important that card was to become he did not dream, yet he decided that it was a pretty good card. in turn, he doubted. maybe it was a trick of luck to bring calamity and disaster upon him. suppose dede wouldn't have him, and suppose he went on loving her more and more, harder and harder? all his old generalized terrors of love revived. he remembered the disastrous love affairs of men and women he had known in the past. there was bertha doolittle, old doolittle's daughter, who had been madly in love with dartworthy, the rich bonanza fraction owner; and dartworthy, in turn, not loving bertha at all, but madly loving colonel walthstone's wife and eloping down the yukon with her; and colonel walthstone himself, madly loving his own wife and lighting out in pursuit of the fleeing couple. and what had been the outcome? certainly bertha's love had been unfortunate and tragic, and so had the love of the other three. down below minook, colonel walthstone and dartworthy had fought it out. dartworthy had been killed. a bullet through the colonel's lungs had so weakened him that he died of pneumonia the following spring. and the colonel's wife had no one left alive on earth to love. and then there was freda, drowning herself in the running mush-ice because of some man on the other side of the world, and hating him, daylight, because he had happened along and pulled her out of the mush-ice and back to life. and the virgin.... the old memories frightened him. if this love-germ gripped him good and hard, and if dede wouldn't have him, it might be almost as bad as being gouged out of all he had by dowsett, letton, and guggenhammer. had his nascent desire for dede been less, he might well have been frightened out of all thought of her. as it was, he found consolation in the thought that some love affairs did come out right. and for all he knew, maybe luck had stacked the cards for him to win. some men were born lucky, lived lucky all their days, and died lucky. perhaps, too, he was such a man, a born luck-pup who could not lose. sunday came, and bob, out in the piedmont hills, behaved like an angel. his goodness, at times, was of the spirited prancing order, but otherwise he was a lamb. daylight, with doubled quirt ready in his right hand, ached for a whirl, just one whirl, which bob, with an excellence of conduct that was tantalizing, refused to perform. but no dede did daylight encounter. he vainly circled about among the hill roads and in the afternoon took the steep grade over the divide of the second range and dropped into maraga valley. just after passing the foot of the descent, he heard the hoof beats of a cantering horse. it was from ahead and coming toward him. what if it were dede? he turned bob around and started to return at a walk. if it were dede, he was born to luck, he decided; for the meeting couldn't have occurred under better circumstances. here they were, both going in the same direction, and the canter would bring her up to him just where the stiff grade would compel a walk. there would be nothing else for her to do than ride with him to the top of the divide; and, once there, the equally stiff descent on the other side would compel more walking. the canter came nearer, but he faced straight ahead until he heard the horse behind check to a walk. then he glanced over his shoulder. it was dede. the recognition was quick, and, with her, accompanied by surprise. what more natural thing than that, partly turning his horse, he should wait till she caught up with him; and that, when abreast they should continue abreast on up the grade? he could have sighed with relief. the thing was accomplished, and so easily. greetings had been exchanged; here they were side by side and going in the same direction with miles and miles ahead of them. he noted that her eye was first for the horse and next for him. "oh, what a beauty" she had cried at sight of bob. from the shining light in her eyes, and the face filled with delight, he would scarcely have believed that it belonged to a young woman he had known in the office, the young woman with the controlled, subdued office face. "i didn't know you rode," was one of her first remarks. "i imagined you were wedded to get-there-quick machines." "i've just taken it up lately," was his answer. "beginning to get stout; you know, and had to take it off somehow." she gave a quick sidewise glance that embraced him from head to heel, including seat and saddle, and said:-- "but you've ridden before." she certainly had an eye for horses and things connected with horses was his thought, as he replied:-- "not for many years. but i used to think i was a regular rip-snorter when i was a youngster up in eastern oregon, sneaking away from camp to ride with the cattle and break cayuses and that sort of thing." thus, and to his great relief, were they launched on a topic of mutual interest. he told her about bob's tricks, and of the whirl and his scheme to overcome it; and she agreed that horses had to be handled with a certain rational severity, no matter how much one loved them. there was her mab, which she had for eight years and which she had had break of stall-kicking. the process had been painful for mab, but it had cured her. "you've ridden a lot," daylight said. "i really can't remember the first time i was on a horse," she told him. "i was born on a ranch, you know, and they couldn't keep me away from the horses. i must have been born with the love for them. i had my first pony, all my own, when i was six. when i was eight i knew what it was to be all day in the saddle along with daddy. by the time i was eleven he was taking me on my first deer hunts. i'd be lost without a horse. i hate indoors, and without mab here i suppose i'd have been sick and dead long ago." "you like the country?" he queried, at the same moment catching his first glimpse of a light in her eyes other than gray. "as much as i detest the city," she answered. "but a woman can't earn a living in the country. so i make the best of it--along with mab." and thereat she told him more of her ranch life in the days before her father died. and daylight was hugely pleased with himself. they were getting acquainted. the conversation had not lagged in the full half hour they had been together. "we come pretty close from the same part of the country," he said. "i was raised in eastern oregon, and that's none so far from siskiyou." the next moment he could have bitten out his tongue for her quick question was:-- "how did you know i came from siskiyou? i'm sure i never mentioned it." "i don't know," he floundered temporarily. "i heard somewhere that you were from thereabouts." wolf, sliding up at that moment, sleek-footed and like a shadow, caused her horse to shy and passed the awkwardness off, for they talked alaskan dogs until the conversation drifted back to horses. and horses it was, all up the grade and down the other side. when she talked, he listened and followed her, and yet all the while he was following his own thoughts and impressions as well. it was a nervy thing for her to do, this riding astride, and he didn't know, after all, whether he liked it or not. his ideas of women were prone to be old-fashioned; they were the ones he had imbibed in the early-day, frontier life of his youth, when no woman was seen on anything but a side-saddle. he had grown up to the tacit fiction that women on horseback were not bipeds. it came to him with a shock, this sight of her so manlike in her saddle. but he had to confess that the sight looked good to him just then. two other immediate things about her struck him. first, there were the golden spots in her eyes. queer that he had never noticed them before. perhaps the light in the office had not been right, and perhaps they came and went. no; they were glows of color--a sort of diffused, golden light. nor was it golden, either, but it was nearer that than any color he knew. it certainly was not any shade of yellow. a lover's thoughts are ever colored, and it is to be doubted if any one else in the world would have called dede's eyes golden. but daylight's mood verged on the tender and melting, and he preferred to think of them as golden, and therefore they were golden. and then she was so natural. he had been prepared to find her a most difficult young woman to get acquainted with. yet here it was proving so simple. there was nothing highfalutin about her company manners--it was by this homely phrase that he differentiated this dede on horseback from the dede with the office manners whom he had always known. and yet, while he was delighted with the smoothness with which everything was going, and with the fact that they had found plenty to talk about, he was aware of an irk under it all. after all, this talk was empty and idle. he was a man of action, and he wanted her, dede mason, the woman; he wanted her to love him and to be loved by him; and he wanted all this glorious consummation then and there. used to forcing issues used to gripping men and things and bending them to his will, he felt, now, the same compulsive prod of mastery. he wanted to tell her that he loved her and that there was nothing else for her to do but marry him. and yet he did not obey the prod. women were fluttery creatures, and here mere mastery would prove a bungle. he remembered all his hunting guile, the long patience of shooting meat in famine when a hit or a miss meant life or death. truly, though this girl did not yet mean quite that, nevertheless she meant much to him--more, now, than ever, as he rode beside her, glancing at her as often as he dared, she in her corduroy riding-habit, so bravely manlike, yet so essentially and revealingly woman, smiling, laughing, talking, her eyes sparkling, the flush of a day of sun and summer breeze warm in her cheeks. chapter xiii another sunday man and horse and dog roved the piedmont hills. and again daylight and dede rode together. but this time her surprise at meeting him was tinctured with suspicion; or rather, her surprise was of another order. the previous sunday had been quite accidental, but his appearing a second time among her favorite haunts hinted of more than the fortuitous. daylight was made to feel that she suspected him, and he, remembering that he had seen a big rock quarry near blair park, stated offhand that he was thinking of buying it. his one-time investment in a brickyard had put the idea into his head--an idea that he decided was a good one, for it enabled him to suggest that she ride along with him to inspect the quarry. so several hours he spent in her company, in which she was much the same girl as before, natural, unaffected, lighthearted, smiling and laughing, a good fellow, talking horses with unflagging enthusiasm, making friends with the crusty-tempered wolf, and expressing the desire to ride bob, whom she declared she was more in love with than ever. at this last daylight demurred. bob was full of dangerous tricks, and he wouldn't trust any one on him except his worst enemy. "you think, because i'm a girl, that i don't know anything about horses," she flashed back. "but i've been thrown off and bucked off enough not to be over-confident. and i'm not a fool. i wouldn't get on a bucking horse. i've learned better. and i'm not afraid of any other kind. and you say yourself that bob doesn't buck." "but you've never seen him cutting up didoes," daylight said. "but you must remember i've seen a few others, and i've been on several of them myself. i brought mab here to electric cars, locomotives, and automobiles. she was a raw range colt when she came to me. broken to saddle that was all. besides, i won't hurt your horse." against his better judgment, daylight gave in, and, on an unfrequented stretch of road, changed saddles and bridles. "remember, he's greased lightning," he warned, as he helped her to mount. she nodded, while bob pricked up his ears to the knowledge that he had a strange rider on his back. the fun came quickly enough--too quickly for dede, who found herself against bob's neck as he pivoted around and bolted the other way. daylight followed on her horse and watched. he saw her check the animal quickly to a standstill, and immediately, with rein across neck and a decisive prod of the left spur, whirl him back the way he had come and almost as swiftly. "get ready to give him the quirt on the nose," daylight called. but, too quickly for her, bob whirled again, though this time, by a severe effort, she saved herself from the undignified position against his neck. his bolt was more determined, but she pulled him into a prancing walk, and turned him roughly back with her spurred heel. there was nothing feminine in the way she handled him; her method was imperative and masculine. had this not been so, daylight would have expected her to say she had had enough. but that little preliminary exhibition had taught him something of dede's quality. and if it had not, a glance at her gray eyes, just perceptibly angry with herself, and at her firm-set mouth, would have told him the same thing. daylight did not suggest anything, while he hung almost gleefully upon her actions in anticipation of what the fractious bob was going to get. and bob got it, on his next whirl, or attempt, rather, for he was no more than halfway around when the quirt met him smack on his tender nose. there and then, in his bewilderment, surprise, and pain, his fore feet, just skimming above the road, dropped down. "great!" daylight applauded. "a couple more will fix him. he's too smart not to know when he's beaten." again bob tried. but this time he was barely quarter around when the doubled quirt on his nose compelled him to drop his fore feet to the road. then, with neither rein nor spur, but by the mere threat of the quirt, she straightened him out. dede looked triumphantly at daylight. "let me give him a run?" she asked. daylight nodded, and she shot down the road. he watched her out of sight around the bend, and watched till she came into sight returning. she certainly could sit her horse, was his thought, and she was a sure enough hummer. god, she was the wife for a man! made most of them look pretty slim. and to think of her hammering all week at a typewriter. that was no place for her. she should be a man's wife, taking it easy, with silks and satins and diamonds (his frontier notion of what befitted a wife beloved), and dogs, and horses, and such things--"and we'll see, mr. burning daylight, what you and me can do about it," he murmured to himself! and aloud to her:-- "you'll do, miss mason; you'll do. there's nothing too good in horseflesh you don't deserve, a woman who can ride like that. no; stay with him, and we'll jog along to the quarry." he chuckled. "say, he actually gave just the least mite of a groan that last time you fetched him. did you hear it? and did you see the way he dropped his feet to the road--just like he'd struck a stone wall. and he's got savvee enough to know from now on that that same stone wall will be always there ready for him to lam into." when he parted from her that afternoon, at the gate of the road that led to berkeley, he drew off to the edge of the intervening clump of trees, where, unobserved, he watched her out of sight. then, turning to ride back into oakland, a thought came to him that made him grin ruefully as he muttered: "and now it's up to me to make good and buy that blamed quarry. nothing less than that can give me an excuse for snooping around these hills." but the quarry was doomed to pass out of his plans for a time, for on the following sunday he rode alone. no dede on a chestnut sorrel came across the back-road from berkeley that day, nor the day a week later. daylight was beside himself with impatience and apprehension, though in the office he contained himself. he noted no change in her, and strove to let none show in himself. the same old monotonous routine went on, though now it was irritating and maddening. daylight found a big quarrel on his hands with a world that wouldn't let a man behave toward his stenographer after the way of all men and women. what was the good of owning millions anyway? he demanded one day of the desk-calendar, as she passed out after receiving his dictation. as the third week drew to a close and another desolate sunday confronted him, daylight resolved to speak, office or no office. and as was his nature, he went simply and directly to the point she had finished her work with him, and was gathering her note pad and pencils together to depart, when he said:-- "oh, one thing more, miss mason, and i hope you won't mind my being frank and straight out. you've struck me right along as a sensible-minded girl, and i don't think you'll take offence at what i'm going to say. you know how long you've been in the office--it's years, now, several of them, anyway; and you know i've always been straight and aboveboard with you. i've never what you call--presumed. because you were in my office i've tried to be more careful than if--if you wasn't in my office--you understand. but just the same, it don't make me any the less human. i'm a lonely sort of a fellow--don't take that as a bid for kindness. what i mean by it is to try and tell you just how much those two rides with you have meant. and now i hope you won't mind my just asking why you haven't been out riding the last two sundays?" he came to a stop and waited, feeling very warm and awkward, the perspiration starting in tiny beads on his forehead. she did not speak immediately, and he stepped across the room and raised the window higher. "i have been riding," she answered; "in other directions." "but why...?" he failed somehow to complete the question. "go ahead and be frank with me," he urged. "just as frank as i am with you. why didn't you ride in the piedmont hills? i hunted for you everywhere. "and that is just why." she smiled, and looked him straight in the eyes for a moment, then dropped her own. "surely, you understand, mr. harnish." he shook his head glumly. "i do, and i don't. i ain't used to city ways by a long shot. there's things one mustn't do, which i don't mind as long as i don't want to do them." "but when you do?" she asked quickly. "then i do them." his lips had drawn firmly with this affirmation of will, but the next instant he was amending the statement "that is, i mostly do. but what gets me is the things you mustn't do when they're not wrong and they won't hurt anybody--this riding, for instance." she played nervously with a pencil for a time, as if debating her reply, while he waited patiently. "this riding," she began; "it's not what they call the right thing. i leave it to you. you know the world. you are mr. harnish, the millionaire--" "gambler," he broke in harshly she nodded acceptance of his term and went on. "and i'm a stenographer in your office--" "you're a thousand times better than me--" he attempted to interpolate, but was in turn interrupted. "it isn't a question of such things. it's a simple and fairly common situation that must be considered. i work for you. and it isn't what you or i might think, but what other persons will think. and you don't need to be told any more about that. you know yourself." her cool, matter-of-fact speech belied her--or so daylight thought, looking at her perturbed feminineness, at the rounded lines of her figure, the breast that deeply rose and fell, and at the color that was now excited in her cheeks. "i'm sorry i frightened you out of your favorite stamping ground," he said rather aimlessly. "you didn't frighten me," she retorted, with a touch of fire. "i'm not a silly seminary girl. i've taken care of myself for a long time now, and i've done it without being frightened. we were together two sundays, and i'm sure i wasn't frightened of bob, or you. it isn't that. i have no fears of taking care of myself, but the world insists on taking care of one as well. that's the trouble. it's what the world would have to say about me and my employer meeting regularly and riding in the hills on sundays. it's funny, but it's so. i could ride with one of the clerks without remark, but with you--no." "but the world don't know and don't need to know," he cried. "which makes it worse, in a way, feeling guilty of nothing and yet sneaking around back-roads with all the feeling of doing something wrong. it would be finer and braver for me publicly..." "to go to lunch with me on a week-day," daylight said, divining the drift of her uncompleted argument. she nodded. "i didn't have that quite in mind, but it will do. i'd prefer doing the brazen thing and having everybody know it, to doing the furtive thing and being found out. not that i'm asking to be invited to lunch," she added, with a smile; "but i'm sure you understand my position." "then why not ride open and aboveboard with me in the hills?" he urged. she shook her head with what he imagined was just the faintest hint of regret, and he went suddenly and almost maddeningly hungry for her. "look here, miss mason, i know you don't like this talking over of things in the office. neither do i. it's part of the whole thing, i guess; a man ain't supposed to talk anything but business with his stenographer. will you ride with me next sunday, and we can talk it over thoroughly then and reach some sort of a conclusion. out in the hills is the place where you can talk something besides business. i guess you've seen enough of me to know i'm pretty square. i--i do honor and respect you, and ... and all that, and i..." he was beginning to flounder, and the hand that rested on the desk blotter was visibly trembling. he strove to pull himself together. "i just want to harder than anything ever in my life before. i--i--i can't explain myself, but i do, that's all. will you?--just next sunday? to-morrow?" nor did he dream that her low acquiescence was due, as much as anything else, to the beads of sweat on his forehead, his trembling hand, and his all too-evident general distress. chapter xiv "of course, there's no way of telling what anybody wants from what they say." daylight rubbed bob's rebellious ear with his quirt and pondered with dissatisfaction the words he had just uttered. they did not say what he had meant them to say. "what i'm driving at is that you say flatfooted that you won't meet me again, and you give your reasons, but how am i to know they are your real reasons? mebbe you just don't want to get acquainted with me, and won't say so for fear of hurting my feelings. don't you see? i'm the last man in the world to shove in where i'm not wanted. and if i thought you didn't care a whoop to see anything more of me, why, i'd clear out so blamed quick you couldn't see me for smoke." dede smiled at him in acknowledgment of his words, but rode on silently. and that smile, he thought, was the most sweetly wonderful smile he had ever seen. there was a difference in it, he assured himself, from any smile she had ever given him before. it was the smile of one who knew him just a little bit, of one who was just the least mite acquainted with him. of course, he checked himself up the next moment, it was unconscious on her part. it was sure to come in the intercourse of any two persons. any stranger, a business man, a clerk, anybody after a few casual meetings would show similar signs of friendliness. it was bound to happen, but in her case it made more impression on him; and, besides, it was such a sweet and wonderful smile. other women he had known had never smiled like that; he was sure of it. it had been a happy day. daylight had met her on the back-road from berkeley, and they had had hours together. it was only now, with the day drawing to a close and with them approaching the gate of the road to berkeley, that he had broached the important subject. she began her answer to his last contention, and he listened gratefully. "but suppose, just suppose, that the reasons i have given are the only ones?--that there is no question of my not wanting to know you?" "then i'd go on urging like sam scratch," he said quickly. "because, you see, i've always noticed that folks that incline to anything are much more open to hearing the case stated. but if you did have that other reason up your sleeve, if you didn't want to know me, if--if, well, if you thought my feelings oughtn't to be hurt just because you had a good job with me..." here, his calm consideration of a possibility was swamped by the fear that it was an actuality, and he lost the thread of his reasoning. "well, anyway, all you have to do is to say the word and i'll clear out. "and with no hard feelings; it would be just a case of bad luck for me. so be honest, miss mason, please, and tell me if that's the reason--i almost got a hunch that it is." she glanced up at him, her eyes abruptly and slightly moist, half with hurt, half with anger. "oh, but that isn't fair," she cried. "you give me the choice of lying to you and hurting you in order to protect myself by getting rid of you, or of throwing away my protection by telling you the truth, for then you, as you said yourself, would stay and urge." her cheeks were flushed, her lips tremulous, but she continued to look him frankly in the eyes. daylight smiled grimly with satisfaction. "i'm real glad, miss mason, real glad for those words." "but they won't serve you," she went on hastily. "they can't serve you. i refuse to let them. this is our last ride, and... here is the gate." ranging her mare alongside, she bent, slid the catch, and followed the opening gate. "no; please, no," she said, as daylight started to follow. humbly acquiescent, he pulled bob back, and the gate swung shut between them. but there was more to say, and she did not ride on. "listen, miss mason," he said, in a low voice that shook with sincerity; "i want to assure you of one thing. i'm not just trying to fool around with you. i like you, i want you, and i was never more in earnest in my life. there's nothing wrong in my intentions or anything like that. what i mean is strictly honorable--" but the expression of her face made him stop. she was angry, and she was laughing at the same time. "the last thing you should have said," she cried. "it's like a--a matrimonial bureau: intentions strictly honorable; object, matrimony. but it's no more than i deserved. this is what i suppose you call urging like sam scratch." the tan had bleached out of daylight's skin since the time he came to live under city roofs, so that the flush of blood showed readily as it crept up his neck past the collar and overspread his face. nor in his exceeding discomfort did he dream that she was looking upon him at that moment with more kindness than at any time that day. it was not in her experience to behold big grown-up men who blushed like boys, and already she repented the sharpness into which she had been surprised. "now, look here, miss mason," he began, slowly and stumblingly at first, but accelerating into a rapidity of utterance that was almost incoherent; "i'm a rough sort of a man, i know that, and i know i don't know much of anything. i've never had any training in nice things. i've never made love before, and i've never been in love before either--and i don't know how to go about it any more than a thundering idiot. what you want to do is get behind my tomfool words and get a feel of the man that's behind them. that's me, and i mean all right, if i don't know how to go about it." dede mason had quick, birdlike ways, almost flitting from mood to mood; and she was all contrition on the instant. "forgive me for laughing," she said across the gate. "it wasn't really laughter. i was surprised off my guard, and hurt, too. you see, mr. harnish, i've not been..." she paused, in sudden fear of completing the thought into which her birdlike precipitancy had betrayed her. "what you mean is that you've not been used to such sort of proposing," daylight said; "a sort of on-the-run, 'howdy, glad-to-make-your-acquaintance, won't-you-be-mine' proposition." she nodded and broke into laughter, in which he joined, and which served to pass the awkwardness away. he gathered heart at this, and went on in greater confidence, with cooler head and tongue. "there, you see, you prove my case. you've had experience in such matters. i don't doubt you've had slathers of proposals. well, i haven't, and i'm like a fish out of water. besides, this ain't a proposal. it's a peculiar situation, that's all, and i'm in a corner. i've got enough plain horse-sense to know a man ain't supposed to argue marriage with a girl as a reason for getting acquainted with her. and right there was where i was in the hole. number one, i can't get acquainted with you in the office. number two, you say you won't see me out of the office to give me a chance. number three, your reason is that folks will talk because you work for me. number four, i just got to get acquainted with you, and i just got to get you to see that i mean fair and all right. number five, there you are on one side the gate getting ready to go, and me here on the other side the gate pretty desperate and bound to say something to make you reconsider. number six, i said it. and now and finally, i just do want you to reconsider." and, listening to him, pleasuring in the sight of his earnest, perturbed face and in the simple, homely phrases that but emphasized his earnestness and marked the difference between him and the average run of men she had known, she forgot to listen and lost herself in her own thoughts. the love of a strong man is ever a lure to a normal woman, and never more strongly did dede feel the lure than now, looking across the closed gate at burning daylight. not that she would ever dream of marrying him--she had a score of reasons against it; but why not at least see more of him? he was certainly not repulsive to her. on the contrary, she liked him, had always liked him from the day she had first seen him and looked upon his lean indian face and into his flashing indian eyes. he was a figure of a man in more ways than his mere magnificent muscles. besides, romance had gilded him, this doughty, rough-hewn adventurer of the north, this man of many deeds and many millions, who had come down out of the arctic to wrestle and fight so masterfully with the men of the south. savage as a red indian, gambler and profligate, a man without morals, whose vengeance was never glutted and who stamped on the faces of all who opposed him--oh, yes, she knew all the hard names he had been called. yet she was not afraid of him. there was more than that in the connotation of his name. burning daylight called up other things as well. they were there in the newspapers, the magazines, and the books on the klondike. when all was said, burning daylight had a mighty connotation--one to touch any woman's imagination, as it touched hers, the gate between them, listening to the wistful and impassioned simplicity of his speech. dede was after all a woman, with a woman's sex-vanity, and it was this vanity that was pleased by the fact that such a man turned in his need to her. and there was more that passed through her mind--sensations of tiredness and loneliness; trampling squadrons and shadowy armies of vague feelings and vaguer prompting; and deeper and dimmer whisperings and echoings, the flutterings of forgotten generations crystallized into being and fluttering anew and always, undreamed and unguessed, subtle and potent, the spirit and essence of life that under a thousand deceits and masks forever makes for life. it was a strong temptation, just to ride with this man in the hills. it would be that only and nothing more, for she was firmly convinced that his way of life could never be her way. on the other hand, she was vexed by none of the ordinary feminine fears and timidities. that she could take care of herself under any and all circumstances she never doubted. then why not? it was such a little thing, after all. she led an ordinary, humdrum life at best. she ate and slept and worked, and that was about all. as if in review, her anchorite existence passed before her: six days of the week spent in the office and in journeying back and forth on the ferry; the hours stolen before bedtime for snatches of song at the piano, for doing her own special laundering, for sewing and mending and casting up of meagre accounts; the two evenings a week of social diversion she permitted herself; the other stolen hours and saturday afternoons spent with her brother at the hospital; and the seventh day, sunday, her day of solace, on mab's back, out among the blessed hills. but it was lonely, this solitary riding. nobody of her acquaintance rode. several girls at the university had been persuaded into trying it, but after a sunday or two on hired livery hacks they had lost interest. there was madeline, who bought her own horse and rode enthusiastically for several months, only to get married and go away to live in southern california. after years of it, one did get tired of this eternal riding alone. he was such a boy, this big giant of a millionaire who had half the rich men of san francisco afraid of him. such a boy! she had never imagined this side of his nature. "how do folks get married?" he was saying. "why, number one, they meet; number two, like each other's looks; number three, get acquainted; and number four, get married or not, according to how they like each other after getting acquainted. but how in thunder we're to have a chance to find out whether we like each other enough is beyond my savvee, unless we make that chance ourselves. i'd come to see you, call on you, only i know you're just rooming or boarding, and that won't do." suddenly, with a change of mood, the situation appeared to dede ridiculously absurd. she felt a desire to laugh--not angrily, not hysterically, but just jolly. it was so funny. herself, the stenographer, he, the notorious and powerful gambling millionaire, and the gate between them across which poured his argument of people getting acquainted and married. also, it was an impossible situation. on the face of it, she could not go on with it. this program of furtive meetings in the hills would have to discontinue. there would never be another meeting. and if, denied this, he tried to woo her in the office, she would be compelled to lose a very good position, and that would be an end of the episode. it was not nice to contemplate; but the world of men, especially in the cities, she had not found particularly nice. she had not worked for her living for years without losing a great many of her illusions. "we won't do any sneaking or hiding around about it," daylight was explaining. "we'll ride around as bold if you please, and if anybody sees us, why, let them. if they talk--well, so long as our consciences are straight we needn't worry. say the word, and bob will have on his back the happiest man alive." she shook her head, pulled in the mare, who was impatient to be off for home, and glanced significantly at the lengthening shadows. "it's getting late now, anyway," daylight hurried on, "and we've settled nothing after all. just one more sunday, anyway--that's not asking much--to settle it in." "we've had all day," she said. "but we started to talk it over too late. we'll tackle it earlier next time. this is a big serious proposition with me, i can tell you. say next sunday?" "are men ever fair?" she asked. "you know thoroughly well that by 'next sunday' you mean many sundays." "then let it be many sundays," he cried recklessly, while she thought that she had never seen him looking handsomer. "say the word. only say the word. next sunday at the quarry..." she gathered the reins into her hand preliminary to starting. "good night," she said, "and--" "yes," he whispered, with just the faintest touch of impressiveness. "yes," she said, her voice low but distinct. at the same moment she put the mare into a canter and went down the road without a backward glance, intent on an analysis of her own feelings. with her mind made up to say no--and to the last instant she had been so resolved--her lips nevertheless had said yes. or at least it seemed the lips. she had not intended to consent. then why had she? her first surprise and bewilderment at so wholly unpremeditated an act gave way to consternation as she considered its consequences. she knew that burning daylight was not a man to be trifled with, that under his simplicity and boyishness he was essentially a dominant male creature, and that she had pledged herself to a future of inevitable stress and storm. and again she demanded of herself why she had said yes at the very moment when it had been farthest from her intention. chapter xv life at the office went on much the way it had always gone. never, by word or look, did they acknowledge that the situation was in any wise different from what it had always been. each sunday saw the arrangement made for the following sunday's ride; nor was this ever referred to in the office. daylight was fastidiously chivalrous on this point. he did not want to lose her from the office. the sight of her at her work was to him an undiminishing joy. nor did he abuse this by lingering over dictation or by devising extra work that would detain her longer before his eyes. but over and beyond such sheer selfishness of conduct was his love of fair play. he scorned to utilize the accidental advantages of the situation. somewhere within him was a higher appeasement of love than mere possession. he wanted to be loved for himself, with a fair field for both sides. on the other hand, had he been the most artful of schemers he could not have pursued a wiser policy. bird-like in her love of individual freedom, the last woman in the world to be bullied in her affections, she keenly appreciated the niceness of his attitude. she did this consciously, but deeper than all consciousness, and intangible as gossamer, were the effects of this. all unrealizable, save for some supreme moment, did the web of daylight's personality creep out and around her. filament by filament, these secret and undreamable bonds were being established. they it was that could have given the cue to her saying yes when she had meant to say no. and in some such fashion, in some future crisis of greater moment, might she not, in violation of all dictates of sober judgment, give another unintentional consent? among other good things resulting from his growing intimacy with dede, was daylight's not caring to drink so much as formerly. there was a lessening in desire for alcohol of which even he at last became aware. in a way she herself was the needed inhibition. the thought of her was like a cocktail. or, at any rate, she substituted for a certain percentage of cocktails. from the strain of his unnatural city existence and of his intense gambling operations, he had drifted on to the cocktail route. a wall must forever be built to give him easement from the high pitch, and dede became a part of this wall. her personality, her laughter, the intonations of her voice, the impossible golden glow of her eyes, the light on her hair, her form, her dress, her actions on horseback, her merest physical mannerisms--all, pictured over and over in his mind and dwelt upon, served to take the place of many a cocktail or long scotch and soda. in spite of their high resolve, there was a very measurable degree of the furtive in their meetings. in essence, these meetings were stolen. they did not ride out brazenly together in the face of the world. on the contrary, they met always unobserved, she riding across the many-gated backroad from berkeley to meet him halfway. nor did they ride on any save unfrequented roads, preferring to cross the second range of hills and travel among a church-going farmer folk who would scarcely have recognized even daylight from his newspaper photographs. he found dede a good horsewoman--good not merely in riding but in endurance. there were days when they covered sixty, seventy, and even eighty miles; nor did dede ever claim any day too long, nor--another strong recommendation to daylight--did the hardest day ever the slightest chafe of the chestnut sorrel's back. "a sure enough hummer," was daylight's stereotyped but ever enthusiastic verdict to himself. they learned much of each other on these long, uninterrupted rides. they had nothing much to talk about but themselves, and, while she received a liberal education concerning arctic travel and gold-mining, he, in turn, touch by touch, painted an ever clearer portrait of her. she amplified the ranch life of her girlhood, prattling on about horses and dogs and persons and things until it was as if he saw the whole process of her growth and her becoming. all this he was able to trace on through the period of her father's failure and death, when she had been compelled to leave the university and go into office work. the brother, too, she spoke of, and of her long struggle to have him cured and of her now fading hopes. daylight decided that it was easier to come to an understanding of her than he had anticipated, though he was always aware that behind and under all he knew of her was the mysterious and baffling woman and sex. there, he was humble enough to confess to himself, was a chartless, shoreless sea, about which he knew nothing and which he must nevertheless somehow navigate. his lifelong fear of woman had originated out of non-understanding and had also prevented him from reaching any understanding. dede on horseback, dede gathering poppies on a summer hillside, dede taking down dictation in her swift shorthand strokes--all this was comprehensible to him. but he did not know the dede who so quickly changed from mood to mood, the dede who refused steadfastly to ride with him and then suddenly consented, the dede in whose eyes the golden glow forever waxed and waned and whispered hints and messages that were not for his ears. in all such things he saw the glimmering profundities of sex, acknowledged their lure, and accepted them as incomprehensible. there was another side of her, too, of which he was consciously ignorant. she knew the books, was possessed of that mysterious and awful thing called "culture." and yet, what continually surprised him was that this culture was never obtruded on their intercourse. she did not talk books, nor art, nor similar folderols. homely minded as he was himself, he found her almost equally homely minded. she liked the simple and the out-of-doors, the horses and the hills, the sunlight and the flowers. he found himself in a partly new flora, to which she was the guide, pointing out to him all the varieties of the oaks, making him acquainted with the madrono and the manzanita, teaching him the names, habits, and habitats of unending series of wild flowers, shrubs, and ferns. her keen woods eye was another delight to him. it had been trained in the open, and little escaped it. one day, as a test, they strove to see which could discover the greater number of birds' nests. and he, who had always prided himself on his own acutely trained observation, found himself hard put to keep his score ahead. at the end of the day he was but three nests in the lead, one of which she challenged stoutly and of which even he confessed serious doubt. he complimented her and told her that her success must be due to the fact that she was a bird herself, with all a bird's keen vision and quick-flashing ways. the more he knew her the more he became convinced of this birdlike quality in her. that was why she liked to ride, he argued. it was the nearest approach to flying. a field of poppies, a glen of ferns, a row of poplars on a country lane, the tawny brown of a hillside, the shaft of sunlight on a distant peak--all such were provocative of quick joys which seemed to him like so many outbursts of song. her joys were in little things, and she seemed always singing. even in sterner things it was the same. when she rode bob and fought with that magnificent brute for mastery, the qualities of an eagle were uppermost in her. these quick little joys of hers were sources of joy to him. he joyed in her joy, his eyes as excitedly fixed on her as hers were fixed on the object of her attention. also through her he came to a closer discernment and keener appreciation of nature. she showed him colors in the landscape that he would never have dreamed were there. he had known only the primary colors. all colors of red were red. black was black, and brown was just plain brown until it became yellow, when it was no longer brown. purple he had always imagined was red, something like blood, until she taught him better. once they rode out on a high hill brow where wind-blown poppies blazed about their horses' knees, and she was in an ecstasy over the lines of the many distances. seven, she counted, and he, who had gazed on landscapes all his life, for the first time learned what a "distance" was. after that, and always, he looked upon the face of nature with a more seeing eye, learning a delight of his own in surveying the serried ranks of the upstanding ranges, and in slow contemplation of the purple summer mists that haunted the languid creases of the distant hills. but through it all ran the golden thread of love. at first he had been content just to ride with dede and to be on comradely terms with her; but the desire and the need for her increased. the more he knew of her, the higher was his appraisal. had she been reserved and haughty with him, or been merely a giggling, simpering creature of a woman, it would have been different. instead, she amazed him with her simplicity and wholesomeness, with her great store of comradeliness. this latter was the unexpected. he had never looked upon woman in that way. woman, the toy; woman, the harpy; woman, the necessary wife and mother of the race's offspring,--all this had been his expectation and understanding of woman. but woman, the comrade and playfellow and joyfellow--this was what dede had surprised him in. and the more she became worth while, the more ardently his love burned, unconsciously shading his voice with caresses, and with equal unconsciousness flaring up signal fires in his eyes. nor was she blind to it yet, like many women before her, she thought to play with the pretty fire and escape the consequent conflagration. "winter will soon be coming on," she said regretfully, and with provocation, one day, "and then there won't be any more riding." "but i must see you in the winter just the same," he cried hastily. she shook her head. "we have been very happy and all that," she said, looking at him with steady frankness. "i remember your foolish argument for getting acquainted, too; but it won't lead to anything; it can't. i know myself too well to be mistaken." her face was serious, even solicitous with desire not to hurt, and her eyes were unwavering, but in them was the light, golden and glowing--the abyss of sex into which he was now unafraid to gaze. "i've been pretty good," he declared. "i leave it to you if i haven't. it's been pretty hard, too, i can tell you. you just think it over. not once have i said a word about love to you, and me loving you all the time. that's going some for a man that's used to having his own way. i'm somewhat of a rusher when it comes to travelling. i reckon i'd rush god almighty if it came to a race over the ice. and yet i didn't rush you. i guess this fact is an indication of how much i do love you. of course i want you to marry me. have i said a word about it, though? nary a chirp, nary a flutter. i've been quiet and good, though it's almost made me sick at times, this keeping quiet. i haven't asked you to marry me. i'm not asking you now. oh, not but what you satisfy me. i sure know you're the wife for me. but how about myself? do you know me well enough know your own mind?" he shrugged his shoulders. "i don't know, and i ain't going to take chances on it now. you've got to know for sure whether you think you could get along with me or not, and i'm playing a slow conservative game. i ain't a-going to lose for overlooking my hand." this was love-making of a sort beyond dede's experience. nor had she ever heard of anything like it. furthermore, its lack of ardor carried with it a shock which she could overcome only by remembering the way his hand had trembled in the past, and by remembering the passion she had seen that very day and every day in his eyes, or heard in his voice. then, too, she recollected what he had said to her weeks before: "maybe you don't know what patience is," he had said, and thereat told her of shooting squirrels with a big rifle the time he and elijah davis had starved on the stewart river. "so you see," he urged, "just for a square deal we've got to see some more of each other this winter. most likely your mind ain't made up yet--" "but it is," she interrupted. "i wouldn't dare permit myself to care for you. happiness, for me, would not lie that way. i like you, mr. harnish, and all that, but it can never be more than that." "it's because you don't like my way of living," he charged, thinking in his own mind of the sensational joyrides and general profligacy with which the newspapers had credited him--thinking this, and wondering whether or not, in maiden modesty, she would disclaim knowledge of it. to his surprise, her answer was flat and uncompromising. "no; i don't." "i know i've been brash on some of those rides that got into the papers," he began his defense, "and that i've been travelling with a lively crowd." "i don't mean that," she said, "though i know about it too, and can't say that i like it. but it is your life in general, your business. there are women in the world who could marry a man like you and be happy, but i couldn't. and the more i cared for such a man, the more unhappy i should be. you see, my unhappiness, in turn, would tend to make him unhappy. i should make a mistake, and he would make an equal mistake, though his would not be so hard on him because he would still have his business." "business!" daylight gasped. "what's wrong with my business? i play fair and square. there's nothing under hand about it, which can't be said of most businesses, whether of the big corporations or of the cheating, lying, little corner-grocerymen. i play the straight rules of the game, and i don't have to lie or cheat or break my word." dede hailed with relief the change in the conversation and at the same time the opportunity to speak her mind. "in ancient greece," she began pedantically, "a man was judged a good citizen who built houses, planted trees--" she did not complete the quotation, but drew the conclusion hurriedly. "how many houses have you built? how many trees have you planted?" he shook his head noncommittally, for he had not grasped the drift of the argument. "well," she went on, "two winters ago you cornered coal--" "just locally," he grinned reminiscently, "just locally. and i took advantage of the car shortage and the strike in british columbia." "but you didn't dig any of that coal yourself. yet you forced it up four dollars a ton and made a lot of money. that was your business. you made the poor people pay more for their coal. you played fair, as you said, but you put your hands down into all their pockets and took their money away from them. i know. i burn a grate fire in my sitting-room at berkeley. and instead of eleven dollars a ton for rock wells, i paid fifteen dollars that winter. you robbed me of four dollars. i could stand it. but there were thousands of the very poor who could not stand it. you might call it legal gambling, but to me it was downright robbery." daylight was not abashed. this was no revelation to him. he remembered the old woman who made wine in the sonoma hills and the millions like her who were made to be robbed. "now look here, miss mason, you've got me there slightly, i grant. but you've seen me in business a long time now, and you know i don't make a practice of raiding the poor people. i go after the big fellows. they're my meat. they rob the poor, and i rob them. that coal deal was an accident. i wasn't after the poor people in that, but after the big fellows, and i got them, too. the poor people happened to get in the way and got hurt, that was all. "don't you see," he went on, "the whole game is a gamble. everybody gambles in one way or another. the farmer gambles against the weather and the market on his crops. so does the united states steel corporation. the business of lots of men is straight robbery of the poor people. but i've never made that my business. you know that. i've always gone after the robbers." "i missed my point," she admitted. "wait a minute." and for a space they rode in silence. "i see it more clearly than i can state it, but it's something like this. there is legitimate work, and there's work that--well, that isn't legitimate. the farmer works the soil and produces grain. he's making something that is good for humanity. he actually, in a way, creates something, the grain that will fill the mouths of the hungry." "and then the railroads and market-riggers and the rest proceed to rob him of that same grain,"--daylight broke in dede smiled and held up her hand. "wait a minute. you'll make me lose my point. it doesn't hurt if they rob him of all of it so that he starves to death. the point is that the wheat he grew is still in the world. it exists. don't you see? the farmer created something, say ten tons of wheat, and those ten tons exist. the railroads haul the wheat to market, to the mouths that will eat it. this also is legitimate. it's like some one bringing you a glass of water, or taking a cinder out of your eye. something has been done, in a way been created, just like the wheat." "but the railroads rob like sam scratch," daylight objected. "then the work they do is partly legitimate and partly not. now we come to you. you don't create anything. nothing new exists when you're done with your business. just like the coal. you didn't dig it. you didn't haul it to market. you didn't deliver it. don't you see? that's what i meant by planting the trees and building the houses. you haven't planted one tree nor built a single house." "i never guessed there was a woman in the world who could talk business like that," he murmured admiringly. "and you've got me on that point. but there's a lot to be said on my side just the same. now you listen to me. i'm going to talk under three heads. number one: we live a short time, the best of us, and we're a long time dead. life is a big gambling game. some are born lucky and some are born unlucky. everybody sits in at the table, and everybody tries to rob everybody else. most of them get robbed. they're born suckers. "fellow like me comes along and sizes up the proposition. i've got two choices. i can herd with the suckers, or i can herd with the robbers. as a sucker, i win nothing. even the crusts of bread are snatched out of my mouth by the robbers. i work hard all my days, and die working. and i ain't never had a flutter. i've had nothing but work, work, work. they talk about the dignity of labor. i tell you there ain't no dignity in that sort of labor. my other choice is to herd with the robbers, and i herd with them. i play that choice wide open to win. i get the automobiles, and the porterhouse steaks, and the soft beds. "number two: there ain't much difference between playing halfway robber like the railroad hauling that farmer's wheat to market, and playing all robber and robbing the robbers like i do. and, besides, halfway robbery is too slow a game for me to sit in. you don't win quick enough for me." "but what do you want to win for?" dede demanded. "you have millions and millions, already. you can't ride in more than one automobile at a time, sleep in more than one bed at a time." "number three answers that," he said, "and here it is: men and things are so made that they have different likes. a rabbit likes a vegetarian diet. a lynx likes meat. ducks swim; chickens are scairt of water. one man collects postage stamps, another man collects butterflies. this man goes in for paintings, that man goes in for yachts, and some other fellow for hunting big game. one man thinks horse-racing is it, with a big i, and another man finds the biggest satisfaction in actresses. they can't help these likes. they have them, and what are they going to do about it? now i like gambling. i like to play the game. i want to play it big and play it quick. i'm just made that way. and i play it." "but why can't you do good with all your money?" daylight laughed. "doing good with your money! it's like slapping god in the face, as much as to tell him that he don't know how to run his world and that you'll be much obliged if he'll stand out of the way and give you a chance. thinking about god doesn't keep me sitting up nights, so i've got another way of looking at it. ain't it funny, to go around with brass knuckles and a big club breaking folks' heads and taking their money away from them until i've got a pile, and then, repenting of my ways, going around and bandaging up the heads the other robbers are breaking? i leave it to you. that's what doing good with money amounts to. every once in a while some robber turns soft-hearted and takes to driving an ambulance. that's what carnegie did. he smashed heads in pitched battles at homestead, regular wholesale head-breaker he was, held up the suckers for a few hundred million, and now he goes around dribbling it back to them. funny? i leave it to you." he rolled a cigarette and watched her half curiously, half amusedly. his replies and harsh generalizations of a harsh school were disconcerting, and she came back to her earlier position. "i can't argue with you, and you know that. no matter how right a woman is, men have such a way about them well, what they say sounds most convincing, and yet the woman is still certain they are wrong. but there is one thing--the creative joy. call it gambling if you will, but just the same it seems to me more satisfying to create something, make something, than just to roll dice out of a dice-box all day long. why, sometimes, for exercise, or when i've got to pay fifteen dollars for coal, i curry mab and give her a whole half hour's brushing. and when i see her coat clean and shining and satiny, i feel a satisfaction in what i've done. so it must be with the man who builds a house or plants a tree. he can look at it. he made it. it's his handiwork. even if somebody like you comes along and takes his tree away from him, still it is there, and still did he make it. you can't rob him of that, mr. harnish, with all your millions. it's the creative joy, and it's a higher joy than mere gambling. haven't you ever made things yourself--a log cabin up in the yukon, or a canoe, or raft, or something? and don't you remember how satisfied you were, how good you felt, while you were doing it and after you had it done?" while she spoke his memory was busy with the associations she recalled. he saw the deserted flat on the river bank by the klondike, and he saw the log cabins and warehouses spring up, and all the log structures he had built, and his sawmills working night and day on three shifts. "why, dog-gone it, miss mason, you're right--in a way. i've built hundreds of houses up there, and i remember i was proud and glad to see them go up. i'm proud now, when i remember them. and there was ophir--the most god-forsaken moose-pasture of a creek you ever laid eyes on. i made that into the big ophir. why, i ran the water in there from the rinkabilly, eighty miles away. they all said i couldn't, but i did it, and i did it by myself. the dam and the flume cost me four million. but you should have seen that ophir--power plants, electric lights, and hundreds of men on the pay-roll, working night and day. i guess i do get an inkling of what you mean by making a thing. i made ophir, and by god, she was a sure hummer--i beg your pardon. i didn't mean to cuss. but that ophir!--i sure am proud of her now, just as the last time i laid eyes on her." "and you won something there that was more than mere money," dede encouraged. "now do you know what i would do if i had lots of money and simply had to go on playing at business? take all the southerly and westerly slopes of these bare hills. i'd buy them in and plant eucalyptus on them. i'd do it for the joy of doing it anyway; but suppose i had that gambling twist in me which you talk about, why, i'd do it just the same and make money out of the trees. and there's my other point again. instead of raising the price of coal without adding an ounce of coal to the market supply, i'd be making thousands and thousands of cords of firewood--making something where nothing was before. and everybody who ever crossed on the ferries would look up at these forested hills and be made glad. who was made glad by your adding four dollars a ton to rock wells?" it was daylight's turn to be silent for a time while she waited an answer. "would you rather i did things like that?" he asked at last. "it would be better for the world, and better for you," she answered noncommittally. chapter xvi all week every one in the office knew that something new and big was afoot in daylight's mind. beyond some deals of no importance, he had not been interested in anything for several months. but now he went about in an almost unbroken brown study, made unexpected and lengthy trips across the bay to oakland, or sat at his desk silent and motionless for hours. he seemed particularly happy with what occupied his mind. at times men came in and conferred with him--and with new faces and differing in type from those that usually came to see him. on sunday dede learned all about it. "i've been thinking a lot of our talk," he began, "and i've got an idea i'd like to give it a flutter. and i've got a proposition to make your hair stand up. it's what you call legitimate, and at the same time it's the gosh-dangdest gamble a man ever went into. how about planting minutes wholesale, and making two minutes grow where one minute grew before? oh, yes, and planting a few trees, too--say several million of them. you remember the quarry i made believe i was looking at? well, i'm going to buy it. i'm going to buy these hills, too, clear from here around to berkeley and down the other way to san leandro. i own a lot of them already, for that matter. but mum is the word. i'll be buying a long time to come before anything much is guessed about it, and i don't want the market to jump up out of sight. you see that hill over there. it's my hill running clear down its slopes through piedmont and halfway along those rolling hills into oakland. and it's nothing to all the things i'm going to buy." he paused triumphantly. "and all to make two minutes grow where one grew before?" dede queried, at the same time laughing heartily at his affectation of mystery. he stared at her fascinated. she had such a frank, boyish way of throwing her head back when she laughed. and her teeth were an unending delight to him. not small, yet regular and firm, without a blemish, he considered them the healthiest, whitest, prettiest teeth he had ever seen. and for months he had been comparing them with the teeth of every woman he met. it was not until her laughter was over that he was able to continue. "the ferry system between oakland and san francisco is the worst one-horse concern in the united states. you cross on it every day, six days in the week. that's say, twenty-five days a month, or three hundred a year. how long does it take you one way? forty minutes, if you're lucky. i'm going to put you across in twenty minutes. if that ain't making two minutes grow where one grew before, knock off my head with little apples. i'll save you twenty minutes each way. that's forty minutes a day, times three hundred, equals twelve thousand minutes a year, just for you, just for one person. let's see: that's two hundred whole hours. suppose i save two hundred hours a year for thousands of other folks,--that's farming some, ain't it?" dede could only nod breathlessly. she had caught the contagion of his enthusiasm, though she had no clew as to how this great time-saving was to be accomplished. "come on," he said. "let's ride up that hill, and when i get you out on top where you can see something, i'll talk sense." a small footpath dropped down to the dry bed of the canon, which they crossed before they began the climb. the slope was steep and covered with matted brush and bushes, through which the horses slipped and lunged. bob, growing disgusted, turned back suddenly and attempted to pass mab. the mare was thrust sidewise into the denser bush, where she nearly fell. recovering, she flung her weight against bob. both riders' legs were caught in the consequent squeeze, and, as bob plunged ahead down hill, dede was nearly scraped off. daylight threw his horse on to its haunches and at the same time dragged dede back into the saddle. showers of twigs and leaves fell upon them, and predicament followed predicament, until they emerged on the hilltop the worse for wear but happy and excited. here no trees obstructed the view. the particular hill on which they were, out-jutted from the regular line of the range, so that the sweep of their vision extended over three-quarters of the circle. below, on the flat land bordering the bay, lay oakland, and across the bay was san francisco. between the two cities they could see the white ferry-boats on the water. around to their right was berkeley, and to their left the scattered villages between oakland and san leandro. directly in the foreground was piedmont, with its desultory dwellings and patches of farming land, and from piedmont the land rolled down in successive waves upon oakland. "look at it," said daylight, extending his arm in a sweeping gesture. "a hundred thousand people there, and no reason there shouldn't be half a million. there's the chance to make five people grow where one grows now. here's the scheme in a nutshell. why don't more people live in oakland? no good service with san francisco, and, besides, oakland is asleep. it's a whole lot better place to live in than san francisco. now, suppose i buy in all the street railways of oakland, berkeley, alameda, san leandro, and the rest,--bring them under one head with a competent management? suppose i cut the time to san francisco one-half by building a big pier out there almost to goat island and establishing a ferry system with modern up-to-date boats? why, folks will want to live over on this side. very good. they'll need land on which to build. so, first i buy up the land. but the land's cheap now. why? because it's in the country, no electric roads, no quick communication, nobody guessing that the electric roads are coming. i'll build the roads. that will make the land jump up. then i'll sell the land as fast as the folks will want to buy because of the improved ferry system and transportation facilities. "you see, i give the value to the land by building the roads. then i sell the land and get that value back, and after that, there's the roads, all carrying folks back and forth and earning big money. can't lose. and there's all sorts of millions in it. "i'm going to get my hands on some of that water front and the tide-lands. take between where i'm going to build my pier and the old pier. it's shallow water. i can fill and dredge and put in a system of docks that will handle hundreds of ships. san francisco's water front is congested. no more room for ships. with hundreds of ships loading and unloading on this side right into the freight cars of three big railroads, factories will start up over here instead of crossing to san francisco. that means factory sites. that means me buying in the factory sites before anybody guesses the cat is going to jump, much less, which way. factories mean tens of thousands of workingmen and their families. that means more houses and more land, and that means me, for i'll be there to sell them the land. and tens of thousands of families means tens of thousands of nickels every day for my electric cars. the growing population will mean more stores, more banks, more everything. and that'll mean me, for i'll be right there with business property as well as home property. what do you think of it?" before she could answer, he was off again, his mind's eye filled with this new city of his dream which he builded on the alameda hills by the gateway to the orient. "do you know--i've been looking it up--the firth of clyde, where all the steel ships are built, isn't half as wide as oakland creek down there, where all those old hulks lie? why ain't it a firth of clyde? because the oakland city council spends its time debating about prunes and raisins. what is needed is somebody to see things, and, after that, organization. that's me. i didn't make ophir for nothing. and once things begin to hum, outside capital will pour in. all i do is start it going. 'gentlemen,' i say, 'here's all the natural advantages for a great metropolis. god almighty put them advantages here, and he put me here to see them. do you want to land your tea and silk from asia and ship it straight east? here's the docks for your steamers, and here's the railroads. do you want factories from which you can ship direct by land or water? here's the site, and here's the modern, up-to-date city, with the latest improvements for yourselves and your workmen, to live in.'" "then there's the water. i'll come pretty close to owning the watershed. why not the waterworks too? there's two water companies in oakland now, fighting like cats and dogs and both about broke. what a metropolis needs is a good water system. they can't give it. they're stick-in-the-muds. i'll gobble them up and deliver the right article to the city. there's money there, too--money everywhere. everything works in with everything else. each improvement makes the value of everything else pump up. it's people that are behind the value. the bigger the crowd that herds in one place, the more valuable is the real estate. and this is the very place for a crowd to herd. look at it. just look at it! you could never find a finer site for a great city. all it needs is the herd, and i'll stampede a couple of hundred thousand people in here inside two years. and what's more it won't be one of these wild cat land booms. it will be legitimate. twenty years from now there'll be a million people on this side the bay. another thing is hotels. there isn't a decent one in the town. i'll build a couple of up-to-date ones that'll make them sit up and take notice. i won't care if they don't pay for years. their effect will more than give me my money back out of the other holdings. and, oh, yes, i'm going to plant eucalyptus, millions of them, on these hills." "but how are you going to do it?" dede asked. "you haven't enough money for all that you've planned." "i've thirty million, and if i need more i can borrow on the land and other things. interest on mortgages won't anywhere near eat up the increase in land values, and i'll be selling land right along." in the weeks that followed, daylight was a busy man. he spent most of his time in oakland, rarely coming to the office. he planned to move the office to oakland, but, as he told dede, the secret preliminary campaign of buying had to be put through first. sunday by sunday, now from this hilltop and now from that, they looked down upon the city and its farming suburbs, and he pointed out to her his latest acquisitions. at first it was patches and sections of land here and there; but as the weeks passed it was the unowned portions that became rare, until at last they stood as islands surrounded by daylight's land. it meant quick work on a colossal scale, for oakland and the adjacent country was not slow to feel the tremendous buying. but daylight had the ready cash, and it had always been his policy to strike quickly. before the others could get the warning of the boom, he quietly accomplished many things. at the same time that his agents were purchasing corner lots and entire blocks in the heart of the business section and the waste lands for factory sites, he was rushing franchises through the city council, capturing the two exhausted water companies and the eight or nine independent street railways, and getting his grip on the oakland creek and the bay tide-lands for his dock system. the tide-lands had been in litigation for years, and he took the bull by the horns--buying out the private owners and at the same time leasing from the city fathers. by the time that oakland was aroused by this unprecedented activity in every direction and was questioning excitedly the meaning of it, daylight secretly bought the chief republican newspaper and the chief democratic organ, and moved boldly into his new offices. of necessity, they were on a large scale, occupying four floors of the only modern office building in the town--the only building that wouldn't have to be torn down later on, as daylight put it. there was department after department, a score of them, and hundreds of clerks and stenographers. as he told dede: "i've got more companies than you can shake a stick at. there's the alameda & contra costa land syndicate, the consolidated street railways, the yerba buena ferry company, the united water company, the piedmont realty company, the fairview and portola hotel company, and half a dozen more that i've got to refer to a notebook to remember. there's the piedmont laundry farm, and redwood consolidated quarries. starting in with our quarry, i just kept a-going till i got them all. and there's the ship-building company i ain't got a name for yet. seeing as i had to have ferry-boats, i decided to build them myself. they'll be done by the time the pier is ready for them. phew! it all sure beats poker. and i've had the fun of gouging the robber gangs as well. the water company bunches are squealing yet. i sure got them where the hair was short. they were just about all in when i came along and finished them off." "but why do you hate them so?" dede asked. "because they're such cowardly skunks." "but you play the same game they do." "yes; but not in the same way." daylight regarded her thoughtfully. "when i say cowardly skunks, i mean just that,--cowardly skunks. they set up for a lot of gamblers, and there ain't one in a thousand of them that's got the nerve to be a gambler. they're four-flushers, if you know what that means. they're a lot of little cottontail rabbits making believe they're big rip-snorting timber wolves. they set out to everlastingly eat up some proposition but at the first sign of trouble they turn tail and stampede for the brush. look how it works. when the big fellows wanted to unload little copper, they sent jakey fallow into the new york stock exchange to yell out: 'i'll buy all or any part of little copper at fifty five,' little copper being at fifty-four. and in thirty minutes them cottontails--financiers, some folks call them--bid up little copper to sixty. and an hour after that, stampeding for the brush, they were throwing little copper overboard at forty-five and even forty. "they're catspaws for the big fellows. almost as fast as they rob the suckers, the big fellows come along and hold them up. or else the big fellows use them in order to rob each other. that's the way the chattanooga coal and iron company was swallowed up by the trust in the last panic. the trust made that panic. it had to break a couple of big banking companies and squeeze half a dozen big fellows, too, and it did it by stampeding the cottontails. the cottontails did the rest all right, and the trust gathered in chattanooga coal and iron. why, any man, with nerve and savvee, can start them cottontails jumping for the brush. i don't exactly hate them myself, but i haven't any regard for chicken-hearted four-flushers." chapter xvii for months daylight was buried in work. the outlay was terrific, and there was nothing coming in. beyond a general rise in land values, oakland had not acknowledged his irruption on the financial scene. the city was waiting for him to show what he was going to do, and he lost no time about it. the best skilled brains on the market were hired by him for the different branches of the work. initial mistakes he had no patience with, and he was determined to start right, as when he engaged wilkinson, almost doubling his big salary, and brought him out from chicago to take charge of the street railway organization. night and day the road gangs toiled on the streets. and night and day the pile-drivers hammered the big piles down into the mud of san francisco bay. the pier was to be three miles long, and the berkeley hills were denuded of whole groves of mature eucalyptus for the piling. at the same time that his electric roads were building out through the hills, the hay-fields were being surveyed and broken up into city squares, with here and there, according to best modern methods, winding boulevards and strips of park. broad streets, well graded, were made, with sewers and water-pipes ready laid, and macadamized from his own quarries. cement sidewalks were also laid, so that all the purchaser had to do was to select his lot and architect and start building. the quick service of daylight's new electric roads into oakland made this big district immediately accessible, and long before the ferry system was in operation hundreds of residences were going up. the profit on this land was enormous. in a day, his onslaught of wealth had turned open farming country into one of the best residential districts of the city. but this money that flowed in upon him was immediately poured back into his other investments. the need for electric cars was so great that he installed his own shops for building them. and even on the rising land market, he continued to buy choice factory sites and building properties. on the advice of wilkinson, practically every electric road already in operation was rebuilt. the light, old fashioned rails were torn out and replaced by the heaviest that were manufactured. corner lots, on the sharp turns of narrow streets, were bought and ruthlessly presented to the city in order to make wide curves for his tracks and high speed for his cars. then, too, there were the main-line feeders for his ferry system, tapping every portion of oakland, alameda, and berkeley, and running fast expresses to the pier end. the same large-scale methods were employed in the water system. service of the best was needed, if his huge land investment was to succeed. oakland had to be made into a worth-while city, and that was what he intended to do. in addition to his big hotels, he built amusement parks for the common people, and art galleries and club-house country inns for the more finicky classes. even before there was any increase in population, a marked increase in street-railway traffic took place. there was nothing fanciful about his schemes. they were sound investments. "what oakland wants is a first class theatre," he said, and, after vainly trying to interest local capital, he started the building of the theatre himself; for he alone had vision for the two hundred thousand new people that were coming to the town. but no matter what pressure was on daylight, his sundays he reserved for his riding in the hills. it was not the winter weather, however, that brought these rides with dede to an end. one saturday afternoon in the office she told him not to expect to meet her next day, and, when he pressed for an explanation: "i've sold mab." daylight was speechless for the moment. her act meant one of so many serious things that he couldn't classify it. it smacked almost of treachery. she might have met with financial disaster. it might be her way of letting him know she had seen enough of him. or... "what's the matter?" he managed to ask. "i couldn't afford to keep her with hay forty-five dollars a ton," dede answered. "was that your only reason?" he demanded, looking at her steadily; for he remembered her once telling him how she had brought the mare through one winter, five years before, when hay had gone as high as sixty dollars a ton. "no. my brother's expenses have been higher, as well, and i was driven to the conclusion that since i could not afford both, i'd better let the mare go and keep the brother." daylight felt inexpressibly saddened. he was suddenly aware of a great emptiness. what would a sunday be without dede? and sundays without end without her? he drummed perplexedly on the desk with his fingers. "who bought her?" he asked. dede's eyes flashed in the way long since familiar to him when she was angry. "don't you dare buy her back for me," she cried. "and don't deny that that was what you had in mind." "i won't deny it. it was my idea to a tee. but i wouldn't have done it without asking you first, and seeing how you feel about it, i won't even ask you. but you thought a heap of that mare, and it's pretty hard on you to lose her. i'm sure sorry. and i'm sorry, too, that you won't be riding with me tomorrow. i'll be plumb lost. i won't know what to do with myself." "neither shall i," dede confessed mournfully, "except that i shall be able to catch up with my sewing." "but i haven't any sewing." daylight's tone was whimsically plaintive, but secretly he was delighted with her confession of loneliness. it was almost worth the loss of the mare to get that out of her. at any rate, he meant something to her. he was not utterly unliked. "i wish you would reconsider, miss mason," he said softly. "not alone for the mare's sake, but for my sake. money don't cut any ice in this. for me to buy that mare wouldn't mean as it does to most men to send a bouquet of flowers or a box of candy to a young lady. and i've never sent you flowers or candy." he observed the warning flash of her eyes, and hurried on to escape refusal. "i'll tell you what we'll do. suppose i buy the mare and own her myself, and lend her to you when you want to ride. there's nothing wrong in that. anybody borrows a horse from anybody, you know." agin he saw refusal, and headed her off. "lots of men take women buggy-riding. there's nothing wrong in that. and the man always furnishes the horse and buggy. well, now, what's the difference between my taking you buggy-riding and furnishing the horse and buggy, and taking you horse-back-riding and furnishing the horses?" she shook her head, and declined to answer, at the same time looking at the door as if to intimate that it was time for this unbusinesslike conversation to end. he made one more effort. "do you know, miss mason, i haven't a friend in the world outside you? i mean a real friend, man or woman, the kind you chum with, you know, and that you're glad to be with and sorry to be away from. hegan is the nearest man i get to, and he's a million miles away from me. outside business, we don't hitch. he's got a big library of books, and some crazy kind of culture, and he spends all his off times reading things in french and german and other outlandish lingoes--when he ain't writing plays and poetry. there's nobody i feel chummy with except you, and you know how little we've chummed--once a week, if it didn't rain, on sunday. i've grown kind of to depend on you. you're a sort of--of--of--" "a sort of habit," she said with a smile. "that's about it. and that mare, and you astride of her, coming along the road under the trees or through the sunshine--why, with both you and the mare missing, there won't be anything worth waiting through the week for. if you'd just let me buy her back--" "no, no; i tell you no." dede rose impatiently, but her eyes were moist with the memory of her pet. "please don't mention her to me again. if you think it was easy to part with her, you are mistaken. but i've seen the last of her, and i want to forget her." daylight made no answer, and the door closed behind him. half an hour later he was conferring with jones, the erstwhile elevator boy and rabid proletarian whom daylight long before had grubstaked to literature for a year. the resulting novel had been a failure. editors and publishers would not look at it, and now daylight was using the disgruntled author in a little private secret service system he had been compelled to establish for himself. jones, who affected to be surprised at nothing after his crushing experience with railroad freight rates on firewood and charcoal, betrayed no surprise now when the task was given to him to locate the purchaser of a certain sorrel mare. "how high shall i pay for her?" he asked. "any price. you've got to get her, that's the point. drive a sharp bargain so as not to excite suspicion, but buy her. then you deliver her to that address up in sonoma county. the man's the caretaker on a little ranch i have there. tell him he's to take whacking good care of her. and after that forget all about it. don't tell me the name of the man you buy her from. don't tell me anything about it except that you've got her and delivered her. savvee?" but the week had not passed, when daylight noted the flash in dede's eyes that boded trouble. "something's gone wrong--what is it?" he asked boldly. "mab," she said. "the man who bought her has sold her already. if i thought you had anything to do with it--" "i don't even know who you sold her to," was daylight's answer. "and what's more, i'm not bothering my head about her. she was your mare, and it's none of my business what you did with her. you haven't got her, that's sure and worse luck. and now, while we're on touchy subjects, i'm going to open another one with you. and you needn't get touchy about it, for it's not really your business at all." she waited in the pause that followed, eyeing him almost suspiciously. "it's about that brother of yours. he needs more than you can do for him. selling that mare of yours won't send him to germany. and that's what his own doctors say he needs--that crack german specialist who rips a man's bones and muscles into pulp and then molds them all over again. well, i want to send him to germany and give that crack a flutter, that's all." "if it were only possible" she said, half breathlessly, and wholly without anger. "only it isn't, and you know it isn't. i can't accept money from you--" "hold on, now," he interrupted. "wouldn't you accept a drink of water from one of the twelve apostles if you was dying of thirst? or would you be afraid of his evil intentions"--she made a gesture of dissent "--or of what folks might say about it?" "but that's different," she began. "now look here, miss mason. you've got to get some foolish notions out of your head. this money notion is one of the funniest things i've seen. suppose you was falling over a cliff, wouldn't it be all right for me to reach out and hold you by the arm? sure it would. but suppose you needed another sort of help--instead of the strength of arm, the strength of my pocket? that would be all and that's what they all say. but why do they say it. because the robber gangs want all the suckers to be honest and respect money. if the suckers weren't honest and didn't respect money, where would the robbers be? don't you see? the robbers don't deal in arm-holds; they deal in dollars. therefore arm-holds are just common and ordinary, while dollars are sacred--so sacred that you didn't let me lend you a hand with a few. "or here's another way," he continued, spurred on by her mute protest. "it's all right for me to give the strength of my arm when you're falling over a cliff. but if i take that same strength of arm and use it at pick-and-shovel work for a day and earn two dollars, you won't have anything to do with the two dollars. yet it's the same old strength of arm in a new form, that's all. besides, in this proposition it won't be a claim on you. it ain't even a loan to you. it's an arm-hold i'm giving your brother--just the same sort of arm-hold as if he was falling over a cliff. and a nice one you are, to come running out and yell 'stop!' at me, and let your brother go on over the cliff. what he needs to save his legs is that crack in germany, and that's the arm-hold i'm offering. "wish you could see my rooms. walls all decorated with horsehair bridles--scores of them--hundreds of them. they're no use to me, and they cost like sam scratch. but there's a lot of convicts making them, and i go on buying. why, i've spent more money in a single night on whiskey than would get the best specialists and pay all the expenses of a dozen cases like your brother's. and remember, you've got nothing to do with this. if your brother wants to look on it as a loan, all right. it's up to him, and you've got to stand out of the way while i pull him back from that cliff." still dede refused, and daylight's argument took a more painful turn. "i can only guess that you're standing in your brother's way on account of some mistaken idea in your head that this is my idea of courting. well, it ain't. you might as well think i'm courting all those convicts i buy bridles from. i haven't asked you to marry me, and if i do i won't come trying to buy you into consenting. and there won't be anything underhand when i come a-asking." dede's face was flushed and angry. "if you knew how ridiculous you are, you'd stop," she blurted out. "you can make me more uncomfortable than any man i ever knew. every little while you give me to understand that you haven't asked me to marry you yet. i'm not waiting to be asked, and i warned you from the first that you had no chance. and yet you hold it over my head that some time, some day, you're going to ask me to marry you. go ahead and ask me now, and get your answer and get it over and done with." he looked at her in honest and pondering admiration. "i want you so bad, miss mason, that i don't dast to ask you now," he said, with such whimsicality and earnestness as to make her throw her head back in a frank boyish laugh. "besides, as i told you, i'm green at it. i never went a-courting before, and i don't want to make any mistakes." "but you're making them all the time," she cried impulsively. "no man ever courted a woman by holding a threatened proposal over her head like a club." "i won't do it any more," he said humbly. "and anyway, we're off the argument. my straight talk a minute ago still holds. you're standing in your brother's way. no matter what notions you've got in your head, you've got to get out of the way and give him a chance. will you let me go and see him and talk it over with him? i'll make it a hard and fast business proposition. i'll stake him to get well, that's all, and charge him interest." she visibly hesitated. "and just remember one thing, miss mason: it's his leg, not yours." still she refrained from giving her answer, and daylight went on strengthening his position. "and remember, i go over to see him alone. he's a man, and i can deal with him better without womenfolks around. i'll go over to-morrow afternoon." chapter xviii daylight had been wholly truthful when he told dede that he had no real friends. on speaking terms with thousands, on fellowship and drinking terms with hundreds, he was a lonely man. he failed to find the one man, or group of several men, with whom he could be really intimate. cities did not make for comradeship as did the alaskan trail. besides, the types of men were different. scornful and contemptuous of business men on the one hand, on the other his relations with the san francisco bosses had been more an alliance of expediency than anything else. he had felt more of kinship for the franker brutality of the bosses and their captains, but they had failed to claim any deep respect. they were too prone to crookedness. bonds were better than men's word in this modern world, and one had to look carefully to the bonds. in the old yukon days it had been different. bonds didn't go. a man said he had so much, and even in a poker game his appeasement was accepted. larry hegan, who rose ably to the largest demands of daylight's operations and who had few illusions and less hypocrisy, might have proved a chum had it not been for his temperamental twist. strange genius that he was, a napoleon of the law, with a power of visioning that far exceeded daylight's, he had nothing in common with daylight outside the office. he spent his time with books, a thing daylight could not abide. also, he devoted himself to the endless writing of plays which never got beyond manuscript form, and, though daylight only sensed the secret taint of it, was a confirmed but temperate eater of hasheesh. hegan lived all his life cloistered with books in a world of agitation. with the out-of-door world he had no understanding nor tolerance. in food and drink he was abstemious as a monk, while exercise was a thing abhorrent. daylight's friendships, in lieu of anything closer, were drinking friendships and roistering friendships. and with the passing of the sunday rides with dede, he fell back more and more upon these for diversion. the cocktail wall of inhibition he reared more assiduously than ever. the big red motor-car was out more frequently now, while a stable hand was hired to give bob exercise. in his early san francisco days, there had been intervals of easement between his deals, but in this present biggest deal of all the strain was unremitting. not in a month, or two, or three, could his huge land investment be carried to a successful consummation. and so complete and wide-reaching was it that complications and knotty situations constantly arose. every day brought its problems, and when he had solved them in his masterful way, he left the office in his big car, almost sighing with relief at anticipation of the approaching double martini. rarely was he made tipsy. his constitution was too strong for that. instead, he was that direst of all drinkers, the steady drinker, deliberate and controlled, who averaged a far higher quantity of alcohol than the irregular and violent drinker. for six weeks hard-running he had seen nothing of dede except in the office, and there he resolutely refrained from making approaches. but by the seventh sunday his hunger for her overmastered him. it was a stormy day. a heavy southeast gale was blowing, and squall after squall of rain and wind swept over the city. he could not take his mind off of her, and a persistent picture came to him of her sitting by a window and sewing feminine fripperies of some sort. when the time came for his first pre-luncheon cocktail to be served to him in his rooms, he did not take it. filled with a daring determination, he glanced at his note book for dede's telephone number, and called for the switch. at first it was her landlady's daughter who was raised, but in a minute he heard the voice he had been hungry to hear. "i just wanted to tell you that i'm coming out to see you," he said. "i didn't want to break in on you without warning, that was all." "has something happened?" came her voice. "i'll tell you when i get there," he evaded. he left the red car two blocks away and arrived on foot at the pretty, three-storied, shingled berkeley house. for an instant only, he was aware of an inward hesitancy, but the next moment he rang the bell. he knew that what he was doing was in direct violation of her wishes, and that he was setting her a difficult task to receive as a sunday caller the multimillionaire and notorious elam harnish of newspaper fame. on the other hand, the one thing he did not expect of her was what he would have termed "silly female capers." and in this he was not disappointed. she came herself to the door to receive him and shake hands with him. he hung his mackintosh and hat on the rack in the comfortable square hall and turned to her for direction. "they are busy in there," she said, indicating the parlor from which came the boisterous voices of young people, and through the open door of which he could see several college youths. "so you will have to come into my rooms." she led the way through the door opening out of the hall to the right, and, once inside, he stood awkwardly rooted to the floor, gazing about him and at her and all the time trying not to gaze. in his perturbation he failed to hear and see her invitation to a seat. so these were her quarters. the intimacy of it and her making no fuss about it was startling, but it was no more than he would have expected of her. it was almost two rooms in one, the one he was in evidently the sitting-room, and the one he could see into, the bedroom. beyond an oaken dressing-table, with an orderly litter of combs and brushes and dainty feminine knickknacks, there was no sign of its being used as a bedroom. the broad couch, with a cover of old rose and banked high with cushions, he decided must be the bed, but it was farthest from any experience of a civilized bed he had ever had. not that he saw much of detail in that awkward moment of standing. his general impression was one of warmth and comfort and beauty. there were no carpets, and on the hardwood floor he caught a glimpse of several wolf and coyote skins. what captured and perceptibly held his eye for a moment was a crouched venus that stood on a steinway upright against a background of mountain-lion skin on the wall. but it was dede herself that smote most sharply upon sense and perception. he had always cherished the idea that she was very much a woman--the lines of her figure, her hair, her eyes, her voice, and birdlike laughing ways had all contributed to this; but here, in her own rooms, clad in some flowing, clinging gown, the emphasis of sex was startling. he had been accustomed to her only in trim tailor suits and shirtwaists, or in riding costume of velvet corduroy, and he was not prepared for this new revelation. she seemed so much softer, so much more pliant, and tender, and lissome. she was a part of this atmosphere of quietude and beauty. she fitted into it just as she had fitted in with the sober office furnishings. "won't you sit down?" she repeated. he felt like an animal long denied food. his hunger for her welled up in him, and he proceeded to "wolf" the dainty morsel before him. here was no patience, no diplomacy. the straightest, direct way was none too quick for him and, had he known it, the least unsuccessful way he could have chosen. "look here," he said, in a voice that shook with passion, "there's one thing i won't do, and that's propose to you in the office. that's why i'm here. dede mason, i want you. i just want you." while he spoke he advanced upon her, his black eyes burning with bright fire, his aroused blood swarthy in his cheek. so precipitate was he, that she had barely time to cry out her involuntary alarm and to step back, at the same time catching one of his hands as he attempted to gather her into his arms. in contrast to him, the blood had suddenly left her cheeks. the hand that had warded his hand off and that still held it, was trembling. she relaxed her fingers, and his arm dropped to his side. she wanted to say something, do something, to pass on from the awkwardness of the situation, but no intelligent thought nor action came into her mind. she was aware only of a desire to laugh. this impulse was party hysterical and partly spontaneous humor--the latter growing from instant to instant. amazing as the affair was, the ridiculous side of it was not veiled to her. she felt like one who had suffered the terror of the onslaught of a murderous footpad only to find out that it was an innocent pedestrian asking the time. daylight was the quicker to achieve action. "oh, i know i'm a sure enough fool," he said. "i--i guess i'll sit down. don't be scairt, miss mason. i'm not real dangerous." "i'm not afraid," she answered, with a smile, slipping down herself into a chair, beside which, on the floor, stood a sewing-basket from which, daylight noted, some white fluffy thing of lace and muslin overflowed. again she smiled. "though i confess you did startle me for the moment." "it's funny," daylight sighed, almost with regret; "here i am, strong enough to bend you around and tie knots in you. here i am, used to having my will with man and beast and anything. and here i am sitting in this chair, as weak and helpless as a little lamb. you sure take the starch out of me." dede vainly cudgeled her brains in quest of a reply to these remarks. instead, her thought dwelt insistently upon the significance of his stepping aside, in the middle of a violent proposal, in order to make irrelevant remarks. what struck her was the man's certitude. so little did he doubt that he would have her, that he could afford to pause and generalize upon love and the effects of love. she noted his hand unconsciously slipping in the familiar way into the side coat pocket where she knew he carried his tobacco and brown papers. "you may smoke, if you want to," she said. he withdrew his hand with a jerk, as if something in the pocket had stung him. "no, i wasn't thinking of smoking. i was thinking of you. what's a man to do when he wants a woman but ask her to marry him? that's all that i'm doing. i can't do it in style. i know that. but i can use straight english, and that's good enough for me. i sure want you mighty bad, miss mason. you're in my mind 'most all the time, now. and what i want to know is--well, do you want me? that's all." "i--i wish you hadn't asked," she said softly. "mebbe it's best you should know a few things before you give me an answer," he went on, ignoring the fact that the answer had already been given. "i never went after a woman before in my life, all reports to the contrary not withstanding. the stuff you read about me in the papers and books, about me being a lady-killer, is all wrong. there's not an iota of truth in it. i guess i've done more than my share of card-playing and whiskey-drinking, but women i've let alone. there was a woman that killed herself, but i didn't know she wanted me that bad or else i'd have married her--not for love, but to keep her from killing herself. she was the best of the boiling, but i never gave her any encouragement. i'm telling you all this because you've read about it, and i want you to get it straight from me. "lady-killer!" he snorted. "why, miss mason, i don't mind telling you that i've sure been scairt of women all my life. you're the first one i've not been afraid of. that's the strange thing about it. i just plumb worship you, and yet i'm not afraid of you. mebbe it's because you're different from the women i know. you've never chased me. lady-killer! why, i've been running away from ladies ever since i can remember, and i guess all that saved me was that i was strong in the wind and that i never fell down and broke a leg or anything. "i didn't ever want to get married until after i met you, and until a long time after i met you. i cottoned to you from the start; but i never thought it would get as bad as marriage. why, i can't get to sleep nights, thinking of you and wanting you." he came to a stop and waited. she had taken the lace and muslin from the basket, possibly to settle her nerves and wits, and was sewing upon it. as she was not looking at him, he devoured her with his eyes. he noted the firm, efficient hands--hands that could control a horse like bob, that could run a typewriter almost as fast as a man could talk, that could sew on dainty garments, and that, doubtlessly, could play on the piano over there in the corner. another ultra-feminine detail he noticed--her slippers. they were small and bronze. he had never imagined she had such a small foot. street shoes and riding boots were all that he had ever seen on her feet, and they had given no advertisement of this. the bronze slippers fascinated him, and to them his eyes repeatedly turned. a knock came at the door, which she answered. daylight could not help hearing the conversation. she was wanted at the telephone. "tell him to call up again in ten minutes," he heard her say, and the masculine pronoun caused in him a flashing twinge of jealousy. well, he decided, whoever it was, burning daylight would give him a run for his money. the marvel to him was that a girl like dede hadn't been married long since. she came back, smiling to him, and resumed her sewing. his eyes wandered from the efficient hands to the bronze slippers and back again, and he swore to himself that there were mighty few stenographers like her in existence. that was because she must have come of pretty good stock, and had a pretty good raising. nothing else could explain these rooms of hers and the clothes she wore and the way she wore them. "those ten minutes are flying," he suggested. "i can't marry you," she said. "you don't love me?" she shook her head. "do you like me--the littlest bit?" this time she nodded, at the same time allowing the smile of amusement to play on her lips. but it was amusement without contempt. the humorous side of a situation rarely appealed in vain to her. "well, that's something to go on," he announced. "you've got to make a start to get started. i just liked you at first, and look what it's grown into. you recollect, you said you didn't like my way of life. well, i've changed it a heap. i ain't gambling like i used to. i've gone into what you called the legitimate, making two minutes grow where one grew before, three hundred thousand folks where only a hundred thousand grew before. and this time next year there'll be two million eucalyptus growing on the hills. say do you like me more than the littlest bit?" she raised her eyes from her work and looked at him as she answered: "i like you a great deal, but--" he waited a moment for her to complete the sentence, failing which, he went on himself. "i haven't an exaggerated opinion of myself, so i know i ain't bragging when i say i'll make a pretty good husband. you'd find i was no hand at nagging and fault-finding. i can guess what it must be for a woman like you to be independent. well, you'd be independent as my wife. no strings on you. you could follow your own sweet will, and nothing would be too good for you. i'd give you everything your heart desired--" "except yourself," she interrupted suddenly, almost sharply. daylight's astonishment was momentary. "i don't know about that. i'd be straight and square, and live true. i don't hanker after divided affections." "i don't mean that," she said. "instead of giving yourself to your wife, you would give yourself to the three hundred thousand people of oakland, to your street railways and ferry-routes, to the two million trees on the hills to everything business--and--and to all that that means." "i'd see that i didn't," he declared stoutly. "i'd be yours to command." "you think so, but it would turn out differently." she suddenly became nervous. "we must stop this talk. it is too much like attempting to drive a bargain. 'how much will you give?' 'i'll give so much.' 'i want more,' and all that. i like you, but not enough to marry you, and i'll never like you enough to marry you." "how do you know that?" he demanded. "because i like you less and less." daylight sat dumfounded. the hurt showed itself plainly in his face. "oh, you don't understand," she cried wildly, beginning to lose self-control--"it's not that way i mean. i do like you; the more i've known you the more i've liked you. and at the same time the more i've known you the less would i care to marry you." this enigmatic utterance completed daylight's perplexity. "don't you see?" she hurried on. "i could have far easier married the elam harnish fresh from klondike, when i first laid eyes on him long ago, than marry you sitting before me now." he shook his head slowly. "that's one too many for me. the more you know and like a man the less you want to marry him. familiarity breeds contempt--i guess that's what you mean." "no, no," she cried, but before she could continue, a knock came on the door. "the ten minutes is up," daylight said. his eyes, quick with observation like an indian's, darted about the room while she was out. the impression of warmth and comfort and beauty predominated, though he was unable to analyze it; while the simplicity delighted him--expensive simplicity, he decided, and most of it leftovers from the time her father went broke and died. he had never before appreciated a plain hardwood floor with a couple of wolfskins; it sure beat all the carpets in creation. he stared solemnly at a bookcase containing a couple of hundred books. there was mystery. he could not understand what people found so much to write about. writing things and reading things were not the same as doing things, and himself primarily a man of action, doing things was alone comprehensible. his gaze passed on from the crouched venus to a little tea-table with all its fragile and exquisite accessories, and to a shining copper kettle and copper chafing-dish. chafing dishes were not unknown to him, and he wondered if she concocted suppers on this one for some of those university young men he had heard whispers about. one or two water-colors on the wall made him conjecture that she had painted them herself. there were photographs of horses and of old masters, and the trailing purple of a burial of christ held him for a time. but ever his gaze returned to that crouched venus on the piano. to his homely, frontier-trained mind, it seemed curious that a nice young woman should have such a bold, if not sinful, object on display in her own room. but he reconciled himself to it by an act of faith. since it was dede, it must be eminently all right. evidently such things went along with culture. larry hegan had similar casts and photographs in his book-cluttered quarters. but then, larry hegan was different. there was that hint of unhealth about him that daylight invariably sensed in his presence, while dede, on the contrary, seemed always so robustly wholesome, radiating an atmosphere compounded of the sun and wind and dust of the open road. and yet, if such a clean, healthy woman as she went in for naked women crouching on her piano, it must be all right. dede made it all right. she could come pretty close to making anything all right. besides, he didn't understand culture anyway. she reentered the room, and as she crossed it to her chair, he admired the way she walked, while the bronze slippers were maddening. "i'd like to ask you several questions," he began immediately "are you thinking of marrying somebody?" she laughed merrily and shook her head. "do you like anybody else more than you like me?--that man at the 'phone just now, for instance?" "there isn't anybody else. i don't know anybody i like well enough to marry. for that matter, i don't think i am a marrying woman. office work seems to spoil one for that." daylight ran his eyes over her, from her face to the tip of a bronze slipper, in a way that made the color mantle in her cheeks. at the same time he shook his head sceptically. "it strikes me that you're the most marryingest woman that ever made a man sit up and take notice. and now another question. you see, i've just got to locate the lay of the land. is there anybody you like as much as you like me?" but dede had herself well in hand. "that's unfair," she said. "and if you stop and consider, you will find that you are doing the very thing you disclaimed--namely, nagging. i refuse to answer any more of your questions. let us talk about other things. how is bob?" half an hour later, whirling along through the rain on telegraph avenue toward oakland, daylight smoked one of his brown-paper cigarettes and reviewed what had taken place. it was not at all bad, was his summing up, though there was much about it that was baffling. there was that liking him the more she knew him and at the same time wanting to marry him less. that was a puzzler. but the fact that she had refused him carried with it a certain elation. in refusing him she had refused his thirty million dollars. that was going some for a ninety dollar-a-month stenographer who had known better times. she wasn't after money, that was patent. every woman he had encountered had seemed willing to swallow him down for the sake of his money. why, he had doubled his fortune, made fifteen millions, since the day she first came to work for him, and behold, any willingness to marry him she might have possessed had diminished as his money had increased. "gosh!" he muttered. "if i clean up a hundred million on this land deal she won't even be on speaking terms with me." but he could not smile the thing away. it remained to baffle him, that enigmatic statement of hers that she could more easily have married the elam harnish fresh from the klondike than the present elam harnish. well, he concluded, the thing to do was for him to become more like that old-time daylight who had come down out of the north to try his luck at the bigger game. but that was impossible. he could not set back the flight of time. wishing wouldn't do it, and there was no other way. he might as well wish himself a boy again. another satisfaction he cuddled to himself from their interview. he had heard of stenographers before, who refused their employers, and who invariably quit their positions immediately afterward. but dede had not even hinted at such a thing. no matter how baffling she was, there was no nonsensical silliness about her. she was level headed. but, also, he had been level-headed and was partly responsible for this. he hadn't taken advantage of her in the office. true, he had twice overstepped the bounds, but he had not followed it up and made a practice of it. she knew she could trust him. but in spite of all this he was confident that most young women would have been silly enough to resign a position with a man they had turned down. and besides, after he had put it to her in the right light, she had not been silly over his sending her brother to germany. "gee!" he concluded, as the car drew up before his hotel. "if i'd only known it as i do now, i'd have popped the question the first day she came to work. according to her say-so, that would have been the proper moment. she likes me more and more, and the more she likes me the less she'd care to marry me! now what do you think of that? she sure must be fooling." chapter xix once again, on a rainy sunday, weeks afterward, daylight proposed to dede. as on the first time, he restrained himself until his hunger for her overwhelmed him and swept him away in his red automobile to berkeley. he left the machine several blocks away and proceeded to the house on foot. but dede was out, the landlady's daughter told him, and added, on second thought, that she was out walking in the hills. furthermore, the young lady directed him where dede's walk was most likely to extend. daylight obeyed the girl's instructions, and soon the street he followed passed the last house and itself ceased where began the first steep slopes of the open hills. the air was damp with the on-coming of rain, for the storm had not yet burst, though the rising wind proclaimed its imminence. as far as he could see, there was no sign of dede on the smooth, grassy hills. to the right, dipping down into a hollow and rising again, was a large, full-grown eucalyptus grove. here all was noise and movement, the lofty, slender trunked trees swaying back and forth in the wind and clashing their branches together. in the squalls, above all the minor noises of creaking and groaning, arose a deep thrumming note as of a mighty harp. knowing dede as he did, daylight was confident that he would find her somewhere in this grove where the storm effects were so pronounced. and find her he did, across the hollow and on the exposed crest of the opposing slope where the gale smote its fiercest blows. there was something monotonous, though not tiresome, about the way daylight proposed. guiltless of diplomacy subterfuge, he was as direct and gusty as the gale itself. he had time neither for greeting nor apology. "it's the same old thing," he said. "i want you and i've come for you. you've just got to have me, dede, for the more i think about it the more certain i am that you've got a sneaking liking for me that's something more than just ordinary liking. and you don't dast say that it isn't; now dast you?" he had shaken hands with her at the moment he began speaking, and he had continued to hold her hand. now, when she did not answer, she felt a light but firmly insistent pressure as of his drawing her to him. involuntarily, she half-yielded to him, her desire for the moment stronger than her will. then suddenly she drew herself away, though permitting her hand still to remain in his. "you sure ain't afraid of me?" he asked, with quick compunction. "no." she smiled woefully. "not of you, but of myself." "you haven't taken my dare," he urged under this encouragement. "please, please," she begged. "we can never marry, so don't let us discuss it." "then i copper your bet to lose." he was almost gay, now, for success was coming faster than his fondest imagining. she liked him, without a doubt; and without a doubt she liked him well enough to let him hold her hand, well enough to be not repelled by the nearness of him. she shook her head. "no, it is impossible. you would lose your bet." for the first time a dark suspicion crossed daylight's mind--a clew that explained everything. "say, you ain't been let in for some one of these secret marriages have you?" the consternation in his voice and on his face was too much for her, and her laugh rang out, merry and spontaneous as a burst of joy from the throat of a bird. daylight knew his answer, and, vexed with himself decided that action was more efficient than speech. so he stepped between her and the wind and drew her so that she stood close in the shelter of him. an unusually stiff squall blew about them and thrummed overhead in the tree-tops and both paused to listen. a shower of flying leaves enveloped them, and hard on the heel of the wind came driving drops of rain. he looked down on her and on her hair wind-blown about her face; and because of her closeness to him and of a fresher and more poignant realization of what she meant to him, he trembled so that she was aware of it in the hand that held hers. she suddenly leaned against him, bowing her head until it rested lightly upon his breast. and so they stood while another squall, with flying leaves and scattered drops of rain, rattled past. with equal suddenness she lifted her head and looked at him. "do you know," she said, "i prayed last night about you. i prayed that you would fail, that you would lose everything everything." daylight stared his amazement at this cryptic utterance. "that sure beats me. i always said i got out of my depth with women, and you've got me out of my depth now. why you want me to lose everything, seeing as you like me--" "i never said so." "you didn't dast say you didn't. so, as i was saying: liking me, why you'd want me to go broke is clean beyond my simple understanding. it's right in line with that other puzzler of yours, the more-you-like-me-the-less-you-want-to-marry-me one. well, you've just got to explain, that's all." his arms went around her and held her closely, and this time she did not resist. her head was bowed, and he had not see her face, yet he had a premonition that she was crying. he had learned the virtue of silence, and he waited her will in the matter. things had come to such a pass that she was bound to tell him something now. of that he was confident. "i am not romantic," she began, again looking at him as he spoke. "it might be better for me if i were. then i could make a fool of myself and be unhappy for the rest of my life. but my abominable common sense prevents. and that doesn't make me a bit happier, either." "i'm still out of my depth and swimming feeble," daylight said, after waiting vainly for her to go on. "you've got to show me, and you ain't shown me yet. your common sense and praying that i'd go broke is all up in the air to me. little woman, i just love you mighty hard, and i want you to marry me. that's straight and simple and right off the bat. will you marry me?" she shook her head slowly, and then, as she talked, seemed to grow angry, sadly angry; and daylight knew that this anger was against him. "then let me explain, and just as straight and simply as you have asked." she paused, as if casting about for a beginning. "you are honest and straightforward. do you want me to be honest and straightforward as a woman is not supposed to be?--to tell you things that will hurt you?--to make confessions that ought to shame me? to behave in what many men would think was an unwomanly manner?" the arm around her shoulder pressed encouragement, but he did not speak. "i would dearly like to marry you, but i am afraid. i am proud and humble at the same time that a man like you should care for me. but you have too much money. there's where my abominable common sense steps in. even if we did marry, you could never be my man--my lover and my husband. you would be your money's man. i know i am a foolish woman, but i want my man for myself. you would not be free for me. your money possesses you, taking your time, your thoughts, your energy, everything, bidding you go here and go there, do this and do that. don't you see? perhaps it's pure silliness, but i feel that i can love much, give much--give all, and in return, though i don't want all, i want much--and i want much more than your money would permit you to give me. "and your money destroys you; it makes you less and less nice. i am not ashamed to say that i love you, because i shall never marry you. and i loved you much when i did not know you at all, when you first came down from alaska and i first went into the office. you were my hero. you were the burning daylight of the gold-diggings, the daring traveler and miner. and you looked it. i don't see how any woman could have looked at you without loving you--then. but you don't look it now. "please, please, forgive me for hurting you. you wanted straight talk, and i am giving it to you. all these last years you have been living unnaturally. you, a man of the open, have been cooping yourself up in the cities with all that that means. you are not the same man at all, and your money is destroying you. you are becoming something different, something not so healthy, not so clean, not so nice. your money and your way of life are doing it. you know it. you haven't the same body now that you had then. you are putting on flesh, and it is not healthy flesh. you are kind and genial with me, i know, but you are not kind and genial to all the world as you were then. you have become harsh and cruel. and i know. remember, i have studied you six days a week, month after month, year after year; and i know more about the most insignificant parts of you than you know of all of me. the cruelty is not only in your heart and thoughts, but it is there in face. it has put its lines there. i have watched them come and grow. your money, and the life it compels you to lead have done all this. you are being brutalized and degraded. and this process can only go on and on until you are hopelessly destroyed--" he attempted to interrupt, but she stopped him, herself breathless and her voice trembling. "no, no; let me finish utterly. i have done nothing but think, think, think, all these months, ever since you came riding with me, and now that i have begun to speak i am going to speak all that i have in me. i do love you, but i cannot marry you and destroy love. you are growing into a thing that i must in the end despise. you can't help it. more than you can possibly love me, do you love this business game. this business--and it's all perfectly useless, so far as you are concerned--claims all of you. i sometimes think it would be easier to share you equitably with another woman than to share you with this business. i might have half of you, at any rate. but this business would claim, not half of you, but nine-tenths of you, or ninety-nine hundredths. "remember, the meaning of marriage to me is not to get a man's money to spend. i want the man. you say you want me. and suppose i consented, but gave you only one-hundredth part of me. suppose there was something else in my life that took the other ninety-nine parts, and, furthermore, that ruined my figure, that put pouches under my eyes and crows-feet in the corners, that made me unbeautiful to look upon and that made my spirit unbeautiful. would you be satisfied with that one-hundredth part of me? yet that is all you are offering me of yourself. do you wonder that i won't marry you?--that i can't?" daylight waited to see if she were quite done, and she went on again. "it isn't that i am selfish. after all, love is giving, not receiving. but i see so clearly that all my giving could not do you any good. you are like a sick man. you don't play business like other men. you play it heart and and all of you. no matter what you believed and intended a wife would be only a brief diversion. there is that magnificent bob, eating his head off in the stable. you would buy me a beautiful mansion and leave me in it to yawn my head off, or cry my eyes out because of my helplessness and inability to save you. this disease of business would be corroding you and marring you all the time. you play it as you have played everything else, as in alaska you played the life of the trail. nobody could be permitted to travel as fast and as far as you, to work as hard or endure as much. you hold back nothing; you put all you've got into whatever you are doing." "limit is the sky," he grunted grim affirmation. "but if you would only play the lover-husband that way--" her voice faltered and stopped, and a blush showed in her wet cheeks as her eyes fell before his. "and now i won't say another word," she added. "i've delivered a whole sermon." she rested now, frankly and fairly, in the shelter of his arms, and both were oblivious to the gale that rushed past them in quicker and stronger blasts. the big downpour of rain had not yet come, but the mist-like squalls were more frequent. daylight was openly perplexed, and he was still perplexed when he began to speak. "i'm stumped. i'm up a tree. i'm clean flabbergasted, miss mason--or dede, because i love to call you that name. i'm free to confess there's a mighty big heap in what you say. as i understand it, your conclusion is that you'd marry me if i hadn't a cent and if i wasn't getting fat. no, no; i'm not joking. i acknowledge the corn, and that's just my way of boiling the matter down and summing it up. if i hadn't a cent, and if i was living a healthy life with all the time in the world to love you and be your husband instead of being awash to my back teeth in business and all the rest--why, you'd marry me. "that's all as clear as print, and you're correcter than i ever guessed before. you've sure opened my eyes a few. but i'm stuck. what can i do? my business has sure roped, thrown, and branded me. i'm tied hand and foot, and i can't get up and meander over green pastures. i'm like the man that got the bear by the tail. i can't let go; and i want you, and i've got to let go to get you. "i don't know what to do, but something's sure got to happen--i can't lose you. i just can't. and i'm not going to. why, you're running business a close second right now. business never kept me awake nights. "you've left me no argument. i know i'm not the same man that came from alaska. i couldn't hit the trail with the dogs as i did in them days. i'm soft in my muscles, and my mind's gone hard. i used to respect men. i despise them now. you see, i spent all my life in the open, and i reckon i'm an open-air man. why, i've got the prettiest little ranch you ever laid eyes on, up in glen ellen. that's where i got stuck for that brick-yard. you recollect handling the correspondence. i only laid eyes on the ranch that one time, and i so fell in love with it that i bought it there and then. i just rode around the hills, and was happy as a kid out of school. i'd be a better man living in the country. the city doesn't make me better. you're plumb right there. i know it. but suppose your prayer should be answered and i'd go clean broke and have to work for day's wages?" she did not answer, though all the body of her seemed to urge consent. "suppose i had nothing left but that little ranch, and was satisfied to grow a few chickens and scratch a living somehow--would you marry me then, dede?" "why, we'd be together all the time!" she cried. "but i'd have to be out ploughing once in a while," he warned, "or driving to town to get the grub." "but there wouldn't be the office, at any rate, and no man to see, and men to see without end. but it is all foolish and impossible, and we'll have to be starting back now if we're to escape the rain." then was the moment, among the trees, where they began the descent of the hill, that daylight might have drawn her closely to him and kissed her once. but he was too perplexed with the new thoughts she had put into his head to take advantage of the situation. he merely caught her by the arm and helped her over the rougher footing. "it's darn pretty country up there at glen ellen," he said meditatively. "i wish you could see it." at the edge of the grove he suggested that it might be better for them to part there. "it's your neighborhood, and folks is liable to talk." but she insisted that he accompany her as far as the house. "i can't ask you in," she said, extending her hand at the foot of the steps. the wind was humming wildly in sharply recurrent gusts, but still the rain held off. "do you know," he said, "taking it by and large, it's the happiest day of my life." he took off his hat, and the wind rippled and twisted his black hair as he went on solemnly, "and i'm sure grateful to god, or whoever or whatever is responsible for your being on this earth. for you do like me heaps. it's been my joy to hear you say so to-day. it's--" he left the thought arrested, and his face assumed the familiar whimsical expression as he murmured: "dede, dede, we've just got to get married. it's the only way, and trust to luck for it's coming out all right--". but the tears were threatening to rise in her eyes again, as she shook her head and turned and went up the steps. chapter xx when the ferry system began to run, and the time between oakland and san francisco was demonstrated to be cut in half, the tide of daylight's terrific expenditure started to turn. not that it really did turn, for he promptly went into further investments. thousands of lots in his residence tracts were sold, and thousands of homes were being built. factory sites also were selling, and business properties in the heart of oakland. all this tended to a steady appreciation in value of daylight's huge holdings. but, as of old, he had his hunch and was riding it. already he had begun borrowing from the banks. the magnificent profits he made on the land he sold were turned into more land, into more development; and instead of paying off old loans, he contracted new ones. as he had pyramided in dawson city, he now pyramided in oakland; but he did it with the knowledge that it was a stable enterprise rather than a risky placer-mining boom. in a small way, other men were following his lead, buying and selling land and profiting by the improvement work he was doing. but this was to be expected, and the small fortunes they were making at his expense did not irritate him. there was an exception, however. one simon dolliver, with money to go in with, and with cunning and courage to back it up, bade fair to become a several times millionaire at daylight's expense. dolliver, too, pyramided, playing quickly and accurately, and keeping his money turning over and over. more than once daylight found him in the way, as he himself had got in the way of the guggenhammers when they first set their eyes on ophir creek. work on daylight's dock system went on apace, yet was one of those enterprises that consumed money dreadfully and that could not be accomplished as quickly as a ferry system. the engineering difficulties were great, the dredging and filling a cyclopean task. the mere item of piling was anything but small. a good average pile, by the time it was delivered on the ground, cost a twenty-dollar gold piece, and these piles were used in unending thousands. all accessible groves of mature eucalyptus were used, and as well, great rafts of pine piles were towed down the coast from peugeot sound. not content with manufacturing the electricity for his street railways in the old-fashioned way, in power-houses, daylight organized the sierra and salvador power company. this immediately assumed large proportions. crossing the san joaquin valley on the way from the mountains, and plunging through the contra costa hills, there were many towns, and even a robust city, that could be supplied with power, also with light; and it became a street- and house-lighting project as well. as soon as the purchase of power sites in the sierras was rushed through, the survey parties were out and building operations begun. and so it went. there were a thousand maws into which he poured unceasing streams of money. but it was all so sound and legitimate, that daylight, born gambler that he was, and with his clear, wide vision, could not play softly and safely. it was a big opportunity, and to him there was only one way to play it, and that was the big way. nor did his one confidential adviser, larry hegan, aid him to caution. on the contrary, it was daylight who was compelled to veto the wilder visions of that able hasheesh dreamer. not only did daylight borrow heavily from the banks and trust companies, but on several of his corporations he was compelled to issue stock. he did this grudgingly however, and retained most of his big enterprises of his own. among the companies in which he reluctantly allowed the investing public to join were the golden gate dock company, and recreation parks company, the united water company, the uncial shipbuilding company, and the sierra and salvador power company. nevertheless, between himself and hegan, he retained the controlling share in each of these enterprises. his affair with dede mason only seemed to languish. while delaying to grapple with the strange problem it presented, his desire for her continued to grow. in his gambling simile, his conclusion was that luck had dealt him the most remarkable card in the deck, and that for years he had overlooked it. love was the card, and it beat them all. love was the king card of trumps, the fifth ace, the joker in a game of tenderfoot poker. it was the card of cards, and play it he would, to the limit, when the opening came. he could not see that opening yet. the present game would have to play to some sort of a conclusion first. yet he could not shake from his brain and vision the warm recollection of those bronze slippers, that clinging gown, and all the feminine softness and pliancy of dede in her pretty berkeley rooms. once again, on a rainy sunday, he telephoned that he was coming. and, as has happened ever since man first looked upon woman and called her good, again he played the blind force of male compulsion against the woman's secret weakness to yield. not that it was daylight's way abjectly to beg and entreat. on the contrary, he was masterful in whatever he did, but he had a trick of whimsical wheedling that dede found harder to resist than the pleas of a suppliant lover. it was not a happy scene in its outcome, for dede, in the throes of her own desire, desperate with weakness and at the same time with her better judgment hating her weakness cried out:-- "you urge me to try a chance, to marry you now and trust to luck for it to come out right. and life is a gamble say. very well, let us gamble. take a coin and toss it in the air. if it comes heads, i'll marry you. if it doesn't, you are forever to leave me alone and never mention marriage again." a fire of mingled love and the passion of gambling came into daylight's eyes. involuntarily his hand started for his pocket for the coin. then it stopped, and the light in his eyes was troubled. "go on," she ordered sharply. "don't delay, or i may change my mind, and you will lose the chance." "little woman." his similes were humorous, but there was no humor in their meaning. his thought was as solemn as his voice. "little woman, i'd gamble all the way from creation to the day of judgment; i'd gamble a golden harp against another man's halo; i'd toss for pennies on the front steps of the new jerusalem or set up a faro layout just outside the pearly gates; but i'll be everlastingly damned if i'll gamble on love. love's too big to me to take a chance on. love's got to be a sure thing, and between you and me it is a sure thing. if the odds was a hundred to one on my winning this flip, just the same, nary a flip." in the spring of the year the great panic came on. the first warning was when the banks began calling in their unprotected loans. daylight promptly paid the first several of his personal notes that were presented; then he divined that these demands but indicated the way the wind was going to blow, and that one of those terrific financial storms he had heard about was soon to sweep over the united states. how terrific this particular storm was to be he did not anticipate. nevertheless, he took every precaution in his power, and had no anxiety about his weathering it out. money grew tighter. beginning with the crash of several of the greatest eastern banking houses, the tightness spread, until every bank in the country was calling in its credits. daylight was caught, and caught because of the fact that for the first time he had been playing the legitimate business game. in the old days, such a panic, with the accompanying extreme shrinkage of values, would have been a golden harvest time for him. as it was, he watched the gamblers, who had ridden the wave of prosperity and made preparation for the slump, getting out from under and safely scurrying to cover or proceeding to reap a double harvest. nothing remained for him but to stand fast and hold up. he saw the situation clearly. when the banks demanded that he pay his loans, he knew that the banks were in sore need of the money. but he was in sorer need. and he knew that the banks did not want his collateral which they held. it would do them no good. in such a tumbling of values was no time to sell. his collateral was good, all of it, eminently sound and worth while; yet it was worthless at such a moment, when the one unceasing cry was money, money, money. finding him obdurate, the banks demanded more collateral, and as the money pinch tightened they asked for two and even three times as much as had been originally accepted. sometimes daylight yielded to these demands, but more often not, and always battling fiercely. he fought as with clay behind a crumbling wall. all portions of the wall were menaced, and he went around constantly strengthening the weakest parts with clay. this clay was money, and was applied, a sop here and a sop there, as fast as it was needed, but only when it was directly needed. the strength of his position lay in the yerba buena ferry company, the consolidated street railways, and the united water company. though people were no longer buying residence lots and factory and business sites, they were compelled to ride on his cars and ferry-boats and to consume his water. when all the financial world was clamoring for money and perishing through lack of it, the first of each month many thousands of dollars poured into his coffers from the water-rates, and each day ten thousand dollars, in dime and nickels, came in from his street railways and ferries. cash was what was wanted, and had he had the use of all this steady river of cash, all would have been well with him. as it was, he had to fight continually for a portion of it. improvement work ceased, and only absolutely essential repairs were made. his fiercest fight was with the operating expenses, and this was a fight that never ended. there was never any let-up in his turning the thumb-screws of extended credit and economy. from the big wholesale suppliers down through the salary list to office stationery and postage stamps, he kept the thumb-screws turning. when his superintendents and heads of departments performed prodigies of cutting down, he patted them on the back and demanded more. when they threw down their hands in despair, he showed them how more could be accomplished. "you are getting eight thousand dollars a year," he told matthewson. "it's better pay than you ever got in your life before. your fortune is in the same sack with mine. you've got to stand for some of the strain and risk. you've got personal credit in this town. use it. stand off butcher and baker and all the rest. savvee? you're drawing down something like six hundred and sixty dollars a month. i want that cash. from now on, stand everybody off and draw down a hundred. i'll pay you interest on the rest till this blows over." two weeks later, with the pay-roll before them, it was:-- "matthewson, who's this bookkeeper, rogers? your nephew? i thought so. he's pulling down eighty-five a month. after--this let him draw thirty-five. the forty can ride with me at interest." "impossible!" matthewson cried. "he can't make ends meet on his salary as it is, and he has a wife and two kids--" daylight was upon him with a mighty oath. "can't! impossible! what in hell do you think i'm running? a home for feeble-minded? feeding and dressing and wiping the little noses of a lot of idiots that can't take care of themselves? not on your life. i'm hustling, and now's the time that everybody that works for me has got to hustle. i want no fair-weather birds holding down my office chairs or anything else. this is nasty weather, damn nasty weather, and they've got to buck into it just like me. there are ten thousand men out of work in oakland right now, and sixty thousand more in san francisco. your nephew, and everybody else on your pay-roll, can do as i say right now or quit. savvee? if any of them get stuck, you go around yourself and guarantee their credit with the butchers and grocers. and you trim down that pay-roll accordingly. i've been carrying a few thousand folks that'll have to carry themselves for a while now, that's all." "you say this filter's got to be replaced," he told his chief of the water-works. "we'll see about it. let the people of oakland drink mud for a change. it'll teach them to appreciate good water. stop work at once. get those men off the pay-roll. cancel all orders for material. the contractors will sue? let 'em sue and be damned. we'll be busted higher'n a kite or on easy street before they can get judgment." and to wilkinson: "take off that owl boat. let the public roar and come home early to its wife. and there's that last car that connects with the : boat at twenty-second and hastings. cut it out. i can't run it for two or three passengers. let them take an earlier boat home or walk. this is no time for philanthropy. and you might as well take off a few more cars in the rush hours. let the strap-hangers pay. it's the strap-hangers that'll keep us from going under." and to another chief, who broke down under the excessive strain of retrenchment:-- "you say i can't do that and can't do this. i'll just show you a few of the latest patterns in the can-and-can't line. you'll be compelled to resign? all right, if you think so i never saw the man yet that i was hard up for. and when any man thinks i can't get along without him, i just show him the latest pattern in that line of goods and give him his walking-papers." and so he fought and drove and bullied and even wheedled his way along. it was fight, fight, fight, and no let-up, from the first thing in the morning till nightfall. his private office saw throngs every day. all men came to see him, or were ordered to come. now it was an optimistic opinion on the panic, a funny story, a serious business talk, or a straight take-it-or-leave-it blow from the shoulder. and there was nobody to relieve him. it was a case of drive, drive, drive, and he alone could do the driving. and this went on day after day, while the whole business world rocked around him and house after house crashed to the ground. "it's all right, old man," he told hegan every morning; and it was the same cheerful word that he passed out all day long, except at such times when he was in the thick of fighting to have his will with persons and things. eight o'clock saw him at his desk each morning. by ten o'clock, it was into the machine and away for a round of the banks. and usually in the machine with him was the ten thousand and more dollars that had been earned by his ferries and railways the day before. this was for the weakest spot in the financial dike. and with one bank president after another similar scenes were enacted. they were paralyzed with fear, and first of all he played his role of the big vital optimist. times were improving. of course they were. the signs were already in the air. all that anybody had to do was to sit tight a little longer and hold on. that was all. money was already more active in the east. look at the trading on wall street of the last twenty-four hours. that was the straw that showed the wind. hadn't ryan said so and so? and wasn't it reported that morgan was preparing to do this and that? as for himself, weren't the street-railway earnings increasing steadily? in spite of the panic, more and more people were coming to oakland right along. movements were already beginning in real estate. he was dickering even then to sell over a thousand of his suburban acres. of course it was at a sacrifice, but it would ease the strain on all of them and bolster up the faint-hearted. that was the trouble--the faint-hearts. had there been no faint-hearts there would have been no panic. there was that eastern syndicate, negotiating with him now to take the majority of the stock in the sierra and salvador power company off his hands. that showed confidence that better times were at hand. and if it was not cheery discourse, but prayer and entreaty or show down and fight on the part of the banks, daylight had to counter in kind. if they could bully, he could bully. if the favor he asked were refused, it became the thing he demanded. and when it came down to raw and naked fighting, with the last veil of sentiment or illusion torn off, he could take their breaths away. but he knew, also, how and when to give in. when he saw the wall shaking and crumbling irretrievably at a particular place, he patched it up with sops of cash from his three cash-earning companies. if the banks went, he went too. it was a case of their having to hold out. if they smashed and all the collateral they held of his was thrown on the chaotic market, it would be the end. and so it was, as the time passed, that on occasion his red motor-car carried, in addition to the daily cash, the most gilt-edged securities he possessed; namely, the ferry company, united water and consolidated railways. but he did this reluctantly, fighting inch by inch. as he told the president of the merchants san antonio who made the plea of carrying so many others:-- "they're small fry. let them smash. i'm the king pin here. you've got more money to make out of me than them. of course, you're carrying too much, and you've got to choose, that's all. it's root hog or die for you or them. i'm too strong to smash. you could only embarrass me and get yourself tangled up. your way out is to let the small fry go, and i'll lend you a hand to do it." and it was daylight, also, in this time of financial anarchy, who sized up simon dolliver's affairs and lent the hand that sent that rival down in utter failure. the golden gate national was the keystone of dolliver's strength, and to the president of that institution daylight said:-- "here i've been lending you a hand, and you now in the last ditch, with dolliver riding on you and me all the time. it don't go. you hear me, it don't go. dolliver couldn't cough up eleven dollars to save you. let him get off and walk, and i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll give you the railway nickels for four days--that's forty thousand cash. and on the sixth of the month you can count on twenty thousand more from the water company." he shrugged his shoulders. "take it or leave it. them's my terms." "it's dog eat dog, and i ain't overlooking any meat that's floating around," daylight proclaimed that afternoon to hegan; and simon dolliver went the way of the unfortunate in the great panic who were caught with plenty of paper and no money. daylight's shifts and devices were amazing. nothing however large or small, passed his keen sight unobserved. the strain he was under was terrific. he no longer ate lunch. the days were too short, and his noon hours and his office were as crowded as at any other time. by the end of the day he was exhausted, and, as never before, he sought relief behind his wall of alcoholic inhibition. straight to his hotel he was driven, and straight to his rooms he went, where immediately was mixed for him the first of a series of double martinis. by dinner, his brain was well clouded and the panic forgotten. by bedtime, with the assistance of scotch whiskey, he was full--not violently nor uproariously full, nor stupefied, but merely well under the influence of a pleasant and mild anesthetic. next morning he awoke with parched lips and mouth, and with sensations of heaviness in his head which quickly passed away. by eight o'clock he was at his desk, buckled down to the fight, by ten o'clock on his personal round of the banks, and after that, without a moment's cessation, till nightfall, he was handling the knotty tangles of industry, finance, and human nature that crowded upon him. and with nightfall it was back to the hotel, the double martinis and the scotch; and this was his program day after day until the days ran into weeks. chapter xxi though daylight appeared among his fellows hearty voiced, inexhaustible, spilling over with energy and vitality, deep down he was a very weary man. and sometime under the liquor drug, snatches of wisdom came to him far more lucidity than in his sober moments, as, for instance, one night, when he sat on the edge of the bed with one shoe in his hand and meditated on dede's aphorism to the effect that he could not sleep in more than one bed at a time. still holding the shoe, he looked at the array of horsehair bridles on the walls. then, carrying the shoe, he got up and solemnly counted them, journeying into the two adjoining rooms to complete the tale. then he came back to the bed and gravely addressed his shoe:-- "the little woman's right. only one bed at a time. one hundred and forty hair bridles, and nothing doing with ary one of them. one bridle at a time! i can't ride one horse at a time. poor old bob. i'd better be sending you out to pasture. thirty million dollars, and a hundred million or nothing in sight, and what have i got to show for it? there's lots of things money can't buy. it can't buy the little woman. it can't buy capacity. what's the good of thirty millions when i ain't got room for more than a quart of cocktails a day? if i had a hundred-quart-cocktail thirst, it'd be different. but one quart--one measly little quart! here i am, a thirty times over millionaire, slaving harder every day than any dozen men that work for me, and all i get is two meals that don't taste good, one bed, a quart of martini, and a hundred and forty hair bridles to look at on the wall." he stared around at the array disconsolately. "mr. shoe, i'm sizzled. good night." far worse than the controlled, steady drinker is the solitary drinker, and it was this that daylight was developing into. he rarely drank sociably any more, but in his own room, by himself. returning weary from each day's unremitting effort, he drugged himself to sleep, knowing that on the morrow he would rise up with a dry and burning mouth and repeat the program. but the country did not recover with its wonted elasticity. money did not become freer, though the casual reader of daylight's newspapers, as well as of all the other owned and subsidised newspapers in the country, could only have concluded that the money tightness was over and that the panic was past history. all public utterances were cheery and optimistic, but privately many of the utterers were in desperate straits. the scenes enacted in the privacy of daylight's office, and of the meetings of his boards of directors, would have given the lie to the editorials in his newspapers; as, for instance, when he addressed the big stockholders in the sierra and salvador power company, the united water company, and the several other stock companies:-- "you've got to dig. you've got a good thing, but you'll have to sacrifice in order to hold on. there ain't no use spouting hard times explanations. don't i know the hard times is on? ain't that what you're here for? as i said before, you've got to dig. i run the majority stock, and it's come to a case of assess. it's that or smash. if ever i start going you won't know what struck you, i'll smash that hard. the small fry can let go, but you big ones can't. this ship won't sink as long as you stay with her. but if you start to leave her, down you'll sure go before you can get to shore. this assessment has got to be met that's all." the big wholesale supply houses, the caterers for his hotels, and all the crowd that incessantly demanded to be paid, had their hot half-hours with him. he summoned them to his office and displayed his latest patterns of can and can't and will and won't. "by god, you've got to carry me!" he told them. "if you think this is a pleasant little game of parlor whist and that you can quit and go home whenever you want, you're plumb wrong. look here, watkins, you remarked five minutes ago that you wouldn't stand for it. now let me tell you a few. you're going to stand for it and keep on standin's for it. you're going to continue supplying me and taking my paper until the pinch is over. how you're going to do it is your trouble, not mine. you remember what i did to klinkner and the altamont trust company? i know the inside of your business better than you do yourself, and if you try to drop me i'll smash you. even if i'd be going to smash myself, i'd find a minute to turn on you and bring you down with me. it's sink or swim for all of us, and i reckon you'll find it to your interest to keep me on top the puddle." perhaps his bitterest fight was with the stockholders of the united water company, for it was practically the whole of the gross earnings of this company that he voted to lend to himself and used to bolster up his wide battle front. yet he never pushed his arbitrary rule too far. compelling sacrifice from the men whose fortunes were tied up with his, nevertheless when any one of them was driven to the wall and was in dire need, daylight was there to help him back into the line. only a strong man could have saved so complicated a situation in such time of stress, and daylight was that man. he turned and twisted, schemed and devised, bludgeoned and bullied the weaker ones, kept the faint-hearted in the fight, and had no mercy on the deserter. and in the end, when early summer was on, everything began to mend. came a day when daylight did the unprecedented. he left the office an hour earlier than usual, and for the reason that for the first time since the panic there was not an item of work waiting to be done. he dropped into hegan's private office, before leaving, for a chat, and as he stood up to go, he said:-- "hegan, we're all hunkadory. we're pulling out of the financial pawnshop in fine shape, and we'll get out without leaving one unredeemed pledge behind. the worst is over, and the end is in sight. just a tight rein for a couple more weeks, just a bit of a pinch or a flurry or so now and then, and we can let go and spit on our hands." for once he varied his program. instead of going directly to his hotel, he started on a round of the bars and cafes, drinking a cocktail here and a cocktail there, and two or three when he encountered men he knew. it was after an hour or so of this that he dropped into the bar of the parthenon for one last drink before going to dinner. by this time all his being was pleasantly warmed by the alcohol, and he was in the most genial and best of spirits. at the corner of the bar several young men were up to the old trick of resting their elbows and attempting to force each other's hands down. one broad-shouldered young giant never removed his elbow, but put down every hand that came against him. daylight was interested. "it's slosson," the barkeeper told him, in answer to his query. "he's the heavy-hammer thrower at the u.c. broke all records this year, and the world's record on top of it. he's a husky all right all right." daylight nodded and went over to him, placing his own arm in opposition. "i'd like to go you a flutter, son, on that proposition," he said. the young man laughed and locked hands with him; and to daylight's astonishment it was his own hand that was forced down on the bar. "hold on," he muttered. "just one more flutter. i reckon i wasn't just ready that time." again the hands locked. it happened quickly. the offensive attack of daylight's muscles slipped instantly into defense, and, resisting vainly, his hand was forced over and down. daylight was dazed. it had been no trick. the skill was equal, or, if anything, the superior skill had been his. strength, sheer strength, had done it. he called for the drinks, and, still dazed and pondering, held up his own arm, and looked at it as at some new strange thing. he did not know this arm. it certainly was not the arm he had carried around with him all the years. the old arm? why, it would have been play to turn down that young husky's. but this arm--he continued to look at it with such dubious perplexity as to bring a roar of laughter from the young men. this laughter aroused him. he joined in it at first, and then his face slowly grew grave. he leaned toward the hammer-thrower. "son," he said, "let me whisper a secret. get out of here and quit drinking before you begin." the young fellow flushed angrily, but daylight held steadily on. "you listen to your dad, and let him say a few. i'm a young man myself, only i ain't. let me tell you, several years ago for me to turn your hand down would have been like committing assault and battery on a kindergarten." slosson looked his incredulity, while the others grinned and clustered around daylight encouragingly. "son, i ain't given to preaching. this is the first time i ever come to the penitent form, and you put me there yourself--hard. i've seen a few in my time, and i ain't fastidious so as you can notice it. but let me tell you right now that i'm worth the devil alone knows how many millions, and that i'd sure give it all, right here on the bar, to turn down your hand. which means i'd give the whole shooting match just to be back where i was before i quit sleeping under the stars and come into the hen-coops of cities to drink cocktails and lift up my feet and ride. son, that's that's the matter with me, and that's the way i feel about it. the game ain't worth the candle. you just take care of yourself, and roll my advice over once in a while. good night." he turned and lurched out of the place, the moral effect of his utterance largely spoiled by the fact that he was so patently full while he uttered it. still in a daze, daylight made to his hotel, accomplished his dinner, and prepared for bed. "the damned young whippersnapper!" he muttered. "put my hand down easy as you please. my hand!" he held up the offending member and regarded it with stupid wonder. the hand that had never been beaten! the hand that had made the circle city giants wince! and a kid from college, with a laugh on his face, had put it down--twice! dede was right. he was not the same man. the situation would bear more serious looking into than he had ever given it. but this was not the time. in the morning, after a good sleep, he would give it consideration. chapter xxii daylight awoke with the familiar parched mouth and lips and throat, took a long drink of water from the pitcher beside his bed, and gathered up the train of thought where he had left it the night before. he reviewed the easement of the financial strain. things were mending at last. while the going was still rough, the greatest dangers were already past. as he had told hegan, a tight rein and careful playing were all that was needed now. flurries and dangers were bound to come, but not so grave as the ones they had already weathered. he had been hit hard, but he was coming through without broken bones, which was more than simon dolliver and many another could say. and not one of his business friends had been ruined. he had compelled them to stay in line to save himself, and they had been saved as well. his mind moved on to the incident at the corner of the bar of the parthenon, when the young athlete had turned his hand down. he was no longer stunned by the event, but he was shocked and grieved, as only a strong man can be, at this passing of his strength. and the issue was too clear for him to dodge, even with himself. he knew why his hand had gone down. not because he was an old man. he was just in the first flush of his prime, and, by rights, it was the hand of the hammer-thrower which should have gone down. daylight knew that he had taken liberties with himself. he had always looked upon this strength of his as permanent, and here, for years, it had been steadily oozing from him. as he had diagnosed it, he had come in from under the stars to roost in the coops of cities. he had almost forgotten how to walk. he had lifted up his feet and been ridden around in automobiles, cabs and carriages, and electric cars. he had not exercised, and he had dry-rotted his muscles with alcohol. and was it worth it? what did all his money mean after all? dede was right. it could buy him no more than one bed at a time, and at the same time it made him the abjectest of slaves. it tied him fast. he was tied by it right now. even if he so desired, he could not lie abed this very day. his money called him. the office whistle would soon blow, and he must answer it. the early sunshine was streaming through his window--a fine day for a ride in the hills on bob, with dede beside him on her mab. yet all his millions could not buy him this one day. one of those flurries might come along, and he had to be on the spot to meet it. thirty millions! and they were powerless to persuade dede to ride on mab--mab, whom he had bought, and who was unused and growing fat on pasture. what were thirty millions when they could not buy a man a ride with the girl he loved? thirty millions!--that made him come here and go there, that rode upon him like so many millstones, that destroyed him while they grew, that put their foot down and prevented him from winning this girl who worked for ninety dollars a month. which was better? he asked himself. all this was dede's own thought. it was what she had meant when she prayed he would go broke. he held up his offending right arm. it wasn't the same old arm. of course she could not love that arm and that body as she had loved the strong, clean arm and body of years before. he didn't like that arm and body himself. a young whippersnapper had been able to take liberties with it. it had gone back on him. he sat up suddenly. no, by god, he had gone back on it! he had gone back on himself. he had gone back on dede. she was right, a thousand times right, and she had sense enough to know it, sense enough to refuse to marry a money slave with a whiskey-rotted carcass. he got out of bed and looked at himself in the long mirror on the wardrobe door. he wasn't pretty. the old-time lean cheeks were gone. these were heavy, seeming to hang down by their own weight. he looked for the lines of cruelty dede had spoken of, and he found them, and he found the harshness in the eyes as well, the eyes that were muddy now after all the cocktails of the night before, and of the months and years before. he looked at the clearly defined pouches that showed under his eyes, and they've shocked him. he rolled up the sleeve of his pajamas. no wonder the hammer-thrower had put his hand down. those weren't muscles. a rising tide of fat had submerged them. he stripped off the pajama coat. again he was shocked, this time but the bulk of his body. it wasn't pretty. the lean stomach had become a paunch. the ridged muscles of chest and shoulders and abdomen had broken down into rolls of flesh. he sat down on the bed, and through his mind drifted pictures of his youthful excellence, of the hardships he had endured over other men, of the indians and dogs he had run off their legs in the heart-breaking days and nights on the alaskan trail, of the feats of strength that had made him king over a husky race of frontiersmen. and this was age. then there drifted across the field of vision of his mind's eye the old man he had encountered at glen ellen, corning up the hillside through the fires of sunset, white-headed and white-bearded, eighty-four, in his hand the pail of foaming milk and in his face all the warm glow and content of the passing summer day. that had been age. "yes siree, eighty-four, and spryer than most," he could hear the old man say. "and i ain't loafed none. i walked across the plains with an ox-team and fit injuns in ' , and i was a family man then with seven youngsters." next he remembered the old woman of the chaparral, pressing grapes in her mountain clearing; and ferguson, the little man who had scuttled into the road like a rabbit, the one-time managing editor of a great newspaper, who was content to live in the chaparral along with his spring of mountain water and his hand-reared and manicured fruit trees. ferguson had solved a problem. a weakling and an alcoholic, he had run away from the doctors and the chicken-coop of a city, and soaked up health like a thirsty sponge. well, daylight pondered, if a sick man whom the doctors had given up could develop into a healthy farm laborer, what couldn't a merely stout man like himself do under similar circumstances? he caught a vision of his body with all its youthful excellence returned, and thought of dede, and sat down suddenly on the bed, startled by the greatness of the idea that had come to him. he did not sit long. his mind, working in its customary way, like a steel trap, canvassed the idea in all its bearings. it was big--bigger than anything he had faced before. and he faced it squarely, picked it up in his two hands and turned it over and around and looked at it. the simplicity of it delighted him. he chuckled over it, reached his decision, and began to dress. midway in the dressing he stopped in order to use the telephone. dede was the first he called up. "don't come to the office this morning," he said. "i'm coming out to see you for a moment." he called up others. he ordered his motor-car. to jones he gave instructions for the forwarding of bob and wolf to glen ellen. hegan he surprised by asking him to look up the deed of the glen ellen ranch and make out a new one in dede mason's name. "who?" hegan demanded. "dede mason," daylight replied imperturbably the 'phone must be indistinct this morning. "d-e-d-e m-a-s o-n. got it?" half an hour later he was flying out to berkeley. and for the first time the big red car halted directly before the house. dede offered to receive him in the parlor, but he shook his head and nodded toward her rooms. "in there," he said. "no other place would suit." as the door closed, his arms went out and around her. then he stood with his hands on her shoulders and looking down into her face. "dede, if i tell you, flat and straight, that i'm going up to live on that ranch at glen ellen, that i ain't taking a cent with me, that i'm going to scratch for every bite i eat, and that i ain't going to play ary a card at the business game again, will you come along with me?" she gave a glad little cry, and he nestled her in closely. but the next moment she had thrust herself out from him to the old position at arm's length. "i--i don't understand," she said breathlessly. "and you ain't answered my proposition, though i guess no answer is necessary. we're just going to get married right away and start. i've sent bob and wolf along already. when will you be ready?" dede could not forbear to smile. "my, what a hurricane of a man it is. i'm quite blown away. and you haven't explained a word to me." daylight smiled responsively. "look here, dede, this is what card-sharps call a show-down. no more philandering and frills and long-distance sparring between you and me. we're just going to talk straight out in meeting--the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. now you answer some questions for me, and then i'll answer yours." he paused. "well, i've got only one question after all: do you love me enough to marry me?" "but--" she began. "no buts," he broke in sharply. "this is a show-down. when i say marry, i mean what i told you at first, that we'd go up and live on the ranch. do you love me enough for that?" she looked at him for a moment, then her lids dropped, and all of her seemed to advertise consent. "come on, then, let's start." the muscles of his legs tensed involuntarily as if he were about to lead her to the door. "my auto's waiting outside. there's nothing to delay excepting getting on your hat." he bent over her. "i reckon it's allowable," he said, as he kissed her. it was a long embrace, and she was the first to speak. "you haven't answered my questions. how is this possible? how can you leave your business? has anything happened?" "no, nothing's happened yet, but it's going to, blame quick. i've taken your preaching to heart, and i've come to the penitent form. you are my lord god, and i'm sure going to serve you. the rest can go to thunder. you were sure right. i've been the slave to my money, and since i can't serve two masters i'm letting the money slide. i'd sooner have you than all the money in the world, that's all." again he held her closely in his arms. "and i've sure got you, dede. i've sure got you. "and i want to tell you a few more. i've taken my last drink. you're marrying a whiskey-soak, but your husband won't be that. he's going to grow into another man so quick you won't know him. a couple of months from now, up there in glen ellen, you'll wake up some morning and find you've got a perfect stranger in the house with you, and you'll have to get introduced to him all over again. you'll say, 'i'm mrs. harnish, who are you?' and i'll say, 'i'm elam harnish's younger brother. i've just arrived from alaska to attend the funeral.' 'what funeral?' you'll say. and i'll say, 'why, the funeral of that good-for-nothing, gambling, whiskey-drinking burning daylight--the man that died of fatty degeneration of the heart from sitting in night and day at the business game 'yes ma'am,' i'll say, 'he's sure a gone 'coon, but i've come to take his place and make you happy. and now, ma'am, if you'll allow me, i'll just meander down to the pasture and milk the cow while you're getting breakfast.'" again he caught her hand and made as if to start with her for the door. when she resisted, he bent and kissed her again and again. "i'm sure hungry for you, little woman," he murmured "you make thirty millions look like thirty cents." "do sit down and be sensible," she urged, her cheeks flushed, the golden light in her eyes burning more golden than he had ever seen it before. but daylight was bent on having his way, and when he sat down it was with her beside him and his arm around her. "'yes, ma'am,' i'll say, 'burning daylight was a pretty good cuss, but it's better that he's gone. he quit rolling up in his rabbit-skins and sleeping in the snow, and went to living in a chicken-coop. he lifted up his legs and quit walking and working, and took to existing on martini cocktails and scotch whiskey. he thought he loved you, ma'am, and he did his best, but he loved his cocktails more, and he loved his money more, and himself more, and 'most everything else more than he did you.' and then i'll say, 'ma'am, you just run your eyes over me and see how different i am. i ain't got a cocktail thirst, and all the money i got is a dollar and forty cents and i've got to buy a new ax, the last one being plumb wore out, and i can love you just about eleven times as much as your first husband did. you see, ma'am, he went all to fat. and there ain't ary ounce of fat on me.' and i'll roll up my sleeve and show you, and say, 'mrs. harnish, after having experience with being married to that old fat money-bags, do you-all mind marrying a slim young fellow like me?' and you'll just wipe a tear away for poor old daylight, and kind of lean toward me with a willing expression in your eye, and then i'll blush maybe some, being a young fellow, and put my arm around you, like that, and then--why, then i'll up and marry my brother's widow, and go out and do the chores while she's cooking a bite to eat." "but you haven't answered my questions," she reproached him, as she emerged, rosy and radiant, from the embrace that had accompanied the culmination of his narrative. "now just what do you want to know?" he asked. "i want to know how all this is possible? how you are able to leave your business at a time like this? what you meant by saying that something was going to happen quickly? i--" she hesitated and blushed. "i answered your question, you know." "let's go and get married," he urged, all the whimsicality of his utterance duplicated in his eyes. "you know i've got to make way for that husky young brother of mine, and i ain't got long to live." she made an impatient moue, and he continued seriously. "you see, it's like this, dede. i've been working like forty horses ever since this blamed panic set in, and all the time some of those ideas you'd given me were getting ready to sprout. well, they sprouted this morning, that's all. i started to get up, expecting to go to the office as usual. but i didn't go to the office. all that sprouting took place there and then. the sun was shining in the window, and i knew it was a fine day in the hills. and i knew i wanted to ride in the hills with you just about thirty million times more than i wanted to go to the office. and i knew all the time it was impossible. and why? because of the office. the office wouldn't let me. all my money reared right up on its hind legs and got in the way and wouldn't let me. it's a way that blamed money has of getting in the way. you know that yourself. "and then i made up my mind that i was to the dividing of the ways. one way led to the office. the other way led to berkeley. and i took the berkeley road. i'm never going to set foot in the office again. that's all gone, finished, over and done with, and i'm letting it slide clean to smash and then some. my mind's set on this. you see, i've got religion, and it's sure the old-time religion; it's love and you, and it's older than the oldest religion in the world. it's it, that's what it is--it, with a capital i-t." she looked at him with a sudden, startled expression. "you mean--?" she began. "i mean just that. i'm wiping the slate clean. i'm letting it all go to smash. when them thirty million dollars stood up to my face and said i couldn't go out with you in the hills to-day, i knew the time had come for me to put my foot down. and i'm putting it down. i've got you, and my strength to work for you, and that little ranch in sonoma. that's all i want, and that's all i'm going to save out, along with bob and wolf, a suit case and a hundred and forty hair bridles. all the rest goes, and good riddance. it's that much junk." but dede was insistent. "then this--this tremendous loss is all unnecessary?" she asked. "just what i haven't been telling you. it is necessary. if that money thinks it can stand up right to my face and say i can't go riding with you--" "no, no; be serious," dede broke in. "i don't mean that, and you know it. what i want to know is, from a standpoint of business, is this failure necessary?" he shook his head. "you bet it isn't necessary. that's the point of it. i'm not letting go of it because i'm licked to a standstill by the panic and have got to let go. i'm firing it out when i've licked the panic and am winning, hands down. that just shows how little i think of it. it's you that counts, little woman, and i make my play accordingly." but she drew away from his sheltering arms. "you are mad, elam." "call me that again," he murmured ecstatically. "it's sure sweeter than the chink of millions." all this she ignored. "it's madness. you don't know what you are doing--" "oh, yes, i do," he assured her. "i'm winning the dearest wish of my heart. why, your little finger is worth more--" "do be sensible for a moment." "i was never more sensible in my life. i know what i want, and i'm going to get it. i want you and the open air. i want to get my foot off the paving-stones and my ear away from the telephone. i want a little ranch-house in one of the prettiest bits of country god ever made, and i want to do the chores around that ranch-house--milk cows, and chop wood, and curry horses, and plough the ground, and all the rest of it; and i want you there in the ranch-house with me. i'm plumb tired of everything else, and clean wore out. and i'm sure the luckiest man alive, for i've got what money can't buy. i've got you, and thirty millions couldn't buy you, nor three thousand millions, nor thirty cents--" a knock at the door interrupted him, and he was left to stare delightedly at the crouched venus and on around the room at dede's dainty possessions, while she answered the telephone. "it is mr. hegan," she said, on returning. "he is holding the line. he says it is important." daylight shook his head and smiled. "please tell mr. hegan to hang up. i'm done with the office and i don't want to hear anything about anything." a minute later she was back again. "he refuses to hang up. he told me to tell you that unwin is in the office now, waiting to see you, and harrison, too. mr. hegan said that grimshaw and hodgkins are in trouble. that it looks as if they are going to break. and he said something about protection." it was startling information. both unwin and harrison represented big banking corporations, and daylight knew that if the house of grimshaw and hodgkins went it would precipitate a number of failures and start a flurry of serious dimensions. but daylight smiled, and shook his head, and mimicked the stereotyped office tone of voice as he said:-- "miss mason, you will kindly tell mr. hegan that there is nothing doing and to hang up." "but you can't do this," she pleaded. "watch me," he grimly answered. "elam!" "say it again," he cried. "say it again, and a dozen grimshaws and hodgkins can smash!" he caught her by the hand and drew her to him. "you let hegan hang on to that line till he's tired. we can't be wasting a second on him on a day like this. he's only in love with books and things, but i've got a real live woman in my arms that's loving me all the time she's kicking over the traces." chapter xxiii "but i know something of the fight you have been making," dede contended. "if you stop now, all the work you have done, everything, will be destroyed. you have no right to do it. you can't do it." daylight was obdurate. he shook his head and smiled tantalizingly. "nothing will be destroyed, dede, nothing. you don't understand this business game. it's done on paper. don't you see? where's the gold i dug out of klondike? why, it's in twenty-dollar gold pieces, in gold watches, in wedding rings. no matter what happens to me, the twenty-dollar pieces, the watches, and the wedding rings remain. suppose i died right now. it wouldn't affect the gold one iota. it's sure the same with this present situation. all i stand for is paper. i've got the paper for thousands of acres of land. all right. burn up the paper, and burn me along with it. the land remains, don't it? the rain falls on it, the seeds sprout in it, the trees grow out of it, the houses stand on it, the electric cars run over it. it's paper that business is run on. i lose my paper, or i lose my life, it's all the same; it won't alter one grain of sand in all that land, or twist one blade of grass around sideways. "nothing is going to be lost--not one pile out of the docks, not one railroad spike, not one ounce of steam out of the gauge of a ferry-boat. the cars will go on running, whether i hold the paper or somebody else holds it. the tide has set toward oakland. people are beginning to pour in. we're selling building lots again. there is no stopping that tide. no matter what happens to me or the paper, them three hundred thousand folks are coming in the same. and there'll be cars to carry them around, and houses to hold them, and good water for them to drink and electricity to give them light, and all the rest." by this time hegan had arrived in an automobile. the honk of it came in through the open window, and they saw, it stop alongside the big red machine. in the car were unwin and harrison, while jones sat with the chauffeur. "i'll see hegan," daylight told dede. "there's no need for the rest. they can wait in the machine." "is he drunk?" hegan whispered to dede at the door. she shook her head and showed him in. "good morning, larry," was daylight's greeting. "sit down and rest your feet. you sure seem to be in a flutter." "i am," the little irishman snapped back. "grimshaw and hodgkins are going to smash if something isn't done quick. why didn't you come to the office? what are you going to do about it?" "nothing," daylight drawled lazily. "except let them smash, i guess--" "but--" "i've had no dealings with grimshaw and hodgkins. i don't owe them anything. besides, i'm going to smash myself. look here, larry, you know me. you know when i make up my mind i mean it. well, i've sure made up my mind. i'm tired of the whole game. i'm letting go of it as fast as i can, and a smash is the quickest way to let go." hegan stared at his chief, then passed his horror-stricken gaze on to dede, who nodded in sympathy. "so let her smash, larry," daylight went on. "all you've got to do is to protect yourself and all our friends. now you listen to me while i tell you what to do. everything is in good shape to do it. nobody must get hurt. everybody that stood by me must come through without damage. all the back wages and salaries must be paid pronto. all the money i've switched away from the water company, the street cars, and the ferries must be switched back. and you won't get hurt yourself none. every company you got stock in will come through--" "you are crazy, daylight!" the little lawyer cried out. "this is all babbling lunacy. what is the matter with you? you haven't been eating a drug or something?" "i sure have!" daylight smiled reply. "and i'm now coughing it up. i'm sick of living in a city and playing business--i'm going off to the sunshine, and the country, and the green grass. and dede, here, is going with me. so you've got the chance to be the first to congratulate me." "congratulate the--the devil!" hegan spluttered. "i'm not going to stand for this sort of foolishness." "oh, yes, you are; because if you don't there'll be a bigger smash and some folks will most likely get hurt. you're worth a million or more yourself, now, and if you listen to me you come through with a whole skin. i want to get hurt, and get hurt to the limit. that's what i'm looking for, and there's no man or bunch of men can get between me and what i'm looking for. savvee, hegan? savvee?" "what have you done to him?" hegan snarled at dede. "hold on there, larry." for the first time daylight's voice was sharp, while all the old lines of cruelty in his face stood forth. "miss mason is going to be my wife, and while i don't mind your talking to her all you want, you've got to use a different tone of voice or you'll be heading for a hospital, which will sure be an unexpected sort of smash. and let me tell you one other thing. this-all is my doing. she says i'm crazy, too." hegan shook his head in speechless sadness and continued to stare. "there'll be temporary receiverships, of course," daylight advised; "but they won't bother none or last long. what you must do immediately is to save everybody--the men that have been letting their wages ride with me, all the creditors, and all the concerns that have stood by. there's the wad of land that new jersey crowd has been dickering for. they'll take all of a couple of thousand acres and will close now if you give them half a chance. that fairmount section is the cream of it, and they'll dig up as high as a thousand dollars an acre for a part of it. that'll help out some. that five-hundred acre tract beyond, you'll be lucky if they pay two hundred an acre." dede, who had been scarcely listening, seemed abruptly to make up her mind, and stepped forward where she confronted the two men. her face was pale, but set with determination, so that daylight, looking at it, was reminded of the day when she first rode bob. "wait," she said. "i want to say something. elam, if you do this insane thing, i won't marry you. i refuse to marry you." hegan, in spite of his misery, gave her a quick, grateful look. "i'll take my chance on that," daylight began. "wait!" she again interrupted. "and if you don't do this thing, i will marry you." "let me get this proposition clear." daylight spoke with exasperating slowness and deliberation. "as i understand it, if i keep right on at the business game, you'll sure marry me? you'll marry me if i keep on working my head off and drinking martinis?" after each question he paused, while she nodded an affirmation. "and you'll marry me right away?" "yes." "to-day? now?" "yes." he pondered for a moment. "no, little woman, i won't do it. it won't work, and you know it yourself. i want you--all of you; and to get it i'll have to give you all of myself, and there'll be darn little of myself left over to give if i stay with the business game. why, dede, with you on the ranch with me, i'm sure of you--and of myself. i'm sure of you, anyway. you can talk will or won't all you want, but you're sure going to marry me just the same. and now, larry, you'd better be going. i'll be at the hotel in a little while, and since i'm not going a step into the office again, bring all papers to sign and the rest over to my rooms. and you can get me on the 'phone there any time. this smash is going through. savvee? i'm quit and done." he stood up as a sign for hegan to go. the latter was plainly stunned. he also rose to his feet, but stood looking helplessly around. "sheer, downright, absolute insanity," he muttered. daylight put his hand on the other's shoulder. "buck up, larry. you're always talking about the wonders of human nature, and here i am giving you another sample of it and you ain't appreciating it. i'm a bigger dreamer than you are, that's all, and i'm sure dreaming what's coming true. it's the biggest, best dream i ever had, and i'm going after it to get it--" "by losing all you've got," hegan exploded at him. "sure--by losing all i've got that i don't want. but i'm hanging on to them hundred and forty hair bridles just the same. now you'd better hustle out to unwin and harrison and get on down town. i'll be at the hotel, and you can call me up any time." he turned to dede as soon as hegan was gone, and took her by the hand. "and now, little woman, you needn't come to the office any more. consider yourself discharged. and remember i was your employer, so you've got to come to me for recommendation, and if you're not real good, i won't give you one. in the meantime, you just rest up and think about what things you want to pack, because we'll just about have to set up housekeeping on your stuff--leastways, the front part of the house." "but, elam, i won't, i won't! if you do this mad thing i never will marry you." she attempted to take her hand away, but he closed on it with a protecting, fatherly clasp. "will you be straight and honest? all right, here goes. which would you sooner have--me and the money, or me and the ranch?" "but--" she began. "no buts. me and the money?" she did not answer. "me and the ranch?" still she did not answer, and still he was undisturbed. "you see, i know your answer, dede, and there's nothing more to say. here's where you and i quit and hit the high places for sonoma. you make up your mind what you want to pack, and i'll have some men out here in a couple of days to do it for you. it will be about the last work anybody else ever does for us. you and i will do the unpacking and the arranging ourselves." she made a last attempt. "elam, won't you be reasonable? there is time to reconsider. i can telephone down and catch mr. hegan as soon as he reaches the office--" "why, i'm the only reasonable man in the bunch right now," he rejoined. "look at me--as calm as you please, and as happy as a king, while they're fluttering around like a lot of cranky hens whose heads are liable to be cut off." "i'd cry, if i thought it would do any good," she threatened. "in which case i reckon i'd have to hold you in my arms some more and sort of soothe you down," he threatened back. "and now i'm going to go. it's too bad you got rid of mab. you could have sent her up to the ranch. but see you've got a mare to ride of some sort or other." as he stood at the top of the steps, leaving, she said:-- "you needn't send those men. there will be no packing, because i am not going to marry you." "i'm not a bit scared," he answered, and went down the steps. chapter xxiv three days later, daylight rode to berkeley in his red car. it was for the last time, for on the morrow the big machine passed into another's possession. it had been a strenuous three days, for his smash had been the biggest the panic had precipitated in california. the papers had been filled with it, and a great cry of indignation had gone up from the very men who later found that daylight had fully protected their interests. it was these facts, coming slowly to light, that gave rise to the widely repeated charge that daylight had gone insane. it was the unanimous conviction among business men that no sane man could possibly behave in such fashion. on the other hand, neither his prolonged steady drinking nor his affair with dede became public, so the only conclusion attainable was that the wild financier from alaska had gone lunatic. and daylight had grinned and confirmed the suspicion by refusing to see the reporters. he halted the automobile before dede's door, and met her with his same rushing tactics, enclosing her in his arms before a word could be uttered. not until afterward, when she had recovered herself from him and got him seated, did he begin to speak. "i've done it," he announced. "you've seen the newspapers, of course. i'm plumb cleaned out, and i've just called around to find out what day you feel like starting for glen ellen. it'll have to be soon, for it's real expensive living in oakland these days. my board at the hotel is only paid to the end of the week, and i can't afford to stay after that. and beginning with to-morrow i've got to use the street cars, and they sure eat up the nickels." he paused, and waited, and looked at her. indecision and trouble showed on her face. then the smile he knew so well began to grow on her lips and in her eyes, until she threw back her head and laughed in the old forthright boyish way. "when are those men coming to pack for me?" she asked. and again she laughed and simulated a vain attempt to escape his bearlike arms. "dear elam," she whispered; "dear elam." and of herself, for the first time, she kissed him. she ran her hand caressingly through his hair. "your eyes are all gold right now," he said. "i can look in them and tell just how much you love me." "they have been all gold for you, elam, for a long time. i think, on our little ranch, they will always be all gold." "your hair has gold in it, too, a sort of fiery gold." he turned her face suddenly and held it between his hands and looked long into her eyes. "and your eyes were full of gold only the other day, when you said you wouldn't marry me." she nodded and laughed. "you would have your will," she confessed. "but i couldn't be a party to such madness. all that money was yours, not mine. but i was loving you all the time, elam, for the great big boy you are, breaking the thirty-million toy with which you had grown tired of playing. and when i said no, i knew all the time it was yes. and i am sure that my eyes were golden all the time. i had only one fear, and that was that you would fail to lose everything. because, dear, i knew i should marry you anyway, and i did so want just you and the ranch and bob and wolf and those horse-hair bridles. shall i tell you a secret? as soon as you left, i telephoned the man to whom i sold mab." she hid her face against his breast for an instant, and then looked at him again, gladly radiant. "you see, elam, in spite of what my lips said, my mind was made up then. i--i simply had to marry you. but i was praying you would succeed in losing everything. and so i tried to find what had become of mab. but the man had sold her and did not know what had become of her. you see, i wanted to ride with you over the glen ellen hills, on mab and you on bob, just as i had ridden with you through the piedmont hills." the disclosure of mab's whereabouts trembled on daylight's lips, but he forbore. "i'll promise you a mare that you'll like just as much as mab," he said. but dede shook her head, and on that one point refused to be comforted. "now, i've got an idea," daylight said, hastening to get the conversation on less perilous ground. "we're running away from cities, and you have no kith nor kin, so it don't seem exactly right that we should start off by getting married in a city. so here's the idea: i'll run up to the ranch and get things in shape around the house and give the caretaker his walking-papers. you follow me in a couple of days, coming on the morning train. i'll have the preacher fixed and waiting. and here's another idea. you bring your riding togs in a suit case. and as soon as the ceremony's over, you can go to the hotel and change. then out you come, and you find me waiting with a couple of horses, and we'll ride over the landscape so as you can see the prettiest parts of the ranch the first thing. and she's sure pretty, that ranch. and now that it's settled, i'll be waiting for you at the morning train day after to-morrow." dede blushed as she spoke. "you are such a hurricane." "well, ma'am," he drawled, "i sure hate to burn daylight. and you and i have burned a heap of daylight. we've been scandalously extravagant. we might have been married years ago." two days later, daylight stood waiting outside the little glen ellen hotel. the ceremony was over, and he had left dede to go inside and change into her riding-habit while he brought the horses. he held them now, bob and mab, and in the shadow of the watering-trough wolf lay and looked on. already two days of ardent california sun had touched with new fires the ancient bronze in daylight's face. but warmer still was the glow that came into his cheeks and burned in his eyes as he saw dede coming out the door, riding-whip in hand, clad in the familiar corduroy skirt and leggings of the old piedmont days. there was warmth and glow in her own face as she answered his gaze and glanced on past him to the horses. then she saw mab. but her gaze leaped back to the man. "oh, elam!" she breathed. it was almost a prayer, but a prayer that included a thousand meanings daylight strove to feign sheepishness, but his heart was singing too wild a song for mere playfulness. all things had been in the naming of his name--reproach, refined away by gratitude, and all compounded of joy and love. she stepped forward and caressed the mare, and again turned and looked at the man, and breathed:-- "oh, elam!" and all that was in her voice was in her eyes, and in them daylight glimpsed a profundity deeper and wider than any speech or thought--the whole vast inarticulate mystery and wonder of sex and love. again he strove for playfulness of speech, but it was too great a moment for even love fractiousness to enter in. neither spoke. she gathered the reins, and, bending, daylight received her foot in his hand. she sprang, as he lifted and gained the saddle. the next moment he was mounted and beside her, and, with wolf sliding along ahead in his typical wolf-trot, they went up the hill that led out of town--two lovers on two chestnut sorrel steeds, riding out and away to honeymoon through the warm summer day. daylight felt himself drunken as with wine. he was at the topmost pinnacle of life. higher than this no man could climb nor had ever climbed. it was his day of days, his love-time and his mating-time, and all crowned by this virginal possession of a mate who had said "oh, elam," as she had said it, and looked at him out of her soul as she had looked. they cleared the crest of the hill, and he watched the joy mount in her face as she gazed on the sweet, fresh land. he pointed out the group of heavily wooded knolls across the rolling stretches of ripe grain. "they're ours," he said. "and they're only a sample of the ranch. wait till you see the big canon. there are 'coons down there, and back here on the sonoma there are mink. and deer!--why, that mountain's sure thick with them, and i reckon we can scare up a mountain-lion if we want to real hard. and, say, there's a little meadow--well, i ain't going to tell you another word. you wait and see for yourself." they turned in at the gate, where the road to the clay-pit crossed the fields, and both sniffed with delight as the warm aroma of the ripe hay rose in their nostrils. as on his first visit, the larks were uttering their rich notes and fluttering up before the horses until the woods and the flower-scattered glades were reached, when the larks gave way to blue jays and woodpeckers. "we're on our land now," he said, as they left the hayfield behind. "it runs right across country over the roughest parts. just you wait and see." as on the first day, he turned aside from the clay-pit and worked through the woods to the left, passing the first spring and jumping the horses over the ruined remnants of the stake-and-rider fence. from here on, dede was in an unending ecstasy. by the spring that gurgled among the redwoods grew another great wild lily, bearing on its slender stalk the prodigious outburst of white waxen bells. this time he did not dismount, but led the way to the deep canon where the stream had cut a passage among the knolls. he had been at work here, and a steep and slippery horse trail now crossed the creek, so they rode up beyond, through the somber redwood twilight, and, farther on, through a tangled wood of oak and madrono. they came to a small clearing of several acres, where the grain stood waist high. "ours," daylight said. she bent in her saddle, plucked a stalk of the ripe grain, and nibbled it between her teeth. "sweet mountain hay," she cried. "the kind mab likes." and throughout the ride she continued to utter cries and ejaculations of surprise and delight. "and you never told me all this!" she reproached him, as they looked across the little clearing and over the descending slopes of woods to the great curving sweep of sonoma valley. "come," he said; and they turned and went back through the forest shade, crossed the stream and came to the lily by the spring. here, also, where the way led up the tangle of the steep hill, he had cut a rough horse trail. as they forced their way up the zigzags, they caught glimpses out and down through the sea of foliage. yet always were their farthest glimpses stopped by the closing vistas of green, and, yet always, as they climbed, did the forest roof arch overhead, with only here and there rifts that permitted shattered shafts of sunlight to penetrate. and all about them were ferns, a score of varieties, from the tiny gold-backs and maidenhair to huge brakes six and eight feet tall. below them, as they mounted, they glimpsed great gnarled trunks and branches of ancient trees, and above them were similar great gnarled branches. dede stopped her horse and sighed with the beauty of it all. "it is as if we are swimmers," she said, "rising out of a deep pool of green tranquillity. up above is the sky and the sun, but this is a pool, and we are fathoms deep." they started their horses, but a dog-tooth violet, shouldering amongst the maidenhair, caught her eye and made her rein in again. they cleared the crest and emerged from the pool as if into another world, for now they were in the thicket of velvet-trunked young madronos and looking down the open, sun-washed hillside, across the nodding grasses, to the drifts of blue and white nemophilae that carpeted the tiny meadow on either side the tiny stream. dede clapped her hands. "it's sure prettier than office furniture," daylight remarked. "it sure is," she answered. and daylight, who knew his weakness in the use of the particular word sure, knew that she had repeated it deliberately and with love. they crossed the stream and took the cattle track over the low rocky hill and through the scrub forest of manzanita, till they emerged on the next tiny valley with its meadow-bordered streamlet. "if we don't run into some quail pretty soon, i'll be surprised some," daylight said. and as the words left his lips there was a wild series of explosive thrumming as the old quail arose from all about wolf, while the young ones scuttled for safety and disappeared miraculously before the spectators' very eyes. he showed her the hawk's nest he had found in the lightning-shattered top of the redwood, and she discovered a wood-rat's nest which he had not seen before. next they took the old wood-road and came out on the dozen acres of clearing where the wine grapes grew in the wine-colored volcanic soil. then they followed the cow-path through more woods and thickets and scattered glades, and dropped down the hillside to where the farm-house, poised on the lip of the big canon, came into view only when they were right upon it. dede stood on the wide porch that ran the length of the house while daylight tied the horses. to dede it was very quiet. it was the dry, warm, breathless calm of california midday. all the world seemed dozing. from somewhere pigeons were cooing lazily. with a deep sigh of satisfaction, wolf, who had drunk his fill at all the streams along the way, dropped down in the cool shadow of the porch. she heard the footsteps of daylight returning, and caught her breath with a quick intake. he took her hand in his, and, as he turned the door-knob, felt her hesitate. then he put his arm around her; the door swung open, and together they passed in. chapter xxv many persons, themselves city-bred and city-reared, have fled to the soil and succeeded in winning great happiness. in such cases they have succeeded only by going through a process of savage disillusionment. but with dede and daylight it was different. they had both been born on the soil, and they knew its naked simplicities and rawer ways. they were like two persons, after far wandering, who had merely come home again. there was less of the unexpected in their dealings with nature, while theirs was all the delight of reminiscence. what might appear sordid and squalid to the fastidiously reared, was to them eminently wholesome and natural. the commerce of nature was to them no unknown and untried trade. they made fewer mistakes. they already knew, and it was a joy to remember what they had forgotten. and another thing they learned was that it was easier for one who has gorged at the flesh-pots to content himself with the meagerness of a crust, than for one who has known only the crust. not that their life was meagre. it was that they found keener delights and deeper satisfactions in little things. daylight, who had played the game in its biggest and most fantastic aspects, found that here, on the slopes of sonoma mountain, it was still the same old game. man had still work to perform, forces to combat, obstacles to overcome. when he experimented in a small way at raising a few pigeons for market, he found no less zest in calculating in squabs than formerly when he had calculated in millions. achievement was no less achievement, while the process of it seemed more rational and received the sanction of his reason. the domestic cat that had gone wild and that preyed on his pigeons, he found, by the comparative standard, to be of no less paramount menace than a charles klinkner in the field of finance, trying to raid him for several millions. the hawks and weasels and 'coons were so many dowsetts, lettons, and guggenhammers that struck at him secretly. the sea of wild vegetation that tossed its surf against the boundaries of all his clearings and that sometimes crept in and flooded in a single week was no mean enemy to contend with and subdue. his fat-soiled vegetable-garden in the nook of hills that failed of its best was a problem of engrossing importance, and when he had solved it by putting in drain-tile, the joy of the achievement was ever with him. he never worked in it and found the soil unpacked and tractable without experiencing the thrill of accomplishment. there was the matter of the plumbing. he was enabled to purchase the materials through a lucky sale of a number of his hair bridles. the work he did himself, though more than once he was forced to call in dede to hold tight with a pipe-wrench. and in the end, when the bath-tub and the stationary tubs were installed and in working order, he could scarcely tear himself away from the contemplation of what his hands had wrought. the first evening, missing him, dede sought and found him, lamp in hand, staring with silent glee at the tubs. he rubbed his hand over their smooth wooden lips and laughed aloud, and was as shamefaced as any boy when she caught him thus secretly exulting in his own prowess. it was this adventure in wood-working and plumbing that brought about the building of the little workshop, where he slowly gathered a collection of loved tools. and he, who in the old days, out of his millions, could purchase immediately whatever he might desire, learned the new joy of the possession that follows upon rigid economy and desire long delayed. he waited three months before daring the extravagance of a yankee screw-driver, and his glee in the marvelous little mechanism was so keen that dede conceived forthright a great idea. for six months she saved her egg-money, which was hers by right of allotment, and on his birthday presented him with a turning-lathe of wonderful simplicity and multifarious efficiencies. and their mutual delight in the tool, which was his, was only equalled by their delight in mab's first foal, which was dede's special private property. it was not until the second summer that daylight built the huge fireplace that outrivalled ferguson's across the valley. for all these things took time, and dede and daylight were not in a hurry. theirs was not the mistake of the average city-dweller who flees in ultra-modern innocence to the soil. they did not essay too much. neither did they have a mortgage to clear, nor did they desire wealth. they wanted little in the way of food, and they had no rent to pay. so they planned unambiguously, reserving their lives for each other and for the compensations of country-dwelling from which the average country-dweller is barred. from ferguson's example, too, they profited much. here was a man who asked for but the plainest fare; who ministered to his own simple needs with his own hands; who worked out as a laborer only when he needed money to buy books and magazines; and who saw to it that the major portion of his waking time was for enjoyment. he loved to loaf long afternoons in the shade with his books or to be up with the dawn and away over the hills. on occasion he accompanied dede and daylight on deer hunts through the wild canons and over the rugged steeps of hood mountain, though more often dede and daylight were out alone. this riding was one of their chief joys. every wrinkle and crease in the hills they explored, and they came to know every secret spring and hidden dell in the whole surrounding wall of the valley. they learned all the trails and cow-paths; but nothing delighted them more than to essay the roughest and most impossible rides, where they were glad to crouch and crawl along the narrowest deer-runs, bob and mab struggling and forcing their way along behind. back from their rides they brought the seeds and bulbs of wild flowers to plant in favoring nooks on the ranch. along the foot trail which led down the side of the big canon to the intake of the water-pipe, they established their fernery. it was not a formal affair, and the ferns were left to themselves. dede and daylight merely introduced new ones from time to time, changing them from one wild habitat to another. it was the same with the wild lilac, which daylight had sent to him from mendocino county. it became part of the wildness of the ranch, and, after being helped for a season, was left to its own devices they used to gather the seeds of the california poppy and scatter them over their own acres, so that the orange-colored blossoms spangled the fields of mountain hay and prospered in flaming drifts in the fence corners and along the edges of the clearings. dede, who had a fondness for cattails, established a fringe of them along the meadow stream, where they were left to fight it out with the water-cress. and when the latter was threatened with extinction, daylight developed one of the shaded springs into his water-cress garden and declared war upon any invading cattail. on her wedding day dede had discovered a long dog-tooth violet by the zigzag trail above the redwood spring, and here she continued to plant more and more. the open hillside above the tiny meadow became a colony of mariposa lilies. this was due mainly to her efforts, while daylight, who rode with a short-handled ax on his saddle-bow, cleared the little manzanita wood on the rocky hill of all its dead and dying and overcrowded weaklings. they did not labor at these tasks. nor were they tasks. merely in passing, they paused, from time to time, and lent a hand to nature. these flowers and shrubs grew of themselves, and their presence was no violation of the natural environment. the man and the woman made no effort to introduce a flower or shrub that did not of its own right belong. nor did they protect them from their enemies. the horses and the colts and the cows and the calves ran at pasture among them or over them, and flower or shrub had to take its chance. but the beasts were not noticeably destructive, for they were few in number and the ranch was large. on the other hand, daylight could have taken in fully a dozen horses to pasture, which would have earned him a dollar and a half per head per month. but this he refused to do, because of the devastation such close pasturing would produce. ferguson came over to celebrate the housewarming that followed the achievement of the great stone fireplace. daylight had ridden across the valley more than once to confer with him about the undertaking, and he was the only other present at the sacred function of lighting the first fire. by removing a partition, daylight had thrown two rooms into one, and this was the big living-room where dede's treasures were placed--her books, and paintings and photographs, her piano, the crouched venus, the chafing-dish and all its glittering accessories. already, in addition to her own wild-animal skins, were those of deer and coyote and one mountain-lion which daylight had killed. the tanning he had done himself, slowly and laboriously, in frontier fashion. he handed the match to dede, who struck it and lighted the fire. the crisp manzanita wood crackled as the flames leaped up and assailed the dry bark of the larger logs. then she leaned in the shelter of her husband's arm, and the three stood and looked in breathless suspense. when ferguson gave judgment, it was with beaming face and extended hand. "she draws! by crickey, she draws!" he cried. he shook daylight's hand ecstatically, and daylight shook his with equal fervor, and, bending, kissed dede on the lips. they were as exultant over the success of their simple handiwork as any great captain at astonishing victory. in ferguson's eyes was actually a suspicious moisture while the woman pressed even more closely against the man whose achievement it was. he caught her up suddenly in his arms and whirled her away to the piano, crying out: "come on, dede! the gloria! the gloria!" and while the flames in the fireplace that worked, the triumphant strains of the twelfth mass rolled forth. chapter xxvi daylight had made no assertion of total abstinence though he had not taken a drink for months after the day he resolved to let his business go to smash. soon he proved himself strong enough to dare to take a drink without taking a second. on the other hand, with his coming to live in the country, had passed all desire and need for drink. he felt no yearning for it, and even forgot that it existed. yet he refused to be afraid of it, and in town, on occasion, when invited by the storekeeper, would reply: "all right, son. if my taking a drink will make you happy here goes. whiskey for mine." but such a drink began no desire for a second. it made no impression. he was too profoundly strong to be affected by a thimbleful. as he had prophesied to dede, burning daylight, the city financier, had died a quick death on the ranch, and his younger brother, the daylight from alaska, had taken his place. the threatened inundation of fat had subsided, and all his old-time indian leanness and of muscle had returned. so, likewise, did the old slight hollows in his cheeks come back. for him they indicated the pink of physical condition. he became the acknowledged strong man of sonoma valley, the heaviest lifter and hardest winded among a husky race of farmer folk. and once a year he celebrated his birthday in the old-fashioned frontier way, challenging all the valley to come up the hill to the ranch and be put on its back. and a fair portion of the valley responded, brought the women-folk and children along, and picnicked for the day. at first, when in need of ready cash, he had followed ferguson's example of working at day's labor; but he was not long in gravitating to a form of work that was more stimulating and more satisfying, and that allowed him even more time for dede and the ranch and the perpetual riding through the hills. having been challenged by the blacksmith, in a spirit of banter, to attempt the breaking of a certain incorrigible colt, he succeeded so signally as to earn quite a reputation as a horse-breaker. and soon he was able to earn whatever money he desired at this, to him, agreeable work. a sugar king, whose breeding farm and training stables were at caliente, three miles away, sent for him in time of need, and, before the year was out, offered him the management of the stables. but daylight smiled and shook his head. furthermore, he refused to undertake the breaking of as many animals as were offered. "i'm sure not going to die from overwork," he assured dede; and he accepted such work only when he had to have money. later, he fenced off a small run in the pasture, where, from time to time, he took in a limited number of incorrigibles. "we've got the ranch and each other," he told his wife, "and i'd sooner ride with you to hood mountain any day than earn forty dollars. you can't buy sunsets, and loving wives, and cool spring water, and such folderols, with forty dollars; and forty million dollars can't buy back for me one day that i didn't ride with you to hood mountain." his life was eminently wholesome and natural. early to bed, he slept like an infant and was up with the dawn. always with something to do, and with a thousand little things that enticed but did not clamor, he was himself never overdone. nevertheless, there were times when both he and dede were not above confessing tiredness at bedtime after seventy or eighty miles in the saddle. sometimes, when he had accumulated a little money, and when the season favored, they would mount their horses, with saddle-bags behind, and ride away over the wall of the valley and down into the other valleys. when night fell, they put up at the first convenient farm or village, and on the morrow they would ride on, without definite plan, merely continuing to ride on, day after day, until their money gave out and they were compelled to return. on such trips they would be gone anywhere from a week to ten days or two weeks, and once they managed a three weeks' trip. they even planned ambitiously some day when they were disgracefully prosperous, to ride all the way up to daylight's boyhood home in eastern oregon, stopping on the way at dede's girlhood home in siskiyou. and all the joys of anticipation were theirs a thousand times as they contemplated the detailed delights of this grand adventure. one day, stopping to mail a letter at the glen ellen post office, they were hailed by the blacksmith. "say, daylight," he said, "a young fellow named slosson sends you his regards. he came through in an auto, on the way to santa rosa. he wanted to know if you didn't live hereabouts, but the crowd with him was in a hurry. so he sent you his regards and said to tell you he'd taken your advice and was still going on breaking his own record." daylight had long since told dede of the incident. "slosson?" he meditated, "slosson? that must be the hammer-thrower. he put my hand down twice, the young scamp." he turned suddenly to dede. "say, it's only twelve miles to santa rosa, and the horses are fresh." she divined what was in his mind, of which his twinkling eyes and sheepish, boyish grin gave sufficient advertisement, and she smiled and nodded acquiescence. "we'll cut across by bennett valley," he said. "it's nearer that way." there was little difficulty, once in santa rosa, of finding slosson. he and his party had registered at the oberlin hotel, and daylight encountered the young hammer-thrower himself in the office. "look here, son," daylight announced, as soon as he had introduced dede, "i've come to go you another flutter at that hand game. here's a likely place." slosson smiled and accepted. the two men faced each other, the elbows of their right arms on the counter, the hands clasped. slosson's hand quickly forced backward and down. "you're the first man that ever succeeded in doing it," he said. "let's try it again." "sure," daylight answered. "and don't forget, son, that you're the first man that put mine down. that's why i lit out after you to-day." again they clasped hands, and again slosson's hand went down. he was a broad-shouldered, heavy-muscled young giant, at least half a head taller than daylight, and he frankly expressed his chagrin and asked for a third trial. this time he steeled himself to the effort, and for a moment the issue was in doubt. with flushed face and set teeth he met the other's strength till his crackling muscles failed him. the air exploded sharply from his tensed lungs, as he relaxed in surrender, and the hand dropped limply down. "you're too many for me," he confessed. "i only hope you'll keep out of the hammer-throwing game." daylight laughed and shook his head. "we might compromise, and each stay in his own class. you stick to hammer-throwing, and i'll go on turning down hands." but slosson refused to accept defeat. "say," he called out, as daylight and dede, astride their horses, were preparing to depart. "say--do you mind if i look you up next year? i'd like to tackle you again." "sure, son. you're welcome to a flutter any time. though i give you fair warning that you'll have to go some. you'll have to train up, for i'm ploughing and chopping wood and breaking colts these days." now and again, on the way home, dede could hear her big boy-husband chuckling gleefully. as they halted their horses on the top of the divide out of bennett valley, in order to watch the sunset, he ranged alongside and slipped his arm around her waist. "little woman," he said, "you're sure responsible for it all. and i leave it to you, if all the money in creation is worth as much as one arm like that when it's got a sweet little woman like this to go around." for of all his delights in the new life, dede was his greatest. as he explained to her more than once, he had been afraid of love all his life only in the end to come to find it the greatest thing in the world. not alone were the two well mated, but in coming to live on the ranch they had selected the best soil in which their love would prosper. in spite of her books and music, there was in her a wholesome simplicity and love of the open and natural, while daylight, in every fiber of him, was essentially an open-air man. of one thing in dede, daylight never got over marveling about, and that was her efficient hands--the hands that he had first seen taking down flying shorthand notes and ticking away at the typewriter; the hands that were firm to hold a magnificent brute like bob, that wonderfully flashed over the keys of the piano, that were unhesitant in household tasks, and that were twin miracles to caress and to run rippling fingers through his hair. but daylight was not unduly uxorious. he lived his man's life just as she lived her woman's life. there was proper division of labor in the work they individually performed. but the whole was entwined and woven into a fabric of mutual interest and consideration. he was as deeply interested in her cooking and her music as she was in his agricultural adventures in the vegetable garden. and he, who resolutely declined to die of overwork, saw to it that she should likewise escape so dire a risk. in this connection, using his man's judgment and putting his man's foot down, he refused to allow her to be burdened with the entertaining of guests. for guests they had, especially in the warm, long summers, and usually they were her friends from the city, who were put to camp in tents which they cared for themselves, and where, like true campers, they had also to cook for themselves. perhaps only in california, where everybody knows camp life, would such a program have been possible. but daylight's steadfast contention was that his wife should not become cook, waitress, and chambermaid because she did not happen to possess a household of servants. on the other hand, chafing-dish suppers in the big living-room for their camping guests were a common happening, at which times daylight allotted them their chores and saw that they were performed. for one who stopped only for the night it was different. likewise it was different with her brother, back from germany, and again able to sit a horse. on his vacations he became the third in the family, and to him was given the building of the fires, the sweeping, and the washing of the dishes. daylight devoted himself to the lightening of dede's labors, and it was her brother who incited him to utilize the splendid water-power of the ranch that was running to waste. it required daylight's breaking of extra horses to pay for the materials, and the brother devoted a three weeks' vacation to assisting, and together they installed a pelting wheel. besides sawing wood and turning his lathe and grindstone, daylight connected the power with the churn; but his great triumph was when he put his arm around dede's waist and led her out to inspect a washing-machine, run by the pelton wheel, which really worked and really washed clothes. dede and ferguson, between them, after a patient struggle, taught daylight poetry, so that in the end he might have been often seen, sitting slack in the saddle and dropping down the mountain trails through the sun-flecked woods, chanting aloud kipling's "tomlinson," or, when sharpening his ax, singing into the whirling grindstone henley's "song of the sword." not that he ever became consummately literary in the way his two teachers were. beyond "fra lippo lippi" and "caliban and setebos," he found nothing in browning, while george meredith was ever his despair. it was of his own initiative, however, that he invested in a violin, and practised so assiduously that in time he and dede beguiled many a happy hour playing together after night had fallen. so all went well with this well-mated pair. time never dragged. there were always new wonderful mornings and still cool twilights at the end of day; and ever a thousand interests claimed him, and his interests were shared by her. more thoroughly than he knew, had he come to a comprehension of the relativity of things. in this new game he played he found in little things all the intensities of gratification and desire that he had found in the frenzied big things when he was a power and rocked half a continent with the fury of the blows he struck. with head and hand, at risk of life and limb, to bit and break a wild colt and win it to the service of man, was to him no less great an achievement. and this new table on which he played the game was clean. neither lying, nor cheating, nor hypocrisy was here. the other game had made for decay and death, while this new one made for clean strength and life. and so he was content, with dede at his side, to watch the procession of the days and seasons from the farm-house perched on the canon-lip; to ride through crisp frosty mornings or under burning summer suns; and to shelter in the big room where blazed the logs in the fireplace he had built, while outside the world shuddered and struggled in the storm-clasp of a southeaster. once only dede asked him if he ever regretted, and his answer was to crush her in his arms and smother her lips with his. his answer, a minute later, took speech. "little woman, even if you did cost thirty millions, you are sure the cheapest necessity of life i ever indulged in." and then he added, "yes, i do have one regret, and a monstrous big one, too. i'd sure like to have the winning of you all over again. i'd like to go sneaking around the piedmont hills looking for you. i'd like to meander into those rooms of yours at berkeley for the first time. and there's no use talking, i'm plumb soaking with regret that i can't put my arms around you again that time you leaned your head on my breast and cried in the wind and rain." chapter xxvii but there came the day, one year, in early april, when dede sat in an easy chair on the porch, sewing on certain small garments, while daylight read aloud to her. it was in the afternoon, and a bright sun was shining down on a world of new green. along the irrigation channels of the vegetable garden streams of water were flowing, and now and again daylight broke off from his reading to run out and change the flow of water. also, he was teasingly interested in the certain small garments on which dede worked, while she was radiantly happy over them, though at times, when his tender fun was too insistent, she was rosily confused or affectionately resentful. from where they sat they could look out over the world. like the curve of a skirting blade, the valley of the moon stretched before them, dotted with farm-houses and varied by pasture-lands, hay-fields, and vineyards. beyond rose the wall of the valley, every crease and wrinkle of which dede and daylight knew, and at one place, where the sun struck squarely, the white dump of the abandoned mine burned like a jewel. in the foreground, in the paddock by the barn, was mab, full of pretty anxieties for the early spring foal that staggered about her on tottery legs. the air shimmered with heat, and altogether it was a lazy, basking day. quail whistled to their young from the thicketed hillside behind the house. there was a gentle cooing of pigeons, and from the green depths of the big canon arose the sobbing wood note of a mourning dove. once, there was a warning chorus from the foraging hens and a wild rush for cover, as a hawk, high in the blue, cast its drifting shadow along the ground. it was this, perhaps, that aroused old hunting memories in wolf. at any rate, dede and daylight became aware of excitement in the paddock, and saw harmlessly reenacted a grim old tragedy of the younger world. curiously eager, velvet-footed and silent as a ghost, sliding and gliding and crouching, the dog that was mere domesticated wolf stalked the enticing bit of young life that mab had brought so recently into the world. and the mare, her own ancient instincts aroused and quivering, circled ever between the foal and this menace of the wild young days when all her ancestry had known fear of him and his hunting brethren. once, she whirled and tried to kick him, but usually she strove to strike him with her fore-hoofs, or rushed upon him with open mouth and ears laid back in an effort to crunch his backbone between her teeth. and the wolf-dog, with ears flattened down and crouching, would slide silkily away, only to circle up to the foal from the other side and give cause to the mare for new alarm. then daylight, urged on by dede's solicitude, uttered a low threatening cry; and wolf, drooping and sagging in all the body of him in token of his instant return to man's allegiance, slunk off behind the barn. it was a few minutes later that daylight, breaking off from his reading to change the streams of irrigation, found that the water had ceased flowing. he shouldered a pick and shovel, took a hammer and a pipe-wrench from the tool-house, and returned to dede on the porch. "i reckon i'll have to go down and dig the pipe out," he told her. "it's that slide that's threatened all winter. i guess she's come down at last." "don't you read ahead, now," he warned, as he passed around the house and took the trail that led down the wall of the canon. halfway down the trail, he came upon the slide. it was a small affair, only a few tons of earth and crumbling rock; but, starting from fifty feet above, it had struck the water pipe with force sufficient to break it at a connection. before proceeding to work, he glanced up the path of the slide, and he glanced with the eye of the earth-trained miner. and he saw what made his eyes startle and cease for the moment from questing farther. "hello," he communed aloud, "look who's here." his glance moved on up the steep broken surface, and across it from side to side. here and there, in places, small twisted manzanitas were rooted precariously, but in the main, save for weeds and grass, that portion of the canon was bare. there were signs of a surface that had shifted often as the rains poured a flow of rich eroded soil from above over the lip of the canon. "a true fissure vein, or i never saw one," he proclaimed softly. and as the old hunting instincts had aroused that day in the wolf-dog, so in him recrudesced all the old hot desire of gold-hunting. dropping the hammer and pipe-wrench, but retaining pick and shovel, he climbed up the slide to where a vague line of outputting but mostly soil-covered rock could be seen. it was all but indiscernible, but his practised eye had sketched the hidden formation which it signified. here and there, along this wall of the vein, he attacked the crumbling rock with the pick and shoveled the encumbering soil away. several times he examined this rock. so soft was some of it that he could break it in his fingers. shifting a dozen feet higher up, he again attacked with pick and shovel. and this time, when he rubbed the soil from a chunk of rock and looked, he straightened up suddenly, gasping with delight. and then, like a deer at a drinking pool in fear of its enemies, he flung a quick glance around to see if any eye were gazing upon him. he grinned at his own foolishness and returned to his examination of the chunk. a slant of sunlight fell on it, and it was all aglitter with tiny specks of unmistakable free gold. "from the grass roots down," he muttered in an awestricken voice, as he swung his pick into the yielding surface. he seemed to undergo a transformation. no quart of cocktails had ever put such a flame in his cheeks nor such a fire in his eyes. as he worked, he was caught up in the old passion that had ruled most of his life. a frenzy seized him that markedly increased from moment to moment. he worked like a madman, till he panted from his exertions and the sweat dripped from his face to the ground. he quested across the face of the slide to the opposite wall of the vein and back again. and, midway, he dug down through the red volcanic earth that had washed from the disintegrating hill above, until he uncovered quartz, rotten quartz, that broke and crumbled in his hands and showed to be alive with free gold. sometimes he started small slides of earth that covered up his work and compelled him to dig again. once, he was swept fifty feet down the canon-side; but he floundered and scrambled up again without pausing for breath. he hit upon quartz that was so rotten that it was almost like clay, and here the gold was richer than ever. it was a veritable treasure chamber. for a hundred feet up and down he traced the walls of the vein. he even climbed over the canon-lip to look along the brow of the hill for signs of the outcrop. but that could wait, and he hurried back to his find. he toiled on in the same mad haste, until exhaustion and an intolerable ache in his back compelled him to pause. he straightened up with even a richer piece of gold-laden quartz. stooping, the sweat from his forehead had fallen to the ground. it now ran into his eyes, blinding him. he wiped it from him with the back of his hand and returned to a scrutiny of the gold. it would run thirty thousand to the ton, fifty thousand, anything--he knew that. and as he gazed upon the yellow lure, and panted for air, and wiped the sweat away, his quick vision leaped and set to work. he saw the spur-track that must run up from the valley and across the upland pastures, and he ran the grades and built the bridge that would span the canon, until it was real before his eyes. across the canon was the place for the mill, and there he erected it; and he erected, also, the endless chain of buckets, suspended from a cable and operated by gravity, that would carry the ore across the canon to the quartz-crusher. likewise, the whole mine grew before him and beneath him-tunnels, shafts, and galleries, and hoisting plants. the blasts of the miners were in his ears, and from across the canon he could hear the roar of the stamps. the hand that held the lump of quartz was trembling, and there was a tired, nervous palpitation apparently in the pit of his stomach. it came to him abruptly that what he wanted was a drink--whiskey, cocktails, anything, a drink. and even then, with this new hot yearning for the alcohol upon him, he heard, faint and far, drifting down the green abyss of the canon, dede's voice, crying:-- "here, chick, chick, chick, chick, chick! here, chick, chick, chick!" he was astounded at the lapse of time. she had left her sewing on the porch and was feeding the chickens preparatory to getting supper. the afternoon was gone. he could not conceive that he had been away that long. again came the call: "here, chick, chick, chick, chick, chick! here, chick, chick, chick!" it was the way she always called--first five, and then three. he had long since noticed it. and from these thoughts of her arose other thoughts that caused a great fear slowly to grow in his face. for it seemed to him that he had almost lost her. not once had he thought of her in those frenzied hours, and for that much, at least, had she truly been lost to him. he dropped the piece of quartz, slid down the slide, and started up the trail, running heavily. at the edge of the clearing he eased down and almost crept to a point of vantage whence he could peer out, himself unseen. she was feeding the chickens, tossing to them handfuls of grain and laughing at their antics. the sight of her seemed to relieve the panic fear into which he had been flung, and he turned and ran back down the trail. again he climbed the slide, but this time he climbed higher, carrying the pick and shovel with him. and again he toiled frenziedly, but this time with a different purpose. he worked artfully, loosing slide after slide of the red soil and sending it streaming down and covering up all he had uncovered, hiding from the light of day the treasure he had discovered. he even went into the woods and scooped armfuls of last year's fallen leaves which he scattered over the slide. but this he gave up as a vain task; and he sent more slides of soil down upon the scene of his labor, until no sign remained of the out-jutting walls of the vein. next he repaired the broken pipe, gathered his tools together, and started up the trail. he walked slowly, feeling a great weariness, as of a man who had passed through a frightful crisis. he put the tools away, took a great drink of the water that again flowed through the pipes, and sat down on the bench by the open kitchen door. dede was inside, preparing supper, and the sound of her footsteps gave him a vast content. he breathed the balmy mountain air in great gulps, like a diver fresh-risen from the sea. and, as he drank in the air, he gazed with all his eyes at the clouds and sky and valley, as if he were drinking in that, too, along with the air. dede did not know he had come back, and at times he turned his head and stole glances in at her--at her efficient hands, at the bronze of her brown hair that smouldered with fire when she crossed the path of sunshine that streamed through the window, at the promise of her figure that shot through him a pang most strangely sweet and sweetly dear. he heard her approaching the door, and kept his head turned resolutely toward the valley. and next, he thrilled, as he had always thrilled, when he felt the caressing gentleness of her fingers through his hair. "i didn't know you were back," she said. "was it serious?" "pretty bad, that slide," he answered, still gazing away and thrilling to her touch. "more serious than i reckoned. but i've got the plan. do you know what i'm going to do?--i'm going to plant eucalyptus all over it. they'll hold it. i'll plant them thick as grass, so that even a hungry rabbit can't squeeze between them; and when they get their roots agoing, nothing in creation will ever move that dirt again." "why, is it as bad as that?" he shook his head. "nothing exciting. but i'd sure like to see any blamed old slide get the best of me, that's all. i'm going to seal that slide down so that it'll stay there for a million years. and when the last trump sounds, and sonoma mountain and all the other mountains pass into nothingness, that old slide will be still a-standing there, held up by the roots." he passed his arm around her and pulled her down on his knees. "say, little woman, you sure miss a lot by living here on the ranch--music, and theatres, and such things. don't you ever have a hankering to drop it all and go back?" so great was his anxiety that he dared not look at her, and when she laughed and shook her head he was aware of a great relief. also, he noted the undiminished youth that rang through that same old-time boyish laugh of hers. "say," he said, with sudden fierceness, "don't you go fooling around that slide until after i get the trees in and rooted. it's mighty dangerous, and i sure can't afford to lose you now." he drew her lips to his and kissed her hungrily and passionately. "what a lover!" she said; and pride in him and in her own womanhood was in her voice. "look at that, dede." he removed one encircling arm and swept it in a wide gesture over the valley and the mountains beyond. "the valley of the moon--a good name, a good name. do you know, when i look out over it all, and think of you and of all it means, it kind of makes me ache in the throat, and i have things in my heart i can't find the words to say, and i have a feeling that i can almost understand browning and those other high-flying poet-fellows. look at hood mountain there, just where the sun's striking. it was down in that crease that we found the spring." "and that was the night you didn't milk the cows till ten o'clock," she laughed. "and if you keep me here much longer, supper won't be any earlier than it was that night." both arose from the bench, and daylight caught up the milk-pail from the nail by the door. he paused a moment longer to look out over the valley. "it's sure grand," he said. "it's sure grand," she echoed, laughing joyously at him and with him and herself and all the world, as she passed in through the door. and daylight, like the old man he once had met, himself went down the hill through the fires of sunset with a milk pail on his arm. b a c k w o o d s o f c a n a d a ===================================== under the superintendence of the society for the diffusion of useful information the library of entertaining knowledge backwoods of canada. -------- the library of entertaining knowledge the backwoods of canada being letters from the wife of an emigrant officer, illustrative of the domestic economy of british america. [catharine parr traill] london: charles knight, , ludgate street. mdcccxxxvi. -------- london: printed by w. clowes and sons, , charing cross. -------- contents. introduction letter i.--departure from greenock in the brig _laurel_.--fitting up of the vessel.--boy passenger.--sea prospect.--want of occupation and amusement.--captain's goldfinch letter ii.--arrival off newfoundland.--singing of the captain's goldfinch previous to discovery of land.--gulf of st. laurence.--scenery of the river st. laurence.--difficult navigation of the river.--french fisherman engaged as pilot.--isle of bic.--green island.--regular pilot engaged.--scenery of green island.--gros isle.--quarantine regulations. --emigrants on gros isle.--arrival off quebec.--prospect of the city and environs letter iii.--departure from quebec.--towed by a steam-vessel.--fertility of the country.--different objects seen in sailing up the river.--arrival off montreal.--the rapids letter iv.--landing at montreal.--appearance of the town.--ravages of the cholera.--charitable institutions in montreal.--conversation at the hotel.--writer attacked with the cholera.--departure from montreal in a stage-coach.--embark at lachine on board a steam-vessel. mode of travelling alternately in steam-vessels and stages.--appearance of the country.--manufactures.--ovens at a distance from the cottages.--draw- wells.--arrival at cornwall.--accommodation at the inn.--departure from cornwall, and arrival at prescott.--arrival at brockville.--ship-launch there.--voyage through lake ontario.--arrival at cobourg letter v.--journey from cobourg to amherst.--difficulties to be encountered on first settling in the backwoods.--appearance of the country.--rice lake.--indian habits.--voyage up the otanabee.--log- house, and its inmates.--passage boat.--journey on foot to peterborough letter vi.--peterborough.--manners and language of the americans.-- scotch engineman.--description of peterborough and its environs.-- canadian flowers.--shanties.--hardships suffered by first settlers.-- process of establishing a farm letter vii.--journey from peterborough.--canadian woods.--waggon and team.--arrival at a log-house on the banks of a lake.--settlement, and first occupations letter viii.--inconveniences of first settlement.--difficulty of obtaining provisions and other necessaries.--snow-storm and hurricane.-- indian summer, and setting-in of winter.--process of clearing the land letter ix.--loss of a yoke of oxen.--construction of a log-house.-- glaziers' and carpenters' work.--description of a new log-house.--wild fruits of the country.--walks on the ice.--situation of the house.--lake and surrounding scenery letter x.--variations in the temperature of the weather.--electrical phenomenon.--canadian winter.--country deficient in poetical associations.--sugar-making.--fishing season.--mode of fishing.--duck- shooting.--family of indians.--_papouses_ and their cradle-cases.-- indian manufactures.--frogs letter xi.--emigrants suitable for canada.--qualities requisite to ensure success.--investment of capital.--useful articles to be brought out.--qualifications and occupations of a settler's family.--deficiency of patience and energy in some females.--management of the dairy.-- cheese.--indian corn, and its cultivation.--potatoes.--rates of wages letter xii.--"a logging bee."--burning of the log-heaps.--crops for the season.--farming stock.--comparative value of wheat and labour.--choice of land, and relative advantages.--clearing land.--hurricane in the woods.--variable weather.--insects letter xiii.--health enjoyed in the rigour of winter.--inconvenience suffered from the brightness of the snow.--sleighing.--indian orthography.--visit to an indian encampment.--story of an indian.--an indian hunchback.--canadian ornithology letter xiv.--utility of botanical knowledge.--the fire-weed.-- sarsaparilla plants.--magnificent water lily.--rice beds.--indian strawberry.--scarlet columbine.--ferns.--grasses letter xv.--recapitulation of various topics.--progress of settlement.-- canada, the land of hope.--visit to the family of a naval officer.-- squirrels.--visit to, and story of, an emigrant clergyman.--his early difficulties.--the temper, disposition, and habits of emigrants essential ingredients in failure or success letter xvi.--indian hunters.--sail in a canoe.--want of libraries in the backwoods.--new village.--progress of improvement.--fire flies letter xvii.--ague.--illness of the family.--probable cause.--root- house.--setting-in of winter.--insect termed a "sawyer."--temporary church letter xviii.--busy spring.--increase of society and comfort.-- recollections of home.--aurora borealis appendix --- illustrations. . falls of montmorenci . rice grounds . sleigh-driving . silver pine . spruce . log-house . log-village.--arrival of stage-coach . road through a pine forest . newly-cleared land . chart showing the interior navigation of the districts of newcastle and upper canada . papouses . green frogs . bull-frog . the prairie . red-bird . blue-bird . snow-bunting . baltimore oriole defending her nest against the black snake . red squirrels . flying squirrel introduction among the numerous works on canada that have been published within the last ten years, with emigration for their leading theme, there are few, if any, that give information regarding the domestic economy of a settler's life, sufficiently minute to prove a faithful guide to the person on whose responsibility the whole comfort of a family depends-- the mistress, whose department it is "to haud the house in order." dr. dunlop, it is true, has published a witty and spirited pamphlet, "the backwoodsman," but it does not enter into the routine of feminine duties and employment, in a state of emigration. indeed, a woman's pen alone can describe half that is requisite to be told of the internal management of a domicile in the backwoods, in order to enable the outcoming female emigrant to form a proper judgment of the trials and arduous duties she has to encounter. "forewarned, forearmed," is a maxim of our forefathers, containing much matter in its pithy brevity; and, following its spirit, the writer of the following pages has endeavoured to afford every possible information to the wives and daughters of emigrants of the higher class who contemplate seeking a home amid our canadian wilds. [illustration: peter, the chief] truth has been conscientiously her object in the work, for it were cruel to write in flattering terms calculated to deceive emigrants into the belief that the land to which they are transferring their families, their capital, and their hopes, a land flowing with milk and honey, where comforts and affluence may be obtained with little exertion. she prefers honestly representing facts in their real and true light, that the female part of the emigrant's family may be enabled to look them firmly in the face; to find a remedy in female ingenuity and expediency for some difficulties; and, by being properly prepared, encounter the rest with that high-spirited cheerfulness of which well- educated females often give extraordinary proofs. she likewise wishes to teach them to discard every thing exclusively pertaining to the artificial refinement of fashionable life in england; and to point out that, by devoting the money consumed in these incumbrances to articles of real use, which cannot be readily obtained in canada, they may enjoy the pleasure of superintending a pleasant, well-ordered home. she is desirous of giving them the advantage of her three years' experience, that they may properly apply every part of their time, and learn to consider that every pound or pound's worth belonging to any member of an out-coming emigrant's family, ought to be sacredly considered as _capital_, which must make proper returns either as the means of bringing increase in the shape of income, or, what is still better, in healthful domestic comfort. these exhalations in behalf of utility in preference to artificial personal refinement, are not so needless as the english public may consider. the emigrants to british america are no longer of the rank of life that formerly left the shores of the british isles. it is not only the poor husbandmen and artisans, that move in vast bodies to the west, but it is the enterprising english capitalist, and the once affluent landholder, alarmed at the difficulties of establishing numerous families in independence, in a country where every profession is overstocked, that join the bands that great britain is pouring forth into these colonies! of what vital importance is it that the female members of these most valuable colonists should obtain proper information regarding the important duties they are undertaking; that they should learn beforehand to brace their minds to the task, and thus avoid the repinings and discontent that is apt to follow unfounded expectations and fallacious hopes! it is a fact not universally known to the public, that british officers and their families are usually denizens of the backwoods; and as great numbers of unattached officers of every rank have accepted grants of land in canada, they are the pioneers of civilization in the wilderness, and their families, often of delicate nurture and honourable descent, are at once plunged into all the hardships attendant on the rough life of a bush-settler. the laws that regulate the grants of lands, which enforce a certain time of residence, and certain settlement duties to be performed, allow no claims to absentees when once the land is drawn. these laws wisely force a superiorly-educated man with resources of both property and intellect, to devote all his energies to a certain spot of uncleared land. it may easily be supposed that no persons would encounter these hardships who have not a young family to establish in the healthful ways of independence. this family renders the residence of such a head still more valuable to the colony; and the half-pay officer, by thus leading the advanced guard of civilization, and bringing into these rough districts gentle and well-educated females, who soften and improve all around them by _mental_ refinements, is serving his country as much by founding peaceful villages and pleasant homesteads in the trackless wilds, as ever he did by personal courage, or military stratagem, in times of war. it will be seen, in the course of this work, that the writer is as earnest in recommending ladies who belong to the higher class of settlers to cultivate all the mental resources of a superior education, as she is to induce them to discard all irrational and artificial wants and mere useless pursuits. she would willingly direct their attention to the natural history and botany of this new country, in which they will find a never-failing source of amusement and instruction, at once enlightening and elevating the mind, and serving to fill up the void left by the absence of those lighter feminine accomplishments, the practice of which are necessarily superseded by imperative domestic duties. to the person who is capable of looking abroad into the beauties of nature, and adoring the creator through his glorious works, are opened stores of unmixed pleasure, which will not permit her to be dull or unhappy in the loneliest part of our western wilderness. the writer of these pages speaks from experience, and would be pleased to find that the simple sources from which she has herself drawn pleasure, have cheered the solitude of future female sojourners in the backwoods of canada. as a general remark to all sorts and conditions of settlers, she would observe, that the struggle up the hill of independence is often a severe one, and it ought not to be made alone. it must be aided and encouraged by the example and assistance of an active and cheerful partner. children should be taught to appreciate the devoted love that has induced their parents to overcome the natural reluctance felt by all persons to quit for ever the land of their forefathers, the scenes of their earliest and happiest days, and to become aliens and wanderers in a distant country,--to form new ties and new friends, and begin, as it were, life's toilsome march anew, that their children may be placed in a situation in which, by industry and activity, the substantial comforts of life may be permanently obtained, and a landed property handed down to them, and their children after them. young men soon become reconciled to this country, which offers to them that chief attraction to youth,--great personal liberty. their employments are of a cheerful and healthy nature; and their amusements, such as hunting, shooting, fishing, and boating, are peculiarly fascinating. but in none of these can their sisters share. the hardships and difficulties of the settler's life, therefore, are felt peculiarly by the female part of the family. it is with a view of ameliorating these privations that the following pages have been written, to show how some difficulties may be best borne and others avoided. the simple truth, founded entirely on personal knowledge of the facts related, is the basis of the work; to have had recourse to fiction might have rendered it more acceptable to many readers, but would have made it less useful to that class for whom it is especially intended. for those who, without intending to share in the privations and dangers of an emigrant's life, have a rational curiosity to become acquainted with scenes and manners so different from those of a long-civilized county, it is hoped that this little work will afford some amusement, and inculcate some lessons not devoid of moral instruction. letter i. departure from greenock in the brig. _laurel_.--fitting-up of the vessel.--boy passenger.--sea prospect.--want of occupation and amusement.--captain's goldfinch. brig. _laurel_, july , i received your last kind letter, my dearest mother, only a few hours before we set sail from greenock. as you express a wish that i should give you a minute detail of our voyage, i shall take up my subject from the time of our embarkation, and write as inclination prompts me. instead of having reason to complain of short letters, you will, i fear, find mine only too prolix. after many delays and disappointments, we succeeded at last in obtaining a passage in a fast-sailing brig, the _laurel_, of greenock; and favourable winds are now rapidly carrying us across the atlantic. the _laurel_ is not a regular passenger-ship, which i consider an advantage, for what we lose in amusement and variety we assuredly gain in comfort. the cabin is neatly fitted up, and i enjoy the luxury (for such it is, compared with the narrow berths of the state cabin) of a handsome sofa, with crimson draperies, in the great cabin. the state cabin is also ours. we paid fifteen pounds each for our passage to montreal. this was high, but it includes every expense; and, in fact, we had no choice. the only vessel in the river bound for canada, was a passenger-ship, literally swarming with emigrants, chiefly of the lower class of highlanders. the only passengers besides ourselves in the _laurel_ are the captain's nephew, a pretty yellow-haired lad, about fifteen years of age, who works his passage out, and a young gentleman who is going out as clerk in a merchant's house in quebec. he seems too much wrapped up in his own affairs to be very communicative to others; he walks much, talks little, and reads less, but often amuses himself by singing as he paces the deck, "home, sweet home," and that delightful song by camoens, "isle of beauty." it is a sweet song, and i can easily imagine the charm it has for a home-sick heart. i was much pleased with the scenery of the clyde; the day we set sail was a lovely one, and i remained on deck till nightfall. the morning light found our vessel dashing gallantly along, with a favourable breeze, through the north channel; that day we saw the last of the hebrides, and before night lost sight of the north coast of ireland. a wide expanse of water and sky is now our only prospect, unvaried by any object save the distant and scarcely to be traced outline of some vessel just seen at the verge of the horizon, a speck in the immensity of space, or sometimes a few sea-fowl. i love to watch these wanderers of the ocean, as they rise and fall with the rocking billows, or flit about our vessel; and often i wonder whence they came, to what distant shore they are bound, and if they make the rude wave their home and resting- place during the long day and dark night; and then i recall to mind the words of the american poet, bryant,-- "he who from zone to zone guides through the boundless air their certain flight, in the long way that i must tread alone wilt guide my steps aright." though we have been little more than a week on board, i am getting weary of the voyage. i can only compare the monotony of it to being weather- bound in some country inn. i have already made myself acquainted with all the books worth reading in the ship's library; unfortunately, it is chiefly made up with old novels and musty romances. when the weather is fine i sit on a bench on the deck, wrapped in my cloak, and sew, or pace the deck with my husband, and talk over plans for the future, which in all probability will never be realized. i really do pity men who are not actively employed: women have always their needle as a resource against the overwhelming weariness of an idle life; but where a man is confined to a small space, such as the deck and cabin of a trading vessel, with nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to do, and nothing to read, he is really a very pitiable creature. there is one passenger on board that seems perfectly happy, if one may judge from the liveliness of the songs with which he greets us whenever we approach his cage. it is "harry," the captain's goldfinch--"the _captain's mate_," as the sailors term him. this pretty creature has made no fewer than twelve voyages in the _laurel_. "it is all one to him whether his cage is at sea or on land, he is still at home," said the captain, regarding his little favourite with an air of great affection, and evidently gratified by the attention i bestowed on his bird. i have already formed a friendship with the little captive. he never fails to greet my approach with one of his sweetest songs, and will take from my fingers a bit of biscuit, which he holds in his claws till he has thanked me with a few of his clearest notes. this mark of acknowledgment is termed by the steward, "saying-grace." if the wind still continues to favour us, the captain tells us we shall be on the banks of newfoundland in another week. farewell for the present. letter ii arrival off newfoundland.--singing of the captain's goldfinch previous to the discovery of land.--gulf of st. laurence.--scenery of the river st. laurence.--difficult navigation of the river.--french fisherman engaged as a pilot.--isle of bic.--green island.--gros isle.--quarantine regulations.--emigrants on gros isle.--arrival off quebec.--prospect of the city and environs. brig _laurel_, river st. laurence. august , . i left off writing, my dear mother, from this simple cause;--i had nothing to say. one day was but the echo, as it were, of the one that preceded it; so that a page copied from the mate's log would have proved as amusing, and to the full as instructive, as my journal provided i had kept one during the last fortnight. so barren of events has that time been that the sight of a party of bottle-nosed whales, two or three seals, and a porpoise, possibly on their way to a dinner or tea party at the north pole, was considered an occurrence of great importance. every glass was in requisition as soon as they made their appearance, and the marine monsters were well nigh stared out of countenance. we came within sight of the shores of newfoundland on the th of august, just one month from the day we took our last look of the british isles. yet though the coast was brown, and rugged, and desolate, i hailed its appearance with rapture. never did any thing seem so refreshing and delicious to me as the land breeze that came to us, as i thought, bearing health and gladness on its wings. i had noticed with some curiosity the restless activity of the captain's bird some hours previous to "land" being proclaimed from the look-out station. he sang continually, and his note was longer, clearer, and more thrilling than heretofore; the little creature, the captain assured me, was conscious of the difference in the air as we approached the land. "i trust almost as much to my bird as to my glass," he said, "and have never yet been deceived." our progress was somewhat tedious after we entered the gulf. ninety miles across is the entrance of this majestic river; it seems an ocean in itself. half our time is spent poring over the great chart in the cabin, which is constantly being rolled and unrolled by my husband to gratify my desire of learning the names of the distant shores and islands which we pass. we are without a pilot as yet, and the captain being a cautious seaman is unwilling to risk the vessel on this dangerous navigation; so that we proceed but slowly on our voyage. august .--we were visited this morning by a beautiful little bird, not much larger than our gold-crested wren. i hailed it as a bird of good omen--a little messenger sent to bid us welcome to the new world, and i felt almost a childish joy at the sight of our little visitor. there are happy moments in our lives when we draw the greatest pleasure from the most trifling sources, as children are pleased with the most simple toy. from the hour we entered the gulf a perceptible change had taken place in all on board. the captain, a man of grave, quiet manners, grew quite talkative. my husband was more than usually animated, and even the thoughtful young scotchman became positively an entertaining person. the crew displayed the most lively zeal in the performance of their duty, and the goldfinch sung cheerily from dawn till sunset. as for me hope was busy in my heart, chasing from it all feelings of doubt or regret that might sadden the present or cloud the future. i am now able to trace distinctly the outline of the coast on the southern side of the river. sometimes the high lands are suddenly enveloped in dense clouds of mist, which are in constant motion, rolling along in shadowy billows, now tinted with rosy light, now white and fleecy, or bright as silver, as they catch the sunbeams. so rapid are the changes that take place in the fog-bank, that perhaps the next time i raise my eyes i behold the scene changed as if by magic. the misty curtain is slowly drawn up, as if by invisible hands, and the wild, wooded mountains partially revealed, with their bold rocky shores and sweeping bays. at other times the vapoury volume dividing, moves along the valleys and deep ravines, like lofty pillars of smoke, or hangs in snowy draperies among the dark forest pines. i am never weary of watching these fantastic clouds; they recall to me the pleasant time i spent in the highlands, among the cloud-capped hills of the north. as yet, the air is cold, and we experience frequent squalls of wind and hail, with occasional peals of thunder; then again all is serene and bright, and the air is filled with fragrance, and flies, and bees, and birds come flitting past us from the shore. august .--though i cannot but dwell with feelings of wonder and admiration on the majesty and power of this mighty river, i begin to grow weary of its immensity, and long for a nearer view of the shore; but at present we see nothing more than long lines of pine-clad hills, with here and there a white speck, which they tell me are settlements and villages to the south; while huge mountains divested of verdure bound our view on the north side the river. my admiration of mountainous scenery makes me dwell with more interest on this side the river, and i watch the progress of cultivation along these rugged and inhospitable regions with positive pleasure. during the last two days we have been anxiously looking out for a pilot to take us up to quebec. various signals have been fired, but hitherto without success; no pilot has condescended to visit us, so we are somewhat in the condition of a stage without a coachman, with only some inexperienced hand to hold the reins. i already perceive some manifestations of impatience appearing among us, but no one blames the captain, who is very anxious about the matter; as the river is full of rocks and shoals, and presents many difficulties to a person not intimately acquainted with the navigation. besides, he is answerable for the safety of the ship to the underwriters, in case he neglects to take a pilot on board. * * * * * * * while writing above i was roused by a bustle on deck, and going up to learn the cause was informed that a boat with the long looked-for pilot had put off from the shore; but, after all the fuss and bustle, it proved only a french fisherman, with a poor ragged lad, his assistant. the captain with very little difficulty persuaded monsieur paul breton to pilot us as far as green island, a distance of some hundred miles higher up the river, where he assured us we should meet with a regular pilot, if not before. i have some little difficulty in understanding monsieur paul, as he speaks a peculiar dialect; but he seems good-natured and obliging enough. he tells us the corn is yet green, hardly in ear, and the summer fruits not yet ripe, but he says, that at quebec we shall find apples and fruit in plenty. as we advance higher up the river the country on both sides begins to assume a more genial aspect. patches of verdure, with white cottages, are seen on the shores and scattered along the sides of the mountains; while here and there a village church rears its simple spire, distinguished above the surroundings buildings by its glittering vane and bright roof of tin. the southern shores are more populous but less picturesque than those of the north, but there is enough on either side to delight the eye. this morning we anchored off the isle of bic, a pretty low island, covered with trees and looking very pleasant. i felt a longing desire to set my foot on canadian ground, and must own i was a little disappointed when the captain advised me to remain on board, and not attempt to make one of the party that were preparing to go on shore: my husband seconded the captain's wish, so i contented myself with leaning over the ship's side and feasting my eyes on the rich masses of foliage as they waved to and fro with the slight breeze that agitated them. i had soon reason to be thankful that i had not followed my own wayward will, for the afternoon proved foggy, and on the return of the boat i learned that the ground was swampy just where the party landed, and they sunk over their ankles in water. they reported the island to be covered knee-deep with a most luxuriant growth of red clover, tall trees, low shrubs, and an abundance of wild flowers. that i might not regret not accompanying him, my husband brought me a delightful bouquet, which he had selected for me. among the flowers were fragrant red roses, resembling those we call scotch burnet-leaved, with smooth shining leaves and few if any thorns; the blue flower called pulmonaria or lungwort, which i gathered in the highlands, a sweet pea, with red blossoms and wreaths of lovely pale green foliage; a white orchis, the smell of which was quite delicious. besides these were several small white and yellow flowers, with which i was totally unacquainted. the steward furnished me with a china jar and fresh water, so that i shall have the pleasure of a nosegay during the rest of the voyage. the sailors had not forgotten a green bough or two to adorn the ship, and the bird-cage was soon as bowery as leaves could make it. though the weather is now very fine, we make but slow progress; the provoking wind seems determined to blow from every quarter but the right. we float up with the flood tide, and when the tide fails cast anchor, and wait with the best grace we can till it is time to weigh anchor again. i amuse myself with examining the villages and settlements through the captain's glass, or watching for the appearance of the white porpoises tumbling among the waves. these creatures are of a milky whiteness, and have nothing of the disgusting look of the black ones. sometimes a seal pops its droll head up close beside our vessel, looking very much like sinbad's little old man of the sea. it is fortunate for me that my love of natural history enables me to draw amusement from objects that are deemed by many unworthy of attention. to me they present an inexhaustible fund of interest. the simplest weed that grows in my path, or the fly that flutters about me, are subjects for reflection, admiration and delight. we are now within sight of green island. it is the largest, and i believe one of the most populous we have passed. every minute now seems to increase the beauty of the passage. far as the eye can reach you see the shore thronged with villages and farms in one continuous line. on the southern side all are gay and glittering with the tin roofs on the most important buildings; the rest are shingles, whitewashed. this i do not like so well as the plain shingled roofs; the whiteness of the roofs of the cottages and homesteads have a glaring effect, and we look in vain for that relief to the eye that is produced by the thatched or slated roofs. the shingles in their natural state soon acquire the appearance of slates, and can hardly be distinguished from them. what would you say to a rose-coloured house, with a roof of the same gaudy hue, the front of the gay edifice being garnished with grass green shutters, doors, and verandah. no doubt the interior is furnished with corresponding taste. there is generally one or more of these _smart_ buildings in a canadian village, standing forth with ostentatious splendour above its more modest brethren. august .--just below green island we took on board a real pilot, who, by the way, i do not like half so well as monsieur paul. he is a little bit pragmatical, and seems evidently proud of his superior knowledge of the river. the good-natured fisherman relinquished his post with a very good grace, and seems already excellent friends with his more able rival. for my part i was very sorry when the new pilot came on board; the first thing he did was to hand us over a pamphlet, containing regulations from the board of health at quebec respecting the cholera, which is raging, he tells us, like a fearful plague both at that place and montreal. these regulations positively forbid the captain and the pilot to allow any person, whether of the crew or passengers, to quit the vessel until they shall have passed examination at the quarantine ground, under the risk of incurring a severe penalty. this was very annoying; as the captain, that very morning, had proposed taking us on shore at a lovely spot called crane island, to spend the afternoon, while we waited for the return of the tide, at the house of a scotch gentleman, the owner of the prettiest settlement i had yet seen, the buildings and grounds being laid out with great taste. the situation of this island is of itself very beautiful. around it are the waters of the st. laurence, bearing on its mighty current the commerce of several nations: in the foreground are the populous and lively settlements of the southern shores, while behind and far, far above it rise the lofty range of mountains to the north, now studded with rural villages, pleasant farms, and cultivated fields. the island itself showed us smooth lawns and meadows of emerald verdure, with orchards and corn-fields sloping down to the water's edge. after a confinement of nearly five weeks on board, you may easily suppose with what satisfaction we contemplated the prospect of spending a few hours on this inviting spot. we expect to reach the quarantine ground (gros isle) this evening, where the pilot says we shall be detained three days. though we are all in good health, yet, having sailed from an infected port, we shall be detained on the quarantine ground, but not allowed to land. august .--we reached gros isle yesterday evening. it is a beautiful rocky island, covered with groves of beech, birch, ash, and fir-trees. there are several vessels lying at anchor close to the shore; one bears the melancholy symbol of disease, the yellow flag; she is a passenger- ship, and has the smallpox and measles among her crew. when any infectious complaint appears on board, the yellow flag is hoisted, and the invalids conveyed to the cholera-hospital or wooden building, that has been erected on a rising bank above the shore. it is surrounded with palisadoes and a guard of soldiers. there is also a temporary fort at some distance from the hospital, containing a garrison of soldiers, who are there to enforce the quarantine rules. these rules are considered as very defective, and in some respects quite absurd, and are productive of many severe evils to the unfortunate emigrants. when the passengers and crew of a vessel do not exceed a certain number, they are not allowed to land under a penalty, both to the captain and the offender; but if, on the contrary, they should exceed the stated number, ill or well, passengers and crew must all turn out and go on shore, taking with them their bedding and clothes, which are all spread out on the shore, to be washed, aired, and fumigated, giving the healthy every chance of taking the infection from the invalids. the sheds and buildings put up for the accommodation of those who are obliged to submit to the quarantine laws, are in the same area as the hospital. [* it is to be hoped that some steps will be taken by government to remedy these obnoxious laws which have repeatedly entailed those very evils on the unhappy emigrants that the board of health wish to avert from the colony at large. many valuable lives have been wantonly sacrificed by placing the healthy in the immediate vicinity of infection, besides subjecting them to many other sufferings, expenses, and inconvenience, which the poor exile might well be spared. if there must be quarantine laws--and i suppose the evil is a necessary one--surely every care ought to be taken to render them as little hurtful to the emigrant as possible.] nothing can exceed the longing desire i feel to be allowed to land and explore this picturesque island; the weather is so fine, and the waving groves of green, the little rocky bays and inlets of the island, appear so tempting; but to all my entreaties the visiting surgeon who came on board returned a decided negative. a few hours after his visit, however, an indian basket, containing strawberries and raspberries, with a large bunch of wild flowers, was sent on board for me, with the surgeon's compliments. i amuse myself with making little sketches of the fort and the surrounding scenery, or watching the groups of emigrants on shore. we have already seen the landing of the passengers of three emigrant ships. you may imagine yourself looking on a fair or crowded market, clothes waving in the wind or spread out on the earth, chests, bundles, baskets, men, women, and children, asleep or basking in the sun, some in motion busied with their goods, the women employed in washing or cooking in the open air, beside the wood fires on the beach; while parties of children are pursuing each other in wanton glee rejoicing in their newly-acquired liberty. mixed with these you see the stately form and gay trappings of the sentinels, while the thin blue smoke of the wood fires, rising above the trees, heightens the picture and gives it an additional effect. on my husband remarking the picturesque appearance of scene before us to one of the officers from the fort who had come on board, he smiled sadly, and replied, "believe me, in this instance, as in many others, 'tis distance lends enchantment to the view." could you take a nearer survey of some of those very picturesque groups which you admire, i think you would turn away from them with heart sickness; you would there behold every variety of disease, vice, poverty, filth, and famine--human misery in its most disgusting and saddening form. such pictures as hogarth's pencil only could have pourtrayed, or crabbe's pen described. august .--we are once more under weigh, and floating up the river with the tide. gros isle is just five and twenty miles below quebec, a favourable breeze would carry us up in a few hours; as it is we can only make a little way by tacking from side to side when we lose the tide. i rather enjoy this way of proceeding, as it gives one a close view of both sides the river, which narrows considerably as we approach nearer towards quebec. to-morrow, if no accident happens, we shall be anchored in front of a place rendered interesting both by its historical associations and its own native beauty of situation. till to-morrow, then, adieu. i was reckoning much on seeing the falls of montmorenci, which are within sight of the river; but the sun set, and the stars rose brilliantly before we approached within sound of the cataract; and though i strained my eyes till they were weary of gazing on the dim shadowy scene around me, i could distinguish nothing beyond the dark masses of rock that forms the channel through which the waters of the montmorenci rush into the st. laurence. at ten last night, august the th, the lights of the city of quebec were seen gleaming through the distance like a coronet of stars above the waters. at half-past ten we dropped anchor opposite the fort, and i fell asleep dreaming of the various scenes through which i had passed. again i was destined to be disappointed in my expectations of going on shore. the visiting surgeon advised my husband and me by no means to land, as the mortality that still raged in the town made it very hazardous. he gave a melancholy description of the place. "desolation and woe and great mourning--rachel weeping for her children because they are not," are words that may well be applied to this city of the pestilence. [illustration - falls of montmorenci] nothing can be more imposing than the situation of quebec, built on the sides and summit of a magnificent rock, on the highest point of which (cape diamond) stands the fortress overlooking the river, and commanding a most superb view of the surrounding scenes. i did, indeed, regret the loss of this noble prospect, the equal of which i suppose i shall never see. it would have been something to have thought on and recalled in after years, when buried in the solitude of the canadian woods. the opposite heights, being the point levi side, are highly picturesque, though less imposing than the rock on which the town stands. the bank is rocky, precipitous, and clothed with trees that sweep down to the water's edge, excepting where they are cleared away to give place to white cottages, gardens, and hanging orchards. but, in my opinion, much less is done with this romantic situation than might be effected if good taste were exercised in the buildings, and on the disposal of the ground. how lovely would such a spot be rendered in england or scotland. nature here has done all, and man but little, excepting sticking up some ugly wooden cottages, as mean as they are tasteless. it is, however, very possible there may be pretty villas and houses higher up, that are concealed from the eye by the intervening groves. the river is considered to be just a mile across from point levi to the landing-stairs below the custom-house in quebec; and it was a source of amusement to me to watch the horse ferry-boats that ply between the two shores. the captain told me there were not less than twelve of these comical-looking machines. they each have their regular hours, so that you see a constant succession going or returning. they carry a strange assortment of passengers; well and ill-dressed; old and young; rich and poor; cows, sheep, horses, pigs, dogs, fowls, market-baskets, vegetables, fruit, hay, corn, anything and everything you will see by turns. the boat is flat, railed round, with a wicker at each end to admit the live and dead stock that go or are taken on board; the centre of the boat (if such it can be called) is occupied by four lean, ill-favoured hacks, who walk round and round, as if in a threshing machine, and work the paddles at each side. there is a sort of pen for the cattle. i am told there is a monument erecting in honour of wolfe, in the governor's garden, looking towards the st. laurence, and to be seen from point levi: the inscription has not yet been decided upon*. -------------------- [* since the period in which the author visited quebec, wolfe's monument has been completed. lord dalhousie, with equal good feeling and good taste, has united the names of the rival heroes wolfe and montcalm in the dedication of the pillar--a liberality of feeling that cannot but prove gratifying to the canadian french, while it robs the british warrior of none of his glory. the monument was designed by major young of the th regiment. to the top of the surbase is fourteen feet from the ground; on this rests a sarcophagus, seven feet three inches high, from which rises an obelisk forty-two feet eight inches in height, and the apex is two feet one inch. the dimensions of the obelisk at the base are six feet by four feet eight inches. a prize medal was adjudged to j.c. fisher, ll.d. for the following inscription on the sarcophagus:-- mortem virtus communem famam historia monumentum posteritas dedit. on the surbase is an inscription from the pen of dr. mills, stating the fact of the erection of the monument at the expense of lord dalhousie, governor of lower canada, to commemorate the death of wolfe and montcalm, sept. and , . wolfe fell on the field; and montcalm, who was wounded by the single gun in the possession of the english, died on the next day after the battle.] -------------------- the captain has just returned from the town. he very kindly brought on board a basket of ripe apples for me, besides fresh meat, vegetables, bread, butter, and milk. the deck is all bustle with custom-house officers, and men unloading a part of the ship's freight, which consists chiefly of rum, brandy, sugar, and coals, for ballast. we are to leave quebec by five o'clock this evening. the _british america_, a superb steam-vessel of three decks, takes us in tow as far as montreal. i must now say farewell. letter iii. departure from quebec.--towed by a steam-vessel.--fertility of the country.--different objects seen in sailing up the river.--arrival off montreal.--the rapids. brig _laurel_, st. laurence, below montreal, august , it was after sunset, and a glorious evening, when we left quebec, which we did in company with a fine steam-vessel, whose decks and gallery were crowded with passengers of all descriptions. a brave sight she was to look upon; ploughing the bright waters which foamed and sung beneath her paddles; while our brig, with her white sails, followed like a butterfly in her wake. the heavens were glowing with the richest tints of rose and saffron, which were reflected below on the bosom of the river; and then came forth the stars, in the soft blue ether, more brilliant than ever i saw them at home, and this, i suppose, i may attribute to the superior purity of the atmosphere. my husband said this evening resembled the sunsets of italy. our voyage has proved a very pleasant one; the weather moderately warm, and the air quite clear. we have within the last few days emerged from a cold, damp atmosphere, such as we often experience in britain in the spring, to a delightful summer, moderated by light breezes from the river. the further we advance up the country the more fertile it appears. the harvest is ripening under a more genial climate than that below quebec. we see fields of indian corn in full flower: it is a stately-looking crop, with its beautiful feathery top tinted with a rich purple hue, below which tufts of pale green silk are waving in the breeze. when fully ripe they tell me it is beautiful to see the golden grain bursting from its silvery sheath; but that it is a crop liable to injury from frost, and has many enemies, such as bears, racoons, squirrels, mice, fowls, &c. we saw several fields of tobacco along the banks of the river, which looked healthy and flourishing. i believe tobacco is cultivated to some extent in both provinces; but the canadian tobacco is not held in such high esteem as that of virginia. there is a flourishing and very pretty town situated at the junction of the richelieu river with the st. laurence, formerly called sorel, now called fort william henry. the situation is excellent. there are several churches, a military fort, with mills, and other public buildings, with some fine stone houses. the land, however, in the immediate vicinity of the town seems very light and sandy. i was anxious to obtain a near view of a log-house or a shanty, and was somewhat disappointed in the few buildings of this kind that i saw along the banks of the river. it was not the rudeness of the material so much as the barn-like form of the buildings of this kind, and the little attention that was paid to the picturesque, that displeased me. in britain even the peasant has taste enough to plant a few roses or honeysuckles about his door or his casement, and there is the little bit of garden enclosed and neatly kept; but here no such attempt is made to ornament the cottages. we saw no smiling orchard or grove to conceal the bare log walls; and as to the little farm-houses, they are uglier still, and look so pert and ungraceful stuck upon the bank close to the water's edge. further back a different style of building and cultivation appears. the farms and frame-houses are really handsome places, and in good taste, with clumps of trees here and there to break the monotony of the clearing. the land is nearly one unbroken level plain, apparently fertile and well farmed, but too flat for fine scenery. the country between quebec and montreal has all the appearance of having been under a long state of cultivation, especially on the right bank of the river. still there is a great portion of forest standing which it will take years of labour to remove. we passed some little grassy islands on which there were many herds of cattle feeding. i was puzzling myself to know how they got there, when the captain told me it was usual for farmers to convey their stock to these island pastures in flat-bottomed boats, or to swim them, if the place was fordable, and leave them to graze as long as the food continued good. if cows are put on an island within a reasonable distance of the farm, some person goes daily in a canoe to milk them. while he was telling me this, a log-canoe with a boy and a stout lass with tin pails, paddled across from the bank of the river, and proceeded to call together their herd. we noticed some very pleasant rural villages to the right as we advanced, but our pilot was stupid, and could not, or would not tell their names. it was sunday morning, and we could just hear the quick tinkling of the church bells, and distinguish long lines of caleches, light waggons, with equestrians and pedestrians hastening along the avenue of trees that led to the churchyard; besides these, were boats and canoes crossing the river, bound to the same peaceful haven. in a part of the st. laurence, where the channel is rendered difficult by shoals and sand-banks, there occur little lighthouses, looking somewhat like miniature watermills, on wooden posts, raised above the flat banks on which they are built. these droll little huts were inhabited, and we noticed a merry party, in their holiday clothes, enjoying a gossip with a party in a canoe below them. they looked clean and smart, and cheerful enough, but i did not envy them their situation, which i should think far from healthy. some miles below montreal the appearance of the country became richer, more civilized, and populous; while the distant line of blue mountains, at the verge of the horizon, added an interest to the landscape. the rich tint of ripened harvest formed a beautiful contrast with the azure sky and waters of the st. laurence. the scenery of the river near montreal is of a very different character to that below quebec; the latter possesses a wild and rugged aspect, and its productions are evidently those of a colder and less happy climate. what the former loses in grandeur and picturesque effect, it gains in fertility of soil and warmth of temperature. in the lower division of the province you feel that the industry of the inhabitants is forcing a churlish soil for bread; while in the upper, the land seems willing to yield her increase to a moderate exertion. remember, these are merely the cursory remarks of a passing traveller, and founded on no personal experience. there was a feeling of anxiety and dread upon our minds that we would hardly acknowledge to each other as we drew near to the city of the pestilence, as if ashamed of confessing a weakness that was felt; but no one spoke on the subject. with what unmixed delight and admiration at any other time should we have gazed on the scene that opened upon us. the river here expands into a fine extensive basin, diversified with islands, on the largest of which montreal is situated. the lofty hill from which the town takes its name rises like a crown above it, and forms a singular and magnificent feature in the landscape, reminding me of some of the detached hills in the vicinity of inverness. opposite to the quebec suburbs, just in front of the rapids, is situated the island of st. helens, a spot of infinite loveliness. the centre of it is occupied by a grove of lofty trees, while the banks, sloping down to the water, seem of the most verdant turf. the scene was heightened by the appearance of the troops which garrison the island. the shores of the river, studded with richly cultivated farms; the village of la prairie, with the little island of st. anne's in the distance; the glittering steeples and roofs of the city, with its gardens and villas,--looked lovely by the softened glow of a canadian summer sunset. the church bells ringing for evening prayer, with the hum of voices from the shore, mingled not inharmoniously with the rush of the rapids. these rapids are caused by a descent in the bed of the river. in some places this declination is gradual, in others sudden and abrupt. where the current is broken by masses of limestone or granite rock, as at the cascades, the cedars, and the long sault, it creates whirlpools and cataracts. but the rapids below montreal are not of this magnificent character, being made perceptible only by the unusual swiftness of the water, and its surface being disturbed by foam, and waving lines and dimples. in short, i was disappointed in my expectation of seeing something very grand; and was half angry at these pretty behaved quiet rapids, to the foot of which we were towed in good style by our faithful consort the _british america_. as the captain is uncertain how long he may be detained at montreal, i shall send this letter without further delay, and write again as soon as possible. letter iv. landing at montreal.--appearance of the town.--ravages of the cholera.-- charitable institutions in montreal.--catholic cathedral.--lower and upper town.--company and conversation at the hotel.--writer attacked with the cholera.--departure from montreal in a stage coach.--embark at lachine on board a steam-vessel.--mode of travelling alternately in steam-vessels and stages.--appearance of the country.--manufactures.-- ovens at a distance from the cottages.--draw-wells.--arrival at cornwall.--accommodation at the inn.--departure from cornwall, and arrival at prescott.--arrival at brockville.--ship-launch there.--voyage through lake ontario.--arrival at cobourg nelson hotel, montreal, august . once more on terra ferma, dearest mother: what a strange sensation it is to tread the land once again, free from the motion of the heaving waters, to which i was now, in truth, glad to bid farewell. by daybreak every creature on board was up and busily preparing for going on shore. the captain himself obligingly escorted us, and walked as far with us as the hotel, where we are at present lodged. we found some difficulty in getting on shore, owing to the badness of the landing. the river was full of floating timbers, between which it required some skill to guide the boat. a wharf is now being built--not before it was needed*. [* some excellent wharfs have since been completed.] we were struck by the dirty, narrow, ill-paved or unpaved streets of the suburbs, and overpowered by the noisome vapour arising from a deep open fosse that ran along the street behind the wharf. this ditch seemed the receptacle for every abomination, and sufficient in itself to infect a whole town with malignant fevers*. [* this has since been arched over. a market has been erected above it.] i was greatly disappointed in my first acquaintance with the interior of montreal; a place of which travellers had said so much. i could compare it only to the fruits of the dead sea, which are said to be fair and tempting to look upon, but yield only ashes and bitterness when tasted by the thirsty traveller**. .......... [** the following description of montreal is given by m'gregor in his british america, vol. ii. p. :--"betwixt the royal mountain and the river, on a ridge of gentle elevation, stands the town. including the suburbs, it is more extensive than quebec. both cities differ very greatly in appearance; the low banks of the st. laurence at montreal want the tremendous precipices frowning over them, and all that grand sublimity which characterizes quebec. "there are no wharfs at montreal, and the ships and steamers lie quietly in pretty deep water, close to the clayey and generally filthy bank of the city. the whole of the lower town is covered with gloomy-looking houses, having dark iron shutters; and although it may be a little cleaner than quebec, it is still very dirty; and the streets are not only narrow and ill-paved, but the footpaths are interrupted by slanting cellar doors and other projections." "it is impossible (says mr. talbot, in his five years' residence) to walk the streets of montreal on a sunday or holiday, when the shops are closed, without receiving the most gloomy impressions; the whole city seems one vast prison;"--alluding to the window-shutters and outer doors of iron, that have been adopted to counteract the effects of fire.] .......... i noticed one peculiar feature in the buildings along the suburb facing the river--that they were mostly furnished with broad wooden balconies from the lower to the upper story; in some instances they surrounded the houses on three sides, and seemed to form a sort of outer chamber. some of these balconies were ascended by flights of broad stairs from the outside. i remember when a child dreaming of houses so constructed, and fancying them very delightful; and so i think they might be rendered, if shaded by climbing shrubs, and adorned with flowers, to represent a hanging- garden or sweet-scented bowery walk. but nothing of this kind gladdened our eyes as we toiled along the hot streets. every house of public resort was crowded from the top to the bottom with emigrants of all ages, english, irish, and scotch. the sounds of riotous merriment that burst from them seemed but ill-assorted with the haggard, careworn faces of many of the thoughtless revellers. the contrast was only too apparent and too painful a subject to those that looked upon this show of outward gaiety and inward misery. the cholera had made awful ravages, and its devastating effects were to be seen in the darkened dwellings and the mourning habiliments of all classes. an expression of dejection and anxiety appeared in the faces of the few persons we encountered in our walk to the hotel, which plainly indicated the state of their minds. in some situations whole streets had been nearly depopulated; those that were able fled panic-stricken to the country villages, while others remained to die in the bosom of their families. to no class, i am told, has the disease proved so fatal as to the poorer sort of emigrants. many of these, debilitated by the privations and fatigue of a long voyage, on reaching quebec or montreal indulged in every sort of excess, especially the dangerous one of intoxication; and, as if purposely paving the way to certain destruction, they fell immediate victims to the complaint. in one house eleven persons died, in another seventeen; a little child of seven years old was the only creature left to tell the woful tale. this poor desolate orphan was taken by the nuns to their benevolent institution, where every attention was paid that humanity could suggest. the number both of catholic and protestant benevolent societies is very great, and these are maintained with a liberality of principle that does honour to both parties, who seem indeed actuated by a fervent spirit of christian charity. i know of no place, not even excepting london itself, where the exercise of benevolent feelings is more called for than in these two cities, quebec and montreal. here meet together the unfortunate, the improvident, the helpless orphan, the sick, the aged, the poor virtuous man, driven by the stern hand of necessity from his country and his home, perhaps to be overtaken by sickness or want in a land of strangers. it is melancholy to reflect that a great number of the poorest class of emigrants that perished in the reign of the cholera have left no trace by which their sorrowing anxious friends in the old country may learn their fate. the disease is so sudden and so violent that it leaves no time for arranging worldly matters; the sentinel comes, not as it did to hezekiah, "set thine house in order, for thou shalt die, and not live." the weather is sultry hot, accompanied by frequent thunder-showers, which have not the effect one would expect, that of cooling the heated atmosphere. i experience a degree of languor and oppression that is very distressing, and worse than actual pain. instead of leaving this place by the first conveyance for the upper province, as we fully purposed doing, we find ourselves obliged to remain two days longer, owing to the dilatoriness of the custom-house officers in overlooking our packages. the fact is that everything and everybody are out of sorts. the heat has been too oppressive to allow of my walking much abroad. i have seen but little of the town beyond the streets adjacent to the hotel: with the exception of the catholic cathedral, i have seen few of the public buildings. with the former i was much pleased: it is a fine building, though still in an unfinished state, the towers not having been carried to the height originally intended. the eastern window, behind the altar, is seventy feet in height by thirty-three in width. the effect of this magnificent window from the entrance, the altar with its adornments and paintings, the several smaller altars and shrines, all decorated with scriptural designs, the light tiers of galleries that surround the central part of the church, the double range of columns supporting the vaulted ceiling, and the arched windows, all combine to form one beautiful whole. what most pleased me was the extreme lightness of the architecture though i thought the imitation of marble, with which the pillars were painted, coarse and glaring. we missed the time- hallowing mellowness that age has bestowed on our ancient churches and cathedrals. the grim corbels and winged angels that are carved on the grey stone, whose very uncouthness tells of time gone by when our ancestors worshipped within their walls, give an additional interest to the temples of our forefathers. but, though the new church at montreal cannot compare with our york minster, westminster abbey, and others of our sacred buildings, it is well worthy the attention of travellers, who will meet with nothing equal to it in the canadas. there are several colleges and nunneries, a hospital for the sick, several catholic and protestant churches, meeting-houses, a guard-house, with many other public edifices. the river-side portion of the town is entirely mercantile. its narrow, dirty streets and dark houses, with heavy iron shutters, have a disagreeable appearance, which cannot but make an unfavourable impression on the mind of a british traveller. the other portion of the town, however, is of a different character, and the houses are interspersed with gardens and pleasant walks, which looked very agreeable from the windows of the ball-room of the nelson hotel. this room, which is painted from top to bottom, the walls and ceiling, with a coarse imitation of groves and canadian scenery, commands a superb view of the city, the river, and all surrounding country, taking in the distant mountains of chamblay, the shores of st. laurence, towards la prairie, and the rapids above and below the island of st. anne's. the royal mountain (mont real), with its wooded sides, its rich scenery, and its city with its streets and public buildings, lie at your feet: with such objects before you the eye may well be charmed with the scenery of montreal. we receive the greatest attention from the master of the hotel, who is an italian. the servants of the house are very civil, and the company that we meet at the ordinary very respectable, chiefly emigrants like ourselves, with some lively french men and women. the table is well supplied, and the charges for board and lodging one dollar per day each*. [* this hotel is not of the highest class, in which the charge is a dollar and a half per day. ed.] i am amused with the variety of characters of which our table is composed. some of the emigrants appear to entertain the most sanguine hopes of success, appearing to foresee no difficulties in carrying their schemes into effect. as a contrast to these there is one of my countrymen, just returned from the western district on his way back to england, who entreats us by no means to go further up this horrid country, as he emphatically styles the upper province, assuring us he would not live in it for all the land it contained. he had been induced, by reading cattermole's pamphlet on the subject of emigration, to quit a good farm, and gathering together what property he possessed, to embark for canada. encouraged by the advice of a friend in this country, he purchased a lot of wild land in the western district; "but sir," said he, addressing my husband with much vehemence, "i found i had been vilely deceived. such land, such a country--i would not live in it for all i could see. why, there is not a drop of wholesome water to be got, or a potato that is fit to eat. i lived for two months in a miserable shed they call a shanty, eaten up alive with mosquitoes. i could get nothing to eat but salted pork, and, in short, the discomforts are unbearable. and then all my farming knowledge was quite useless-- people know nothing about farming in this country. why, it would have broken my heart to work among the stumps, and never see such a thing as a well-ploughed field. and then," he added, in a softer tone, "i thought of my poor wife and the little one. i might, for the sake of bettering my condition, have roughed out a year or so myself, but, poor thing, i could not have had the heart to have brought her out from the comforts of england to such a place, not so good as one of our cow-houses or stables, and so i shall just go home; and if i don't tell all my neighbours what sort of a country this is they are all crazing to throw up their farms and come to, never trust a word of mine again." it was to no purpose that some persons present argued with him on the folly of returning until he had tried what could be done: he only told them they were fools if they staid an hour in a country like this; and ended by execrating those persons who deceived the people at home by their false statements, who sum up in a few pages all the advantages, without filling a volume with the disadvantages, as they might well do. "persons are apt to deceive themselves as well as to be deceived," said my husband; "and having once fixed their minds on any one subject, will only read and believe those things that accord with their wishes." this young man was evidently disappointed in not finding all things as fair and pleasant as at home. he had never reflected on the subject, or he could not have been so foolish as to suppose he would encounter no difficulties in his first outset, in a settlement in the woods. we are prepared to meet with many obstacles, and endure considerable privations, although i dare say we may meet with many unforeseen ones, forewarned as we have been by our canadian friend's letters. our places are taken in the stage for lachine, and if all is well, we leave montreal to-morrow morning. our trunks, boxes, &c. are to be sent on by the forwarders to cobourg.--august . cobourg, august .--when i closed my last letter i told you, my dear mother, that we should leave montreal by sunrise the following day; but in this we were doomed to be disappointed, and to experience the truth of these words: "boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what an hour may bring forth." early that very morning, just an hour before sunrise, i was seized with the symptoms of the fatal malady that had made so many homes desolate. i was too ill to commence my journey, and, with a heavy heart, heard the lumbering wheels rattle over the stones from the door of the hotel. i hourly grew worse, till the sister of the landlady, an excellent young woman, who had previously shown me great attention, persuaded me to send for a physician; and my husband, distracted at seeing me in such agony, ran off to seek for the best medical aid. after some little delay a physician was found. i was then in extreme torture; but was relieved by bleeding, and by the violent fits of sickness that ensued. i will not dwell minutely on my sufferings, suffice to say, they were intense; but god, in his mercy, though he chastened and afflicted me, yet gave me not over unto death. from the females of the house i received the greatest kindness. instead of fleeing affrighted from the chamber of sickness, the two irish girls almost quarrelled which should be my attendant; while jane taylor, the good young woman i before mentioned, never left me from the time i grew so alarmingly ill till a change for the better had come over me, but, at the peril of her own life, supported me in her arms, and held me on her bosom, when i was struggling with mortal agony, alternately speaking peace to me, and striving to soothe the anguish of my poor afflicted partner. the remedies applied were bleeding, a portion of opium, blue pill, and some sort of salts--not the common epsom. the remedies proved effectual, though i suffered much from sickness and headache for many hours. the debility and low fever that took place of the cholera obliged me to keep my bed some days. during the two first my doctor visited me four times a day; he was very kind, and, on hearing that i was the wife of a british officer emigrating to the upper province, he seemed more than ever interested in my recovery, evincing a sympathy for us that was very grateful to our feelings. after a weary confinement of several days, i was at last pronounced in a sufficiently convalescent state to begin my journey, though still so weak that i was scarcely able to support myself. the sun had not yet risen when the stage that was to take us to lachine, the first nine miles of our route, drove up to the door, and we gladly bade farewell to a place in which our hours of anxiety had been many, and those of pleasure few. we had, however, experienced a great deal of kindness from those around us, and, though perfect strangers, had tasted some of the hospitality for which this city has often been celebrated. i omitted, in my former letter, telling you how we formed an acquaintance with a highly respectable merchant in this place, who afforded us a great deal of useful information, and introduced us to his wife, a very elegant and accomplished young woman. during our short acquaintance, we passed some pleasant hours at their house, much to our satisfaction. i enjoyed the fresh breeze from the river along the banks of which our road lay. it was a fine sight to see the unclouded sun rising from behind the distant chain of mountains. below us lay the rapids in their perturbed state, and there was the island of st. anne's, bringing to our minds moore's canadian boat song: "we'll sing at saint anne's our parting hymn." the bank of the st. laurence, along which our road lay, is higher here than at montreal, and clothed with brushwood on the summit, occasionally broken with narrow gulleys. the soil, as near as i could see, was sandy or light loam. i noticed the wild vine for the first time twining among the saplings. there were raspberry bushes, too, and a profusion of that tall yellow flower we call aaron's golden rod, a _solidago_, and the white love-everlasting, the same that the chaplets are made of by the french and swiss girls to adorn the tombs of their friends, and which they call _immortelle_; the americans call it life-everlasting; also a tall purple-spiked valerian, that i observed growing in the fields among the corn, as plentiful as the bugloss is in our light sandy fields in england. at lachine we quitted the stage and went on board a steamer, a fine vessel elegantly fitted up with every accommodation. i enjoyed the passage up the river exceedingly, and should have been delighted with the journey by land had not my recent illness weakened me so much that i found the rough roads very unpleasant. as to the vehicle, a canadian stage, it deserves a much higher character than travellers have had the candour to give it, and is so well adapted for the roads over which it passes that i doubt if it could be changed for a more suitable one. this vehicle is calculated to hold nine persons, three back, front, and middle; the middle seat, which swings on broad straps of leather; is by far the easiest, only you are liable to be disturbed when any of the passengers choose to get out. certainly the travelling is arranged with as little trouble to the traveller as possible. having paid your fare to prescott you have no thought or care. when you quit the steam-boat you find a stage ready to receive you and your luggage, which is limited to a certain proportion. when the portage is passed (the land carriage), you find a steam-vessel ready, where you have every accommodation. the charges are not immoderate, considering the comforts you enjoy. in addition to their own freight, the steamers generally tow up several other vessels. we had three durham boats at one time, beside some other small craft attached to us, which certainly afforded some variety, if not amusement. with the exception of quebec and montreal, i must give the preference to the upper province. if not on so grand a scale, the scenery is more calculated to please, from the appearance of industry and fertility it displays. i am delighted, in travelling along the road, with the neatness, cleanliness, and comfort of the cottages and farms. the log- house and shanty rarely occur, having been supplanted by pretty frame houses, built in a superior style, and often painted white-lead colour or a pale pea-green. around these habitations were orchards, bending down with a rich harvest of apples, plums, and the american crab, those beautiful little scarlet apples so often met with as a wet preserve among our sweetmeats at home. you see none of the signs of poverty or its attendant miseries. no ragged, dirty, squalid children, dabbling in mud or dust; but many a tidy, smart-looking lass was spinning at the cottage-doors, with bright eyes and braided locks, while the younger girls were seated on the green turf or on the threshold, knitting and singing as blithe as birds. there is something very picturesque in the great spinning-wheels that are used in this country for spinning the wool, and if attitude were to be studied among our canadian lasses, there cannot be one more becoming, or calculated to show off the natural advantages of a fine figure, than spinning at the big wheel. the spinster does not sit, but walks to and fro, guiding the yarn with one hand while with the other she turns the wheel. i often noticed, as we passed by the cottage farms, hanks of yarn of different colours hanging on the garden or orchard fence to dry; there were all manner of colours, green, blue, purple, brown, red, and white. a civil landlady, at whose tavern we stopped to change horses, told me these hanks of yarn were first spun and then dyed by the good wives, preparatory to being sent to the loom. she showed me some of this home- spun cloth, which really looked very well. it was a dullish dark brown, the wool being the produce of a breed of black sheep. this cloth is made up in different ways for family use. "every little dwelling you see," said she, "has its lot of land, and, consequently, its flock of sheep; and, as the children are early taught to spin, and knit, and help dye the yarn, their parents can afford to see them well and comfortably clothed. "many of these very farms you now see in so thriving a condition were wild land thirty years ago, nothing but indian hunting-grounds. the industry of men, and many of them poor men, that had not a rood of land of their own in their own country, has effected this change." i was much gratified by the reflection to which this good woman's information gave rise. "we also are going to purchase wild land, and why may not we see our farm, in process of time," thought i, "equal these fertile spots. surely this is a blessed country to which we have emigrated," said i, pursuing the pleasing idea, "where every cottage abounds with the comforts and necessaries of life." i perhaps overlooked at that time the labour, the difficulties, the privations to which these settlers had been exposed when they first came to this country. i saw it only at a distance of many years, under a high state of cultivation, perhaps in the hands of their children or their children's children, while the toil-worn parent's head was low in the dust. among other objects my attention was attracted by the appearance of open burying-grounds by the roadside. pretty green mounds, surrounded by groups of walnut and other handsome timber trees, contained the graves of a family, or may be, some favoured friends slept quietly below the turf beside them. if the ground was not consecrated, it was hallowed by the tears and prayers of parents and children. these household graves became the more interesting to me on learning that when a farm is disposed of to a stranger, the right of burying their dead is generally stipulated for by the former possessor. you must bear with me if i occasionally weary you with dwelling on trifles. to me nothing that bears the stamp of novelty is devoid of interest. even the clay-built ovens stuck upon four legs at a little distance from the houses were not unnoticed in passing. when there is not the convenience of one of these ovens outside the dwellings, the bread is baked in large iron pots--"_bake-kettles_" they are termed. i have already seen a loaf as big as a peck measure baking on the hearth in one of these kettles, and tasted of it, too; but i think the confined steam rather imparts a peculiar taste to the bread, which you do not perceive in the loaves baked in brick or clay ovens. at first i could not make out what these funny little round buildings, perched upon four posts, could be; and i took them for bee-hives till i spied a good woman drawing some nice hot loaves out of one that stood on a bit of waste land on the roadside, some fifty yards from the cottage. besides the ovens every house had a draw-well near it, which differed in the contrivance for raising the water from those i had seen in the old country. the plan is very simple:--a long pole, supported by a post, acts as a lever to raise the bucket, and the water can be raised by a child with very trifling exertion. this method is by many persons preferred to either rope or chain, and from its simplicity can be constructed by any person at the mere trouble of fixing the poles. i mention this merely to show the ingenuity of people in this country, and how well adapted all their ways are to their means*. [* the plan is pursued in england and elsewhere, and may be seen in the market-gardens on the western suburb of london. it can only be done when the water is near the surface.] we were exceedingly gratified by the magnificent appearance of the rapids of the st. laurence, at the cascades of which the road commanded a fine view from the elevation of the banks. i should fail in my attempt to describe this grand sheet of turbulent water to you. howison has pictured them very minutely in his work on upper canada, which i know you are well acquainted with. i regretted that we could not linger to feast our eyes with a scene so wild and grand as the river here appears; but a canadian stage waits for no one, so we were obliged to content ourselves with a passing sight of these celebrated rapids. we embarked at couteau du lac and reached cornwall late the same evening. some of the stages travel all night, but i was too much fatigued to commence a journey of forty-nine miles over canadian roads that night. our example was followed by a widow lady and her little family. we had some difficulty obtaining a lodging, the inns being full of travellers; here, for the first time we experienced something of that odious manner ascribed, though doubtless too generally, to the american. our host seemed perfectly indifferent to the comfort of his guests, leaving them to wait on themselves or go without what they wanted. the absence of females in these establishments is a great drawback where ladies are travelling. the women keep entirely out of sight, or treat you with that offensive coldness and indifference that you derive little satisfaction from their attendance. after some difficulty in obtaining sight of the landlady of the inn at cornwall, and asking her to show me a chamber where we might pass the night, with a most ungracious air she pointed to a door which opened into a mere closet, in which was a bed divested of curtains, one chair, and an apology for a wash-stand. seeing me in some dismay at the sight of this uninviting domicile, she laconically observed there was that or none, unless i chose to sleep in a four-bedded room, which had three tenants in it,--and those gentlemen. this alternative i somewhat indignantly declined, and in no very good humour retired to my cabin, where vile familiars to the dormitory kept us from closing our weary eye-lids till the break of day. we took an early and hasty breakfast, and again commenced our journey. here our party consisted of myself, my husband, a lady and gentleman with three small children, besides an infant of a month old, all of whom, from the eldest to the youngest, were suffering from hooping- cough; two great cumberland miners, and a french pilot and his companion--this was a huge amphibious-looking monster, who bounced in and squeezed himself into a corner seat, giving a knowing nod and comical grin to the driver, who was in the secret, and in utter defiance of all remonstrance at this unlooked-for intrusion, cracked his whip with a flourish, that appeared to be reckoned pretty considerably smart by two american travellers that stood on either side of the door at the inn, with their hats not in their hands nor yet on their heads, but slung by a black ribbon to one of their waistcoat buttons, so as to fall nearly under one arm. this practice i have seen adopted since, and think if johnny gilpin had but taken this wise precaution he might have saved both hat and wig. i was dreadfully fatigued with this day's travelling, being literally bruised black and blue. we suffered much inconvenience from the excessive heat of the day, and could well have dispensed with the company of two out of the four of our bulky companions. we reached prescott about five the same afternoon, where we met with good treatment at the inn; the female servants were all english, and seemed to vie with each other in attention to us. we saw little in the town of prescott to interest or please. after an excellent breakfast we embarked on board the _great britain_, the finest steamer we had yet seen, and here we were joined by our new friends, to our great satisfaction. at brockville we arrived just in time to enjoy what was to me quite a novel sight,--a ship-launch. a gay and exciting scene it was. the sun shone brilliantly on a concourse of people that thronged the shore in their holiday attire; the church bells rang merrily out, mingling with the music from the deck of the gaily painted vessel that, with flags and streamers, and a well-dressed company on board, was preparing for the launch. to give additional effect, a salute was fired from a temporary fort erected for the occasion on a little rocky island in front of the town. the schooner took the water in fine style, as if eager to embrace the element which was henceforth to be subject to her. it was a moment of intense interest. the newly launched was greeted with three cheers from the company on board the _great britain_, with a salute from the little fort, and a merry peal from the bells, which were also rung in honour of a pretty bride that came on board with her bridegroom on their way to visit the falls of niagara. brockville is situated just at the entrance of the lake of the thousand islands, and presents a pretty appearance from the water. the town has improved rapidly, i am told, within the last few years, and is becoming a place of some importance. the shores of the st. laurence assume a more rocky and picturesque aspect as you advance among its thousand islands, which present every variety of wood and rock. the steamer put in for a supply of fire-wood at a little village on the american side the river, where also we took on board five-and-twenty beautiful horses, which are to be exhibited at cobourg and york for sale. there was nothing at all worthy of observation in the american village, unless i except a novelty that rather amused me. almost every house had a tiny wooden model of itself, about the bigness of a doll's house, (or baby-house, i think they are called,) stuck up in front of the roof or at the gable end. i was informed by a gentleman on board, these baby- houses, as i was pleased to call them, were for the swallows to build in. it was midnight when we passed kingston, so of course i saw nothing of that "key to the lakes," as i have heard it styled. when i awoke in the morning the steamer was dashing gallantly along through the waters of the ontario, and i experienced a slight sensation of sickness. when the waters of the lake are at all agitated, as they sometimes are, by high winds, you might imagine yourself upon a tempest-tossed sea. the shores of the ontario are very fine, rising in waving lines of hill and dale, clothed with magnificent woods, or enlivened by patches of cultivated land and pretty dwellings. at ten o'clock we reached cobourg. cobourg, at which place we are at present, is a neatly built and flourishing village, containing many good stores, mills, a banking- house, and printing-office, where a newspaper is published once a week. there is a very pretty church and a select society, many families of respectability having fixed their residences in or near the town. to-morrow we leave cobourg, and shall proceed to peterborough, from which place i shall again write and inform you of our future destination, which will probably be on one of the small lakes of the otanabee. letter v. journey from cobourg to amherst.--difficulties to be encountered on first settling in the backwoods.--appearance of the country.--rice lake.--indian habits.--voyage up the otanabee.--log-house, and its inmates.--passage boat.--journey on foot to peterborough. peterborough, newcastle district. september , . we left cobourg on the afternoon of the st of september in a light waggon, comfortably lined with buffalo robes. our fellow travellers consisted of three gentlemen and a young lady, all of whom proved very agreeable, and willing to afford us every information respecting the country through which we were travelling. the afternoon was fine--one of those rich mellow days we often experience in the early part of september. the warm hues of autumn were already visible on the forest trees, but rather spoke of ripeness than decay. the country round cobourg is well cultivated, a great portion of the woods having been superseded by open fields, pleasant farms, and fine flourishing orchards, with green pastures, where abundance of cattle were grazing. the county gaol and court-house at amherst, about a mile and a half from cobourg, is a fine stone edifice, situated on a rising ground, which commands an extensive view over the lake ontario and surrounding scenery. as you advance farther up the country, in the direction of the hamilton or rice lake plains, the land rises into bold sweeping hills and dales. the outline of the country reminded me of the hilly part of gloucestershire; you want, however, the charm with which civilization has so eminently adorned that fine county, with all its romantic villages, flourishing towns, cultivated farms, and extensive downs, so thickly covered with flocks and herds. here the bold forests of oak, beech, maple, and bass-wood, with now and then a grove of dark pine, cover the hills, only enlivened by an occasional settlement, with its log-house and zig-zag fences of split timber: these fences are very offensive to my eye. i look in vain for the rich hedge rows of my native country. even the stone fences in the north and west of england, cold and bare as they are, are less unsightly. the settlers, however, invariably adopt whatever plan saves time, labour, and money. the great law of expediency is strictly observed;--it is borne of necessity. matters of taste appear to be little regarded, or are, at all events, after-considerations. i could see a smile hover on the lips of my fellow travellers on hearing of our projected plans for the adornment of our future dwelling. "if you go into the backwoods your house must necessarily be a log- house," said an elderly gentleman, who had been a settler many years in the country. "for you will most probably be out of the way of a saw- mill, and you will find so much to do, and so many obstacles to encounter, for the first two or three years, that you will hardly have opportunity for carrying these improvements into effect. "there is an old saying," he added, with a mixture of gravity and good humour in his looks, "that i used to hear when i was a boy, 'first creep* and then go.' [* derived from infants crawling on all-fours before they have strength to walk.] matters are not carried on quite so easily here as at home; and the truth of this a very few weeks' acquaintance with the _bush_, as we term all unbroken forest land, will prove. at the end of five years you may begin to talk of these pretty improvements and elegancies, and you will then be able to see a little what you are about." "i thought," said i, "every thing in this country was done with so much expedition. i am sure i have heard and read of houses being built in a day." the old gentleman laughed. "yes, yes," he replied, "travellers find no difficulty in putting up a house in twelve or twenty-four hours, and so the log-walls can be raised in that time or even less; but the house is not completed when the outer walls are up, as your husband will find to his cost." "but all the works on emigration that i leave read," replied i, "give a fair and flattering picture of a settler's life; for, according to their statements, the difficulties are easily removed." "never mind books," said my companion, "use your own reason. look on those interminable forests, through which the eye can only penetrate a few yards, and tell me how those vast timbers are to be removed, utterly extirpated, i may say, from the face of the earth, the ground cleared and burnt, a crop sown and fenced, and a house to shelter you raised, without difficulty, without expense, and without great labour. never tell me of what is said in books, written very frequently by tarry-at- home travellers. give me facts. one honest, candid emigrant's experience is worth all that has been written on the subject. besides, that which may be a true picture of one part of the country will hardly suit another. the advantages and disadvantages arising from soil, situation, and progress of civilization, are very different in different districts: even the prices of goods and of produce, stock and labour, vary exceedingly, according as you are near to, or distant from, towns and markets." i began to think my fellow-traveller spoke sensibly on the subject, with which the experience of thirteen years had made him perfectly conversant. i began to apprehend that we also had taken too flattering a view of a settler's life as it must be in the backwoods. time and our own personal knowledge will be the surest test, and to that we must bow. we are ever prone to believe that which we wish. about halfway between cobourg and the rice lake there is a pretty valley between two steep hills. here there is a good deal of cleared land and a tavern: the place is called "cold springs." who knows but some century or two hence this spot may become a fashionable place of resort to drink the waters. a canadian bath or cheltenham may spring up where now nature revels in her wilderness of forest trees. we now ascended the plains--a fine elevation of land--for many miles scantily clothed with oaks, and here and there bushy pines, with other trees and shrubs. the soil is in some places sandy, but varies, i am told, considerably in different parts, and is covered in large tracks with rich herbage, affording abundance of the finest pasture for cattle. a number of exquisite flowers and shrubs adorn these plains, which rival any garden in beauty during the spring and summer months. many of these plants are peculiar to the plains, and are rarely met with in any other situation. the trees, too, though inferior in size to those in the forests, are more picturesque, growing in groups or singly, at considerable intervals, giving a sort of park-like appearance to this portion of the country. the prevailing opinion seems to be, that the plains laid out in grazing or dairy farms would answer the purpose of settlers well; as there is plenty of land that will grow wheat and other corn-crops, and can be improved at a small expense, besides abundance of natural pasture for cattle. one great advantage seems to be, that the plough can be introduced directly, and the labour of preparing the ground is necessarily much less than where it is wholly covered with wood. [illustration: rice grounds] there are several settlers on these plains possessing considerable farms. the situation, i should think, must be healthy and agreeable, from the elevation and dryness of the land, and the pleasant prospect they command of the country below them, especially where the rice lake, with its various islands and picturesque shores, is visible. the ground itself is pleasingly broken into hill and valley, sometimes gently sloping, at other times abrupt and almost precipitous. an american farmer, who formed one of our party at breakfast the following morning, told me that these plains were formerly famous hunting grounds of the indians, who, to prevent the growth of the timbers, burned them year after year; this, in process of time, destroyed the young trees, so as to prevent them again from accumulating to the extent they formerly did. sufficient only was left to form coverts; for the deer resort hither in great herds for the sake of a peculiar tall sort of grass with which these plains abound, called deer- grass, on which they become exceedingly fat at certain seasons of the year. evening closed in before we reached the tavern on the shores of the rice lake, where we were to pass the night; so that i lost something of the beautiful scenery which this fine expanse of water presents as you descend the plains towards its shores. the glimpses i caught of it were by the faint but frequent flashes of lightning that illumined the horizon to the north, which just revealed enough to make me regret i could see no more that night. the rice lake is prettily diversified with small wooded islets: the north bank rises gently from the water's edge. within sight of sully, the tavern from which the steam-boat starts that goes up the otanabee, you see several well-cultivated settlements; and beyond the indian village the missionaries have a school for the education and instruction of the indian children. many of them can both read and write fluently, and are greatly improved in their moral and religious conduct. they are well and comfortably clothed, and have houses to live in. but they are still too much attached to their wandering habits to become good and industrious settlers. during certain seasons they leave the village, and encamp themselves in the woods along the borders of those lakes and rivers that present the most advantageous hunting and fishing grounds. the rice lake and mud lake indians belong, i am told, to the chippewas; but the traits of cunning and warlike ferocity that formerly marked this singular people seem to have disappeared beneath the milder influence of christianity. certain it is that the introduction of the christian religion is the first greatest step towards civilization and improvement; its very tendency being to break down the strong-holds of prejudice and ignorance, and unite mankind in one bond of social brotherhood. i have been told that for some time drunkenness was unknown, and even the moderate use of spirits was religiously abstained from by all the converts. this abstinence is still practised by some families; but of late the love of ardent spirits has again crept in among them, bringing discredit upon their faith. it is indeed hardly to be wondered at, when the indian sees those around him that call themselves christians, and who are better educated, and enjoy the advantages of civilized society, indulging to excess in this degrading vice, that he should suffer his natural inclination to overcome his christian duty, which might in some have taken no deep root. i have been surprised and disgusted by the censures passed on the erring indian by persons who were foremost in indulgence at the table and the tavern; as if the crime of drunkenness were more excusable in the man of education than in the half-reclaimed savage. there are some fine settlements on the rice lake, but i am told the shores are not considered healthy, the inhabitants being subject to lake-fevers and ague, especially where the ground is low and swampy. these fevers and agues are supposed by some people to originate in the extensive rice-beds which cause a stagnation in the water; the constant evaporation from the surface acting on a mass of decaying vegetation must tend to have a bad effect on the constitution of those that are immediately exposed to its pernicious influence. besides numerous small streams, here called _creeks_, two considerable rivers, the otanabee and the trent, find an outlet for their waters in the rice lake. these rivers are connected by a chain of small lakes, which you may trace on any good map of the province. i send you a diagram, which has been published at cobourg, which will give you the geography of this portion of the country. it is on one of these small lakes we purpose purchasing land, which, should the navigation of these waters be carried into effect, as is generally supposed to be in contemplation, will render the lands on their shores very advantageous to the settlers; at present they are interrupted by large blocks of granite and limestone, rapids, and falls, which prevent any but canoes or flat-bottomed boats from passing on them, and even these are limited to certain parts, on account of the above-named obstacles. by deepening the bed of the river and lakes, and forming locks in some parts and canals, the whole sweep of these waters might be thrown open to the bay of quinte. the expense, however, would necessarily be great; and till the townships of this portion of the district be fully settled, it is hardly to be expected that so vast an undertaking should be effected, however desirable it may be. [illustration: sleigh driving] we left the tavern at rice lake, after an unusual delay, at nine o'clock. the morning was damp, and a cold wind blew over the lake, which appeared to little advantage through the drizzling rain, from which i was glad to shroud my face in my warm plaid cloak, for there was no cabin or other shelter in the little steamer than an inefficient awning. this apology for a steam-boat formed a considerable contrast with the superbly-appointed vessels we had lately been passengers in on the ontario and the st. laurence. but the circumstance of a steamer at all on the otanabee was a matter of surprise to us, and of exultation to the first settlers along its shores, who for many years had been contented with no better mode of transport than a scow or a canoe for themselves and their marketable produce, or through the worst possible roads with a waggon or sleigh. the otanabee is a fine broad, clear stream, divided into two mouths at its entrance to the rice lake by a low tongue of land, too swampy to be put under cultivation. this beautiful river (for such i consider it to be) winds its way between thickly-wooded banks, which rise gradually as you advance higher up the country. towards noon the mists cleared off, and the sun came forth in all the brilliant beauty of a september day. so completely were we sheltered from the wind by the thick wall of pines on either side, that i no longer felt the least inconvenience from the cold that had chilled me on crossing the lake in the morning. to the mere passing traveller, who cares little for the minute beauties of scenery, there is certainly a monotony in the long and unbroken line of woods, which insensibly inspires a feeling of gloom almost touching on sadness. still there are objects to charm and delight the close observer of nature. his eye will be attracted by fantastic bowers, which are formed by the scarlet creeper (or canadian ivy) and the wild vine, flinging their closely-entwined wreaths of richly tinted foliage from bough to bough of the forest trees, mingling their hues with the splendid rose-tipped branches of the soft maple, the autumnal tints of which are unrivalled in beauty by any of our forest trees at home. the purple clusters of the grape, by no means so contemptible in size as i had been led to imagine, looked tempting to my longing eyes, as they appeared just ripening among these forest bowers. i am told the juice forms a delicious and highly-flavoured jelly, boiled with sufficient quantity of sugar; the seeds are too large to make any other preparation of them practicable. i shall endeavour, at some time or other, to try the improvement that can be effected by cultivation. one is apt to imagine where nature has so abundantly bestowed fruits, that is the most favourable climate for their attaining perfection with the assistance of culture and soil. [illustration: silver pine] the waters of the otanabee are so clear and free from impurity that you distinctly see every stone-pebble or shell at the bottom. here and there an opening in the forest reveals some tributary stream, working its way beneath the gigantic trees that meet above it. the silence of the scene is unbroken but by the sudden rush of the wild duck, disturbed from its retreat among the shrubby willows, that in some parts fringe the left bank, or the shrill cry of the kingfisher, as it darts across the water. the steam-boat put in for a supply of fire-wood at a clearing about half-way from peterborough, and i gladly availed myself of the opportunity of indulging my inclination for gathering some of the splendid cardinal flowers that grew among the stones by the river's brink. here, too, i plucked as sweet a rose as ever graced an english garden. i also found, among the grass of the meadow-land, spearmint, and, nearer to the bank, peppermint. there was a bush resembling our hawthorn, which, on examination, proved to be the cockspur hawthorn, with fruit as large as cherries, pulpy, and of a pleasant tartness not much unlike to tamarinds. the thorns of this tree were of formidable length and strength. i should think it might be introduced with great advantage to form live fences; the fruit, too, would prove by no means contemptible as a preserve. as i felt a great curiosity to see the interior of a log-house, i entered the open door-way of the tavern, as the people termed it, under the pretext of buying a draught of milk. the interior of this rude dwelling presented no very inviting aspect. the walls were of rough unhewn logs, filled between the chinks with moss and irregular wedges of wood to keep out the wind and rain. the unplastered roof displayed the rafters, covered with moss and lichens, green, yellow, and grey; above which might be seen the shingles, dyed to a fine mahogany-red by the smoke which refused to ascend the wide clay and stone chimney, to curl gracefully about the roof, and seek its exit in the various crannies and apertures with which the roof and sides of the building abounded. the floor was of earth, which had become pretty hard and smooth through use. this hut reminded me of the one described by the four russian sailors that were left to winter on the island of spitzbergen. its furniture was of corresponding rudeness; a few stools, rough and unplaned; a deal table, which, from being manufactured from unseasoned wood, was divided by three wide open seams, and was only held together by its ill-shaped legs; two or three blocks of grey granite placed beside the hearth served for seats for the children, with the addition of two beds raised a little above the ground by a frame of split cedars. on these lowly couches lay extended two poor men, suffering under the wasting effects of lake-fever. their yellow bilious faces strangely contrasted with the gay patchwork-quilts that covered them. i felt much concerned for the poor emigrants, who told me they had not been many weeks in the country when they were seized with the fever and ague. they both had wives and small children, who seemed very miserable. the wives also had been sick with ague, and had not a house or even shanty of their own up; the husbands having fallen ill were unable to do anything; and much of the little money they had brought out with them had been expended in board and lodging in this miserable place, which they dignified by the name of tavern. i cannot say i was greatly prepossessed in favour of their hostess, a harsh, covetous woman. besides the various emigrants, men, women, and children, that lodged within the walls, the log-house had tenants of another description. a fine calf occupied a pen in a corner; some pigs roamed grunting about in company with some half- dozen fowls. the most attractive objects were three snow-white pigeons, that were meekly picking up crumbs, and looking as if they were too pure and innocent to be inhabitants of such a place. owing to the shallowness of the river at this season, and to the rapids, the steam-boat is unable to go up the whole way to peterborough, and a scow or rowboat, as it is sometimes termed--a huge, unwieldy, flat- bottomed machine--meets the passengers at a certain part of the river, within sight of a singular pine tree on the right bank; this is termed the "yankee bonnet," from the fancied resemblance of the topmost boughs to a sort of cap worn by the yankees, not much unlike the blue bonnet of scotland. unfortunately, the steamer ran aground some four miles below the usual place of rendezvous, and we waited till near four o'clock for the scow. when it made its appearance, we found, to our discomfort, the rowers (eight in number, and all irishmen) were under the exciting influence of a cag of whiskey, which they had drunk dry on the voyage. they were moreover exasperated by the delay on the part of the steamer, which gave them four miles additional heavy rowing. beside a number of passengers there was an enormous load of furniture, trunks, boxes, chests, sacks of wheat, barrels of flour, salt, and pork, with many miscellaneous packages and articles, small and great, which were piled to a height that i thought very unsafe both to goods and passengers. with a marvellous ill grace the men took up their oars when their load was completed, but declared they would go on shore and make a fire and cook their dinners, they not having eaten any food, though they had taken large potations of the whiskey. this measure was opposed by some of the gentlemen, and a fierce and angry scene ensued, which ended in the mutineers flinging down their oars, and positively refusing to row another stroke till they had satisfied their hunger. perhaps i had a fellow-feeling for them, as i began to be exceedingly hungry, almost ravenous, myself, having fasted since six that morning; indeed, so faint was i, that i was fain to get my husband to procure me a morsel of the coarse uninviting bread that was produced by the rowers, and which they ate with huge slices of raw pickled pork, seasoning this unseemly meal with curses "not loud but deep," and bitter taunts against those who prevented them from cooking their food like _christians_. while i was eagerly eating the bit of bread, an old farmer, who had eyed me for some time with a mixture of curiosity and compassion, said, "poor thing: well, you do seem hungry indeed, and i dare say are just out from the _ould_ country, and so little used to such hard fare. here are some cakes that my woman (i.e. wife) put in my pocket when i left home; i care nothing for them, but they are better than that bad bread; take 'em, and welcome." with these words he tossed some very respectable home-made seed-cakes into my lap, and truly never was anything more welcome than this seasonable refreshment. a sullen and gloomy spirit seemed to prevail among our boatmen, which by no means diminished as the evening drew on, and "the rapids were near." the sun had set, and the moon and stars rose brilliantly over the still waters, which gave back the reflections of their glorious multitude of heavenly bodies. a sight so passing fair might have stilled the most turbulent spirits into peace; at least so i thought, as, wrapped in my cloak, i leant back against the supporting arm of my husband, and looking from the waters to the sky, and from the sky to the waters, with delight and admiration. my pleasant reverie was, however, soon ended, when i suddenly felt the boat touch the rocky bank, and heard the boatmen protesting they would go no further that night. we were nearly three miles below peterborough, and how i was to walk this distance, weakened as i was by recent illness and fatigue of our long travelling, i knew not. to spend the night in an open boat, exposed to the heavy dews arising from the river, would be almost death. while we were deliberating on what to do, the rest of the passengers had made up their minds, and taken the way through the woods by a road they were well acquainted with. they were soon out of sight, all but one gentleman, who was bargaining with one of the rowers to take him and his dog across the river at the head of the rapids in a skiff. imagine our situation, at ten o'clock at night, without knowing a single step of our road, put on shore to find the way to the distant town as we best could, or pass the night in the dark forest. almost in despair, we entreated the gentleman to be our guide as far as he went. but so many obstacles beset our path in the form of newly- chopped trees and blocks of stone, scattered along the shore, that it was with the utmost difficulty we could keep him in sight. at last we came up with him at the place appointed to meet the skiff, and, with a pertinacity that at another time and in other circumstances we never should have adopted, we all but insisted on being admitted into the boat. an angry growling consent was extorted from the surly charon, and we hastily entered the frail bark, which seemed hardly calculated to convey us in safety to the opposite shore. i could not help indulging in a feeling of indescribable fear, as i listened to the torrent of profane invective that burst forth continually from the lips of the boatman. once or twice we were in danger of being overset by the boughs of the pines and cedars which had fallen into the water near the banks. right glad was i when we reached the opposite shores; but here a new trouble arose: there was yet more untracked wood to cross before we again met the skiff which had to pass up a small rapid, and meet us at the head of the small lake, an expansion of the otanabee a little below peterborough. at the distance of every few yards our path was obstructed by fallen trees, mostly hemlock, spruce, or cedar, the branches of which are so thickly interwoven that it is scarcely possible to separate them, or force a passage through the tangled thicket which they form. had it not been for the humane assistance of our conductor, i know not how i should have surmounted these difficulties. sometimes i was ready to sink down from very weariness. at length i hailed, with a joy i could hardly have supposed possible, the gruff voice of the irish rower, and, after considerable grumbling on his part, we were again seated. glad enough we were to see, by the blazing light of an enormous log- heap, the house of our friend. here we received the offer of a guide to show us the way to the town by a road cut through the wood. we partook of the welcome refreshment of tea, and, having gained a little strength by a short rest, we once more commenced our journey, guided by a ragged, but polite, irish boy, whose frankness and good humour quite won our regards. he informed us he was one of seven orphans, who had lost father and mother in the cholera. it was a sad thing, he said, to be left fatherless and motherless, in a strange land; and he swept away the tears that gathered in his eyes as he told the simple, but sad tale of his early bereavement; but added, cheerfully, he had met with a kind master, who had taken some of his brothers and sisters into his service as well as himself. just as we were emerging from the gloom of the wood we found our progress impeded by a _creek_, as the boy called it, over which he told us we must pass by a log-bridge before we could get to the town. now, the log-bridge was composed of one log, or rather a fallen tree, thrown across the stream, rendered very slippery by the heavy dew that had risen from the swamp. as the log admitted of only one person at a time, i could receive no assistance from my companions; and, though our little guide, with a natural politeness arising from the benevolence of his disposition, did me all the service in his power by holding the lantern close to the surface to throw all the light he could on the subject, i had the ill luck to fall in up to my knees in the water, my head turning quite giddy just as i came to the last step or two; thus was i wet as well as weary. to add to our misfortune we saw the lights disappear, one by one, in the village, till a solitary candle, glimmering from the upper chambers of one or two houses, were our only beacons. we had yet a lodging to seek, and it was near midnight before we reached the door of the principal inn; there, at least, thought i, our troubles for to-night will end; but great was our mortification on being told there was not a spare bed to be had in the house, every one being occupied by emigrants going up to one of the back townships. i could go no further, and we petitioned for a place by the kitchen fire, where we might rest, at least, if not sleep, and i might dry my wet garments. on seeing my condition the landlady took compassion on me, led me to a blazing fire, which her damsels quickly roused up; one brought a warm bath for my feet, while another provided a warm potation, which, i really believe, strange and unusual to my lips as it was, did me good: in short, we received every kindness and attention that we required from mine host and hostess, who relinquished their own bed for our accommodation, contenting themselves with a shakedown before the kitchen fire. i can now smile at the disasters of _that_ day, but at the time they appeared no trifles, as you may well suppose. farewell, my dearest mother. letter vi. peterborough.--manners and language of the americans.--scotch engineman.--description of peterborough and its environs.--canadian flowers.--shanties.--hardships suffered by first settlers.--process of establishing a farm. peterborough, sept. , . it is now settled that we abide here till after the government sale has taken place. we are, then, to remain with s------ and his family till we have got a few acres chopped, and a log-house put up on our own land. having determined to go at once into the bush, on account of our military grant, which we have been so fortunate as to draw in the neighbourhood of s------, we have fully made up our minds to enter at once, and cheerfully, on the privations and inconveniences attending such a situation; as there is no choice between relinquishing that great advantage and doing our settlement duties. we shall not be worse off than others who have gone before us to the unsettled townships, many of whom, naval and military officers, with their families, have had to struggle with considerable difficulties, but who are now beginning to feel the advantages arising from their exertions. in addition to the land he is entitled to as an officer in the british service, my husband is in treaty for the purchase of an eligible lot by small lakes. this will give us a water frontage, and a further inducement to bring us within a little distance of s------; so that we shall not be quite so lonely as if we had gone on to our government lot at once. we have experienced some attention and hospitality from several of the residents of peterborough. there is a very genteel society, chiefly composed of officers and their families, besides the professional men and storekeepers. many of the latter are persons of respectable family and good education. though a store is, in fact, nothing better than what we should call in the country towns at home a "_general shop_," yet the storekeeper in canada holds a very different rank from the shopkeeper of the english village. the storekeepers are the merchants and bankers of the places in which they reside. almost all money matters are transacted by them, and they are often men of landed property and consequence, not unfrequently filling the situations of magistrates, commissioners, and even members of the provincial parliament. as they maintain a rank in society which entitles them to equality with the aristocracy of the country, you must not be surprised when i tell you that it is no uncommon circumstance to see the sons of naval and military officers and clergymen standing behind a counter, or wielding an axe in the woods with their fathers' choppers; nor do they lose their grade in society by such employment. after all, it is education and manners that must distinguish the gentleman in this country, seeing that the labouring man, if he is diligent and industrious, may soon become his equal in point of worldly possessions. the ignorant man, let him be ever so wealthy, can never be equal to the man of education. it is the mind that forms the distinction between the classes in this country-- "knowledge is power!" we had heard so much of the odious manners of the yankees in this country that i was rather agreeably surprised by the few specimens of native americans that i have seen. they were for the most part, polite, well-behaved people. the only peculiarities i observed in them were a certain nasal twang in speaking, and some few odd phrases; but these were only used by the lower class, who "_guess_" and "_calculate_" a little more than we do. one of their most remarkable terms is to "_fix_." whatever work requires to be done it must be _fixed_. "fix the room" is, set it in order. "fix the table"--"fix the fire," says the mistress to her servants, and the things are fixed accordingly. i was amused one day by hearing a woman tell her husband the chimney wanted fixing. i thought it seemed secure enough, and was a little surprised when the man got a rope and a few cedar boughs, with which he dislodged an accumulation of soot that caused the fire to smoke. the chimney being _fixed_, all went right again. this odd term is not confined to the lower orders alone, and, from hearing it so often, it becomes a standard word even among the later emigrants from our own country. with the exception of some few remarkable expressions, and an attempt at introducing fine words in their every-day conversation, the lower order of yankees have a decided advantage over our english peasantry in the use of grammatical language: they speak better english than you will hear from persons of the same class in any part of england, ireland, or scotland; a fact that we should be unwilling, i suppose, to allow at home. if i were asked what appeared to me the most striking feature in the manners of the americans that i had met with, i should say it was coldness approaching to apathy. i do not at all imagine them to be deficient in feeling or real sensibility, but they do not suffer their emotion to be seen. they are less profuse in their expressions of welcome and kindness than we are, though probably quite as sincere. no one doubts their hospitality; but, after all, one likes to see the hearty shake of the hand, and hear the cordial word that makes one feel oneself welcome. persons who come to this country are very apt to confound the old settlers from britain with the native americans; and when they meet with people of rude, offensive manners, using certain yankee words in their conversation, and making a display of independence not exactly suitable to their own aristocratical notions, they immediately suppose they must be genuine yankees, while they are, in fact, only imitators; and you well know the fact that a bad imitation is always worse than the original. you would be surprised to see how soon the new comers fall into this disagreeable manner and affectation of equality, especially the inferior class of irish and scotch; the english less so. we were rather entertained by the behaviour of a young scotchman, the engineer of the steamer, on my husband addressing him with reference to the management of the engine. his manners were surly, and almost insolent. he scrupulously avoided the least approach to courtesy or outward respect; nay, he even went so far as to seat himself on the bench close beside me, and observed that "among the many advantages this country offered to settlers like him, he did not reckon it the least of them that he was not obliged to take off his hat when he spoke to people (meaning persons of our degree), or address them by any other title than their name; besides, he could go and take his seat beside any gentleman or lady either, and think himself to the full as good as them. "very likely," i replied, hardly able to refrain from laughing at this sally; "but i doubt you greatly overrate the advantage of such privileges, for you cannot oblige the lady or gentleman to entertain the same opinion of your qualifications, or to remain seated beside you unless it pleases them to do so." with these words i rose up and left the independent gentleman evidently a little confounded at the manoeuvre: however, he soon recovered his self-possession, and continued swinging the axe he held in his hand, and said, "it is no crime, i guess, being born a poor man." "none in the world," replied my husband; "a man's birth is not of his own choosing. a man can no more help being born poor than rich; neither is it the fault of a gentleman being born of parents who occupy a higher station in society than his neighbour. i hope you will allow this?" the scotchman was obliged to yield a reluctant affirmative to the latter position; but concluded with again repeating his satisfaction at not being obliged in this country to take off his hat, or speak with respect to gentlemen, as they styled themselves. "no one, my friend, could have obliged you to be well mannered at home any more than in canada. surely you could have kept your hat on your head if you had been so disposed; no gentleman would have knocked it off, i am sure. "as to the boasted advantage of rude manners in canada, i should think something of it if it benefited you the least, or put one extra dollar in your pocket; but i have my doubts if it has that profitable effect." "there is a comfort, i guess, in considering oneself equal to a gentleman." "particularly if you could induce the gentleman to think the same." this was a point that seemed rather to disconcert our candidate for equality, who commenced whistling and kicking his heels with redoubled energy. "now," said his tormentor, "you have explained your notions of canadian independence; be so good as to explain the machinery of your engine, with which you seem very well acquainted." the man eyed my husband for a minute, half sulking, half pleased at the implied compliment on his skill, and, walking off to the engine, discussed the management of it with considerable fluency, and from that time treated us with perfect respect. he was evidently struck with my husband's reply to his question, put in a most discourteous tone, "pray, what makes a gentleman: i'll thank you to answer me that?" "good manners and good education," was the reply. "a rich man or a high-born man, if he is rude, ill-mannered, and ignorant, is no more a gentleman than yourself." this put the matter on a different footing, and the engineer had the good sense to perceive that rude familiarity did not constitute a gentleman. but it is now time i should give you some account of peterborough, which, in point of situation, is superior to any place i have yet seen in the upper province. it occupies a central point between the townships of monaghan, smith, cavan, otanabee, and douro, and may with propriety be considered as the capital of the newcastle district. it is situated on a fine elevated plain, just above the small lake, where the river is divided by two low wooded islets. the original or government part of the town is laid out in half-acre lots; the streets, which are now fast filling up, are nearly at right angles with the river, and extend towards the plains to the northeast. these plains form a beautiful natural park, finely diversified with hill and dale, covered with a lovely green sward, enamelled with a variety of the most exquisite flowers, and planted, as if by nature's own hand, with groups of feathery pines, oaks, balsam, poplar, and silver birch. the views from these plains are delightful; whichever way you turn your eyes they are gratified by a diversity of hill and dale, wood and water, with the town spreading over a considerable tract of ground. the plains descend with a steep declivity towards the river, which rushes with considerable impetuosity between its banks. fancy a long, narrow valley, and separating the east and west portions of the town into two distinct villages. [illustration: spruce] the otanabee bank rises to a loftier elevation than the monaghan side, and commands an extensive view over the intervening valley, the opposite town, and the boundary forest and hills behind it: this is called peterborough east, and is in the hands of two or three individuals of large capital, from whom the town lots are purchased. peterborough thus divided covers a great extent of ground, more than sufficient for the formation of a large city. the number of inhabitants are now reckoned at seven hundred and upwards, and if it continues to increase as rapidly in the next few years as it has done lately, it will soon be a very populous town*. [*since this account of peterborough was written, the town has increased at least a third in buildings and population.] there is great water-power, both as regards the river and the fine broad creek which winds its way through the town and falls into the small lake below. there are several saw and grist-mills, a distillery, fulling- mill, two principal inns, beside smaller ones, a number of good stores, a government school-house, which also serves for a church, till one more suitable should be built. the plains are sold off in park lots, and some pretty little dwellings are being built, but i much fear the natural beauties of this lovely spot will be soon spoiled. i am never weary with strolling about, climbing the hills in every direction, to catch some new prospect, or gather some new flowers, which, though getting late in the summer, are still abundant. among the plants with whose names i am acquainted are a variety of shrubby asters, of every tint of blue, purple, and pearly white; a lilac _monarda_, most delightfully aromatic, even to the dry stalks and seed- vessels; the white _gnaphalium_ or everlasting flower; roses of several kinds, a few late buds of which i found in a valley, near the church. i also noticed among the shrubs a very pretty little plant, resembling our box; it trails along the ground, sending up branches and shoots; the leaves turn of a deep copper red*; yet, in spite of this contradiction, it is an evergreen. i also noticed some beautiful lichens, with coral caps surmounting the grey hollow footstalks, which grow in irregular tufts among the dry mosses, or more frequently i found them covering the roots of the trees or half-decayed timbers. among a variety of fungi i gathered a hollow cup of the most splendid scarlet within, and a pale fawn colour without; another very beautiful fungi consisted of small branches like clusters of white coral, but of so delicate a texture that the slightest touch caused them to break. [* probably a _gaultkeria_.--ed.] the ground in many places was covered with a thick carpet of strawberries of many varieties, which afford a constant dessert during the season to those who choose to pick them, a privilege of which i am sure i should gladly avail myself were i near them in the summer. beside the plants i have myself observed in blossom, i am told the spring and summer produce many others;--the orange lily; the phlox, or purple _lichnidea_; the mocassin flower, or ladies' slipper; lilies of the valley in abundance; and, towards the banks of the creek and the otanabee, the splendid cardinal flower (_lobelia cardinalis_) waves its scarlet spikes of blossoms. i am half inclined to be angry when i admire the beauty of the canadian flowers, to be constantly reminded that they are scentless, and therefore scarcely worthy of attention; as if the eye could not be charmed by beauty of form and harmony of colours, independent of the sense of smelling being gratified. to redeem this country from the censure cast on it by a very clever gentleman i once met in london, who said, "the flowers were without perfume, and the birds without song," i have already discovered several highly aromatic plants and flowers. the milkweed must not be omitted among these; a beautiful shrubby plant with purple flowers, which are alike remarkable for beauty of colour and richness of scent. i shall very soon begin to collect a hortus siccus for eliza, with a description of the plants, growth, and qualities. any striking particulars respecting them i shall make notes of; and tell her she may depend on my sending my specimens, with seeds of such as i can collect, at some fitting opportunity. i consider this country opens a wide and fruitful field to the inquiries of the botanist. i now deeply regret i did not benefit by the frequent offers eliza made me of prosecuting a study which i once thought dry, but now regard as highly interesting, and the fertile source of mental enjoyment, especially to those who, living in the bush, must necessarily be shut out from the pleasures of a large circle of friends, and the varieties that a town or village offer. on sunday i went to church; the first opportunity i had had of attending public worship since i was in the highlands of scotland; and surely i had reason to bow my knees in thankfulness to that merciful god who had brought us through the perils of the great deep and the horrors of the pestilence. never did our beautiful liturgy seem so touching and impressive as it did that day,--offered up in our lowly log-built church in the wilderness. this simple edifice is situated at the foot of a gentle slope on the plains, surrounded by groups of oak and feathery pines, which, though inferior in point of size to the huge pines and oaks of the forest, are far more agreeable to the eye, branching out in a variety of fantastic forms. the turf here is of an emerald greenness: in short, it is a sweet spot, retired from the noise and bustle of the town, a fitting place in which to worship god in spirit and in truth. there are many beautiful walks towards the smith town hills, and along the banks that overlook the river. the summit of this ridge is sterile, and is thickly set with loose blocks of red and grey granite, interspersed with large masses of limestone scattered in every direction; they are mostly smooth and rounded, as if by the action of water. as they are detached, and merely occupy the surface of the ground, it seemed strange to me how they came at that elevation. a geologist would doubtless be able to solve the mystery in a few minutes. the oaks that grow on this high bank are rather larger and more flourishing than those in the valleys and more fertile portions of the soil. behind the town, in the direction of the cavan and emily roads, is a wide space which i call the "squatter's ground," it being entirely covered with shanties, in which the poor emigrants, commuted pensioners, and the like, have located themselves and families. some remain here under the ostensible reason of providing a shelter for their wives and children till they have prepared a home for their reception on their respective grants; but not unfrequently it happens that they are too indolent, or really unable to work on their lots, often situated many miles in the backwoods, and in distant and unsettled townships, presenting great obstacles to the poor emigrant, which it requires more energy and courage to encounter than is possessed by a vast number of them. others, of idle and profligate habits, spend the money they received, and sell the land, for which they gave away their pensions, after which they remain miserable squatters on the shanty ground. the shanty is a sort of primitive hut in canadian architecture, and is nothing more than a shed built of logs, the chinks between the round edges of the timbers being filled with mud, moss, and bits of wood; the roof is frequently composed of logs split and hollowed with the axe, and placed side by side, so that the edges rest on each other; the concave and convex surfaces being alternately uppermost, every other log forms a channel to carry off the rain and melting snow. the eaves of this building resemble the scolloped edges of a clam shell; but rude as this covering is, it effectually answers the purpose of keeping the interior dry; far more so than the roofs formed of bark or boards, through which the rain will find entrance. sometimes the shanty has a window, sometimes only an open doorway, which admits the light and lets out the smoke*. a rude chimney, which is often nothing better than an opening cut in one of the top logs above the hearth, a few boards fastened in a square form, serves as the vent for the smoke; the only precaution against the fire catching the log walls behind the hearth being a few large stones placed in a half circular form, or more commonly a bank of dry earth raised against the wall. [* i was greatly amused by the remark made by a little irish boy, that we hired to be our hewer of wood and drawer of water, who had been an inhabitant of one of these shanties. "ma'am" said he, "when the weather was stinging cold, we did not know how to keep ourselves warm; for while we roasted our eyes out before the fire our backs were just freezing; so first we turned one side and then the other, just as you would roast a _guse_ on a spit. mother spent half the money father earned at his straw work (he was a straw chair maker,) in whiskey to keep us warm; but i do think a larger mess of good hot _praters_ (potatoes,) would have kept us warmer than the whiskey did."] nothing can be more comfortless than some of these shanties, reeking with smoke and dirt, the common receptacle for children, pigs, and fowls. but i have given you the dark side of the picture; i am happy to say all the shanties on the squatters' ground were not like these: on the contrary, by far the larger proportion were inhabited by tidy folks, and had one, or even two small windows, and a clay chimney regularly built up through the roof; some were even roughly floored, and possessed similar comforts with the small log-houses. [illustration: log house] you will, perhaps, think it strange when i assure you that many respectable settlers, with their wives and families, persons delicately nurtured, and accustomed to every comfort before they came hither, have been contented to inhabit a hut of this kind during the first or second year of their settlement in the woods. i have listened with feelings of great interest to the history of the hardships endured by some of the first settlers in the neighbourhood, when peterborough contained but two dwelling houses. then there were neither roads cut nor boats built for communicating with the distant and settled parts of the district; consequently the difficulties of procuring supplies of provisions was very great, beyond what any one that has lately come hither can form any notion of. when i heard of a whole family having had no better supply of flour than what could be daily ground by a small hand-mill, and for weeks being destitute of every necessary, not even excepting bread, i could not help expressing some surprise, never having met with any account in the works i had read concerning emigration that at all prepared one for such evils. "these particular trials," observed my intelligent friend, "are confined principally to the first breakers of the soil in the unsettled parts of the country, as was our case. if you diligently question some of the families of the lower class that are located far from the towns, and who had little or no means to support them during the first twelve months, till they could take a crop off the land, you will hear many sad tales of distress." writers on emigration do not take the trouble of searching out these things, nor does it answer their purpose to state disagreeable facts. few have written exclusively on the "bush." travellers generally make a hasty journey through the long settled and prosperous portions of the country; they see a tract of fertile, well-cultivated land, the result of many years of labour; they see comfortable dwellings, abounding with all the substantial necessaries of life; the farmer's wife makes her own soap, candles, and sugar; the family are clothed in cloth of their own spinning, and hose of their own knitting. the bread, the beer, butter, cheese, meat, poultry, &c. are all the produce of the farm. he concludes, therefore, that canada is a land of canaan, and writes a book setting forth these advantages, with the addition of obtaining land for a mere song; and advises all persons who would be independent and secure from want to emigrate. he forgets that these advantages are the result of long years of unremitting and patient labour; that these things are the _crown_, not the _first-fruits_ of the settler's toil; and that during the interval many and great privations must be submitted to by almost every class of emigrants. many persons, on first coming out, especially if they go back into any of the unsettled townships, are dispirited by the unpromising appearance of things about them. they find none of the advantages and comforts of which they had heard and read, and they are unprepared for the present difficulties; some give way to despondency, and others quit the place in disgust. [illustration: log-village--arrival of a stage-coach] a little reflection would have shown them that every rood of land must be cleared of the thick forest of timber that encumbers it before an ear of wheat can be grown; that, after the trees have been chopped, cut into lengths, drawn together, or _logged_, as we call it, and burned, the field must be fenced, the seed sown, harvested, and thrashed before any returns can be obtained; that this requires time and much labour, and, if hired labour, considerable outlay of ready money; and in the mean time a family must eat. if at a distance from a store, every article must be brought through bad roads either by hand or with a team, the hire of which is generally costly in proportion to the distance and difficulty to be encountered in the conveyance. now these things are better known beforehand, and then people are aware what they have to encounter. even a labouring man, though he have land of his own, is often, i may say generally, obliged to _hire out_ to work for the first year or two, to earn sufficient for the maintenance of his family; and even so many of them suffer much privation before they reap the benefit of their independence. were it not for the hope and the certain prospect of bettering their condition ultimately, they would sink under what they have to endure; but this thought buoys them up. they do not fear an old age of want and pauperism; the present evils must yield to industry and perseverance; they think also for their children; and the trials of the present time are lost in pleasing anticipations for the future. "surely," said i, "cows and pigs and poultry might be kept; and you know where there is plenty of milk, butter, cheese, and eggs, with pork and fowls, persons cannot be very badly off for food." "very true," replied my friend; "but i must tell you it is easier to talk of these things at first than to keep them, unless on cleared or partially cleared farms; but we are speaking of a _first_ settlement in the backwoods. cows, pigs, and fowls must eat, and if you have nothing to give them unless you purchase it, and perhaps have to bring it from some distance, you had better not be troubled with them, as the trouble is certain and the profit doubtful. a cow, it is true, will get her living during the open months of the year in the bush, but sometimes she will ramble away for days together, and then you lose the use of her, and possibly much time in seeking her; then in the winter she requires some additional food to the _browse_* that she gets during the chopping season, or ten to one but she dies before spring; and as cows generally lose their milk during the cold weather, if not very well kept, it is best to part with them in the fall and buy again in the spring, unless you have plenty of food for them, which is not often the case the first winter. as to pigs they are great plagues on a newly cleared farm if you cannot fat them off-hand; and that you cannot do without you buy food for them, which does not answer to do at first. if they run loose they are a terrible annoyance both to your own crops and your neighbours if you happen to be within half a mile of one; for though you may fence out cattle you cannot pigs: even poultry require something more than they pick up about the dwelling to be of any service to you, and are often taken off by hawks, eagles, foxes, and pole-cats, till you have proper securities for them." [* the cattle are supported in a great measure during the fall and winter by eating the tender shoots of the maple, beech and bass, which they seek in the newly-chopped fallow; but they should likewise be allowed straw or other food, or they will die in the very hard weather.] "then how are we to spin our own wool and make our own soap and candles?" said i. "when you are able to kill your own sheep, and hogs, and oxen, unless you buy wool and tallow"--then, seeing me begin to look somewhat disappointed, he said, "be not cast down, you will have all these things in time, and more than these, never fear, if you have patience, and use the means of obtaining them. in the mean while prepare your mind for many privations to which at present you are a stranger; and if you would desire to see your husband happy and prosperous, be content to use economy, and above all, be cheerful. in a few years the farm will supply you with all the necessaries of life, and by and by you may even enjoy many of the luxuries. then it is that a settler begins to taste the real and solid advantages of his emigration; then he feels the blessings of a country where there are no taxes, tithes, nor poor-rates; then he truly feels the benefit of independence. it is looking forward to this happy fulfillment of his desires that makes the rough paths smooth, and lightens the burden of present ills. he looks round upon a numerous family without those anxious fears that beset a father in moderate circumstances at home; for he knows he does not leave them destitute of an honest means of support." in spite of all the trials he had encountered, i found this gentleman was so much attached to a settler's life, that he declared he would not go back to his own country to reside for a permanence on any account; nor is he the only one that i have heard express the same opinion; and it likewise seems a universal one among the lower class of emigrants. they are encouraged by the example of others whom they see enjoying comforts that they could never have obtained had they laboured ever so hard at home; and they wisely reflect they must have had hardships to endure had they remained in their native land (many indeed had been driven out by want), without the most remote chance of bettering themselves or becoming the possessors of land free from all restrictions. "what to us are the sufferings of one, two, three, or even four years, compared with a whole life of labour and poverty," was the remark of a poor labourer, who was recounting to us the other day some of the hardships he had met with in this country. he said he "knew they were only for a short time, and that by industry he should soon get over them." i have already seen two of our poor neighbours that left the parish a twelvemonth ago; they are settled in canada company lots, and are getting on well. they have some few acres cleared and cropped, but are obliged to "_hire out_", to enable their families to live, working on their own land when they can. the men are in good spirits, and say "they shall in a few years have many comforts about them that they never could have got at home, had they worked late and early; but they complain that their wives are always pining for home, and lamenting that ever they crossed the seas." this seems to be the general complaint with all classes; the women are discontented and unhappy. few enter with their whole heart into a settler's life. they miss the little domestic comforts they had been used to enjoy; they regret the friends and relations they left in the old country; and they cannot endure the loneliness of the backwoods. this prospect does not discourage me: i know i shall find plenty of occupation within-doors, and i have sources of enjoyment when i walk abroad that will keep me from being dull. besides, have i not a right to be cheerful and contented for the sake of my beloved partner? the change is not greater for me than him; and if for his sake i have voluntarily left home, and friends, and country, shall i therefore sadden him by useless regrets? i am always inclined to subscribe to that sentiment of my favourite poet, goldsmith,-- "still to ourselves in every place consign'd, our own felicity we make or find." but i shall very soon be put to the test, as we leave this town to- morrow by ten o'clock. the purchase of the lake lot is concluded. there are three acres chopped and a shanty up; but the shanty is not a habitable dwelling, being merely an open shed that was put up by the choppers as a temporary shelter; so we shall have to build a house. late enough we are; too late to get in a full crop, as the land is merely chopped, not cleared, and it is too late now to log and burn the fallow, and get the seed-wheat in: but it will be ready for spring crops. we paid five dollars and a half per acre for the lot; this was rather high for wild land, so far from a town, and in a scantily-settled part of the township; but the situation is good, and has a water frontage, for which my husband was willing to pay something more than if the lot had been further inland. in all probability it will be some time before i find leisure again to take up my pen. we shall remain guests with ------ till our house is in a habitable condition, which i suppose will be about christmas. letter vii. journey from peterborough.--canadian woods.--waggon and team.--arrival at a log-house on the banks of a lake.--settlement and first occupations. october , . i shall begin my letter with a description of our journey through the bush, and so go on, giving an account of our proceedings both within- doors and with-out. i know my little domestic details will not prove wholly uninteresting to you; for well i am assured that a mother's eye is never weary with reading lines traced by the hand of an absent and beloved child. after some difficulty we succeeded in hiring a waggon and span (i.e. pair abreast) of stout horses to convey us and our luggage through the woods to the banks of one of the lakes, where s------ had appointed to ferry us across. there was no palpable road, only a blaze on the other side, encumbered by fallen trees, and interrupted by a great cedar swamp, into which one might sink up to one's knees, unless we took the precaution to step along the trunks of the mossy, decaying timbers, or make our footing sure on some friendly block of granite or limestone. what is termed in bush language a _blaze_, is nothing more than notches or slices cut off the bark of the trees, to mark out the line of road. the boundaries of the different lots are often marked by a blazed tree, also the concession-lines*. these blazes are of as much use as finger- posts of a dark night. [* these concession-lines are certain divisions of the townships; these are again divided into so many lots of acres. the concession-lines used to be marked by a wide avenue being chopped, so as to form a road of communication between them; but this plan was found too troublesome; and in a few years the young growth of timber so choked the opening, that it was of little use. the lately-surveyed townships, i believe, are only divided by blazed lines.] the road we were compelled to take lay over the peterborough plains, in the direction of the river; the scenery of which pleased me much, though it presents little appearance of fertility, with the exception of two or three extensive clearings. about three miles above peterborough the road winds along the brow of a steep ridge, the bottom of which has every appearance of having been formerly the bed of a lateral branch of the present river, or perhaps some small lake, which has been diverted from its channel, and merged in the otanabee. on either side of this ridge there is a steep descent; on the right the otanabee breaks upon you, rushing with great velocity over its rocky bed, forming rapids in miniature resembling those of the st. laurence; its dark, frowning woods of sombre pine give a grandeur to the scenery that is very impressive. on the left lies below you a sweet secluded dell of evergreens, cedar, hemlock, and pine, enlivened by a few deciduous trees. through this dell there is a road-track leading to a fine cleared farm, the green pastures of which were rendered more pleasing by the absence of the odious stumps that disfigure the clearings in this part of the country. a pretty bright stream flows through the low meadow that lies at the foot of the hill, which you descend suddenly close by a small grist-mill that is worked by the waters, just where they meet the rapids of the river. [illustration: road through a pine forest] i called this place "glen morrison," partly from the remembrance of the lovely glen morrison of the highlands, and partly because it was the name of the settler that owned the spot. our progress was but slow on account of the roughness of the road, which is beset with innumerable obstacles in the shape of loose blocks of granite and limestone, with which the lands on the banks of the river and lakes abound; to say nothing of fallen trees, big roots, mud-holes, and corduroy bridges, over which you go jolt, jolt, jolt, till every bone in your body feels as if it were going to be dislocated. an experienced bush-traveller avoids many hard thumps by rising up or clinging to the sides of his rough vehicle. as the day was particularly fine, i often quitted the waggon and walked on with my husband for a mile or so. we soon lost sight entirely of the river, and struck into the deep solitude of the forest, where not a sound disturbed the almost awful stillness that reigned around us. scarcely a leaf or bough was in motion, excepting at intervals we caught the sound of the breeze stirring the lofty heads of the pine-trees, and wakening a hoarse and mournful cadence. this, with the tapping of the red-headed and grey woodpeckers on the trunk of the decaying trees, or the shrill whistling cry of the little striped squirrel, called by the natives "chitmunk," was every sound that broke the stillness of the wild. nor was i less surprised at the absence of animal life. with the exception of the aforesaid chitmunk, no living thing crossed our path during our long day's journey in the woods. in these vast solitudes one would naturally be led to imagine that the absence of man would have allowed nature's wild denizens to have abounded free and unmolested; but the contrary seems to be the case. almost all wild animals are more abundant in the cleared districts than in the bush. man's industry supplies their wants at an easier rate than seeking a scanty subsistence in the forest. you hear continually of depredations committed by wolves, bears, racoons, lynxes, and foxes, in the long-settled parts of the province. in the backwoods the appearance of wild beasts is a matter of much rarer occurrence. i was disappointed in the forest trees, having pictured to myself hoary giants almost primeval with the country itself, as greatly exceeding in majesty of form the trees of my native isles, as the vast lakes and mighty rivers of canada exceed the locks and streams of britain. there is a want of picturesque beauty in the woods. the young growth of timber alone has any pretension of elegance of form, unless i except the hemlocks, which are extremely light and graceful, and of a lovely refreshing tint of green. even when winter has stripped the forest it is still beautiful and verdant. the young beeches too are pretty enough, but you miss that fantastic bowery shade that is so delightful in our parks and woodlands at home. there is no appearance of venerable antiquity in the canadian woods. there are no ancient spreading oaks that might be called the patriarchs of the forest. a premature decay seems to be their doom. they are uprooted by the storm, and sink in their first maturity, to give place to a new generation that is ready to fill their places. the pines are certainly the finest trees. in point of size there are none to surpass them. they tower above all the others, forming a dark line that may be distinguished for many miles. the pines being so much loftier than the other trees, are sooner uprooted, as they receive the full and unbroken force of the wind in their tops; thus it is that the ground is continually strewn with the decaying trunks of huge pines. they also seem more liable to inward decay, and blasting from lightning, and fire. dead pines are more frequently met with than any other tree. much as i had seen and heard of the badness of the roads in canada, i was not prepared for such a one as we travelled along this day: indeed, it hardly deserved the name of a road, being little more than an opening hewed out through the woods, the trees being felled and drawn aside, so as to admit a wheeled carriage passing along. the swamps and little forest streams, that occasionally gush across the path, are rendered passable by logs placed side by side. from the ridgy and striped appearance of these bridges they are aptly enough termed corduroy. over these abominable corduroys the vehicle jolts, jumping from log to log, with a shock that must be endured with as good a grace as possible. if you could bear these knocks, and pitiless thumpings and bumpings, without wry faces, your patience and philosophy would far exceed mine;-- sometimes i laughed because i would not cry. imagine you see me perched up on a seat composed of carpet-bags, trunks, and sundry packages, in a vehicle little better than a great rough deal box set on wheels, the sides being merely pegged in so that more than once i found myself in rather an awkward predicament, owing to the said sides jumping out. in the very midst of a deep mud-hole out went the front board, and with the shock went the teamster (driver), who looked rather confounded at finding himself lodged just in the middle of a slough as bad as the "slough of despond." for my part, as i could do no good, i kept my seat, and patiently awaited the restoration to order. this was soon effected, and all went on well again till a jolt against a huge pine-tree gave such a jar to the ill-set vehicle, that one of the boards danced out that composed the bottom, and a sack of flour and bag of salted pork, which was on its way to a settler's, whose clearing we had to pass in the way, were ejected. a good teamster is seldom taken aback by such trifles as these. he is, or should be, provided with an axe. no waggon, team, or any other travelling equipage should be unprovided with an instrument of this kind; as no one can answer for the obstacles that may impede his progress in the bush. the disasters we met fortunately required but little skill in remedying. the sides need only a stout peg, and the loosened planks that form the bottom being quickly replaced, away you go again over root, stump, and stone, mud-hole, and corduroy; now against the trunk of some standing tree, now mounting over some fallen one, with an impulse that would annihilate any lighter equipage than a canadian waggon, which is admirably fitted by its very roughness for such roads as we have in the bush. the sagacity of the horses of this country is truly admirable. their patience in surmounting the difficulties they have to encounter, their skill in avoiding the holes and stones, and in making their footing sure over the round and slippery timbers of the log-bridges, renders them very valuable. if they want the spirit and fleetness of some of our high-bred blood-horses, they make up in gentleness, strength, and patience. this renders them most truly valuable, as they will travel in such places that no british horse would, with equal safety to their drivers. nor are the canadian horses, when well fed and groomed, at all deficient in beauty of colour, size, or form. they are not very often used in logging; the ox is preferred in all rough and heavy labour of this kind. just as the increasing gloom of the forest began to warn us of the approach of evening, and i was getting weary and hungry, our driver, in some confusion, avowed his belief that, somehow or other, he had missed the track, though how, he could not tell, seeing there was but one road. we were nearly two miles from the last settlement, and he said we ought to be within sight of the lake if we were on the right road. the only plan, we agreed, was for him to go forward and leave the team, and endeavour to ascertain if he were near the water, and if otherwise, to return to the house we had passed and inquire the way. after running full half a mile ahead he returned with a dejected countenance, saying we must be wrong, for he saw no appearance of water, and the road we were on appeared to end in a cedar swamp, as the farther he went the thicker the hemlocks and cedars became; so, as we had no desire to commence our settlement by a night's lodging in a swamp-- where, to use the expression of our driver, the cedars grew as thick as hairs on a cat's back,--we agreed to retrace our steps. after some difficulty the lumbering machine was turned, and slowly we began our backward march. we had not gone more than a mile when a boy came along, who told us we might just go back again, as there was no other road to the lake; and added, with a knowing nod of his head, "master, i guess if you had known the bush as well as i, you would never have been _fule_ enough to turn when you were going just right. why, any body knows that _them_ cedars and himlocks grow thickest near the water; so you may just go back for your pains." it was dark, save that the stars came forth with more than usual brilliancy, when we suddenly emerged from the depth of the gloomy forest to the shores of a beautiful little lake, that gleamed the more brightly from the contrast of the dark masses of foliage that hung over it, and the towering pine-woods that girt its banks. here, seated on a huge block of limestone, which was covered with a soft cushion of moss, beneath the shade of the cedars that skirt the lake, surrounded with trunks, boxes, and packages of various descriptions, which the driver had hastily thrown from the waggon, sat your child, in anxious expectation of some answering voice to my husband's long and repeated halloo. but when the echo of his voice had died away we heard only the gurgling of the waters at the head of the rapids, and the distant and hoarse murmur of a waterfall some half mile below them. we could see no sign of any habitation, no gleam of light from the shore to cheer us. in vain we strained our ears for the plash of the oar, or welcome sound of the human voice, or bark of some household dog, that might assure us we were not doomed to pass the night in the lone wood. we began now to apprehend we had really lost the way. to attempt returning through the deepening darkness of the forest in search of any one to guide us was quite out of the question, the road being so ill defined that we should soon have been lost in the mazes of the woods. the last sound of the waggon wheels had died away in the distance; to have overtaken it would have been impossible. bidding me remain quietly where i was, my husband forced his way through the tangled underwood along the bank, in hope of discovering some sign of the house we sought, which we had every reason to suppose must be near, though probably hidden by the dense mass of trees from our sight. as i sat in the wood in silence and in darkness, my thoughts gradually wandered back across the atlantic to my dear mother and to my old home; and i thought what would have been your feelings could you at that moment have beheld me as i sat on the cold mossy stone in the profound stillness of that vast leafy wilderness, thousands of miles from all those holy ties of kindred and early associations that make home in all countries a hallowed spot. it was a moment to press upon my mind the importance of the step i had taken, in voluntarily sharing the lot of the emigrant--in leaving the land of my birth, to which, in all probability, i might never again return. great as was the sacrifice, even at that moment, strange as was my situation, i felt no painful regret or fearful misgiving depress my mind. a holy and tranquil peace came down upon me, soothing and softening my spirits into a calmness that seemed as unruffled as was the bosom of the water that lay stretched out before my feet. my reverie was broken by the light plash of a paddle, and a bright line of light showed a canoe dancing over the lake: in a few minutes a well- known and friendly voice greeted me as the little bark was moored among the cedars at my feet. my husband having gained a projecting angle of the shore, had discovered the welcome blaze of the wood fire in the log- house, and, after some difficulty, had succeeded in rousing the attention of its inhabitants. our coming that day had long been given up, and our first call had been mistaken for the sound of the ox-bells in the wood: this had caused the delay that had so embarrassed us. we soon forgot our weary wanderings beside the bright fire that blazed on the hearth of the log-house, in which we found s------ comfortably domiciled with his wife. to the lady i was duly introduced; and, in spite of all remonstrances from the affectionate and careful mother, three fair sleeping children were successively handed out of their cribs to be shown me by the proud and delighted father. our welcome was given with that unaffected cordiality that is so grateful to the heart: it was as sincere as it was kind. all means were adopted to soften the roughness of our accommodation, which, if they lacked that elegance and convenience to which we had been accustomed in england, were not devoid of rustic comfort; at all events they were such as many settlers of the first respectability have been glad to content themselves with, and many have not been half so well lodged as we now are. we may indeed consider ourselves fortunate in not being obliged to go at once into the rude shanty that i described to you as the only habitation on our land. this test of our fortitude was kindly spared us by s------, who insisted on our remaining beneath his hospitable roof till such time as we should have put up a house on our own lot. here then we are for the present _fixed_, as the canadians say; and if i miss many of the little comforts and luxuries of life, i enjoy excellent health and spirits, and am very happy in the society of those around me. the children are already very fond of me. they have discovered my passion for flowers, which they diligently search for among the stumps and along the lake shore. i have begun collecting, and though the season is far advanced, my hortus siccus boasts of several elegant specimens of fern; the yellow canadian violet, which blooms twice in the year, in the spring and fall, as the autumnal season is expressively termed; two sorts of michaelmas daisies, as we call the shrubby asters, of which the varieties here are truly elegant; and a wreath of the festoon pine, a pretty evergreen with creeping stalks, that run along the ground three or four yards in length, sending up, at the distance of five or six inches, erect, stiff, green stems, resembling some of our heaths in the dark, shining, green, chaffy leaves. the americans ornament their chimney-glasses with garlands of this plant, mixed with the dried blossoms of the life-everlasting (the pretty white and yellow flowers we call love-everlasting): this plant is also called festoon-pine. in my rambles in the wood near the house i have discovered a trailing plant bearing a near resemblance to the cedar, which i consider has, with equal propriety, a claim to the name of ground or creeping cedar. as much of the botany of these unsettled portions of the country are unknown to the naturalist, and the plants are quite nameless, i take the liberty of bestowing names upon them according to inclination or fancy. but while i am writing about flowers i am forgetting that you will be more interested in hearing what steps we are taking on our land. my husband has hired people to log up (that is, to draw the chopped timbers into heaps for burning) and clear a space for building our house upon. he has also entered into an agreement with a young settler in our vicinity to complete it for a certain sum within and without, according to a given plan. we are, however, to call the "bee," and provide every thing necessary for the entertainment of our worthy _hive_. now you know that a "bee," in american language, or rather phraseology, signifies those friendly meetings of neighbours who assemble at your summons to raise the walls of your house, shanty, barn, or any other building: this is termed a "raising bee." then there are logging-bees, husking-bees, chopping-bees, and quilting-bees. the nature of the work to be done gives the name to the bee. in the more populous and long-settled districts this practice is much discontinued, but it is highly useful, and almost indispensable to the new settlers in the remote townships, where the price of labour is proportionably high, and workmen difficult to be procured. imagine the situation of an emigrant with a wife and young family, the latter possibly too young and helpless to render him the least assistance in the important business of chopping, logging, and building, on their first coming out to take possession of a lot of wild land; how deplorable would their situation be, unless they could receive quick and ready help from those around them. this laudable practice has grown out of necessity, and if it has its disadvantages, such for instance as being called upon at an inconvenient season for a return of help, by those who have formerly assisted you, yet it is so indispensable to you that the debt of gratitude ought to be cheerfully repaid. it is, in fact, regarded in the light of a debt of honour; you cannot be forced to attend a bee in return, but no one that can does refuse, unless from urgent reasons; and if you do not find it possible to attend in person you may send a substitute in a servant or in cattle, if you have a yoke. in no situation, and under no other circumstance, does the equalizing system of america appear to such advantage as in meetings of this sort. all distinctions of rank, education, and wealth are for the time voluntarily laid aside. you will see the son of the educated gentleman and that of the poor artisan, the officer and the private soldier, the independent settler and the labourer who works out for hire, cheerfully uniting in one common cause. each individual is actuated by the benevolent desire of affording help to the helpless, and exerting himself to raise a home for the homeless. at present so small a portion of the forest is cleared on our lot, that i can give you little or no description of the spot on which we are located, otherwise than that it borders on a fine expanse of water, which forms one of the otanabee chain of small lake. i hope, however, to give you a more minute description of our situation in my next letter. for the present, then, i bid you adieu. letter viii. inconveniences of first settlement.--difficulty of obtaining provisions and other necessaries.--snow-storm and hurricane.--indian summer, and setting-in of winter.--process of clearing the land. november the th, . our log-house is not yet finished, though it is in a state of forwardness. we are still indebted to the hospitable kindness of s------ and his wife for a home. this being their first settlement on their land they have as yet many difficulties, in common with all residents in the backwoods, to put up with this year. they have a fine block of land, well situated; and s------ laughs at the present privations, to which he opposes a spirit of cheerfulness and energy that is admirably calculated to effect their conquest. they are now about to remove to a larger and more commodious house that has been put up this fall, leaving us the use of the old one till our own is ready. we begin to get reconciled to our robinson crusoe sort of life, and the consideration that the present evils are but temporary, goes a great way towards reconciling us to them. one of our greatest inconveniences arises from the badness of our roads, and the distance at which we are placed from any village or town where provisions are to be procured. till we raise our own grain and fatten our own hogs, sheep, and poultry, we must be dependent upon the stores for food of every kind. these supplies have to be brought up at considerable expense and loss of time, through our beautiful bush roads; which, to use the words of a poor irish woman, "can't be no worser." "och, darlint," she said, "but they are just bad enough, and can't be no worser. och, but they aren't like to our iligant roads in ireland." you may send down a list of groceries to be forwarded when a team comes up, and when we examine our stores, behold rice, sugar, currants, pepper, and mustard all jumbled into one mess. what think you of a rice- pudding seasoned plentifully with pepper, mustard, and, may be, a little rappee or prince's mixture added by way of sauce. i think the recipe would cut quite a figure in the cook's oracle or mrs. dalgairn's practice of cookery, under the original title of a "bush pudding." and then woe and destruction to the brittle ware that may chance to travel through our roads. lucky, indeed, are we if, through the superior carefulness of the person who packs them, more than one-half happens to arrive in safety. for such mishaps we have no redress. the storekeeper lays the accident upon the teamster, and the teamster upon the bad roads, wondering that he himself escapes with whole bones after a journey through the bush. this is now the worst season of the year;--this, and just after the breaking up of the snow. nothing hardly but an ox-cart can travel along the roads, and even that with difficulty, occupying two days to perform the journey; and the worst of the matters is, that there are times when the most necessary articles of provisions are not to be procured at any price. you see, then, that a settler in the bush requires to hold himself pretty independent, not only of the luxuries and delicacies of the table, but not unfrequently even of the very necessaries. one time no pork is to be procured; another time there is a scarcity of flour, owing to some accident that has happened to the mill, or for the want of proper supplies of wheat for grinding; or perhaps the weather and bad roads at the same time prevent a team coming up, or people from going down. then you must have recourse to a neighbour, if you have the good fortune to be near one, or fare the best you can on potatoes. the potatoe is indeed a great blessing here; new settlers would otherwise be often greatly distressed, and the poor man and his family who are without resources, without the potatoe must starve. once our stock of tea was exhausted, and we were unable to procure more. in this dilemma milk would have been an excellent substitute, or coffee, if we had possessed it; but we had neither the one nor the other, so we agreed to try the yankee tea--hemlock sprigs boiled. this proved, to my taste, a vile decoction; though i recognized some herb in the tea that was sold in london at five shillings a pound, which i am certain was nothing better than dried hemlock leaves reduced to a coarse powder. s------ laughed at our wry faces, declaring the potation was excellent; and he set us all an example by drinking six cups of this truly sylvan beverage. his eloquence failed in gaining a single convert; we could not believe it was only second to young hyson. to his assurance that to its other good qualities it united medicinal virtues, we replied that, like all other physic, it was very unpalatable. "after all," said s------, with a thoughtful air, "the blessings and the evils of this life owe their chief effect to the force of contrast, and are to be estimated by that principally. we should not appreciate the comforts we enjoy half so much did we not occasionally feel the want of them. how we shall value the conveniences of a cleared farm after a few years, when we can realize all the necessaries and many of the luxuries of life." "and how we shall enjoy green tea after this odious decoction of hemlock," said i. "very true; and a comfortable frame-house, and nice garden, and pleasant pastures, after these dark forests, log-houses, and no garden at all." "and the absence of horrid black stumps," rejoined i. "yes, and the absence of horrid stumps. depend upon it, my dear, your canadian farm will seem to you a perfect paradise by the time it is all under cultivation; and you will look upon it with the more pleasure and pride from the consciousness that it was once a forest wild, which, by the effects of industry and well applied means, has changed to fruitful fields. every fresh comfort you realize around you will add to your happiness; every improvement within-doors or without will raise a sensation of gratitude and delight in your mind, to which those that revel in the habitual enjoyment of luxury, and even of the commonest advantages of civilization, must in a great degree be strangers. my pass-words are, 'hope! resolution! and perseverance!'" "this," said my husband, "is true philosophy; and the more forcible, because you not only recommend the maxim but practise it also." i had reckoned much on the indian summer, of which i had read such delightful descriptions, but i must say it has fallen far below my expectations. just at the commencement of this month (november) we experienced three or four warm hazy days, that proved rather close and oppressive. the sun looked red through the misty atmosphere, tinging the fantastic clouds that hung in smoky volumes, with saffron and pale crimson light, much as i have seen the clouds above london look on a warm, sultry spring morning. not a breeze ruffled the waters, not a leaf (for the leaves had not entirely fallen) moved. this perfect stagnation of the air was suddenly changed by a hurricane of wind and snow that came on without any previous warning. i was standing near a group of tall pines that had been left in the middle of the clearing, collecting some beautiful crimson lichens, s------ not being many paces distant, with his oxen drawing fire-wood. suddenly we heard a distant hollow rushing sound that momentarily increased, the air around us being yet perfectly calm. i looked up, and beheld the clouds, hitherto so motionless, moving with amazing rapidity in several different directions. a dense gloom overspread the heavens. s------, who had been busily engaged with the cattle, had not noticed my being so near, and now called to me to use all the speed i could to gain the house, or an open part of the clearing, distant from the pine-trees. instinctively i turned towards the house, while the thundering shock of trees falling in all directions at the edge of the forest, the rending of the branches from the pines i had just quitted, and the rush of the whirlwind sweeping down the lake, made me sensible of the danger with which i had been threatened. the scattered boughs of the pines darkened the air as they whirled above me; then came the blinding snow-storm: but i could behold the progress of the tempest in safety, having gained the threshold of our house. the driver of the oxen had thrown himself on the ground, while the poor beasts held down their meek heads, patiently abiding "the pelting of the pitiless storm." s------, my husband, and the rest of the household, collected in a group, watched with anxiety the wild havoc of the warring elements. not a leaf remained on the trees when the hurricane was over; they were bare and desolate. thus ended the short reign of the indian summer. [illustration: newly-cleared land] i think the notion entertained by some travellers, that the indian summer is caused by the annual conflagration of forests by those indians inhabiting the unexplored regions beyond the larger lakes is absurd. imagine for an instant what immense tracts of woods must be yearly consumed to affect nearly the whole of the continent of north america: besides, it takes place at that season of the year when the fire is least likely to run freely, owing to the humidity of the ground from the autumnal rains. i should rather attribute the peculiar warmth and hazy appearance of the air that marks this season, to the fermentation going on of so great a mass of vegetable matter that is undergoing a state of decomposition during the latter part of october and beginning of november. it has been supposed by some persons that a great alteration will be effected in this season, as the process of clearing the land continues to decrease the quantity of decaying vegetation. nay, i have heard the difference is already observable by those long acquainted with the american continent. hitherto my experience of the climate is favourable. the autumn has been very fine, though the frosts are felt early in the month of september; at first slightly, of a morning, but towards october more severely. still, though the first part of the day is cold, the middle of it is warm and cheerful. we already see the stern advances of winter. it commenced very decidedly from the breaking up of the indian summer. november is not at all like the same month at home. the early part was soft and warm, the latter cold, with keen frosts and occasional falls of snow; but it does not seem to possess the dark, gloomy, damp character of our british novembers. however, it is not one season's acquaintance with the climate that enables a person to form any correct judgment of its general character, but a close observance of its peculiarities and vicissitudes during many years' residence in the country. i must now tell you what my husband is doing on our land. he has let out ten acres to some irish choppers who have established themselves in the shanty for the winter. they are to receive fourteen dollars per acre for chopping, burning, and fencing in that quantity. the ground is to be perfectly cleared of every thing but the stumps: these will take from seven to nine or ten years to decay; the pine, hemlock, and fir remain much longer. the process of clearing away the stumps is too expensive for new beginners to venture upon, labour being so high that it cannot be appropriated to any but indispensable work. the working season is very short on account of the length of time the frost remains on the ground. with the exception of chopping trees, very little can be done. those that understand the proper management of uncleared land, usually underbrush (that is, cut down all the small timbers and brushwood), while the leaf is yet on them; this is piled in heaps, and the windfallen trees are chopped through in lengths, to be logged up in the spring with the winter's chopping. the latter end of the summer and the autumn are the best seasons for this work. the leaves then become quite dry and sear, and greatly assist in the important business of burning off the heavy timbers. another reason is, that when the snow has fallen to some depth, the light timbers cannot be cut close to the ground, or the dead branches and other incumbrances collected and thrown in heaps. we shall have about three acres ready for spring-crops, provided we get a good burning of that which is already chopped near the site of the house,--this will be sown with oats, pumpkins, indian corn, and potatoes: the other ten acres will be ready for putting in a crop of wheat. so you see it will be a long time before we reap a harvest. we could not even get in spring-wheat early enough to come to perfection this year. we shall try to get two cows in the spring, as they are little expense during the spring, summer, and autumn; and by the winter we shall have pumpkins and oat-straw for them. letter ix. loss of a yoke of oxen.--construction of a log-house.--glaziers' and carpenters' work.--description of new log-house.--wild fruits of the country.--walks on the ice.--situation of the house.--lake, and surrounding scenery. lake house april , but it is time that i should give you some account of our log-house, into which we moved a few days before christmas. many unlooked-for delays having hindered its completion before that time, i began to think it would never be habitable. the first misfortune that happened was the loss of a fine yoke of oxen that were purchased to draw in the house-logs, that is, the logs for raising the walls of the house. not regarding the bush as pleasant as their former master's cleared pastures, or perhaps foreseeing some hard work to come, early one morning they took into their heads to ford the lake at the head of the rapids, and march off, leaving no trace of their route excepting their footing at the water's edge. after many days spent in vain search for them, the work was at a stand, and for one month they were gone, and we began to give up all expectation of hearing any news of them. at last we learned they were some twenty miles off, in a distant township, having made their way through bush and swamp, creek and lake, back to their former owner, with an instinct that supplied to them the want of roads and compass. oxen have been known to traverse a tract of wild country to a distance of thirty or forty miles going in a direct line for their former haunts by unknown paths, where memory could not avail them. in the dog we consider it is scent as well as memory that guides him to his far-off home;--but how is this conduct of the oxen to be accounted for? they returned home through the mazes of interminable forests, where man, with all his reason and knowledge, would have been bewildered and lost. it was the latter end of october before even the walls of our house were up. to effect this we called "a bee." sixteen of our neighbours cheerfully obeyed our summons; and though the day was far from favourable, so faithfully did our hive perform their tasks, that by night the outer walls were raised. the work went merrily on with the help of plenty of canadian nectar (whiskey), the honey that our _bees_ are solaced with. some huge joints of salt pork, a peck of potatoes, with a rice-pudding, and a loaf as big as an enormous cheshire cheese, formed the feast that was to regale them during the raising. this was spread out in the shanty, in a _very rural style_. in short, we laughed, and called it a _pic-nic in the backwoods_; and rude as was the fare, i can assure you, great was the satisfaction expressed by all the guests of every degree, our "_bee_" being considered as very well conducted. in spite of the difference of rank among those that assisted at the bee, the greatest possible harmony prevailed, and the party separated well pleased with the day's work and entertainment. the following day i went to survey the newly-raised edifice, but was sorely puzzled, as it presented very little appearance of a house. it was merely an oblong square of logs raised one above the other, with open spaces between every row of logs. the spaces for the doors and windows were not then chopped out, and the rafters were not up. in short, it looked a very queer sort of a place, and i returned home a little disappointed, and wondering that my husband should be so well pleased with the progress that had been made. a day or two after this i again visited it. the _sleepers_ were laid to support the floors, and the places for the doors and windows cut out of the solid timbers, so that it had not quite so much the look of a bird-cage as before. after the roof was shingled, we were again at a stand, as no boards could be procured nearer than peterborough, a long day's journey through horrible roads. at that time no saw-mill was in progress; now there is a fine one building within a little distance of us. our flooring-boards were all to be sawn by hand, and it was some time before any one could be found to perform this necessary work, and that at high wages--six- and-sixpence per day. well, the boards were at length down, but of course of unseasoned timber: this was unavoidable; so as they could not be planed we were obliged to put up with their rough unsightly appearance, for no better were to be had. i began to recall to mind the observation of the old gentleman with whom we travelled from cobourg to rice lake. we console ourselves with the prospect that by next summer the boards will all be seasoned, and then the house is to be turned topsy-turvy, by having the floors all relaid, jointed, and smoothed. the next misfortune that happened, was, that the mixture of clay and lime that was to plaster the inside and outside of the house between the chinks of the logs was one night frozen to stone. just as the work was about half completed, the frost suddenly setting in, put a stop to our proceeding for some time, as the frozen plaster yielded neither to fire nor to hot water, the latter freezing before it had any effect on the mass, and rather making bad worse. then the workman that was hewing the inside walls to make them smooth, wounded himself with the broad axe, and was unable to resume his work for some time. i state these things merely to show the difficulties that attend us in the fulfilment of our plans, and this accounts in a great measure for the humble dwellings that settlers of the most respectable description are obliged to content themselves with at first coming to this country, --not, you may be assured, from inclination, but necessity: i could give you such narratives of this kind as would astonish you. after all, it serves to make us more satisfied than we should be on casting our eyes around to see few better off than we are, and many not half so comfortable, yet of equal, and, in some instances, superior pretensions as to station and fortune. every man in this country is his own glazier; this you will laugh at: but if he does not wish to see and feel the discomfort of broken panes, he must learn to put them in his windows with his own hands. workmen are not easily to be had in the backwoods when you want them, and it would be preposterous to hire a man at high wages to make two days' journey to and from the nearest town to mend your windows. boxes of glass of several different sizes are to be bought at a very cheap rate in the stores. my husband amused himself by glazing the windows of the house preparatory to their being fixed in. to understand the use of carpenter's tools, i assure you, is no despicable or useless kind of knowledge here. i would strongly recommend all young men coming to canada to acquire a little acquaintance with this valuable art, as they will often be put to great inconvenience for the want of it. i was once much amused with hearing the remarks made by a very fine lady, the reluctant sharer of her husband's emigration, on seeing the son of a naval officer of some rank in the service busily employed in making an axe-handle out of a piece of rock-elm. "i wonder that you allow george to degrade himself so," she said, addressing his father. the captain looked up with surprise. "degrade himself! in what manner, madam? my boy neither swears, drinks whiskey, steals, nor tells lies." "but you allow him to perform tasks of the most menial kind. what is he now better than a hedge carpenter; and i suppose you allow him to chop, too?" "most assuredly i do. that pile of logs in the cart there was all cut by him after he had left study yesterday," was the reply, "i would see my boys dead before they should use an axe like common labourers." "idleness is the root of all evil," said the captain. "how much worse might my son be employed if he were running wild about streets with bad companions." "you will allow this is not a country for gentlemen or ladies to live in," said the lady. "it is the country for gentlemen that will not work and cannot live without, to starve in," replied the captain bluntly; "and for that reason i make my boys early accustom themselves to be usefully and actively employed." "my boys shall never work like common mechanics," said the lady, indignantly. "then, madam, they will be good for nothing as settlers; and it is a pity you dragged them across the atlantic." "we were forced to come. we could not live as we had been used to do at home, or i never would have come to this horrid country." "having come hither you would be wise to conform to circumstances. canada is not the place for idle folks to retrench a lost fortune in. in some parts of the country you will find most articles of provision as dear as in london, clothing much dearer, and not so good, and a bad market to choose in." "i should like to know, then, who canada is good for?" said she, angrily. "it is a good country for the honest, industrious artisan. it is a fine country for the poor labourer, who, after a few years of hard toil, can sit down in his own log-house, and look abroad on his own land, and see his children well settled in life as independent freeholders. it is a grand country for the rich speculator, who can afford to lay out a large sum in purchasing land in eligible situations; for if he have any judgment, he will make a hundred per cent as interest for his money after waiting a few years. but it is a hard country for the poor gentleman, whose habits have rendered him unfit for manual labour. he brings with him a mind unfitted to his situation; and even if necessity compels him to exertion, his labour is of little value. he has a hard struggle to live. the certain expenses of wages and living are great, and he is obliged to endure many privations if he would keep within compass, and be free of debt. if he have a large family, and brings them up wisely, so as to adapt themselves early to a settler's life, why he does well for them, and soon feels the benefit on his own land; but if he is idle himself, his wife extravagant and discontented, and the children taught to despise labour, why, madam, they will soon be brought down to ruin. in short, the country is a good country for those to whom it is adapted; but if people will not conform to the doctrine of necessity and expediency, they have no business in it. it is plain canada is not adapted to every class of people." "it was never adapted for me or my family," said the lady, disdainfully. "very true," was the laconic reply; and so ended the dialogue. but while i have been recounting these remarks, i have wandered far from my original subject, and left my poor log-house quite in an unfinished state. at last i was told it was in a habitable condition, and i was soon engaged in all the bustle and fatigue attendant on removing our household goods. we received all the assistance we required from ------, who is ever ready and willing to help us. he laughed, and called it a "_moving_ bee;" i said it was a "fixing bee;" and my husband said it was a "settling bee;" i know we were unsettled enough till it was over. what a din of desolation is a small house, or any house under such circumstances. the idea of chaos must have been taken from a removal or a setting to rights, for i suppose the ancients had their _flitting_, as the scotch call it, as well as the moderns. various were the valuable articles of crockery-ware that perished in their short but rough journey through the woods. peace to their manes. i had a good helper in my irish maid, who soon roused up famous fires, and set the house in order. we have now got quite comfortably settled, and i shall give you a description of our little dwelling. what is finished is only a part of the original plan; the rest must be added next spring, or fall, as circumstances may suit. a nice small sitting-room with a store closet, a kitchen, pantry, and bed-chamber form the ground floor; there is a good upper floor that will make three sleeping rooms. "what a nut-shell!" i think i hear you exclaim. so it is at present; but we purpose adding a handsome frame front as soon as we can get boards from the mill, which will give us another parlour, long hall, and good spare bed-room. the windows and glass door of our present sitting-room command pleasant lake-views to the west and south. when the house is completed, we shall have a verandah in front; and at the south side, which forms an agreeable addition in the summer, being used as a sort of outer room, in which we can dine, and have the advantage of cool air, protected from the glare of the sunbeams. the canadians call these verandahs "stoups." few houses, either log or frame, are without them. the pillars look extremely pretty, wreathed with the luxuriant hop-vine, mixed with the scarlet creeper and "morning glory," the american name for the most splendid of major convolvuluses. these stoups are really a considerable ornament, as they conceal in a great measure the rough logs, and break the barn-like form of the building. our parlour is warmed by a handsome franklin stove with brass gallery, and fender. our furniture consists of a brass-railed sofa, which serves upon occasion for a bed, canadian painted chairs, a stained pine table, green and white curtains, and a handsome indian mat that covers the floor. one side of the room is filled up with our books. some large maps and a few good prints nearly conceal the rough walls, and form the decoration of our little dwelling. our bed-chamber is furnished with equal simplicity. we do not, however, lack comfort in our humble home; and though it is not exactly such as we could wish, it is as good as, under existing circumstances, we could have. i am anxiously looking forward to the spring, that i may get a garden laid out in front of the house; as i mean to cultivate some of the native fruits and flowers, which, i am sure, will improve greatly by culture. the strawberries that grow wild in our pastures, woods, and clearings, are several varieties, and bear abundantly. they make excellent preserves, and i mean to introduce beds of them into my garden. there is a pretty little wooded islet on our lake, that is called strawberry island, another raspberry island; they abound in a variety of fruits--wild grapes, raspberries, strawberries, black and red currants, a wild gooseberry, and a beautiful little trailing plant that bears white flowers like the raspberry, and a darkish purple fruit consisting of a few grains of a pleasant brisk acid, somewhat like in flavour to our dewberry, only not quite so sweet. the leaves of this plant are of a bright light green, in shape like the raspberry, to which it bears in some respects so great a resemblance (though it is not shrubby or thorny) that i have called it the "trailing raspberry." i suppose our scientific botanists in britain would consider me very impertinent in bestowing names on the flowers and plants i meet with in these wild woods: i can only say, i am glad to discover the canadian or even the indian names if i can, and where they fail i consider myself free to become their floral godmother, and give them names of my own choosing. among our wild fruits we have plums, which, in some townships, are very fine and abundant; these make admirable preserves, especially when boiled in maple molasses, as is done by the american housewives. wild cherries, also a sort called choke cherries, from their peculiar astringent qualities, high and low-bush cranberries, blackberries, which are brought by the squaws in birch baskets,--all these are found on the plains and beaver meadows. the low-bush cranberries are brought in great quantities by the indians to the towns and villages. they form a standing preserve on the tea-tables in most of the settlers' houses; but for richness of flavour, and for beauty of appearance, i admire the high-bush cranberries; these are little sought after, on account of the large flat seeds, which prevent them from being used as a jam: the jelly, however, is delightful, both in colour and flavour. the bush on which this cranberry grows resembles the guelder rose. the blossoms are pure white, and grow in loose umbels; they are very ornamental, when in bloom, to the woods and swamps, skirting the lakes. the berries are rather of a long oval, and of a brilliant scarlet, and when just touched by the frosts are semi-transparent, and look like pendent bunches of scarlet grapes. i was tempted one fine frosty afternoon to take a walk with my husband on the ice, which i was assured was perfectly safe. i must confess for the first half-mile i felt very timid, especially when the ice is so transparent that you may see every little pebble or weed at the bottom of the water. sometimes the ice was thick and white, and quite opaque. as we kept within a little distance of the shore, i was struck by the appearance of some splendid red berries on the leafless bushes that hung over the margin of the lake, and soon recognized them to be the aforesaid high-bush cranberries. my husband soon stripped the boughs of their tempting treasure, and i, delighted with my prize, hastened home, and boiled the fruit with some sugar, to eat at tea with our cakes. i never ate any thing more delicious than they proved; the more so perhaps from having been so long without tasting fruit of any kind, with the exception of preserves, during our journey, and at peterborough. soon after this i made another excursion on the ice, but it was not in quite so sound a state. we nevertheless walked on for about three- quarters of a mile. we were overtaken on our return by s------ with a handsleigh, which is a sort of wheelbarrow, such as porters use, without sides, and instead of a wheel, is fixed on wooden runners, which you can drag over the snow and ice with the greatest ease, if ever so heavily laden. s------ insisted that he would draw me home over the ice like a lapland lady on a sledge. i was soon seated in state, and in another minute felt myself impelled forward with a velocity that nearly took away my breath. by the time we reached the shore i was in a glow from head to foot. you would be pleased with the situation of our house. the spot chosen is the summit of a fine sloping bank above the lake, distant from the water's edge some hundred or two yards: the lake is not quite a mile from shore to shore. to the south again we command a different view, which will be extremely pretty when fully opened--a fine smooth basin of water, diversified with beautiful islands, that rise like verdant groves from its bosom. below these there is a fall of some feet, where the waters of the lakes, confined within a narrow channel between beds of limestone, rush along with great impetuosity, foaming and dashing up the spray in mimic clouds. during the summer the waters are much lower, and we can walk for some way along the flat shores, which are composed of different strata of limestone, full of fossil remains, evidently of very recent formation. those shells and river-insects that are scattered loose over the surface of the limestone, left by the recession of the waters, are similar to the shells and insects incrusted in the body of the limestone. i am told that the bed of one of the lakes above us (i forget which) is of limestone; that it abounds in a variety of beautiful river-shells, which are deposited in vast quantities in the different strata, and also in the blocks of limestone scattered along the shores. these shells are also found in great profusion in the soil of the beaver meadows. when i see these things, and hear of them, i regret i know nothing of geology or conchology; as i might then be able to account for many circumstances that at present only excite my curiosity. [maps: charts shewing the interior navigation of the district of newcastle and upper canada.] just below the waterfall i was mentioning there is a curious natural arch in the limestone rock, which at this place rises to a height of ten or fifteen feet like a wall; it is composed of large plates of grey limestone, lying one upon the other; the arch seems like a rent in the wall, but worn away, and hollowed, possibly, by the action of water rushing through it at some high flood. trees grow on the top of this rock. hemlock firs and cedars are waving on this elevated spot, above the turbulent waters, and clothing the stone barrier with a sad but never-fading verdure. here, too, the wild vine, red creeper, and poison- elder, luxuriate, and wreathe fantastic bowers above the moss-covered masses of the stone. a sudden turn in this bank brought us to a broad, perfectly flat and smooth bed of the same stone, occupying a space of full fifty feet along the shore. between the fissures of this bed i found some rosebushes, and a variety of flowers that had sprung up during the spring and summer, when it was left dry, and free from the action of the water. this place will shortly be appropriated for the building of a saw and grist-mill, which, i fear, will interfere with its natural beauty. i dare say, i shall be the only person in the neighbourhood who will regret the erection of so useful and valuable an acquisition to this portion of the township. the first time you send a parcel or box, do not forget to enclose flower-seeds, and the stones of plums, damsons, bullace, pips of the best kinds of apples, in the orchard and garden, as apples may be raised here from seed, which will bear very good fruit without being grafted; the latter, however, are finer in size and flavour. i should be grateful for a few nuts from our beautiful old stock-nut trees. dear old trees! how many gambols have we had in their branches when i was as light of spirit and as free from care as the squirrels that perched among the topmost boughs above us.--"well," you will say, "the less that sage matrons talk of such wild tricks as climbing nut-trees, the better." fortunately, young ladies are in no temptation here, seeing that nothing but a squirrel or a bear could climb our lofty forest-trees. even a sailor must give it up in despair. i am very desirous of having the seeds of our wild primrose and sweet violet preserved for me; i long to introduce them in our meadows and gardens. pray let the cottage-children collect some. my husband requests a small quantity of lucerne-seed, which he seems inclined to think may be cultivated to advantage. letter x. variations in the temperature of the weather.--electrical phenomenon.-- canadian winter.--country deficient in poetical associations.--sugar- making. fishing season.--mode of fishing.--duck-shooting.--family of indians.--_papouses_ and their cradle-cases.--indian manufactures.-- _frogs_. lake house, may the th. . what a different winter this has been to what i had anticipated. the snows of december were continually thawing; on the st of january not a flake was to be seen on our clearing, though it lingered in the bush. the warmth of the sun was so great on the first and second days of the new year that it was hardly possible to endure a cloak, or even shawl, out of doors; and within, the fire was quite too much for us. the weather remained pretty open till the latter part of the month, when the cold set in severely enough, and continued so during february. the st of march was the coldest day and night i ever experienced in my life; the mercury was down to twenty five degrees in the house; abroad it was much lower. the sensation of cold early in the morning was very painful, producing an involuntary shuddering, and an almost convulsive feeling in the chest and stomach. our breaths were congealed in hoar-frost on the sheets and blankets. every thing we touched of metal seemed to freeze our fingers. this excessive degree of cold only lasted three days, and then a gradual amelioration of temperature was felt. during this very cold weather i was surprised by the frequent recurrence of a phenomenon that i suppose was of an electrical nature. when the frosts were most intense i noticed that when i undressed, my clothes, which are at this cold season chiefly of woollen cloth, or lined with flannel, gave out when moved a succession of sounds, like the crackling and snapping of fire, and in the absence of a candle emitted sparks of a pale whitish blue light, similar to the flashes produced by cutting loaf-sugar in the dark, or stroking the back of a black cat: the same effect was also produced when i combed and brushed my hair*. [* this phenomenon is common enough everywhere when the air is very dry.--ed.] the snow lay very deep on the ground during february, and until the l th of march, when a rapid thaw commenced, which continued without intermission till the ground was thoroughly freed from its hoary livery, which was effected in less than a fortnight's time. the air during the progress of the thaw was much warmer and more balmy than it usually is in england, when a disagreeable damp cold is felt during that process. though the canadian winter has its disadvantages, it also has its charms. after a day or two of heavy snow the sky brightens, and the air becomes exquisitely clear and free from vapour; the smoke ascends in tall spiral columns till it is lost: seen against the saffron-tinted sky of an evening, or early of a clear morning, when the hoar-frost sparkles on the trees, the effect is singularly beautiful. i enjoy a walk in the woods of a bright winter-day, when not a cloud, or the faint shadow of a cloud, obscures the soft azure of the heavens above; when but for the silver covering of the earth i might look upwards to the cloudless sky and say, "it is june, sweet june." the evergreens, as the pines, cedars, hemlock, and balsam firs, are bending their pendent branches, loaded with snow, which the least motion scatters in a mimic shower around, but so light and dry is it that it is shaken off without the slightest inconvenience. the tops of the stumps look quite pretty, with their turbans of snow; a blackened pine-stump, with its white cap and mantle, will often startle you into the belief that some one is approaching you thus fancifully attired. as to ghosts or spirits they appear totally banished from canada. this is too matter-of-fact country for such supernaturals to visit. here there are no historical associations, no legendary tales of those that came before us. fancy would starve for lack of marvellous food to keep her alive in the backwoods. we have neither fay nor fairy, ghost nor bogle, satyr nor wood-nymph; our very forests disdain to shelter dryad or hamadryad. no naiad haunts the rushy margin of our lakes, or hallows with her presence our forest-rills. no druid claims our oaks; and instead of poring with mysterious awe among our curious limestone rocks, that are often singularly grouped together, we refer them to the geologist to exercise his skill in accounting for their appearance: instead of investing them with the solemn characters of ancient temples or heathen altars, we look upon them with the curious eye of natural philosophy alone. even the irish and highlanders of the humblest class seem to lay aside their ancient superstitions on becoming denizens of the woods of canada. i heard a friend exclaim, when speaking of the want of interest this country possessed, "it is the most unpoetical of all lands; there is no scope for imagination; here all is new--the very soil seems newly formed; there is no hoary ancient grandeur in these woods; no recollections of former deeds connected with the country. the only beings in which i take any interest are the indians, and they want the warlike character and intelligence that i had pictured to myself they would posses." this was the lamentation of a poet. now, the class of people to whom this country is so admirably adapted are formed of the unlettered and industrious labourers and artisans. they feel no regret that the land they labour on has not been celebrated by the pen of the historian or the lay of the poet. the earth yields her increase to them as freely as if it had been enriched by the blood of heroes. they would not spare the ancient oak from feelings of veneration, nor look upon it with regard for any thing but its use as timber. they have no time, even if they possessed the taste, to gaze abroad on the beauties of nature, but their ignorance is bliss. after all, these are imaginary evils, and can hardly be considered just causes for dislike to the country. they would excite little sympathy among every-day men and women, though doubtless they would have their weight with the more refined and intellectual members of society, who naturally would regret that taste, learning, and genius should be thrown out of its proper sphere. for myself, though i can easily enter into the feelings of the poet and the enthusiastic lover of the wild and the wonderful of historic lore, i can yet make myself very happy and contented in this country. if its volume of history is yet a blank, that of nature is open, and eloquently marked by the finger of god; and from its pages i can extract a thousand sources of amusement and interest whenever i take my walks in the forest or by the borders of the lakes. but i must now tell you of our sugar-making, in which i take rather an active part. our experiment was on a very limited scale, having but one kettle, besides two iron tripods; but it was sufficient to initiate us in the art and mystery of boiling the sap into molasses, and finally the molasses down to sugar. the first thing to be done in tapping the maples, is to provide little rough troughs to catch the sap as it flows: these are merely pieces of pine-tree, hollowed with the axe. the tapping the tree is done by cutting a gash in the bark, or boring a hole with an auger. the former plan, as being most readily performed, is that most usually practised. a slightly-hollowed piece of cedar or elder is then inserted, so as to slant downwards and direct the sap into the trough; i have even seen a flat chip made the conductor. ours were managed according to rule, you may be sure. the sap runs most freely after a frosty night, followed by a bright warm day; it should be collected during the day in a barrel or large trough, capable of holding all that can be boiled down the same evening; it should not stand more than twenty-four hours, as it is apt to ferment, and will not grain well unless fresh. my husband, with an irish lad, began collecting the sap the last week in march. a pole was fixed across two forked stakes, strong enough to bear the weight of the big kettle. their employment during the day was emptying the troughs and chopping wood to supply the fires. in the evening they lit the fires and began boiling down the sap. it was a pretty and picturesque sight to see the sugar-boilers, with their bright log-fire among the trees, now stirring up the blazing pile, now throwing in the liquid and stirring it down with a big ladle. when the fire grew fierce, it boiled and foamed up in the kettle, and they had to throw in fresh sap to keep it from running over. when the sap begins to thicken into molasses, it is then brought to the sugar-boiler to be finished. the process is simple; it only requires attention in skimming and keeping the mass from boiling over, till it has arrived at the sugaring point, which is ascertained by dropping a little into cold water. when it is near the proper consistency, the kettle or pot becomes full of yellow froth, that dimples and rises in large bubbles from beneath. these throw out puffs of steam, and when the molasses is in this stage, it is nearly converted into sugar. those who pay great attention to keeping the liquid free from scum, and understand the precise sugaring point, will produce an article little if at all inferior to muscovado*. [* good well-made maple-sugar bears a strong resemblance to that called powdered sugar-candy, sold by all grocers as a delicate article to sweeten coffee; it is more like maple-sugar in its regular crystallizations.] in general you see the maple-sugar in large cakes, like bees' wax, close and compact, without showing the crystallization; but it looks more beautiful when the grain is coarse and sparkling, and the sugar is broken in rough masses like sugar-candy. the sugar is rolled or scraped down with a knife for use, as it takes long to dissolve in the tea without this preparation. i superintended the last part of the process, that of boiling the molasses down to sugar; and, considering it was a first attempt, and without any experienced person to direct me, otherwise than the information i obtained from ------, i succeeded tolerably well, and produced some sugar of a fine sparkling grain and good colour. besides the sugar, i made about three gallons of molasses, which proved a great comfort to us, forming a nice ingredient in cakes and an excellent sauce for puddings. the yankees, i am told, make excellent preserves with molasses instead of sugar. the molasses boiled from maple-sap is very different from the molasses of the west indies, both in flavour, colour, and consistency. beside the sugar and molasses, we manufactured a small cask of vinegar, which promises to be good. this was done by boiling five pails-full of sap down to two, and fermenting it after it was in the vessel with barm; it was then placed near the fire, and suffered to continue there in preference to being exposed to the sun's heat. with regard to the expediency of making maple-sugar, it depends on circumstances whether it be profitable or not to the farmer. if he have to hire hands for the work, and pay high wages, it certainly does not answer to make it, unless on a large scale. one thing in its favour is, that the sugar season commences at a time when little else can be done on the farm, with the exception of chopping, the frost not being sufficiently out of the ground to admit of crops being sown; time is, therefore, less valuable than it is later in the spring. where there is a large family of children and a convenient sugar-bush on the lot, the making of sugar and molasses is decidedly a saving; as young children can be employed in emptying the troughs and collecting fire-wood, the bigger ones can tend the kettles and keep up the fire while the sap is boiling, and the wife and daughters can finish off the sugar within-doors. maple-sugar sells for four-pence and six-pence per pound, and sometimes for more. at first i did not particularly relish the flavour it gave to tea, but after awhile i liked it far better than muscovado, and as a sweetmeat it is to my taste delicious. i shall send you a specimen by the first opportunity, that you may judge for yourself of its excellence. the weather is now very warm--oppressively so. we can scarcely endure the heat of the cooking-stove in the kitchen. as to a fire in the parlour there is not much need of it, as i am glad to sit at the open door and enjoy the lake-breeze. the insects are already beginning to be troublesome, particularly the black flies--a wicked-looking fly, with black body and white legs and wings; you do not feel their bite for a few minutes, but are made aware of it by a stream of blood flowing from the wound; after a few hours the part swells and becomes extremely painful. these "_beasties_" chiefly delight in biting the sides of the throat, ears, and sides of the cheek, and with me the swelling continues for many days. the mosquitoes are also very annoying. i care more for the noise they make even than their sting. to keep them out of the house we light little heaps of damp chips, the smoke of which drives them away; but this remedy is not entirely effectual, and is of itself rather an annoyance. this is the fishing season. our lakes are famous for masquinonge, salmon-trout, white fish, black bass, and many others. we often see the lighted canoes of the fishermen pass and repass of a dark night before our door. s------ is considered very skilful as a spearsman, and enjoys the sport so much that he seldom misses a night favourable for it. the darker the night and the calmer the water the better it is for the fishing. it is a very pretty sight to see these little barks slowly stealing from some cove of the dark pine-clad shores, and manoeuvring among the islands on the lakes, rendered visible in the darkness by the blaze of light cast on the water from the jack--a sort of open grated iron basket, fixed to a long pole at the bows of the skiff or canoe. this is filled with a very combustible substance called fat-pine, which burns with a fierce and rapid flame, or else with rolls of birch-bark, which is also very easily ignited. the light from above renders objects distinctly visible below the surface of the water. one person stands up in the middle of the boat with his fish-spear--a sort of iron trident, ready to strike at the fish that he may chance to see gliding in the still waters, while another with his paddle steers the canoe cautiously along. this sport requires a quick eye, a steady hand, and great caution in those that pursue it. i delight in watching these torch-lighted canoes so quietly gliding over the calm waters, which are illuminated for yards with a bright track of light, by which we may distinctly perceive the figure of the spearsman standing in the centre of the boat, first glancing to one side, then the other, or poising his weapon ready for a blow. when four or five of these lighted vessels are seen at once on the fishing-ground, the effect is striking and splendid. the indians are very expert in this kind of fishing; the squaws paddling the canoes with admirable skill and dexterity. there is another mode of fishing in which these people also excel: this is fishing on the ice when the lakes are frozen over--a sport that requires the exercise of great patience. the indian, provided with his tomahawk, with which he makes an opening in the ice, a spear, his blanket, and a decoy-fish of wood, proceeds to the place he has fixed upon. having cut a hole in the ice he places himself on hands and knees, and casts his blanket over him, so as to darken the water and conceal himself from observation; in this position he will remain for hours, patiently watching the approach of his prey, which he strikes with admirable precision as soon as it appears within the reach of his spear. the masquinonge thus caught are superior in flavour to those taken later in the season, and may be bought very reasonably from the indians. i gave a small loaf of bread for a fish weighing from eighteen to twenty pounds. the masquinonge is to all appearance a large species of the pike, and possesses the ravenous propensities of that fish. one of the small lakes of the otanabee is called trout lake, from the abundance of salmon-trout that occupy its waters. the white fish is also found in these lakes and is very delicious. the large sorts of fish are mostly taken with the spear, few persons having time for angling in this busy country. as soon as the ice breaks up, our lakes are visited by innumerable flights of wild fowl: some of the ducks are extremely beautiful in their plumage, and are very fine-flavoured. i love to watch these pretty creatures, floating so tranquilly on the water, or suddenly rising and skimming along the edge of the pine-fringed shores, to drop again on the surface, and then remain stationary, like a little fleet at anchor. sometimes we see an old duck lead out a brood of little ones from among the rushes; the innocent, soft things look very pretty, sailing round their mother, but at the least appearance of danger they disappear instantly by diving. the frogs are great enemies to the young broods; they are also the prey of the masquinonge, and, i believe, of other large fish that abound in these waters. the ducks are in the finest order during the early part of the summer, when they resort to the rice-beds in vast numbers, getting very fat on the green rice, which they eagerly devour. the indians are very successful in their duck-shooting: they fill a canoe with green boughs, so that it resembles a sort of floating island; beneath the cover of these boughs they remain concealed, and are enabled by this device to approach much nearer than they otherwise could do to the wary birds. the same plan is often adopted by our own sportsmen with great success. a family of indians have pitched their tents very near us. on one of the islands in our lake we can distinguish the thin blue smoke of their wood fires, rising among the trees, from our front window, or curling over the bosom of the waters. the squaws have been several times to see me; sometimes from curiosity, sometimes with the view of bartering their baskets, mats, ducks, or venison, for pork, flour, potatoes, or articles of wearing-apparel. sometimes their object is to borrow "kettle to cook," which they are very punctual in returning. once a squaw came to borrow a washing-tub, but not understanding her language, i could not for some time discover the object of her solicitude; at last she took up a corner of her blanket, and, pointing to some soap, began rubbing it between her hands, imitated the action of washing, then laughed, and pointed to a tub; she then held up two fingers, to intimate it was for two days she needed the loan. these people appear of gentle and amiable dispositions; and, as far as our experience goes, they are very honest. once, indeed, the old hunter, peter, obtained from me some bread, for which he promised to give a pair of ducks, but when the time came for payment, and i demanded my ducks, he looked gloomy, and replied with characteristic brevity, "no duck-- chippewa (meaning s------, this being the name they have affectionately given him) gone up lake with canoe--no canoe--duck by-and-by." by-and-by is a favourite expression of the indians, signifying an indefinite point of time; may be it means to-morrow, or a week, or month, or it may be a year, or even more. they rarely give you a direct promise. as it is not wise to let any one cheat you if you can prevent it, i coldly declined any further overtures to bartering with the indians until my ducks made their appearance. some time afterwards i received one duck by the hands of maquin, a sort of indian flibberty-gibbet: this lad is a hunchbacked dwarf, very shrewd, but a perfect imp; his delight seems to be tormenting the brown babies in the wigwam, or teazing the meek deer-hounds. he speaks english very fluently, and writes tolerably for an indian boy; he usually accompanies the women in their visits, and acts as their interpreter, grinning with mischievous glee at his mother's bad english and my perplexity at not being able to understand her signs. in spite of his extreme deformity, he seemed to possess no inconsiderable share of vanity, gazing with great satisfaction at his face in the looking glass. when i asked his name, he replied, "indian name maquin, but english name 'mister walker,' very good man;" this was the person he was called after. these indians are scrupulous in their observance of the sabbath, and show great reluctance to having any dealings in the way of trading or pursuing their usual avocations of hunting or fishing on that day. the young indians are very expert in the use of a long bow, with wooden arrows, rather heavy and blunt at the end. maquin said he could shoot ducks and small birds with his arrows; but i should think they were not calculated to reach objects at any great distance, as they appeared very heavy. 'tis sweet to hear the indians singing their hymns of a sunday night; their rich soft voices rising in the still evening air. i have often listened to this little choir praising the lord's name in the simplicity and fervour of their hearts, and have felt it was a reproach that these poor half-civilized wanderers should alone be found to gather together to give glory to god in the wilderness. i was much pleased with the simple piety of our friend the hunter peter's squaw, a stout, swarthy matron, of most amiable expression. we were taking our tea when she softly opened the door and looked in; an encouraging smile induced her to enter, and depositing a brown papouse (indian for baby or little child) on the ground, she gazed round with curiosity and delight in her eyes. we offered her some tea and bread, motioning to her to take a vacant seat beside the table. she seemed pleased by the invitation, and drawing her little one to her knee, poured some tea into the saucer, and gave it to the child to drink. she ate very moderately, and when she had finished, rose, and, wrapping her face in the folds of her blanket, bent down her head on her breast in the attitude of prayer. this little act of devotion was performed without the slightest appearance of pharisaical display, but in singleness and simplicity of heart. she then thanked us with a face beaming with smiles and good humour; and, taking little rachel by the hands, threw her over her shoulder with a peculiar sleight that i feared would dislocate the tender thing's arms, but the papouse seemed well satisfied with this mode of treatment. in long journeys the children are placed in upright baskets of a peculiar form, which are fastened round the necks of the mothers by straps of deer-skin; but the _young_ infant is swathed to a sort of flat cradle, secured with flexible hoops, to prevent it from falling out. to these machines they are strapped, so as to be unable to move a limb. much finery is often displayed in the outer covering and the bandages that confine the papouse. there is a sling attached to this cradle that passes over the squaw's neck, the back of the babe being placed to the back of the mother, and its face outward. the first thing a squaw does on entering a house is to release herself from her burden, and stick it up against the wall or chair, chest, or any thing that will support it, where the passive prisoner stands, looking not unlike a mummy in its case. i have seen the picture of the virgin and child in some of the old illuminated missals, not unlike the figure of a papouse in its swaddling-clothes. the squaws are most affectionate to their little ones. gentleness and good humour appear distinguishing traits in the tempers of the female indians; whether this be natural to their characters, the savage state, or the softening effects of christianity, i cannot determine. certainly in no instance does the christian religion appear more lovely than when, untainted by the doubts and infidelity of modern sceptics, it is displayed in the conduct of the reclaimed indian breaking down the strong-holds of idolatry and natural evil, and bringing forth the fruits of holiness and morality. they may be said to receive the truths of the gospel as little children, with simplicity of heart and unclouded faith. the squaws are very ingenious in many of their handiworks. we find their birch-bark baskets very convenient for a number of purposes. my bread- basket, knife-tray, sugar-basket, are all of this humble material. when ornamented and wrought in patterns with dyed quills, i can assure you, they are by no means inelegant. they manufacture vessels of birch-bark so well, that they will serve for many useful household purposes, such as holding water, milk, broth, or any other liquid; they are sewn or rather stitched together with the tough roots of the tamarack or larch, or else with strips of cedar-bark. they also weave very useful sorts of baskets from the inner rind of the bass-wood and white ash. some of these baskets, of a coarse kind, are made use of for gathering up potatoes, indian corn, or turnips; the settlers finding them very good substitutes for the osier baskets used for such purposes in the old country. the indians are acquainted with a variety of dyes, with which they stain the more elegant fancy-baskets and porcupine-quills. our parlour is ornamented with several very pretty specimens of their ingenuity in this way, which answer the purpose of note and letter-cases, flower-stands, and work-baskets. they appear to value the useful rather more highly than the merely ornamental articles that you may exhibit to them. they are very shrewd and close in all their bargains, and exhibit a surprising degree of caution in their dealings. the men are much less difficult to trade with than the women: they display a singular pertinacity in some instances. if they have fixed their mind on any one article, they will come to you day after day, refusing any other you may offer to their notice. one of the squaws fell in love with a gay chintz dressing-gown belonging to my husband, and though i resolutely refused to part with it, all the squaws in the wigwam by turns came to look at "gown," which they pronounced with their peculiarly plaintive tone of voice; and when i said "no gown to sell," they uttered a melancholy exclamation of regret, and went away. they will seldom make any article you want on purpose for you. if you express a desire to have baskets of a particular pattern that they do not happen to have ready made by them, they give you the usual vague reply of "by-and-by." if the goods you offer them in exchange for theirs do not answer their expectations, they give a sullen and dogged look or reply, "_car-car_" (no, no), or "_carwinni_," which is a still more forcible negative. but when the bargain pleases them, they signify their approbation by several affirmative nods of the head, and a note not much unlike a grunt; the ducks, fish, venison, or baskets, are placed beside you, and the articles of exchange transferred to the folds of their capacious blankets, or deposited in a sort of rushen wallets, not unlike those straw baskets in which english carpenters carry their tools. the women imitate the dresses of the whites, and are rather skilful in converting their purchases. many of the young girls can sew very neatly. i often give them bits of silk and velvet, and braid, for which they appear very thankful. i am just now very busy with my garden. some of our vegetable seeds are in the ground, though i am told we have been premature; there being ten chances to one but the young plants will be cut off by the late frosts, which are often felt through may, and even the beginning of june. our garden at present has nothing to boast of, being merely a spot of ground enclosed with a rough unsightly fence of split rails to keep the cattle from destroying the vegetables. another spring, i hope to have a nice fence, and a portion of the ground devoted to flowers. this spring there is so much pressing work to be done on the land in clearing for the crops, that i do not like to urge my claims on behalf of a pretty garden. the forest-trees are nearly all in leaf. never did spring burst forth with greater rapidity than it has done this year. the verdure of the leaves is most vivid. a thousand lovely flowers are expanding in the woods and clearings. nor are our canadian songsters mute: the cheerful melody of the robin, the bugle-song of the blackbird and thrush, with the weak but not unpleasing call of the little bird called _thitabecec_, and a wren, whose note is sweet and thrilling, fill our woods. for my part, i see no reason or wisdom in carping at the good we do possess, because it lacks something of that which we formerly enjoyed. i am aware it is the fashion for travellers to assert that our feathered tribes are either mute or give utterance to discordant cries that pierce the ear, and disgust rather than please. it would be untrue were i to assert that our singing birds were as numerous or as melodious on the whole as those of europe; but i must not suffer prejudice to rob my adopted country of her rights without one word being spoken in behalf of her feathered vocalists. nay, i consider her very frogs have been belied: if it were not for the monotony of their notes, i really consider they are not quite unmusical. the green frogs are very handsome, being marked over with brown oval shields on the most vivid green coat: they are larger in size than the biggest of our english frogs, and certainly much handsomer in every respect. their note resembles that of a bird, and has nothing of the creek in it. the bull-frogs are very different from the green frogs. instead of being angry with their comical notes, i can hardly refrain from laughing when a great fellow pops up his broad brown head from the margin of the water, and says, "_williroo, williroo, williroo_," to which another bull-frog, from a distant part of the swamp, replies, in hoarser accents, "_get out, get out, get out_;" and presently a sudden chorus is heard of old and young, as if each party was desirous of out-croaking the other. in my next i shall give you an account of our logging-bee, which will take place the latter end of this month. i feel some anxiety respecting the burning of the log-heaps on the fallow round the house, as it appears to me rather a hazardous matter. i shall write again very shortly. farewell, dearest of friends. letter xi emigrants suitable for canada.--qualities requisite to ensure success.-- investment of capital.--useful articles to be brought out.-- qualifications and occupations of a settler's family.--deficiency of patience and energy in some females.--management of the dairy.--cheese. --indian corn, and its cultivation.--potatoes.--rates of wages. august , with respect to the various questions, my dear friend, to which you request my particular attention, i can only promise that i will do my best to answer them as explicitly as possible, though at the same time i must remind you, that brevity in epistolary correspondence is not one of my excellencies. if i become too diffuse in describing mere matters of fact, you must bear with mine infirmity, and attribute it to my womanly propensity of over-much talking; so, for your comfort, if your eyes be wearied, your ears will at least escape. i shall take your queries in due rotation; first, then, you ask, "who are the persons best adapted for bush-settlers?" to which i reply without hesitation--the poor hard-working, sober labourers, who have industrious habits, a large family to provide for, and a laudable horror of the workhouse and parish-overseers: this will bear them through the hardships and privations of a first settlement in the backwoods; and in due time they will realize an honest independence, and be above want, though not work. artisans of all crafts are better paid in village-towns, or long-cleared districts, than as mere bush- settlers. "who are the next best suited for emigration?" men of a moderate income or good capital may make money in canada. if they have judgment, and can afford to purchase on a large scale, they will double or treble their capital by judicious purchases and sales. but it would be easier for me to point out who are not fit for emigration than who are. the poor gentleman of delicate and refined habits, who cannot afford to employ all the labour requisite to carry on the business of clearing on a tolerable large scale, and is unwilling or incapable of working himself, is not fitted for canada, especially if his habits are expensive. even the man of small income, unless he can condescend to take in hand the axe or the chopper, will find, even with prudent and economical habits, much difficulty in keeping free from debt for the first two or even three years. many such have succeeded, but the struggle has been severe. but there is another class of persons most unsuited to the woods: these are the wives and families of those who have once been opulent tradesmen, accustomed to the daily enjoyment of every luxury that money could procure or fashion invent; whose ideas of happiness are connected with a round of amusements, company, and all the novelties of dress and pleasure that the gay world can offer. young ladies who have been brought up at fashionable boarding schools, with a contempt of every thing useful or economical, make very indifferent settlers' wives. nothing can be more unfortunate than the situations in the woods of canada of persons so educated: disgusted with the unpleasant change in their mode of life, wearied and discontented with all the objects around them, they find every exertion a trouble, and every occupation a degradation. for persons of this description (and there are such to be met with in the colonies), canada is the worst country in the world. and i would urge any one, so unfitted by habit and inclination, under no consideration to cross the atlantic; for miserable, and poor, and wretched they will become. the emigrant, if he would succeed in this country, must possess the following qualities: perseverance, patience, industry, ingenuity, moderation, self-denial; and if he be a gentleman, a small income is almost indispensable; a good one is still more desirable. the outlay for buying and clearing land, building, buying stock, and maintaining a family, paying servants' wages, with many other unavoidable expenses, cannot be done without some pecuniary means; and as the return from the land is but little for the first two or three years, it would be advisable for a settler to bring out some hundreds to enable him to carry on the farm and clear the above-mentioned expenses, or he will soon find himself involved in great difficulties. now, to your third query, "what will be the most profitable way of employing money, if a settler brought out capital more than was required for his own expenditure?" on this head, i am not of course competent to give advice. my husband and friends, conversant with the affairs of the colonies, say, lend it on mortgage, on good landed securities, and at a high rate of interest. the purchase of land is often a good speculation, but not always so certain as mortgage, as it pays no interest; and though it may at some future time make great returns, it is not always so easy to dispose of it to an advantage when you happen to need it. a man possessing many thousand acres in different townships, may be distressed for twenty pounds if suddenly called upon for it when he is unprepared, if he invests all his capital in property of this kind. it would be difficult for me to enumerate the many opportunities of turning ready money to account. there is so little money in circulation that those persons who are fortunate enough to have it at command can do almost any thing with it they please. "what are the most useful articles for a settler to bring out?" tools, a good stock of wearing-apparel, and shoes, good bedding, especially warm blankets; as you pay high for them here, and they are not so good as you would supply yourself with at a much lower rate at home. a selection of good garden-seeds, as those you buy at the stores are sad trash; moreover, they are pasted up in packets not to be opened till paid for, and you may, as we have done, pay for little better than chaff, and empty husks, or old and worm-eaten seeds. this, i am sorry to say, is a yankee trick; though i doubt not but john bull would do the same if he had the opportunity, as there are rogues in all countries under the sun. with respect to furniture and heavy goods of any kind, i would recommend little to be brought. articles of hardware are not much more expensive here than at home, if at all, and often of a kind more suitable to the country than those you are at the trouble of bringing; besides, all land-carriage is dear. we lost a large package of tools that have never been recovered from the forwarders, though their carriage was paid beforehand to prescott. it is safest and best to ensure your goods, when the forwarders are accountable for them. you ask, "if groceries and articles of household consumption are dear or cheap?" they vary according to circumstances and situation. in towns situated in old cleared parts of the country, and near the rivers and navigable waters, they are cheaper than at home; but in newly-settled townships, where the water-communication is distant, and where the roads are bad, and the transport of goods difficult, they are nearly double the price. where the supply of produce is inadequate to the demand owing to the influx of emigrants in thinly-settled places, or other causes, then all articles of provisions are sold at a high price, and not to be procured without difficulty; but these are merely temporary evils, which soon cease. competition is lowering prices in canadian towns, as it does in british ones, and you may now buy goods of all kinds nearly as cheap as in england. where prices depend on local circumstances, it is impossible to give any just standard; as what may do for one town would not for another, and a continual change is going on in all the unsettled or half-settled townships. in like manner the prices of cattle vary: they are cheaper in old settled townships, and still more so on the american side the river or lakes, than in the canadas*. [* the duties on goods imported to the canadas are exceedingly small, which will explain the circumstance of many articles of consumption being cheaper in places where there are facilities of transit than at home; while in the backwoods, where roads are scarcely yet formed, there must be taken into the account the cost of carriage, and increased number of agents; the greater value of capital, and consequent increased rate of local profit, &c.--items which will diminish in amount as the country becomes settled and cleared.--ed.] "what are necessary qualifications of a settler's wife; and the usual occupations of the female part of a settler's family?" are your next questions. to the first clause, i reply, a settler's wife should be active, industrious, ingenious, cheerful, not above putting her hand to whatever is necessary to be done in her household, nor too proud to profit by the advice and experience of older portions of the community, from whom she may learn many excellent lessons of practical wisdom. like that pattern of all good housewives described by the prudent mother of king lemuel, it should be said of the emigrant's wife, "she layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff." "she seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands." "she looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness." nothing argues a greater degree of good sense and good feeling than a cheerful conformity to circumstances, adverse though they be compared with a former lot; surely none that felt as they ought to feel, would ever despise a woman, however delicately brought up, for doing her duty in the state of life unto which it may have pleased god to call her. since i came to this country, i have seen the accomplished daughters and wives of men holding no inconsiderable rank as officers, both naval and military, milking their own cows, making their own butter, and performing tasks of household work that few of our farmers' wives would now condescend to take part in. instead of despising these useful arts, an emigrant's family rather pride themselves on their skill in these matters. the less silly pride and the more practical knowledge the female emigrant brings out with her, so much greater is the chance for domestic happiness and prosperity. i am sorry to observe, that in many cases the women that come hither give way to melancholy regrets, and destroy the harmony of their fire- side, and deaden the energies of their husbands and brothers by constant and useless repining. having once made up their minds to follow their husbands or friends to this country, it would be wiser and better to conform with a good grace, and do their part to make the burden of emigration more bearable. one poor woman that was lamenting the miseries of this country was obliged to acknowledge that her prospects were far better than they ever had or could have been at home. what, then, was the cause of her continual regrets and discontent? i could hardly forbear smiling, when she replied, "she could not go to shop of a saturday night to lay out her husband's earnings, and have a little chat with her _naibors_, while the shopman was serving the customers,--_for why?_ there were no shops in the bush, and she was just dead-alive. if mrs. such-a-one (with whom, by the way, she was always quarrelling when they lived under the same roof) was near her she might not feel quite so lonesome." and so for the sake of a dish of gossip, while lolling her elbows on the counter of a village-shop, this foolish woman would have forgone the advantages, real solid advantages, of having land and cattle, and poultry and food, and firing and clothing, and all for a few years' hard work, which, her husband wisely observed, must have been exerted at home, with no other end in view than an old age of poverty or a refuge from starvation in a parish workhouse. the female of the middling or better class, in her turn, pines for the society of the circle of friends she has quitted, probably for ever. she sighs for those little domestic comforts, that display of the refinements and elegancies of life, that she had been accustomed to see around her. she has little time now for those pursuits that were ever her business as well as amusement. the accomplishments she has now to acquire are of a different order: she must become skilled in the arts of sugar-boiling, candle and soap making, the making and baking of huge loaves, cooked in the bake-kettle, unless she be the fortunate mistress of a stone or clay oven. she must know how to manufacture _hop-rising_ or _salt-rising_ for leavening her bread; salting meat and fish, knitting stockings and mittens and comforters, spinning yarn in the big wheel (the french canadian spinning-wheel), and dyeing the yarn when spun to have manufactured into cloth and coloured flannels, to clothe her husband and children, making clothes for herself, her husband and children;--for there are no tailors nor mantua-makers in the bush. the management of poultry and the dairy must not be omitted; for in this country most persons adopt the irish and scotch method, that of churning the _milk_, a practice that in our part of england was not known. for my own part i am inclined to prefer the butter churned from cream, as being most economical, unless you chance to have irish or scotch servants who prefer buttermilk to new or sweet skimmed milk. there is something to be said in favour of both plans, no doubt. the management of the calves differs here very much. some persons wean the calf from the mother from its birth, never allowing it to suck at all: the little creature is kept fasting the first twenty-four hours; it is then fed with the finger with new milk, which it soon learns to take readily. i have seen fine cattle thus reared, and am disposed to adopt the plan as the least troublesome one. the old settlers pursue an opposite mode of treatment, allowing the calf to suck till it is nearly half a year old, under the idea that it ensures the daily return of the cow; as, under ordinary circumstances, she is apt to ramble sometimes for days together, when the herbage grows scarce in the woods near the homesteads, and you not only lose the use of the milk, but often, from distention of the udder, the cow is materially injured, at least for the remainder of the milking season. i am disposed to think that were care taken to give the cattle regular supplies of salt, and a small portion of food, if ever so little, near the milking-place, they would seldom stay long away. a few refuse potatoes, the leaves of the garden vegetables daily in use, set aside for them, with the green shoots of the indian corn that are stripped off to strengthen the plant, will ensure their attendance. in the fall and winter, pumpkins, corn, straw, and any other fodder you may have, with the browse they get during the chopping and underbrushing season, will keep them well. the weanling calves should be given skimmed milk or buttermilk, with the leafy boughs of basswood and maple, of which they are extremely fond. a warm shed or fenced yard is very necessary for the cattle during the intense winter frosts: this is too often disregarded, especially in new settlements, which is the cause that many persons have the mortification of losing their stock, either with disease or cold. naturally the canadian cattle are very hardy, and when taken moderate care of, endure the severest winters well; but owing to the difficulties that attend a first settlement in the bush, they suffer every privation of cold and hunger, which brings on a complaint generally fatal, called the "_hollow horn_;" this originates in the spine, or extends to it, and is cured or palliated by boring the horn and inserting turpentine, pepper, or other heating substances. when a new comer has not winter food for his cattle, it is wise to sell them in the fall and buy others in the spring: though at a seeming loss, it is perhaps less loss in reality than losing the cattle altogether. this was the plan my husband adopted, and we found it decidedly the better one, besides saving much care, trouble, and vexation. i have seen some good specimens of native cheese, that i thought very respectable, considering that the grass is by no means equal to our british pastures. i purpose trying my skill next summer: who knows but that i may inspire some canadian bard to celebrate the produce of my dairy as bloomfield did the suffolk cheese, yclept "bang." you remember the passage,--for bloomfield is your countryman as well as mine,--it begins: "unrivalled stands thy county cheese, o giles," &c. i have dwelt on the dairy information; as i know you were desirous of imparting all you could collect to your friends. you wish to know something of the culture of indian corn, and if it be a useful and profitable crop. the cultivation of indian corn on newly cleared lands is very easy, and attended with but little labour; on old farms it requires more. the earth is just raised with a broad hoe, and three or four corns dropped in with a pumpkin-seed, in about every third or fourth hole, and in every alternate row; the seed are set several feet apart. the pumpkins and the corn grow very amicably together, the broad leaves of the former shading the young plants and preventing the too great evaporation of the moisture from the ground; the roots strike little way, so that they rob the corn of a very small portion of nourishment. the one crop trails to an amazing length along the ground, while the other shoots up to the height of several feet above it. when the corn is beginning to branch, the ground should be hoed once over, to draw the earth a little to the roots, and cut down any weeds that might injure it. this is all that is done till the cob is beginning to form, when the blind and weak shoots are broken off, leaving four or five of the finest bearing shoots. the feather, when it begins to turn brown and dead, should also be taken off; that the plant may have all the nourishment to the corn. we had a remarkable instance of smut in our corn last summer. the diseased cobs had large white bladders as big as a small puff-ball, or very large nuts, and these on being broken were full of an inky black liquid. on the same plants might be observed a sort of false fructification, the cob being deficient in kernels, which by some strange accident were transposed to the top feather or male blossoms. i leave botanists to explain the cause of this singular anomaly; i only state facts. i could not learn that the smut was a disease common to indian corn, but last year smut or dust bran, as it is called by some, was very prevalent in the oat, barley and wheat crops. in this country especially, new lands are very subject to the disease. the ripe corn is either shocked as beans are at home, or the cobs pulled and braided on ropes after the manner of onions, and hung over poles or beams in the granaries or barns. the stripping of the corn gives rise among some people, to what they call a husking-bee, which, like all the other bees, is one of yankee origin, and is not now so frequently adopted among the more independent or better class of settlers. the indian corn is a tender and somewhat precarious crop: it is liable to injury from the late frosts while young, for which reason it is never put in before the th of may, or beginning of june, and even then it will suffer; it has also many enemies; bears, racoons, squirrels, mice, and birds, and is a great temptation to _breachy_ cattle; who, to come at it, will even toss down a fence with stakes and riders for protection, i.e. a pole or cross-bar, supported between crossed stakes, that surmounts the zig-zag rail fences, for better securing them from the incursions of cattle. even in canada this crop requires a hot summer to ripen it perfectly; which makes me think mr. cobbett was deceiving the english farmer when he recommended it as a profitable crop in england. profitable and highly useful it is under every disadvantage, as it makes the richest and sweetest food for all kinds of granivorous animals, even in its green state, and affords sound good food when ripe, or even partially ripe, for fattening beasts and working oxen. last summer was very favourable, and the crops were abundant, but owing to the failure of the two preceding ones, fewer settlers grew it. our small patch turned out very good. the flour makes a substantial sort of porridge, called by the americans "_supporne;_" this is made with water, and eaten with milk, or else mixed with milk; it requires long boiling. bread is seldom if ever made without a large portion of wheaten flour, mixed with the corn meal. with respect to the culture of other grain, i can tell you nothing but what every book that treats on emigration will give you. the potatoe instead of being sown in drills is planted in hills, which are raised over the sets; this crop requires hoeing. with respect to the usual rate of wages, this also differs according to the populousness of the place: but the common wages now given to an active able man are from eight to eleven dollars per month; ten is perhaps the general average; from four to six for lads, and three and four for female servants. you may get a little girl, say from nine to twelve years, for her board and clothing; but this is far from a saving plan, as they soon wear out clothes and shoes thus bestowed. i have once tried this way, but found myself badly served, and a greater loser than if i had given wages. a big girl will go out to service for two and two and a half dollars per month, and will work in the fields also if required, binding after the reapers, planting and hoeing corn and potatoes. i have a very good girl, the daughter of a wiltshire emigrant, who is neat and clever, and respectful and industrious, to whom i give three dollars only: she is a happy specimen of the lower order of english emigrants, and her family are quite acquisitions to the township in which they live. i think i have now answered all your queries to the best of my ability; but i would have you bear in mind that my knowledge is confined to a small portion of the townships along the otanabee lakes, therefore, my information after all, may be but local: things may differ, and do differ in other parts of the province, though possibly not very materially. i must now say farewell. should you ever feel tempted to try your fortune on this side the atlantic, let me assure you of a warm welcome to our canadian home, from your sincerely attached friend. letter xii. "a logging bee."--burning of the log-heaps.--crops for the season.-- farming stock.--comparative value of wheat and labour.--choice of land, and relative advantages.--clearing land.--hurricane in the woods.-- variable weather.--insects. november the d, . many thanks, dearest mother, for the contents of the box which arrived in august. i was charmed with the pretty caps and worked frocks sent for my baby; the little fellow looks delightfully in his new robes, and i can almost fancy is conscious of the accession to his wardrobe, so proud he seems of his dress. he grows fat and lively, and, as you may easily suppose, is at once the pride and delight of his foolish mother's heart. his father, who loves him as much as i do myself; often laughs at my fondness, and asks me if i do not think him the ninth wonder of the world. he has fitted up a sort of rude carriage on the hand-sleigh for the little fellow--nothing better than a tea-chest, lined with a black bear-skin, and in this humble equipage he enjoys many a pleasant ride over the frozen ground. nothing could have happened more opportunely for us than the acquisition of my uncle's legacy, as it has enabled us to make some useful additions to our farm, for which we must have waited a few years. we have laid out a part of the property in purchasing a fine lot of land adjoining our home lot. the quality of our new purchase is excellent, and, from its situation, greatly enhances the value of the whole property. we had a glorious burning this summer after the ground was all logged up; that is, all the large timbers chopped into lengths, and drawn together in heaps with oxen. to effect this the more readily we called a logging-bee. we had a number of settlers attend, with yokes of oxen and men to assist us. after that was over, my husband, with the men servants, set the heaps on fire; and a magnificent sight it was to see such a conflagration all round us. i was a little nervous at first on account of the nearness of some of the log-heaps to the house, but care is always taken to fire them with the wind blowing in a direction away from the building. accidents have sometimes happened, but they are of rarer occurrence than might be expected, when we consider the subtlety and destructiveness of the element employed on the occasion. if the weather be very dry, and a brisk wind blowing, the work of destruction proceeds with astonishing rapidity; sometimes the fire will communicate with the forest and run over many hundreds of acres. this is not considered favourable for clearing, as it destroys the underbush and light timbers, which are almost indispensable for ensuring a good burning. it is, however, a magnificent sight to see the blazing trees and watch the awful progress of the conflagration, as it hurries onward, consuming all before it, or leaving such scorching mementoes as have blasted the forest growth for years. when the ground is very dry the fire will run all over the fallow, consuming the dried leaves, sticks, and roots. of a night the effect is more evident; sometimes the wind blows particles of the burning fuel into the hollow pines and tall decaying stumps; these readily ignite, and after a time present an appearance that is exceedingly fine and fanciful. fiery columns, the bases of which are hidden by the dense smoke wreaths, are to be seen in every direction, sending up showers of sparks that are whirled about like rockets and fire-wheels in the wind. some of these tall stumps, when the fire has reached the summit, look like gas lamp-posts newly lit. the fire will sometimes continue unextinguished for days. after the burning is over the brands are collected and drawn together again to be reburnt; and, strange as it may appear to you, there is no work that is more interesting and exciting than that of tending the log- heaps, rousing up the dying flames and closing them in, and supplying the fires with fresh fuel. there are always two burnings: first, the brush heaps, which have lain during the winter till the drying winds and hot suns of april and may have rendered them sear, are set fire to; this is previous to forming the log-heaps. if the season be dry, and a brisk wind abroad, much of the lighter timber is consumed, and the larger trees reduced during this first burning. after this is over, the rest is chopped and logged up for the second burning: and lastly, the remnants are collected and consumed till the ground be perfectly free from all encumbrances, excepting the standing stumps, which rarely burn out, and remain eye-sores for several years. the ashes are then scattered abroad, and the field fenced in with split timber; the great work of clearing is over. our crops this year are oats, corn, and pumpkins, and potatoes, with some turnips. we shall have wheat, rye, oats, potatoes, and corn next harvest, which will enable us to increase our stock. at present we have only a yoke of oxen (buck and bright, the names of three-fourths of all the working oxen in canada), two cows, two calves, three small pigs, ten hens, and three ducks, and a pretty brown pony: but she is such a skilful clearer of seven-railed fences that we shall be obliged to part with her. _breachy_ cattle of any kind are great disturbers of public tranquillity and private friendship; for which reason any settler who values the good-will of his neighbours would rather part with the best working yoke of oxen in the township, than keep them if they prove _breachy_. a small farmer at home would think very poorly of our canadian possessions, especially when i add that our whole stock of farming implements consists of two reaping-hooks, several axes, a spade, and a couple of hoes. add to these a queer sort of harrow that is made in the shape of a triangle for the better passing between the stumps: this is a rude machine compared with the nicely painted instruments of the sort i have been accustomed to see used in britain. it is roughly hewn, and put together without regard to neatness; strength for use is all that is looked to here. the plough is seldom put into the land before the third or fourth year, nor is it required; the general plan of cropping the first fallow with wheat or oats, and sowing grass-seeds with the grain to make pastures, renders the plough unnecessary till such time as the grass-lands require to be broken up. this method is pursued by most settlers while they are clearing bush-land; always chopping and burning enough to keep a regular succession of wheat and spring crops, while the former clearings are allowed to remain in grass. the low price that is now given for grain of every kind, wheat having fetched only from two shillings and nine-pence to four shillings the bushel, makes the growing of it a matter of less importance than rearing and fatting of stock. wages bear no proportion to the price of produce; a labourer receives ten and even eleven dollars and board a month, while wheat is selling at only three shillings, three shillings and six pence or four shillings, and sometimes even still less. the returns are little compared with the outlay on the land; nor does the land produce that great abundance that men are apt to look for on newly cleared ground. the returns of produce, however, must vary with the situation and fertility of the soil, which is generally less productive in the immediate vicinity of the lakes and rivers than a little further back from them, the land being either swampy or ridgy, covered with pines and beset with blocks of limestone and granite, the sub-soil poor and sandy. this is the case on the small lakes and on the banks of the otanabee; the back lots are generally much finer in quality, producing hard wood, such as bass-wood, maple, hickory, butter-nut, oak, beech, and iron- wood; which trees always indicate a more productive soil than the pine tribe. in spite of the indifference of the soil the advantage of a water frontage is considered a matter of great importance in the purchasing of land; and, lots with water privileges usually fetch a much higher price than those further removed from it. these lands are in general in the possession of the higher class of settlers, who can afford to pay something extra for a pretty situation, and the prospect of future improvements when the country shall be under a higher state of cultivation and more thickly settled. we cannot help regarding with infinite satisfaction the few acres that are cleared round the house and covered with crops. a space of this kind in the midst of the dense forest imparts a cheerfulness to the mind, of which those that live in an open country, or even a partially wooded one, can form no idea. the bright sunbeams and the blue and cloudless sky breaking in upon you, rejoices the eye and cheers the heart as much as the cool shade of a palm-grove would the weary traveller on the sandy wastes of africa. if we feel this so sensibly who enjoy the opening of a lake of full three-quarters of a mile in breadth directly in front of our windows, what must those do whose clearing is first opened in the depths of the forest, hemmed in on every side by a thick wall of trees, through the interminable shades of which the eye vainly endeavours to penetrate in search of other objects and other scenes; but so dense is the growth of timber, that all beyond the immediate clearing is wrapped in profound obscurity. a settler on first locating on his lot knows no more of its boundaries and its natural features than he does of the northwest passage. under such disadvantages it is ten chances to one if he chooses the best situation on the land for the site of his house. this is a very sufficient reason for not putting up an expensive building till the land is sufficiently cleared to allow its advantages and disadvantages to become evident. many eligible spots often present themselves to the eye of the settler, in clearing his land, that cause him to regret having built before he could obtain a better choice of ground. but circumstances will seldom admit of delay in building in the bush; a dwelling must be raised speedily, and that generally on the first cleared acre. the emigrant, however, looks forward to some no very distant period when he shall be able to gratify both his taste and love of comfort in the erection of a handsomer and better habitation than his log-house or his shanty, which he regards only in the light of a temporary accommodation. on first coming to this country nothing surprised me more than the total absence of trees about the dwelling-houses and cleared lands; the axe of the chopper relentlessly levels all before him. man appears to contend with the trees of the forest as though they were his most obnoxious enemies; for he spares neither the young sapling in its greenness nor the ancient trunk in its lofty pride; he wages war against the forest with fire and steel. there are several sufficient reasons to be given for this seeming want of taste. the forest-trees grow so thickly together that they have no room for expanding and putting forth lateral branches; on the contrary, they run up to an amazing height of stem, resembling seedlings on a hot- bed that have not duly been thinned out. trees of this growth when unsupported by others are tall, weak, and entirely divested of those graces and charms of outline and foliage that would make them desirable as ornaments to our grounds; but this is not the most cogent reason for not leaving them, supposing some more sightly than others were to be found. instead of striking deep roots in the earth, the forest-trees, with the exception of the pines, have very superficial hold in the earth; the roots running along the surface have no power to resist the wind when it bends the tops, which thus act as a powerful lever in tearing them from their places. the taller the tree the more liable it is to being uprooted by storms; and if those that are hemmed in, as in the thickly-planted forests, fall, you may suppose the certain fate of any isolated tree, deprived of its former protectors, when left to brave and battle with the storm. it is sure to fall, and may chance to injure any cattle that are within its reach. this is the great reason why trees are not left in the clearing. indeed, it is a less easy matter to spare them when chopping than i at first imagined, but the fall of one tree frequently brings down two, three, or even more smaller ones that stand near it. a good chopper will endeavour to promote this as much as possible by partly chopping through smaller ones in the direction they purpose the larger one to fall. i was so desirous of preserving a few pretty sapling beech-trees that pleased me, that i desired the choppers to spare them; but the only one that was saved from destruction in the chopping had to pass through a fiery ordeal, which quickly scorched and withered up its gay green leaves: it now stands a melancholy monument of the impossibility of preserving trees thus left. the only thing to be done if you desire trees, is to plant them while young in favourable situations, when they take deep root and spread forth branches the same as the trees in our parks and hedge-rows. another plan which we mean to adopt on our land is to leave several acres of forest in a convenient situation, and chop and draw out the old timbers for fire-wood, leaving the younger growth for ornament. this method of preserving a grove of trees is not liable to the objections formerly stated, and combines the useful with the ornamental. there is a strange excitement created in the mind whilst watching the felling of one of the gigantic pines or oaks of the forest. proudly and immoveably it seems at first to resist the storm of blows that assail its massy trunk, from the united axes of three or even four choppers. as the work of destruction continues, a slight motion is perceived--an almost imperceptible quivering of the boughs. slowly and slowly it inclines, while the loud rending of the trunk at length warns you that its last hold on earth is gone. the axe of the chopper has performed its duty; the motion of the falling tree becomes accelerated every instant, till it comes down in thunder on the plain, with a crash that makes the earth tremble and the neighbouring trees reel and bow before it. though decidedly less windy than our british isles, canada is subject at times to sudden storms, nearly approaching to what might be termed whirlwinds and hurricanes. a description of one of these tempests i gave you in an early letter. during the present summer i witnessed another hurricane, somewhat more violent and destructive in its effect. the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds of a highly electric nature. the storm came from the north-west, and its fury appeared to be confined within the breadth of a few hundred yards. i was watching with some degree of interest the rapid movements in the lurid, black, and copper-coloured clouds that were careering above the lake, when i was surprised by the report of trees falling on the opposite shore, and yet more so by seeing the air filled with scattered remnants of the pines within less than a hundred yards of the house, while the wind was scarcely felt on the level ground on which i was standing. in a few seconds the hurricane had swept over the water, and with irresistible power laid low not less than thirty or forty trees, bending others to the ground like reeds. it was an awful sight to see the tall forest rocking and bowing before the fury of the storm, and with the great trunks falling one after the other, as if they had been a pack of cards thrown down by a breath. fortunately for us the current of the wind merely passed over our open clearing, doing us no further damage than uprooting three big pine-trees on the ridge above the lake. but in the direction of our neighbour ------ it did great mischief, destroying many rods of fencing, and crushing his crops with the prostrate trunks and scattered boughs, occasioning great loss and much labour to repair the mischief. the upturned roots of trees thrown down by the wind are great nuisances and disfigurements in clearings, and cause much more trouble to remove than those that have been felled by the axe. some of the stumps of these wind-fallen trees will right again if chopped from the trunk soon after they have been blown down, the weight of the roots and upturned soil being sufficient to bring them back into their former places; we have pursued this plan very frequently. we have experienced one of the most changeable seasons this summer that was possible. the spring was warm and pleasant, but from the latter part of may till the middle of harvest we had heavy rains, cloudy skies, with moist hot days, and frequent tempests of thunder and lightning, most awfully grand, but seemingly less destructive than such storms are at home. possibly the tall forest-trees divert the danger from the low dwellings, which are sufficiently sheltered from the effect of the lightning. the autumn has also proved wet and cold. i must say at present i do not think very favourably of the climate; however, it is not right to judge by so short an acquaintance with it, as every one says this summer has been unlike any of its predecessors. the insects have been a sad annoyance to us, and i hailed the approach of the autumn as a respite from their attacks; for these pests are numerous and various, and no respecters of persons, as i have learned from sad experience. i am longing for home-letters; let me hear from you soon. farewell, friends. letter xiii. health enjoyed in the rigour of winter.--inconvenience suffered from the brightness of the snow.--sleighing.--indian orthography.--visit to an indian encampment.--story of an indian.--an indian hunchback.--canadian ornithology. lake cottage, march , . i received your affectionate and interesting letter only last night. owing to an error in the direction, it had made the round of two townships before it reached peterborough; and though it bore as many new directions as the sailor's knife did new blades and handles, it did at last reach me, and was not less prized for its travelling dress, being somewhat the worse for wear. i rejoiced to hear of your returning health and increased happiness--may they long continue. your expressions of regret for my exile, as you term my residence in this country, affected me greatly. let the assurance that i am not less happy than when i left my native land, console you for my absence. if my situation be changed, my heart is not. my spirits are as light as ever, and at times i feel a gaiety that bids defiance to all care. you say you fear the rigours of the canadian winter will kill me. i never enjoyed better health, nor so good, as since it commenced. there is a degree of spirit and vigour infused into one's blood by the purity of the air that is quite exhilarating. the very snow seems whiter and more beautiful than it does in our damp, vapoury climate. during a keen bright winter's day you will often perceive the air filled with minute frozen particles, which are quite dry, and slightly prick your face like needle-points, while the sky is blue and bright above you. there is a decided difference between the first snow-falls and those of mid-winter; the first are in large soft flakes, and seldom remain long without thawing, but those that fall after the cold has regularly set in are smaller, drier, and of the most beautiful forms, sometimes pointed like a cluster of rays, or else feathered in the most exquisite manner. i find my eyes much inconvenienced by the dazzling glitter of the snow on bright sunny days, so as to render my sight extremely dull and indistinct for hours after exposure to its power. i would strongly advise any one coming out to this country to provide themselves with blue or green glasses; and by no means to omit green crape or green tissue veils. poor moses' gross of green spectacles would not have proved so bad a spec. in canada*. [* oculists condemn coloured spectacles, as injuring weak eyes by the heat which they occasion. coloured gauze or coloured shades are preferable.--ed.] some few nights ago as i was returning from visiting a sick friend, i was delighted by the effect produced by the frost. the earth, the trees, every stick, dried leaf, and stone in my path was glittering with mimic diamonds, as if touched by some magical power; objects the most rude and devoid of beauty had suddenly assumed a brilliancy that was dazzling beyond the most vivid fancy to conceive; every frozen particle sent forth rays of bright light. you might have imagined yourself in sinbad's valley of gems; nor was the temperature of the air at all unpleasantly cold. i have often felt the sensation of cold on a windy day in britain far more severe than i have done in canada, when the mercury indicated a much lower degree of temperature. there is almost a trance-like stillness in the air during our frosty nights that lessens the unpleasantness of the sensation. there are certainly some days of intense cold during our winter, but this low temperature seldom continues more than three days together. the coldest part of the day is from an hour or two before sunrise to about nine o'clock in the morning; by that time our blazing log-fires or metal stoves have warmed the house, so that you really do not care for the cold without. when out of doors you suffer less inconvenience than you would imagine whilst you keep in motion, and are tolerably well clothed: the ears and nose are the most exposed to injury. gentlemen sometimes make a singular appearance coming in from a long journey, that if it were not for pity's sake would draw from you a smile;--hair, whiskers, eyebrows, eyelashes, beard, all incrusted with hoar-frost. i have seen young ladies going to evening parties with clustering ringlets, as jetty as your own, changed by the breath of father frost to silvery whiteness; so that you could almost fancy the fair damsels had been suddenly metamorphosed to their ancient grannies; fortunately for youth and beauty such change is but transitory. in the towns and populous parts of the province the approach of winter is hailed with delight instead of dread; it is to all a season of leisure and enjoyment. travelling is then expeditiously and pleasantly performed; even our vile bush-roads become positively very respectable; and if you should happen to be overturned once or twice during a journey of pleasure, very little danger attends such an event, and very little compassion is bestowed on you for your tumble in the snow; so it is wisest to shake off your light burden and enjoy the fun with a good grace if you can. sleighing is certainly a very agreeable mode of travelling; the more snow, the better the sleighing season is considered; and the harder it becomes, the easier the motion of the vehicle. the horses are all adorned with strings of little brass bells about their necks or middles. the merry jingle of these bells is far from disagreeable, producing a light, lively sound. the following lines i copied from the new york albion for you; i think you will be pleased with them:-- sleigh bells. 'tis merry to hear at evening time by the blazing hearth the sleigh-bells chime; to know each bound of the steed brings near the form of him to our bosoms dear; lightly we spring the fire to raise, till the rafters glow with the ruddy blaze. 'tis he--and blithely the gay bells sound, as his steed skims over the frozen ground. hark! he has pass'd the gloomy wood; he crosses now the ice-bound flood, and sees the light from the open door, to hail his toilsome journey o'er. our hut is small and rude our cheer, but love has spread the banquet here; and childhood springs to be caress'd by our beloved and welcome guest; with smiling brow his tale he tells, they laughing ring the merry bells. from the cedar swamp the wolf may howl, from the blasted pine loud whoop the owl; the sudden crash of the falling tree are sounds of terror no more to me; no longer i list with boding fear, the sleigh-bells' merry peal to hear*. [* this little poem by mrs. moodie has since been printed in a volume of "friendship's offering," with some alterations by the editor that deprive it a good deal of the simplicity of the original.] as soon as a sufficient quantity of snow has fallen all vehicles of every description, from the stage-coach to the wheelbarrow, are supplied with wooden runners, shod with iron, after the manner of skates. the usual equipages for travelling are the double sleigh, light waggon, and cutter; the two former are drawn by two horses abreast, but the latter, which is by far the most elegant-looking, has but one, and answers more to our gig or chaise. wrapped up in buffalo robes you feel no inconvenience from the cold, excepting to your face, which requires to be defended by a warm beaver or fur bonnet; the latter, i am surprised to find, is seldom if ever worn, from the nonsensical reason that it is not the fashion. the red, grey, and black squirrels are abundant in our woods; the musk-rat inhabits little houses that he builds in the rushy parts of the lakes: these dwellings are formed of the roots of sedges, sticks, and other materials of a similar nature, and plastered with mud, over which a thick close thatch is raised to the height of a foot or more above the water; they are of a round or dome-shape, and are distinctly visible from the shore at some distance. the indians set traps to ensnare these creatures in their houses, and sell their skins, which are very thick and glossy towards winter. the beaver, the bear, the black lynx, and foxes are also killed, and brought to the stores by the hunters, where the skins are exchanged for goods or money. the indians dress the deer-skins for making mocassins, which are greatly sought after by the settlers in these parts; they are very comfortable in snowy weather, and keep the feet very warm, but you require several wrappings of cloth round the feet before you put them on. i wore a beautiful pair all last winter, worked with porcupine-quills and bound with scarlet ribbon; these elegant mocassins were the handicraft of an old squaw, the wife of peter the hunter: you have already heard of him in my former letters. i was delighted with a curious specimen of indian orthography that accompanied the mocassins, in the form of a note, which i shall transcribe for your edification:-- sir, pleas if you would give something; you must git in ordir in store is woyth (worth) them mocsin, porcupine quill on et. one dollers foure yard. [illustration: the prairie] this curious billet was the production of the hunter's eldest son, and is meant to intimate that if i would buy the mocassins the price was one dollar, or an order on one of the stores for four yards of calico; for so the squaw interpreted its meaning. the order for four yards of printed cotton was delivered over to mrs. peter, who carefully pinned it within the folds of her blanket, and departed well satisfied with the payment. and this reminds me of our visit to the indian's camp last week. feeling some desire to see these singular people in their winter encampment, i expressed my wish to s------, who happens to be a grand favourite with the old hunter and his family; as a mark of a distinction they have bestowed on him the title of chippewa, the name of their tribe. he was delighted with the opportunity of doing the honours of the indian wigwam, and it was agreed that he, with some of his brothers and sisters-in-law, who happened to be on a visit at his house, should come and drink tea with us and accompany us to the camp in the woods. a merry party we were that sallied forth that evening into the glorious starlight; the snow sparkled with a thousand diamonds on its frozen surface, over which we bounded with hearts as light as hearts could be in this careful world. and truly never did i look upon a lovelier sight than the woods presented; there had been a heavy fall of snow the preceding day; owing to the extreme stillness of the air not a particle of it had been shaken from the trees. the evergreens were bending beneath their brilliant burden; every twig, every leaf, and spray was covered, and some of the weak saplings actually bowed down to the earth with the weight of snow, forming the most lovely and fanciful bowers and arcades across our path. as you looked up towards the tops of the trees the snowy branches seen against the deep blue sky formed a silvery veil, through which the bright stars were gleaming with a chastened brilliancy. i was always an admirer of a snowy landscape, but neither in this country nor at home did i ever see any thing so surpassingly lovely as the forest appeared that night. leaving the broad road we struck into a bye-path, deep tracked by the indians, and soon perceived the wigwam by the red smoke that issued from the open basket-work top of the little hut. this is first formed with light poles, planted round so as to enclose a circle of ten or twelve feet in diameter; between these poles are drawn large sheets of birch bark both within and without, leaving an opening of the bare poles at the top so as to form an outlet for the smoke; the outer walls were also banked up with snow, so as to exclude the air entirely from beneath. some of our party, who were younger and lighter of foot than we sober married folks, ran on before; so that when the blanket, that served the purpose of a door, was unfastened, we found a motley group of the dark skins and the pale faces reposing on the blankets and skins that were spread round the walls of the wigwam. the swarthy complexions, shaggy black hair, and singular costume of the indians formed a striking contrast with the fair-faced europeans that were mingled with them, seen as they were by the red and fitful glare of the wood-fire that occupied the centre of the circle. the deer-hounds lay stretched in indolent enjoyment, close to the embers, while three or four dark-skinned little urchins were playing with each other, or angrily screaming out their indignation against the apish tricks of the hunchback, my old acquaintance maquin, that indian flibberty-gibbet, whose delight appeared to be in teazing and tormenting the little papouses, casting as he did so sidelong glances of impish glee at the guests, while as quick as thought his features assumed an impenetrable gravity when the eyes of his father or the squaws seemed directed towards his tricks. there was a slight bustle among the party when we entered one by one through the low blanket-doorway. the merry laugh rang round among our friends, which was echoed by more than one of the indian men, and joined by the peculiar half-laugh or chuckle of the squaws. "_chippewa_" was directed to a post of honour beside the hunter peter; and squaw peter, with an air of great good humour, made room for me on a corner of her own blanket; to effect which two papouses and a hound were sent lamenting to the neighbourhood of the hunchback maquin. the most attractive persons in the wigwam were two indian girls, one about eighteen, jane, the hunter's eldest daughter, and her cousin margaret. i was greatly struck with the beauty of jane; her features were positively fine, and though of gipsey darkness the tint of vermilion on her cheek and lip rendered it, if not beautiful, very attractive. her hair, which was of jetty blackness, was soft and shining, and was neatly folded over her forehead, not hanging loose and disorderly in shaggy masses, as is generally the case with the squaws. jane was evidently aware of her superior charms, and may be considered as an indian belle, by the peculiar care she displayed in the arrangement of the black cloth mantle, bound with scarlet, that was gracefully wrapped over one shoulder, and fastened at her left side with a gilt brooch. margaret was younger, of lower stature, and though lively and rather pretty, yet wanted the quiet dignity of her cousin; she had more of the squaw in face and figure. the two girls occupied a blanket by themselves, and were busily engaged in working some most elegant sheaths of deer-skin, richly wrought over with coloured quills and beads: they kept the beads and quills in a small tin baking-pan on their knees; but my old squaw (as i always call mrs. peter) held her porcupine-quills in her mouth, and the fine dried sinews of the deer, which they make use of instead of thread in work of this sort, in her bosom. on my expressing a desire to have some of the porcupine-quills, she gave me a few of different colour that she was working a pair of mocassins with, but signified that she wanted "'bead' to work mocsin," by which i understood i was to give some in exchange for the quills. indians never give since they have learned to trade with white men. she was greatly delighted with the praises i bestowed on jane. she told me jane was soon to marry the young indian who sat on one side of her in all the pride of a new blanket coat, red sash, embroidered powder-pouch, and great gilt clasps to the collar of his coat, which looked as warm and as white as a newly washed fleece. the old squaw evidently felt proud of the young couple as she gazed on them, and often repeated, with a good-tempered laugh, "jane's husband--marry by and by." we had so often listened with pleasure to the indians singing their hymns of a sunday night that i requested some of them to sing to us; the old hunter nodded assent; and, without removing his pipe, with the gravity and phlegm of a dutchman, issued his commands, which were as instantly obeyed by the younger part of the community, and a chorus of rich voices filled the little hut with a melody that thrilled to our very hearts. the hymn was sung in the indian tongue, a language that is peculiarly sweet and soft in its cadences, and seems to be composed with many vowels. i could not but notice the modest air of the girls; as if anxious to avoid observation that they felt was attracted by their sweet voices, they turned away from the gaze of the strangers, facing each other and bending their heads down over the work they still held in their hands. the attitude, which is that of the eastern nations; the dress, dark hair and eyes, the olive complexion, heightened colour, and meek expression of face, would have formed a study for a painter. i wish you could have witnessed the scene; i think you would not easily have forgotten it. i was pleased with the air of deep reverence that sat on the faces of the elders of the indian family, as they listened to the voices of their children singing praise and glory to the god and saviour they had learned to fear and love. the indians seem most tender parents; it is pleasing to see the affectionate manner in which they treat their young children, fondly and gently caressing them with eyes overflowing and looks of love. during the singing each papouse crept to the feet of its respective father and mother, and those that were too young to join their voices to the little choir, remained quite silent till the hymn was at an end. one little girl, a fat brown roly-poly, of three years old, beat time on her father's knee, and from time to time chimed in her infant voice; she evidently possessed a fine ear and natural taste for music. i was at a loss to conceive where the indians kept their stores, clothes, and other moveables, the wigwam being so small that there seemed no room for any thing besides themselves and their hounds. their ingenuity, however, supplied the want of room, and i soon discovered a plan that answered all the purposes of closets, bags, boxes, &c., the inner lining of birch-bark being drawn between the poles so as to form hollow pouches all round; in these pouches were stowed their goods; one set held their stock of dried deer's flesh, another dried fish, a third contained some flat cakes, which i have been told they bake in a way peculiar to themselves, with hot ashes over and under; for my part i think they must be far from palatable so seasoned. their dressed skins, clothes, materials for their various toys, such as beads, quills, bits of cloth, silk, with a thousand other miscellaneous articles, occupied the rest of these reservoirs. though open for a considerable space at the top, the interior of the wigwam was so hot, i could scarcely breathe, and was constrained to throw off all my wrappings during the time we staid. before we went away the hunter insisted on showing us a game, which was something after the manner of our cup and ball, only more complicated, and requires more sleight of hand: the indians seemed evidently well pleased at our want of adroitness. they also showed us another game, which was a little like nine-pins, only the number of sticks stuck in the ground was greater. i was unable to stay to see the little rows of sticks knocked out, as the heat of the wigwam oppressed me almost to suffocation, and i was glad to feel myself once more breathing the pure air. in any other climate one would scarcely have undergone such sudden extremes of temperature without catching a severe cold; but fortunately that distressing complaint _catchee le cold_, as the frenchman termed it, is not so prevalent in canada as at home. some twenty years ago, while a feeling of dread still existed in the minds of the british settlers towards the indians, from the remembrance of atrocities committed during the war of independence, a poor woman, the widow of a settler who occupied a farm in one of the then but thinly-settled townships back of the ontario, was alarmed by the sudden appearance of an indian within the walls of her log-hut. he had entered so silently that it was not till he planted himself before the blazing fire that he was perceived by the frightened widow and her little ones, who retreated, trembling with ill-concealed terror to the furthest corner of the room. without seeming to notice the dismay which his appearance had excited, the indian proceeded to disencumber himself from his hunting accoutrements; he then unfastened his wet mocassins, which he hung up to dry, plainly intimating his design was to pass the night beneath their roof, it being nearly dark, and snowing heavily. scarcely daring to draw an audible breath, the little group watched the movements of their unwelcome guest. imagine their horror when they beheld him take from his girdle a hunting-knife, and deliberately proceed to try its edge. after this his tomahawk and rifle underwent a similar examination. the despair of the horror-stricken mother was now approaching a climax. she already beheld in idea the frightful mangled corpses of her murdered children upon that hearth which had so often been the scene of their innocent gambols. instinctively she clasped the two youngest to her breast at a forward movement of the indian. with streaming eyes she was about to throw herself at his feet, as he advanced towards her with the dreaded weapons in his hands, and implore his mercy for herself and her babes. what then was her surprise and joy when he gently laid the rifle, knife, and tomahawk beside her, signifying by this action that she had nothing to fear at his hands*. [* it is almost an invariable custom now for the indians on entering a dwelling-house to leave all their weapons, as rife, tomahawk, &c., outside the door, even if the weather be ever so wet; as they consider it unpolite to enter a family dwelling armed.] a reprieve to a condemned criminal at the moment previous to his execution was not more welcome than this action of the indian to the poor widow. eager to prove her confidence and her gratitude at the same time, she hastened to prepare food for the refreshment of the now no longer dreaded guest; and, assisted by the eldest of her children, put clean sheets and the best blankets on her own bed, which she joyfully devoted to the accommodation of the stranger. an expressive "hugh! hugh!" was the only reply to this act of hospitality; but when he went to take possession of his luxurious couch he seemed sorely puzzled. it was evident the indian had never seen, and certainly never reposed on, an european bed. after a mute examination of the bed-clothes for some minutes, with a satisfied laugh, he sprang upon the bed, and, curling himself up like a dog, in a few minutes was sound asleep. by dawn of day the indian had departed; but whenever he came on the hunting-grounds in the neighbourhood of the widow, she was sure to see him. the children, no longer terrified at his swarthy countenance and warlike weapons, would gather round his knees, admire the feathered pouch that contained his shot, finger the beautiful embroidered sheath that held the hunting-knife, or the finely-worked mocassins and leggings; whilst he would pat their heads, and bestow upon them an equal share of caresses with his deer-hounds. such was the story related to me by a young missionary. i thought it might prove not uninteresting, as a trait of character of one of these singular people. _chiboya_ (for that was the name of the indian) was one of the chippewas of rice lake, most of whom are now converts to christianity, and making considerable advancement in civilisation and knowledge of agriculture. hunting and fishing, however, appear to be their favourite pursuits: for these they leave the comfortable houses at the indian villages, and return at stated times to their forest haunts. i believe it is generally considered that their numbers are diminishing, and some tribes have become nearly if not totally extinct in the canadas*. the race is slowly passing away from the face of the earth, or mingling by degrees with the colonists, till, a few centuries hence, even the names of their tribes will scarcely remain to tell that they once existed. [* it is stated that the north-west company had a census of all the tribes, and that the whole indian population of that immense continent did not now exceed , souls. in a parliamentary document of , the indians of lower canada are estimated at , , and those of upper canada at , , which latter number is stated to include those on the shores of lake huron, and to the westward.-ed.] when next you send a box or parcel, let me have a few good tracts and hymn-books; as they prize a gift of this sort extremely. i send you a hymn, the one they sang to us in the wigwam; it is the indian translation, and written by the hunter, peter's eldest son: he was delighted when i told him i wanted him to copy it for me, that i might send it across the seas to my own country, that english people might see how well indians could write. [illustration: red-bird] [illustration: blue-bird] the hunchback maquin has made me a miniature canoe of birch-bark, which i send; you will prize it as a curiosity, and token of remembrance. the red and black squirrel-skins are for jane; the feather fans, and papers of feathers, for sarah. tell the latter the next time i send a packet home, she shall have specimens fit for stuffing of our splendid red- bird, which, i am sure, is the virginian nightingale; it comes in may or april, and leaves us late in the summer: it exactly corresponds to a stuffed virginian nightingale that i saw in a fine collection of american birds. the blue-bird is equally lovely, and migrates much about the same time; the plumage is of a celestial blue; but i have never seen one otherwise than upon the wing, so cannot describe it minutely. the cross-bills are very pretty; the male and female quite opposite in colour, one having a lovely mixture of scarlet and orange on the breast and back, shading into greenish olive and brown; the other more like our yellowhammer, only it is not quite so bright in colour, though much softer, and more innocent-looking: they come to our windows and doors in the winter as familiarly as your robins. during the winter most of our birds depart; even the hollow tapping of the red-headed and the small speckled grey and white woodpecker ceases to be heard; the sharp chittering of the squirrel, too, is seldomer distinguished; and silence, awful and unbroken silence, reigns in the forest during the season of midwinter. i had well nigh forgotten my little favourites, a species of the titmouse, that does not entirely forsake us. of a bright warm, sunny day we see flocks of these tiny birds swinging among the feathery sprigs of the hemlocks or shrubby pines on the plains or in the forest; and many a time have i stayed my steps to watch their playful frolics, and listen to their gay warbling. i am not quite certain, but i think this is the same little bird that is known among the natives by the name of thit-a- be-bee; its note, though weak, and with few changes, is not unpleasing; and we prize it from its being almost the only bird that sings during the winter. i had heard much of the snow-bunting, but never had seen it till the other day, and then not near enough to mark its form or colours. the day was one of uncommon brilliancy; the sky cloudless, and the air almost warm; when, looking towards the lake, i was surprised by the appearance of one of the pine-trees near the shore: it seemed as if covered with stars of silver that twinkled and sparkled against the blue sky. i was so charmed by the novelty, that i ran out to observe them nearer; when, to my surprise, my stars all took flight to another tree, where, by the constant waving and fluttering of their small white wings against the sunlight, they produced the beautiful effect that had at first attracted my observation: soon all the pines within sight of the window were illuminated by these lovely creatures. about mid-day they went away, and i have seen them but once since. they never lit on the ground, or any low tree or bough, for me to examine them nearer. of our singing-birds, the robin; the blackbird, and a tiny bird, like our common wren, are those i am most intimate with. the canadian robin is much larger than our dear robin at home; he is too coarse and large a bird to realize the idea of our little favourite, "the household-bird with the red stomacher," as he is called by bishop-carey, in a sonnet addressed to elizabeth, the daughter of james i., on her marriage with the unfortunate frederic prince palatine. the song of the canadian robin is by no means despicable; its notes are clear, sweet, and various; it possesses the same cheerful lively character that distinguishes the carol of its namesake; but the general habits of the bird are very dissimilar. the canadian robin is less sociable with man, but more so with his own species: they assemble in flocks soon after the breeding season is over, and appear very amicable one to another; but seldom, if ever, approach very near to our dwelling. the breast is of a pinkish, salmon colour; the head black; the back of a sort of bluish steel, or slate colour; in size they are as big as a thrush. [illustration: snow-bunting] the blackbird is perhaps our best songster, according to my taste; full as fine as our english blackbird, and much handsomer in its plumage, which is a glossy, changeable, greenish black. the upper part of the wing of the male bird of full growth is of a lively orange; this is not apparent in the younger birds, nor in the female, which is slightly speckled. towards the middle of the summer, when the grain begins to ripen, these birds assemble in large flocks: the management of their marauding parties appears to be superintended by the elders of the family. when they are about to descend upon a field of oats or wheat, two or three mount guard as sentinels, and on the approach of danger, cry _geck-geck- geck_; this precaution seems a work of supererogation, as they are so saucy that they will hardly be frightened away; and if they rise it is only to alight on the same field at a little distance, or fly up to the trees, where their look-out posts are. they have a peculiarly melancholy call-note at times, which sounds exactly like the sudden twang of a harp-string, vibrating for a second or two on the ear. this, i am inclined to think, they use to collect their distant comrades, as i have never observed it when they were all in full assembly, but when a few were sitting in some tree near the lake's edge. i have called them the "_harpers_" from this peculiar note. i shall tire you with my ornithological sketches, but must enumerate two or three more birds. the bald eagle frequently flies over our clearing; it has a dark body, and snow-white head. it is sometimes troublesome to the poultry-yards: those we have seen have disdained such low game, and soared majestically away across the lake. the fish-hawk we occasionally see skimming the surface of the water, and it is regarded as an enemy by those who take delight in spearing fish upon the lakes. then we have the night or mosquito-hawk, which may be seen in the air pursuing the insect tribe in the higher regions, whilst hundreds of great dragonflies pursue them below; notwithstanding their assistance, we are bitten mercilessly by those summer pests the mosquitoes and black flies. the red-headed woodpecker is very splendid; the head and neck being of a rich crimson; the back, wings, and breast are divided between the most snowy white and jetty black. the incessant tapping of the woodpeckers, and the discordant shriek of the blue jay, are heard from sunrise to sunset, as soon as the spring is fairly set in. i found a little family of woodpeckers last spring comfortably nested in an old pine, between the bark and the trunk of the tree, where the former had started away, and left a hollow space, in which the old birds had built a soft but careless sort of nest; the little creatures seemed very happy, poking their funny bare heads out to greet the old ones, who were knocking away at the old stumps in their neighbourhood to supply their cravings, as busy as so many carpenters at work. [illustration: baltimore oriole defending her nest against the black snake.] a very curious bird's-nest was given me by one of our choppers; it was woven over a forked spray, so that it had all the appearance of having been sewn to the bough with grey thread. the nest was only secured at the two sides that formed the angle, but so strong was it fastened that it seemed to resist any weight or pressure of a moderate kind; it was composed of the fibres of the bass-wood bark; which are very thready, and may be drawn to great fineness: on the whole it was a curious specimen of the ingenuity of these admirable little architects. i could not discover the builder; but rather suspect the nest to have belonged to my protege, the little winter titmouse that i told you of. the nest of the canadian robin, which i discovered while seeking for a hen's nest in a bush-heap, just at the further edge of the clearing, is very much like our home-robin's, allowing something for difference of size in the bird, and in the material; the eggs, five in number, were deep blue. before i quit the subject of birds, i must recall to your remembrance the little houses that the americans build for the swallow; i have since found out one of their great reasons for cherishing this useful bird. it appears that a most rooted antipathy exists between this species and the hawk tribe, and no hawk will abide their neighbourhood; as they pursue them for miles, annoying them in every possible way, haunting the hawk like its evil genius: it is most singular that so small a creature should thus overcome one that is the formidable enemy of so many of the feathered race. i should have been somewhat sceptical on the subject, had i not myself been an eyewitness to the fact. i was looking out of my window one bright summer-day, when i noticed a hawk of a large description flying heavily along the lake, uttering cries of distress; within a yard or two of it was a small--in the distance it appeared to me a very small--bird pursuing it closely, and also screaming. i watched this strange pair till the pine-wood hid them from my sight; and i often marvelled at the circumstance, till a very intelligent french canadian traveller happened to name the fact, and said so great was the value placed on these birds, that they had been sold at high prices to be sent to different parts of the province. they never forsake their old haunts when once naturalized, the same pairs constantly returning year after year, to their old house. the singular fact of these swallows driving the hawk from his haunts is worthy of attention; as it is well authenticated, and adds one more to the many interesting and surprising anecdotes recorded by naturalists of the sagacity and instinct of these birds. i have, however, scribbled so many sheets, that i fear my long letter must weary you. adieu. letter xiv. utility of botanical knowledge.--the fire-weed.--sarsaparilla plants.-- magnificent water-lily.--rice beds.--indian strawberry.--scarlet columbine.--ferns.--grasses. july , our winter broke up unusually early this year: by the end of february the ground was quite free from snow, and the weather continued all through march mild and pleasant, though not so warm as the preceding year, and certainly more variable. by the last week in april and the beginning of may, the forest-trees had all burst into leaf, with a brilliancy of green that was exquisitely lovely. on the th, th, and th of may, the air became suddenly cold, with sharp winds from the north-west, and heavy storms of snow that nipped the young buds, and destroyed many of the early-sown vegetable seeds; fortunately for us we were behindhand with ours, which was very well, as it happened. our woods and clearings are now full of beautiful flowers. you will be able to form some idea of them from the dried specimens that i send you. you will recognize among them many of the cherished pets of our gardens and green-houses, which are here flung carelessly from nature's lavish hand among our woods and wilds. how often do i wish you were beside me in my rambles among the woods and clearings: you would be so delighted in searching out the floral treasures of the place. deeply do i now regret having so idly neglected your kind offers while at home of instructing me in flower-painting; you often told me the time would come when i should have cause to regret neglecting the golden opportunity before me. you proved a true prophetess; for i daily lament that i cannot make faithful representations of the flowers of my adopted country, or understand as you would do their botanical arrangement. with some few i have made myself acquainted, but have hardly confidence in my scanty stock of knowledge to venture on scientific descriptions, when i feel conscious that a blunder would be easily detected, and expose me to ridicule and contempt, for an assumption of knowledge that i did not possess. the only botanical work i have at my command is pursh's north american flora, from which i have obtained some information; but must confess it is tiresome blundering out latin descriptions to one who knows nothing of latin beyond what she derives through a knowledge of italian. i have made out a list of the plants most worthy of attention near us; there are many others in the township that i am a stranger to; some there are with whose names i am unacquainted. i subjoin a slight sketch, not with my pencil but my pen, of those flowers that pleased me particularly, or that possessed any remarkable qualities. the same plants do not grow on cleared land that formerly occupied the same spot when it was covered with forest-trees. a distinct class of vegetation makes its appearance as soon as the fire has passed over the ground. the same thing may be remarked with regard to the change that takes place among our forests. as one generation falls and decays, new ones of a different character spring up in their places. this is illustrated in the circumstance of the resinous substance called fat-pine being usually found in places where the living pine is least abundant, and where the ground is occupied by oak, ash, buck, maple, and bass-wood. the fire-weed, a species of tall thistle of rank and unpleasant scent, is the first plant that appears when the ground has been freed from timbers by fire: if a piece of land lies untilled the first summer after its being chopped, the following spring shows you a smothering crop of this vile weed. the next plant you notice is the sumach, with its downy stalks, and head of deep crimson velvety flowers, forming an upright obtuse bunch at the extremity of the branches: the leaves turn scarlet towards the latter end of the summer. this shrub, though really very ornamental, is regarded as a great pest in old clearings, where the roots run and send up suckers in abundance. the raspberry and wild gooseberry are next seen, and thousands of strawberry plants of different varieties carpet the ground, and mingle with the grasses of the pastures. i have been obliged this spring to root out with remorseless hand hundreds of sarsaparilla plants, and also the celebrated gingseng, which grows abundantly in our woods: it used formerly to be an article of export to china from the states, the root being held in high estimation by the chinese. last week i noticed a succulent plant that made its appearance on a dry sandy path in my garden; it seems to me a variety of the hour-blowing mesembryanthium. it has increased so rapidly that it already covers a large space; the branches converging from the centre of the plant; and sending forth shoots from every joint. the leaves are rather small, three-sided and pointed, thick and juicy, yielding a green liquor when bruised like the common sedums. the stalks are thick and round, of a bright red, and trail along the ground; the leaves spring from each joint, and with them a constant succession of yellow starry flowers, that close in an hour or so from the time they first unfold. i shall send you some of the seed of this plant, as i perceived a number of little green pods that looked like the buds, but which, on opening, proved to be the seed-vessels. this plant covers the earth like a thick mat, and, i am told, is rather troublesome where it likes the soil. i regret that among my dried plants i could not preserve some specimens of our superb water-lilies and irises; but they were too large and too juicy to dry well. as i cannot send you my favourites, i must describe them to you. the first, then, is a magnificent water-lily, that i have called by way of distinction the "queen of the lakes," for she sits a crown upon the waters. this magnificent flower is about the size of a moderately large dahlia; it is double to the heart; every row of petals diminishing by degrees in size, and gradually deepening in tint from the purest white to the brightest lemon colour. the buds are very lovely, and may be seen below the surface of the water, in different stages of forwardness from the closely-folded bud, wrapped in its olive-green calix, to the half- blown flower, ready to emerge from its watery prison, and in all its virgin beauty expand its snowy bosom to the sun and genial air. nor is the beauty of the flower its sole attraction: when unfolded it gives out a rich perfume not unlike the smell of fresh lemons. the leaves are also worthy of attention: at first they are of a fine dark green, but as the flower decays, the leaf changes its hue to a vivid crimson. where a large bed of these lilies grow closely together, they give quite a sanguine appearance to the waters, that is distinguishable at some distance. the yellow species of this plant is also very handsome, though it wants the silken texture and delicate colour of the former; i call this the "water-king." the flower presents a deep golden-coloured cup, the concave petals of which are clouded in the centre with a dark reddish- brown, that forms a striking contrast to the gay anthers, which are very numerous, and turn back from the centre of the flower, falling like fringes of gold one over the other, in successive rows, till they fill up the hollow flower-cup. the shallows of our lakes abound with a variety of elegant aquatic plants: i know not a more lovely sight than one of these floating gardens. here you shall behold near the shore a bed of azure fleur-de- lis, from the palest pearl colour varying to the darkest purple. nearer in shore, in the shallowest water, the rose-coloured persecaria sends up its beautiful spikes trailing below the surface; you see the red stalks and smooth dark green leaves veined underneath with rosy red: it is a very charming variety of this beautiful species of plants. then a bed of my favourite white lilies, all in full bloom, floating on the water, with their double flowers expanding to the sun; near these, and rising in stately pride, a tall plant, with dark green spear-shaped leaves, and thick spike of bright blue flowers, is seen. i cannot discover the name of this very grand-looking flower, and i neglected to examine its botanical construction; so can give you no clue by which to discover its name or species. our rice-beds are far from being unworthy of admiration; seen from a distance they look like low green islands on the lakes: on passing through one of these rice-beds when the rice is in flower, it has a beautiful appearance with its broad grassy leaves and light waving spikes, garnished with pale yellow green blossoms, delicately shaded with reddish purple, from beneath which fall three elegant straw- coloured anthers, which move with every breath of air or slightest motion of the waters. i gathered several spikes when only just opened, but the tiresome things fell to pieces directly they became dry. next summer i will make another attempt at preserving them, and it may be with better success. the low shore of the lake is a complete shrubbery. we have a very pretty st. john's-wort, with handsome yellow flowers. the white and pink spiral frutex also abounds with some exquisite upright honeysuckles, shrubby plants about three feet in height; the blossoms grow in pairs or by fours, and hang beneath the light green leaves; elegant trumpet-shaped flowers of a delicate greenish white, which are succeeded by ruby- coloured berries. on gathering a branch of this plant, you cannot but be struck with the elegant arrangement of the flowers along the under part of the stalks. the two blossoms are connected at the nectary of each in a singular manner. the americans call this honeysuckle "twinflower." i have seen some of the flowers of this plant pale pink: on the whole it is one of the most ornamental shrubs we have. i transplanted some young trees into my garden last spring; they promise to live and do well. i do not find any description of this shrub in pursh's flora, but know it to be a species of honeysuckle, from the class and order, the shape and colour of the leaves, the stalks, the trumpet-shaped blossom and the fruit; all bearing a resemblance to our honeysuckles in some degree. there is a tall upright bush, bearing large yellow trumpet-shaped flowers, springing from the extremities of the branches; the involucrum forms a boat-shaped cup that encircles the flowers from which they seem to spring, something after the manner of the scarlet trumpet- honeysuckle. the leaves and blossoms of this plant are coarse, and by no means to compare to the former. we have a great variety of curious orchises, some brown and yellow, others pale flesh-coloured, striped with crimson. there is one species grows to the height of two feet, bearing long spikes of pale purple flowers; a white one with most fragrant smell, and a delicate pink one with round head of blossoms, finely fringed like the water-pinks that grow in our marshes; this is a very pretty flower, and grows in the beaver meadows. last autumn i observed in the pine-wood near us a very curious plant; it came up with naked brown stems, branching off like some miniature tree; the stalks of this plant were brown, slightly freckled and beset with little knobs. i watched the progress of maturity in this strange plant with some degree of interest, towards the latter end of october; the little knobs, which consisted of two angular hard cases, not unlike, when fully opened, to a boat in shape, burst asunder and displayed a pale straw-coloured chaffy substance that resembled fine saw-dust: these must have been the anthers, but they bore more resemblance to seeds; this singular flower would have borne examination with a microscope. one peculiarity that i observed, was, that on pulling up a plant with its roots, i found the blossoms open under ground, springing up from the lowest part of the flower-stems, and just as far advanced to maturity as those that grew on the upper stalks, excepting that they were somewhat blanched, from being covered up from the air. i can find no description of this plant, nor any person but myself seems to have taken notice of it. the specimen i had on being dried became so brittle that it fell to pieces. i have promised to collect some of the most singular of our native flowers for one of the professors of botany in the edinburgh university. we have a very handsome plant that bears the closest affinity to our potatoe in its floral construction; it grows to the height of two or three feet in favourable situations, and sends up many branches; the blossoms are large, purely white, freckled near the bottom of the corolla with brownish yellow spots; the corolla is undivided: this is evidently the same plant as the cultivated potatoe, though it does not appear to form apples at the root. the fruit is very handsome, eggshaped, of a beautiful apricot colour when ripe, and of a shining tempting appearance; the smell, however, betrays its poisonous nature: on opening one of the fruits you find it consists of a soft pulp filled with shining black seeds. the plant continues in blossom from june till the first frosts wither the leaves; it is far less coarse than the potatoe; the flower, when full blown, is about the size of a half crown, and quite flat; i think it is what you call salver-shaped: it delights in light loamy soil, growing on the upturned roots of fallen trees, where the ground is inclined to be sandy. i have never seen this plant elsewhere than on our own fallow. the hepatica is the first flower of the canadian spring: it gladdens us with its tints of azure, pink, and white, early in april, soon after the snows have melted from the earth. the canadians can it snow-flower, from its coming so soon after the snow disappears. we see its gay tufts of flowers in the open clearings and the deep recesses of the forests; its leaves are also an enduring ornament through the open months of the year; you see them on every grassy mound and mossy root: the shades of blue are very various and delicate, the white anthers forming a lovely contrast with the blue petals. the wood-cress, or as it is called by some, ginger-cress, is a pretty white cruciform flower; it is highly aromatic in flavour; the root is white and fleshy, having the pungency of horseradish. the leaves are of a sad green, sharply notched, and divided in three lobes; the leaves of some of them are slightly variegated; the plant delights in rich moist vegetable mould, especially on low and slightly swampy ground; the flower-stalk is sometimes naked, sometimes leafed, and is crowned with a loose spike of whitish cruciform flowers. there is a cress that grows in pretty green tufts at the bottom of the waters in the creeks and small rivulets: it is more delicate and agreeable in flavour than any of the land-cresses; the leaves are of a pale tender green, winged and slender; the plant looks like a green cushion at the bottom of the water. the flowers are yellow, cruciform, and insignificant; it makes a very acceptable salad in the early spring, and at the fall of the year. there are also several species of land- cress, and plants resembling some of the cabbage tribes, that might be used as spring vegetables. there are several species of spinach, one known here by the name of lamb's quarter, that grows in great profusion about our garden, and in rich soil rises to two feet, and is very luxuriant in its foliage; the leaves are covered with a white rough powder. the top shoots and tender parts of this vegetable are boiled with pork, and, in place of a more delicate pot-herb, is very useful. then we have the indian turnip; this is a very handsome arum, the root of which resembles the cassava, i am told, when boiled: the leaves of this arum are handsome, slightly tinged with purple. the spathe is of a lively green, striped with purple: the indians use the root as a medicine, and also as an esculent; it is often eaten by the settlers as a vegetable, but i never tasted it myself. pursh calls this species _arum atropurpureum_. i must not pass over one of our greatest ornaments, the strawberry blite, strawberry-bearing spinach, or indian strawberry, as it is variously named. this singular plant throws out many branches from one stem, these are garnished with handsome leaves, resembling in appearance our long-leaved garden spinach; the finest of this plant is of a bright crimson, pulpy like the strawberry, and containing a number of purple seeds, partially embedded in the surface, after the same manner as the strawberry. the fruit grows close to the stalk, completely surrounding it, and forming a long spike of the richest crimson berries. i have gathered branches a foot in length, closely covered with the beautiful looking fruit, and have regretted that it was so insipid in its flavour as to make it uneatable. on the banks of creeks and in rich ground, it grows most luxuriantly, one root sending up twenty or thirty branches, drooping with the weight of their magnificent burden. as the middle and superior stems ripen and decay, the lateral ones come on, presenting a constant succession of fruit from july till the frosts nip them off in september. the indians use the juice of this plant as a dye, and are said to eat the berries: it is often made use of as a substitute for red ink, but it is liable to fade unless mingled with alum. a friend of mine told me she had been induced to cross a letter she was sending to a relative in england with this strawberry ink, but not having taken the precaution to fix the colour, when the anxiously expected epistle arrived, one-half of it proved quite unintelligible, the colours having faded nearly to white; so that instead of affording satisfaction, it proved only a source of vexation and embarrassment to the reader, and of mortification to the writer. the blood-root, sanguinaria, or puccoon, as it is termed by some of the native tribes, is worthy of attention from the root to the flower. as soon as the sun of april has warmed the earth and loosened it from its frozen bonds, you may distinguish a number of purely white buds, elevated on a naked footstalk, and partially enfolded in a handsome vine-shaped leaf, of a pale bluish green, curiously veined on the under side with pale orange. the leaf springs singly from a thick juicy fibrous root, which, on being broken, emits a quantity of liquor from its pores of a bright orange scarlet colour: this juice is used by the indians as a dye, and also in the cure of rheumatic, and cutaneous complaints. the flowers of the sanguinaria resemble the white crocus very closely: when it first comes up the bud is supported by the leaf, and is folded together with it; the flower, however, soon elevates itself above its protector, while the leaf having performed its duty of guardian to the tender bud, expands to its full size. a rich black vegetable mould at the edges of the clearings seems the favourite soil for this plant. the scarlet columbine is another of my favourite flowers; it is bright red, with yellow linings to the tubes. the nectaries are more elongated than the garden columbines, and form a sort of mural crown, surmounted with little balls at the tips. a tall graceful plant, with its brilliant waving blossoms, is this columbine; it grows both in the sunshine and the shade, not perhaps in deep shady woods, but where the under brush has been removed by the running of the fire or the axe of the chopper; it seems even to flourish in poor stony soils, and may be found near every dwelling. the feathered columbine delights in moist open swamps, and the banks of rivulets; it grows to the height of three, and even four and five feet, and is very ornamental. of violets, we have every variety of colour, size and shape, lacking only the delightful _viola odorata_ of our home woodlands: yet i know not why we should quarrel with these meek daughters of the spring, because they want the fragrance of their more favoured sisters. many of your wood-violets, though very beautiful, are also devoid of scent; here variety of colour ought to make some amends for want of perfume. we have violets of every shade of blue, some veined with purple, others shaded with darker blue. we have the delicate white, pencilled with purple: the bright brimstone coloured with black veinings: the pale primrose with dark blue veins; the two latter are remarkable for the luxuriance and size of the leaves: the flowers spring in bunches, several from each joint, and are succeeded by large capsules covered with thick white cottony down. there is a species of violet that grows in the woods, the leaves of which are exceedingly large; so are the seed-vessels, but the flower is so small and insignificant, that it is only to be observed by a close examination of the plant; this has given rise to the vulgar belief that it blooms under ground. the flowers are a pale greenish yellow. bryant's beautiful poem of the yellow violet is descriptive of the first-mentioned violet. there is an elegant _viola tricolor_, that blooms in the autumn; it is the size of a small heart's-ease, and is pure white, pale purple, and lilac; the upper petals are white, the lower lip purple, and the side wings a reddish lilac. i was struck with the elegance of this rare flower on a journey to peterborough, on my way to cobourg; i was unable to preserve the specimens, and have not travelled that road since. the flower grew among wild clover on the open side of the road; the leaves were small, roundish, and of a dark sad green. of the tall shrubby asters, we have several beautiful varieties, with large pale blue lilac, or white flowers; others with very small white flowers and crimson anthers, which look like tufts of red down, spangled with gold-dust; these anthers have a pretty effect, contrasted with the white starry petals. there is one variety of the tall asters that i have seen on the plains, it has flowers about the size of a sixpence, of a soft pearly tint of blue, with brown anthers; this plant grows very tall, and branches from the parent stem in many graceful flowery boughs; the leaves of this species are of a purple red on the under side, and inclining to heart-shape; the leaves and stalks are hairy. i am not afraid of wearying you with my floral sketches, i have yet many to describe; among these are those elegant little evergreens, that abound in this country, under the name of winter-greens, of which there are three or four remarkable for beauty of foliage, flower, and fruit. one of these winter-greens that abounds in our pine-woods is extremely beautiful; it seldom exceeds six inches in height; the leaves are a bright shining green, of a long narrow oval, delicately notched like the edges of a rose-leaf; and the plant emerges from beneath the snow in the early part of the year, as soon as the first thaw takes place, as fresh and verdant as before they were covered up: it seems to be a shy blossomer. i have never seen specimens of the flowers in bloom but twice; these i carefully preserved for you, but the dried plant will afford but an imperfect idea of the original. you always called, you know, your dried specimens corpses of plants, and said, that when well painted, their representations were far more like themselves. the flower-stalk rises two or three inches from the centre of the plant, and is crowned with round crimson buds and blossoms, consisting of five petals, deepening from the palest pink to the brightest blush colour; the stigma is of an emerald greenness, forming a slightly ribbed turban in the centre, around which are disposed ten stamens of an amethyst colour: in short, this is one of the gems of the floral world, and might aptly be compared to an emerald ring, set round with amethysts. the contrast of colours in this flower is exceedingly pleasing, and the crimson buds and shining ever-green leaves are scarcely less to be admired than the flower; itself it would be considered a great acquisition to your collection of american shrubs, but i doubt if it would flourish when removed from the shade of the pine-woods. this plant appears to be the _chimaphila corymbosa_, or winter-green, described by pursh, with some trifling variation in the colour of the petals. another of our winter-greens grows in abundance on the rice-lake plains; the plant does not exceed four inches; the flowers are in little loose bunches, pale greenish white, in shape like the blossom of the arbutus; the berries are bright scarlet, and are known by the name of winter- berry, and partridge-berry; this must be _gaultheria procumbens_. but a more beautiful little evergreen of the same species is to be found in our cedar swamps, under the name of pigeon-berry; it resembles the arbutus in leaf and flower more closely than the former plant; the scarlet berry is inserted in a scarlet cup or receptacle, divided at the edge in five points; it is fleshy, seeming to partake of the same nature as the fruit. the blossoms of this elegant little shrub, like the arbutus, of which it looks like the miniature, appear in drooping bunches at the same time the ripened berry of the former year is in perfection; this circumstance adds not a little to the charm of the plant. if i mistake not, this is the _gualtheria shallon_, which pursh likens to the arbutus: this is also one of our winter-greens. there is another pretty trailing plant, with delicate little funnel- shaped flowers, and a profusion of small dark green round buds, slightly variegated, and bright red berries, which are produced at the extremities of the branches. the blossoms of this plant grow in pairs, closely connected at the germen, so much so, that the scarlet fruit that supersedes the flowers appears like a double berry, each berry containing the seeds of both flowers and a double eye. the plant is also called winter-green, or twin-berry; it resembles none of the other winter-greens; it grows in mossy woods, trailing along the ground, appearing to delight in covering little hillocks and inequalities of the ground. in elegance of growth, delicacy of flower, and brightness of berry, this winter-green is little inferior to any of the former. there is a plant in our woods, known by the names of man-drake, may- apple, and duck's-foot: the botanical name of the plant is podophyllum; it belongs to the class and order _polyandria monogynia_. the blossom is yellowish white, the corolla consisting of six petals; the fruit is oblong; when ripe, of a greenish yellow; in size that of an olive, or large damson; when fully ripe it has the flavour of preserved tamarind, a pleasant brisk acid; it appears to be a shy bearer, though it increases rapidly in rich moist woodlands. the leaves come up singly, are palmated and shade the ground very much when a number of them grow near each other; the stalk supports the leaf from the centre: when they first appear above the ground, they resemble a folded umbrella or parasol, all the edges of the leaves bending downward, by degrees expanding into a slightly convex canopy. the fruit would make a delicate preserve with sugar. the lily tribe offer an extensive variety from the most minute to the very largest flowers. the red martagon grows abundantly on our plains; the dog's tooth violet, _erythronium_, with its spotted leaves and bending yellow blossom, delicately dashed with crimson spots within, and marked with fine purple lines on the outer part of the petal, proves a great attraction in our woods, where these plants increase: they form a beautiful bed; the leaves come up singly, one from each separate tuber. there are two varieties of this flower, the pale yellow, with neither spots nor lines, and the deep yellow with both; the anthers of this last are reddish-orange, and thickly covered with a fine powdery substance. the daffodil of our woods is a delicate bending flower, of a pale yellow; the leaves grow up the flower-stalk at intervals; three or more flowers usually succeed each other at the extremity of the stalk: its height is from six to eight inches; it delights in the deep shade of moist woods. this seems to unite the description of the jonquil and daffodil. a very beautiful plant of the lily tribe abounds both in our woods and clearings; for want of a better name, i call it the douri-lily, though it is widely spread over a great portion of the continent. the americans term the white and red varieties of this species, the "white" and "red death." the flower is either deep red, or of a dazzling white, though the latter is often found stained with a delicate blush-pink, or a deep green; the latter appears to be caused by the calix running into the petal. wherefore it bears so formidable a name has not yet transpired. the flower consists of three petals, the calix three; it belongs to the class and order _hexandria monogynia_; style, three-cleft; seed-vessel of three valves; soil, dry woods and cleared lands; leaves growing in three, springing from the joints, large round, but a little pointed at the extremities. we have lilies of the valley, and their cousins the solomon's seals, a small flowered turk's-cap, of pale primrose colour, with an endless variety of small flowers of the lily tribe, remarkable for beauty of foliage or delicacy of form. our ferns are very elegant and numerous; i have no less than eight different specimens, gathered from our immediate neighbourhood, some of which are extremely elegant, especially one that i call the "fairy fern," from its lightness. one elastic stem, of a purplish-red colour, supports several light branches, which are subdivided and furnished with innumerable leaflets; each leaflet has a footstalk, that attaches it to the branch, of so slight and hair-like a substance that the least breath of air sets the whole plant in motion. could we but imagine canada to have been the scene of fairy revels, we should declare that these graceful ferns were well suited to shade the elfin court of oberon and titania. when this fern first appears above the ground, it is scarcely to be distinguished from the decaying wood of the fallen pines; it is then of a light reddish brown, curiously curled up. in may and june, the leaves unfold, and soon assume the most delicate tint of green; they are almost transparent: the cattle are very fond of this fern. the mocassin flower or lady's-slipper (mark the odd coincidence between the common name of the american and english species) is one of our most remarkable flowers; both on account of its beauty and its singularity of structure. our plains and dry sunny pastures produce several varieties; among these, the _cypripedium pubescens_, or yellow mocassin, and the _c. arietinum_ are the most beautiful of the species. the colour of the lip of the former is a lively canary yellow, dashed with deep crimson spots. the upper petals consist of two short and two long; in texture and colour resembling the sheath of some of the narcissus tribe; the short ones stand erect, like a pair of ears; the long or lateral pair are three times the length of the former, very narrow, and elegantly twisted, like the spiral horns of the walachian ram: on raising a thick yellow fleshy sort of lid, in the middle of the flower, you perceive the exact face of an indian hound, perfect in all its parts, the eyes, nose, and mouth; below this depends an open sack, slightly gathered round at the opening, which gives it a hollow and prominent appearance; the inside of this bag is delicately dashed with deep crimson, or black spots: the stem of the flower is thick towards the upper part, and takes a direct bend; the leaves are large oval, a little pointed and ribbed; the plant scarcely exceeds six inches: the elegant colour and silken texture of the lower lip or bag renders this flower very much more beautiful to my taste than the purple and white variety, though the latter is much more striking on account of the size of the flower and leaves, besides the contrast between the white and red, or white and purple colours. the formation of this species resembles the other, only with this difference, the horns are not twisted, and the face is that of a monkey; even the comical expression of the animal is preserved with such admirable fidelity, as to draw a smile from every one that sees the odd restless-looking visage, with its prominent round black eyes peering forth from under its covering. these plants belong to class and order _gynandria diandria_; are described with some little variation by pursh, who, however, likens the face of the latter to that of a sheep: if a sheep sat for the picture, methinks it must have been the most mischievous of the flock. there is a curious aquatic plant that grows in shallow, stagnant, or slow-flowing waters; it will contain a full wine-glass of water. a poor soldier brought it to me, and told me it resembled a plant he used to see in egypt, that the soldiers called the "soldier's drinking-cup" and many a good draught of pure water, he said, i have drank from them. another specimen was presented me by a gentleman who knew my predilection for strange plants; he very aptly gave it the name of "pitcher-plant;" it very probably belongs to the tribe that bear that name. the flowers that afford the most decided perfumes are our wild roses, which possess a delicious scent: the milk-weed, which gives out a smell not-unlike the night-blowing stock; the purple monarda, which is fragrance itself from the root to the flower, and even after months' exposure to the wintry atmosphere; its dried leaves and seed-vessels are so sweet as to impart perfume to your hands or clothes. all our mints are strong scented: the lily of the valley is remarkable for its fine smell; then there is my queen of the lakes, and her consort, the water- king, with many other flowers i cannot now enumerate. certain it is that among such a vast assemblage of flowers, there are, comparatively, very few that are gifted with fragrant scents. some of our forest-trees give out a fine perfume. i have often paused in my walks to inhale the fragrance from a cedar swamp on some sunny day while the boughs were still wet with the dew-drops or recently fallen shower. nor is the balsam-poplar, or tacamahac, less delightfully fragrant, especially while the gummy buds are just beginning to unfold; this is an elegant growing tree, where it has room to expand into boughs. it grows chiefly on the shores of the lakes and in open swamps, but it also forms one of the attractions of our plains, with its silver bark and waving foliage; it emits a resinous clear gum in transparent globules on the bark, and the buds are covered with a highly aromatic gummy fluid. our grasses are highly interesting; there are varieties that are wholly new to me, and when dried form the most elegant ornaments to our chimney-pieces, and would look very graceful on a lady's head; only fashionists always prefer the artificial to the natural. one or two species of grass that i have gathered bear a close but of course minute resemblance to the indian corn, having a top feather and eight-sided spike of little grains disposed at the sidejoints. the _sisyrinchium_, or blue-eyed grass, is a pretty little flower of an azure blue, with golden spot at the base of each petal; the leaves are flat, stiff, and flag-like; this pretty flower grows in tufts on light sandy soils. i have given you a description of the flowers most worthy of attention; and, though it is very probable some of my descriptions may not be exactly in the technical language of the correct botanist, i have at least described them as they appear. my dear boy seems already to have a taste for flowers, which i shall encourage as much as possible. it is a study that tends to refine and purify the mind, and can be made, by simple steps, a ladder to heaven, as it were, by teaching a child to look with love and admiration to that bountiful god who created and made flowers so fair to adorn and fructify this earth. farewell, my dear sister. letter xv. recapitulation of various topics.--progress of settlement.--canada, the land of hope.--visit to the family of a naval officer.--squirrels.-- visit to, and story of, an emigrant clergyman.--his early difficulties. --the temper, disposition, and habits of emigrants essential ingredients in failure or success. september the th, . i promised when i parted from you before i left england to write as soon as i could give you any satisfactory account of our settlement in this country. i shall do my best to redeem that promise, and forward you a slight sketch of our proceedings, with such remarks on the natural features of the place in which we have fixed our abode, as i think likely to afford you interest or amusement. prepare your patience, then, my dear friend, for a long and rambling epistle, in which i may possibly prove somewhat of a will-o'-the-wisp, and having made you follow me in my desultory wanderings,-- over hill, over dale, through bush, through briar, over park, over pale, through flood, through fire,-- possibly leave you in the midst of a big cedar swamp, or among the pathless mazes of our wild woods, without a clue to guide you, or even a _blaze_ to light you on your way. you will have heard, through my letters to my dear mother, of our safe arrival at quebec, of my illness at montreal, of all our adventures and misadventures during our journey up the country, till after much weary wandering we finally found a home and resting-place with a kind relative, whom it was our happiness to meet after a separation of many years. as my husband was anxious to settle in the neighbourhood of one so nearly connected with me, thinking it would rob the woods of some of the loneliness that most women complain so bitterly of, he purchased a lot of land on the shores of a beautiful lake, one of a chain of small lakes belonging to the otanabee river. here, then, we are established, having now some five-and-twenty acres cleared, and a nice house built. our situation is very agreeable, and each day increases its value. when we first came up to live in the bush, with the exception of s------, here were but two or three settlers near us, and no roads cut out. the only road that was available for bringing up goods from the nearest town was on the opposite side of the water, which was obliged to be crossed on a log, or birch-bark canoe; the former nothing better than a large pine-log hollowed with the axe, so as to contain three or four persons; it is flat-bottomed, and very narrow, on which account it is much used on these shallow waters. the birch canoe is made of sheets of birch bark, ingeniously fashioned and sewn together by the indians with the tough roots of the cedar, young pine, or larch (tamarack, as it is termed by the indians); it is exceedingly light, so that it can be carried by two persons easily, or even by one. these, then, were our ferry-boats, and very frail they are, and require great nicety in their management; they are worked in the water with paddles, either kneeling or standing. the squaws are very expert in the management of the canoes, and preserve their balance with admirable skill, standing up while they impel the little bark with great velocity through the water. very great is the change that a few years have effected in our situation. a number of highly respectable settlers have purchased land along the shores of these lakes, so that we no longer want society. the roads are now cut several miles above us, and though far from good can be travelled by waggons and sleighs, and are, at all events, better than none. a village has started up where formerly a thick pine-wood covered the ground; we have now within a short distance of us an excellent saw-mill, a grist-mill, and store, with a large tavern and many good dwellings. a fine timber bridge, on stone piers, was erected last year to connect the opposite townships and lessen the distance to and from peterborough; and though it was unfortunately swept away early last spring by the unusual rising of the otanabee lakes, a new and more substantial one has risen upon the ruins of the former, through the activity of an enterprising young scotchman, the founder of the village. but the grand work that is, sooner or later, to raise this portion of the district from its present obscurity, is the opening a line of navigation from lake huron through lake simcoe, and so through our chain of small lakes to rice lake, and finally through the trent to the bay of quinte. this noble work would prove of incalculable advantage, by opening a direct communication between lake huron and the inland townships at the back of the ontario with the st. laurence. this project has already been under the consideration of the governor, and is at present exciting great interest in the country: sooner or later there is little doubt but that it will be carried into effect. it presents some difficulties and expense, but it would be greatly to the advantage and prosperity of the country, and be the means of settling many of the back townships bordering upon these lakes. i must leave it to abler persons than myself to discuss at large the policy and expediency of the measure; but as i suppose you have no intention of emigrating to our backwoods, you will be contented with my cursory view of the matter, and believe, as in friendship you are bound to do, that it is a desirable thing to open a market for inland produce. canada is the land of hope; here every thing is new; every thing going forward; it is scarcely possible for arts, sciences, agriculture, manufactures, to retrograde; they must keep advancing; though in some situations the progress may seem slow, in others they are proportionably rapid. there is a constant excitement on the minds of emigrants, particularly in the partially settled townships, that greatly assists in keeping them from desponding. the arrival of some enterprising person gives a stimulus to those about him: a profitable speculation is started, and lo, the value of the land in the vicinity rises to double and treble what it was thought worth before; so that, without any design of befriending his neighbours, the schemes of one settler being carried into effect shall benefit a great number. we have already felt the beneficial effect of the access of respectable emigrants locating themselves in this township, as it has already increased the value of our own land in a three-fold degree. all this, my dear friend, you will say is very well, and might afford subject for a wise discussion between grave men, but will hardly amuse us women; so pray turn to some other theme, and just tell me how you contrive to pass your time among the bears and wolves of canada. one lovely day last june i went by water to visit the bride of a young naval officer, who had purchased a very pretty lot of land some two miles higher up the lake; our party consisted of my husband, baby, and myself; we met a few pleasant friends, and enjoyed our excursion much. dinner was laid out in the _stoup_, which, as you may not know what is meant by the word, i must tell you that it means a sort of wide verandah, supported on pillars, often of unbarked logs; the floor is either of earth beaten hard, or plank; the roof covered with sheets of bark or else shingled. these stoups are of dutch origin, and were introduced, i have been told, by the first dutch settlers in the states, since which they have found their way all over the colonies. wreathed with the scarlet creeper, a native plant of our woods and wilds, the wild vine, and also with the hop, which here grows luxuriantly, with no labour or attention to its culture, these stoups have a very rural appearance; in summer serving the purpose of an open ante-room, in which you can take your meals and enjoy the fanning breeze without being inconvenienced by the extreme heat of the noon-day sun. the situation of the house was remarkably well chosen, just on the summit of a little elevated plain, the ground sloping with a steep descent to a little valley, at the bottom of which a bright rill of water divided the garden from the opposite corn-fields, which clothed a corresponding bank. in front of the stoup, where we dined, the garden was laid out with a smooth plot of grass, surrounded with borders of flowers, and separated from a ripening field of wheat by a light railed fence, over which the luxuriant hop-vine flung its tendrils and graceful blossoms. now i must tell you the hop is cultivated for the purpose of making a barm for raising bread. as you take great interest in housewifery concerns, i shall send you a recipe for what we call hop- rising*. [* see appendix.] the yankees use a fermentation of salt, flour, and warm water or milk; but though the _salt-rising_ makes beautiful bread to look at, being far whiter and firmer than the hop-yeast bread, there is a peculiar flavour imparted to the flour that does not please every one's taste, and it is very difficult to get your salt-rising to work in very cold weather. and now, having digressed while i gave you my recipes, i shall step back to my party within the stoup, which, i can assure you, was very pleasant, and most cordially disposed to enjoy the meeting. we had books and drawings, and good store of pretty indian toys, the collection of many long voyages to distant shores, to look at and admire. soon after sun-set we walked down through the woods to the landing at the lake shore, where we found our bark canoe ready to convey us home. during our voyage, just at the head of the rapids, our attention was drawn to some small object in the water, moving very swiftly along; there were various opinions as to the swimmer, some thinking it to be a water-snake, others a squirrel, or a musk-rat; a few swift strokes of the paddles brought us up so as to intercept the passage of the little voyager; it proved to be a fine red squirrel, bound on a voyage of discovery from a neighbouring island. the little animal, with a courage and address that astonished his pursuers, instead of seeking safety in a different direction, sprung lightly on the point of the uplifted paddle, and from thence with a bound to the head of my astonished baby, and having gained my shoulder, leaped again into the water, and made direct for the shore, never having deviated a single point from the line he was swimming in when he first came in sight of our canoe. i was surprised and amused by the agility and courage displayed by this innocent creature; i could hardly have given credence to the circumstance, had i not been an eye-witness of its conduct, and moreover been wetted plentifully on my shoulder by the sprinkling of water from his coat. perhaps you may think my squirrel anecdote incredible; but i can vouch for the truth of it on my own personal experience, as i not only saw but also felt it: the black squirrels are most lovely and elegant animals, considerably larger than the red, the grey, and the striped: the latter are called by the indians "chit-munks." we were robbed greatly by these little depredators last summer; the red squirrels used to carry off great quantities of our indian corn not only from the stalks, while the crop was ripening, but they even came into the house through some chinks in the log-walls, and carried off vast quantities of the grain, stripping it very adroitly from the cob, and conveying the grain away to their storehouses in some hollow og or subterranean granary. these little animals are very fond of the seeds of the pumpkins, and you will see the soft creatures whisking about among the cattle, carrying away the seeds as they are scattered by the beasts in breaking the pumpkins: they also delight in the seeds of the sunflowers, which grow to a gigantic height in our gardens and clearings. the fowls are remarkably fond of the sunflower-seeds, and i saved the plants with the intention of laying up a good store of winter food for my poor chicks. one day i went to cut the ripe heads, the largest of which was the size of a large dessert-plate, but found two wicked red squirrels busily employed gathering in the seeds, not for me, be sure, but themselves. not contented with picking out the seeds, these little thieves dexterously sawed through the stalks, and conveyed away whole heads at once: so bold were they that they would not desist when i approached till they had secured their object, and, encumbered with a load twice the weight of their own agile bodies, ran with a swiftness along the rails, and over root, stump, and log, till they eluded my pursuit. [illustration: red-squirrel] great was the indignation expressed by this thrifty little pair on returning again for another load to find the plant divested of the heads. i had cut what remained and put them in a basket in the sun, on a small block in the garden, close to the open glass-door, on the steps of which i was sitting shelling some seed-beans, when the squirrels drew my attention to them by their sharp scolding notes, elevating their fine feathery tails and expressing the most lively indignation at the invasion: they were not long before they discovered the indian basket with the ravished treasure; a few rapid movements brought the little pair to the rails within a few paces of me and the sunflower-heads; here, then, they paused, and sitting up looked in my face with the most imploring gestures. i was too much amused by their perplexity to help them, but turning away my head to speak to the child, they darted forward, and in another minute had taken possession of one of the largest of the heads, which they conveyed away, first one carrying it a few yards, then the other, it being too bulky for one alone to carry it far at a time. in short, i was so well amused by watching their manoeuvres that i suffered them to rob me of all my store. i saw a little family of tiny squirrels at play in the spring on the top of a hollow log, and really i think they were, without exception, the liveliest, most graceful creatures i ever looked upon. the flying squirrel is a native of our woods, and exceeds in beauty, to my mind, any of the tribe. its colour is the softest, most delicate tint of grey; the fur thick and short, and as silken as velvet; the eyes like all the squirrel kind, are large, full, and soft; the whiskers and long hair about the nose black; the membrane that assists this little animal in its flight is white and delicately soft in texture, like the fur of the chinchilla; it forms a ridge of fur between the fore and hind legs; the tail is like an elegant broad grey feather. i was agreeably surprised by the appearance of this exquisite little creature; the pictures i had seen giving it a most inelegant and _batlike_ look, almost disgusting. the young ones are easily tamed, and are very playful and affectionate when under confinement. [illustration: flying squirrel] how my little friend emily would delight in such a pet! tell her if ever i should return to dear old england, i will try to procure one for her; but at present she must be contented with the stuffed specimens of the black, red, and striped squirrels which i enclose in my parcel. i wish i could offer you any present more valuable, but our arts and manufactures being entirely british, with the exception of the indians' toys, i should find it a difficult matter to send you any thing worth your attention; therefore i am obliged to have recourse to the natural productions of our woods as tokens of remembrance to our friends _at home_, for it is ever thus we speak of the land of our birth. you wish to know if i am happy and contented in my situation, or if my heart pines after my native land. i will answer you candidly, and say that, as far as regards matters of taste, early association, and all those holy ties of kindred, and old affections that make "home" in all countries, and among all nations in the world, a hallowed spot, i must ever give the preference to britain. on the other hand, a sense of the duties i have chosen, and a feeling of conformity to one's situation, lessen the regret i might be inclined to indulge in. besides, there are new and delightful ties that bind me to canada: i have enjoyed much domestic happiness since i came hither;--and is it not the birthplace of my dear child? have i not here first tasted the rapturous delight arising from maternal feelings? when my eye rests on my smiling darling, or i feel his warm breath upon my cheek, i would not exchange the joy that fills my breast for any pleasure the world could offer me. "but this feeling is not confined to the solitude of your canadian forests, my dear friend," you will say. i know it; but here there is nothing to interfere with your little nursling. you are not tempted by the pleasures of a gay world to forget your duties as a mother; there is nothing to supplant him in your heart; his presence endears every place; and you learn to love the spot that gave him birth, and to think with complacency upon the country, because it is _his_ country; and in looking forward to his future welfare you naturally become doubly interested in the place that is one day to be his. perhaps i rather estimate the country by my own feelings; and when i find, by impartial survey of my present life, that i am to the full as happy, if not really happier, than i was in the old country, i cannot but value it. possibly, if i were to enter into a detail of the advantages i possess, they would appear of a very negative character in the eyes of persons revelling in all the splendour and luxury that wealth could procure, in a country in which nature and art are so eminently favourable towards what is usually termed the pleasures of life; but i never was a votary at the shrine of luxury or fashion. a round of company, a routine of pleasure, were to me sources of weariness, if not of disgust. "there's nothing in all this to satisfy the heart," says schiller; and i admit the force of the sentiment. i was too much inclined to spurn with impatience the fetters that etiquette and fashion are wont to impose on society, till they rob its followers of all freedom and independence of will; and they soon are obliged to live for a world that in secret they despise and loathe, for a world, too, that usually regards them with contempt, because they dare not act with an independence, which would be crushed directly it was displayed. and i must freely confess to you that i do prize and enjoy my present liberty in this country exceedingly: in this we possess an advantage over you, and over those that inhabit the towns and villages in _this_ country, where i see a ridiculous attempt to keep up an appearance that is quite foreign to the situation of those that practise it. few, very few, are the emigrants that come to the colonies, unless it is with the view of realising an independence for themselves or their children. those that could afford to live in ease at home, believe me, would never expose themselves to the privations and disagreeable consequences of a settler's life in canada: therefore, this is the natural inference we draw, that the emigrant has come hither under the desire and natural hope of bettering his condition, and benefiting a family that he has not the means of settling in life in the home country. it is foolish, then, to launch out in a style of life that every one knows cannot be maintained; rather ought such persons to rejoice in the consciousness that they can, if they please, live according to their circumstances, without being the less regarded for the practice of prudence, economy, and industry. now, we _bush-settlers_ are more independent: we do what we like; we dress as we find most suitable and most convenient; we are totally without the fear of any mr. or mrs. grundy; and having shaken off the trammels of grundyism, we laugh at the absurdity of those who voluntarily forge afresh and hug their chains. if our friends come to visit us unexpectedly we make them welcome to our humble homes, and give them the best we have; but if our fare be indifferent, we offer it with good will, and no apologies are made or expected: they would be out of place; as every one is aware of the disadvantages of a new settlement; and any excuses for want of variety, or the delicacies of the table, would be considered rather in the light of a tacit reproof to your guest for having unseasonably put your hospitality to the test. our society is mostly military or naval; so that we meet on equal grounds, and are, of course, well acquainted with the rules of good breeding and polite life; too much so to allow any deviation from those laws that good taste, good sense, and good feeling have established among persons of our class. yet here it is considered by no means derogatory to the wife of an officer or gentleman to assist in the work of the house, or to perform its entire duties if occasion requires it; to understand the mystery of soap, candle, and sugar-making; to make bread, butter, and cheese, or even to milk her own cows; to knit and spin, and prepare the wool for the loom. in these matters we bush-ladies have a wholesome disregard of what mr. or mrs. so-and-so thinks or says. we pride ourselves on conforming to circumstances; and as a british officer must needs be a gentleman and his wife a lady, perhaps we repose quietly on that incontestable proof of our gentility, and can afford to be useful without injuring it. our husbands adopt a similar line of conduct: the officer turns his sword into a ploughshare, and his lance into a sickle; and if he be seen ploughing among the stumps in his own field, or chopping trees on his own land, no one thinks less of his dignity, or considers him less of a gentleman, than when he appeared upon parade in all the pride of military etiquette, with sash, sword and epaulette. surely this is as it should be in a country where independence is inseparable from industry; and for this i prize it. among many advantages we in this township possess, it is certainly no inconsiderable one that the lower or working class of settlers are well disposed, and quite free from the annoying yankee manners that distinguish many of the earlier-settled townships. our servants are as respectful, or nearly so, as those at home; nor are they admitted to our tables, or placed on an equality with us, excepting at "bees," and such kinds of public meetings; when they usually conduct themselves with a propriety that would afford an example to some that call themselves gentlemen, viz., young men who voluntarily throw aside those restraints that society expects from persons filling a respectable situation. intemperance is too prevailing a vice among all ranks of people in this country; but i blush to say it belongs most decidedly to those that consider themselves among the better class of emigrants. let none such complain of the airs of equality displayed towards them by the labouring class, seeing that they degrade themselves below the honest, sober settler, however poor. if the sons of gentlemen lower themselves, no wonder if the sons of poor men endeavour to exalt themselves about him in a country where they all meet on equal ground; and good conduct is the distinguishing mark between the classes. some months ago, when visiting a friend in a distant part of the country, i accompanied her to stay a few days in the house of a resident clergyman, curate of a flourishing village in the township of ------. i was struck by the primitive simplicity of the mansion and its inhabitants. we were introduced into the little family sitting-room, the floor of which was painted after the yankee fashion; instead of being carpeted, the walls were of unornamented deal, and the furniture of the room of corresponding plainness. a large spinning-wheel, as big as a cart-wheel, nearly occupied the centre of the room, at which a neatly- dressed matron, of mild and lady-like appearance, was engaged spinning yarn; her little daughters were knitting beside the fire, while their father was engaged in the instruction of two of his sons; a third was seated affectionately in a little straw chair between his feet, while a fourth was plying his axe with nervous strokes in the court-yard, casting from time to time wistful glances through the parlour-window at the party within. the dresses of the children were of a coarse sort of stuff, a mixture of woollen and thread, the produce of the farm and their mother's praiseworthy industry. the stockings, socks, muffatees, and warm comforters were all of home manufacture. both girls and boys wore mocassins, of their own making: good sense, industry, and order presided among the members of this little household. both girls and boys seemed to act upon the principle, that nothing is disgraceful but that which is immoral and improper. hospitality without extravagance, kindness without insincerity of speech, marked the manners of our worthy friends. every thing in the house was conducted with attention to prudence and comfort. the living was but small (the income arising from it, i should have said), but there was glebe land, and a small dwelling attached to it, and, by dint of active exertion without-doors, and economy and good management within, the family were maintained with respectability: in short, we enjoyed during our sojourn many of the comforts of a cleared farm; poultry of every kind, beef of their own killing, excellent mutton and pork: we had a variety of preserves at our tea-table, with honey in the comb, delicious butter, and good cheese, with divers sorts of cakes; a kind of little pancake, made from the flour of buck-wheat, which are made in a batter, and raised with barm, afterwards dropped into boiling lard, and fried; also a preparation made of indian corn-flour, called supporne-cake, which is fried in slices, and eaten with maple-syrup, were among the novelties of our breakfast-fare. i was admiring a breed of very fine fowls in the poultry-yard one morning, when my friend smiled and said, "i do not know if you will think i came honestly by them." "i am sure you did not acquire them by dishonest means," i replied, laughing; "i will vouch for your principles in that respect." "well," replied my hostess, "they were neither given me, nor sold to me, and i did not steal them. i found the original stock in the following manner. an old black hen most unexpectedly made her appearance one spring morning at our door; we hailed the stranger with surprise and delight; for we could not muster a single domestic fowl among our little colony at that time. we never rightly knew by what means the hen came into our possession, but suppose some emigrant's family going up the country must have lost or left her; she laid ten eggs, and hatched chickens from them; from this little brood we raised a stock, and soon supplied all our neighbours with fowls. we prize the breed, not only on account of its fine size, but from the singular, and, as we thought, providential, manner in which we obtained it." i was much interested in the slight sketch given by the pastor one evening, as we all assembled round the blazing log-fire, that was piled half-way up the chimney, which reared its stone fabric so as to form deep recesses at either side of its abutments. alluding to his first settlement, he observed, "it was a desolate wilderness of gloomy and unbroken forest-trees when we first pitched our tent here: at that time an axe had not been laid to the root of a tree, nor a fire, save by the wandering indians, kindled in these woods. "i can now point out the identical spot where my wife and little ones ate their first meal, and raised their feeble voices in thankfulness to that almighty and merciful being who had preserved them through the perils of the deep, and brought them in safety to this vast solitude. "we were a little flock wandering in a great wilderness, under the special protection of our mighty shepherd. "i have heard you, my dear young lady," he said, addressing the companion of my visit, "talk of the hardships of the bush; but, let me tell you, you know but little of its privations compared with those that came hither some years ago. "ask these, my elder children and my wife, what were the hardships of a bush-settler's life ten years ago, and they will tell you it was to endure cold, hunger, and all its accompanying evils; to know at times the want of every necessary article of food. as to the luxuries and delicacies of life, we saw them not;--how could we? we were far removed from the opportunity of obtaining these things: potatoes, pork, and flour were our only stores, and often we failed of the two latter before a fresh supply could be procured. we had not mills nearer than thirteen miles, through roads marked only by blazed lines; nor were there at that time any settlers near us. now you see us in a cleared country, surrounded with flourishing farms and rising villages; but at the time i speak of it was not so: there were no stores of groceries or goods, no butchers' shops, no cleared farms, dairies, nor orchards; for these things we had to wait with patience till industry should raise them. "our fare knew no other variety than salt pork, potatoes, and sometimes bread, for breakfast; pork and potatoes for dinner; pork and potatoes for supper; with a porridge of indian corn-flour for the children. sometimes we had the change of pork without potatoes, and potatoes without pork; this was the first year's fare: by degrees we got a supply of flour of our own growing, but bruised into a coarse meal with a hand- mill; for we had no water or windmills within many miles of our colony, and good bread was indeed a luxury we did not often have. "we brought a cow with us, who gave us milk during the spring and summer; but owing to the wild garlic (a wild herb, common to our woods), on which she fed, her milk was scarcely palatable, and for want of shelter and food, she died the following winter, greatly to our sorrow: we learned experience in this and in many other matters at a hard cost; but now we can profit by it." "did not the difficulties of your first settlement incline you to despond, and regret that you had ever embarked on a life so different to that you had been used to?" i asked. "they might have had that effect had not a higher motive than mere worldly advancement actuated me in leaving my native country to come hither. look you, it was thus: i had for many years been the pastor of a small village in the mining districts of cumberland. i was dear to the hearts of my people, and they were my joy and crown in the lord. a number of my parishioners, pressed by poverty and the badness of the times, resolved on emigrating to canada. "urged by a natural and not unlawful desire of bettering their condition, they determined on crossing the atlantic, encouraged by the offer of considerable grants of wild land, which at that period were freely awarded by government to persons desirous of becoming colonists. "but previous to this undertaking, several of the most respectable came to me, and stated their views and reasons for the momentous step they were about to take; and at the same time besought me in the most moving terms, in the name of the rest of their emigrant friends, to accompany them into the wilderness of the west, lest they should forget their lord and saviour when abandoned to their own spiritual guidance. "at first i was startled at the proposition; it seemed a wild and visionary scheme: but by degrees i began to dwell with pleasure on the subject. i had few ties beyond my native village; the income arising from my curacy was too small to make it any great obstacle: like goldsmith's curate, i was 'passing rich with forty pounds a year.' my heart yearned after my people; ten years i had been their guide and adviser. i was the friend of the old, and the teacher of the young. my mary was chosen from among them; she had no foreign ties to make her look back with regret upon the dwellers of the land in distant places; her youth and maturity had been spent among these very people; so that when i named to her the desire of my parishioners, and she also perceived that my own wishes went with them, she stifled any regretful feeling that might have arisen in her breast, and replied to me in the words of ruth:-- "'thy country shall be my country; thy people shall be my people; where thou diest will i die, and there will i be buried: the lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.' "a tender and affectionate partner hast thou been to me, mary," he added, turning his eyes affectionately on the mild and dignified matron, whose expressive countenance bespoke with more eloquence than words the feelings passing in her mind. she replied not by words, but i saw the big bright tears fall on the work she held in her hand. they sprang from emotions too sacred to be profaned by intrusive eyes, and i hastily averted my glance from her face; while the pastor proceeded to narrate the particulars of their leaving england, their voyage, and finally, their arrival in the land that had been granted to the little colony in the then unbroken part of the township of ------. "we had obtained a great deal of useful advice and assistance from the government agents previous to our coming up hither, and also hired some choppers at high wages to initiate us in the art of felling, logging, burning, and clearing the ground; as it was our main object to get in crops of some kind, we turned to without any delay further than what was necessary for providing a temporary shelter for our wives and children, and prepared the ground for spring crops, helping each other as we could with the loan of oxen and labour. and here i must observe, that i experienced every attention and consideration from my friends. my means were small, and my family all too young to render me any service; however, i lacked not help, and had the satisfaction of seeing a little spot cleared for the growth of potatoes and corn, which i could not have effected by my single exertions. "my biggest boy john was but nine years old, willie seven, and the others still more helpless; the two little ones you see there," pointing to two young children, "have been born since we came hither. that yellow-haired lassie knitting beside you was a babe at the breast;--a helpless, wailing infant, so weak and sickly before we came here that she was scarcely ever out of her mother's arms; but she grew and throve rapidly under the rough treatment of a bush-settler's family. "we had no house built, or dwelling of any kind to receive us when we arrived at our destination; and the first two nights were passed on the banks of the creek that flows at the foot of the hill, in a hut of cedar and hemlock boughs that i cut with my axe, and, with the help of some of my companions, raised to shelter my wife and the little ones. "though it was the middle of may the nights were chilly, and we were glad to burn a pile of wood in front of our hut to secure us from the effects of the cold and the stings of the mosquitoes, that came up in myriads from the stream, and which finally drove us higher up the bank. "as soon as possible we raised a shanty, which now serves as a shed for my young cattle; i would not pull it down, though often urged to do so, as it stands in the way of a pleasant prospect from the window; but i like to look on it, and recall to mind the first years i passed beneath its lowly roof. we need such mementos to remind us of our former state; but we grow proud, and cease to appreciate our present comforts. "our first sabbath was celebrated in the open air: my pulpit was a pile of rude logs; my church the deep shade of the forest, beneath which we assembled ourselves; but sincerer or more fervent devotion i never witnessed than that day. i well remember the text i chose, for my address to them was from the viiith chapter of deuteronomy, the th, th, and th verses, which appeared to me applicable to our circumstances. "the following year we raised a small blockhouse, which served as a school-house and church. at first our progress in clearing the land was slow, for we had to buy experience, and many and great were the disappointments and privations that befel us during the first few years. one time we were all ill with ague, and not one able to help the other; this was a sad time; but better things were in store for us. the tide of emigration increased, and the little settlement we had formed began to be well spoken of. one man came and built a saw mill; a grist-mill followed soon after; and then one store and then another, till we beheld a flourishing village spring up around us. then the land began to increase in value, and many of the first settlers sold their lots to advantage, and retreated further up the woods. as the village increased, so, of course, did my professional duties, which had for the first few years been paid for in acts of kindness and voluntary labour by my little flock; now i have the satisfaction of reaping a reward without proving burdensome to my parishioners. my farm is increasing, and besides the salary arising from my curacy i have something additional for the school, which is paid by government. we may now say it is good for us to be here, seeing that god has been pleased to send down a blessing upon us." i have forgotten many very interesting particulars relating to the trials and shifts this family were put to in the first few years; but the pastor told us enough to make me quite contented with my lot, and i returned home, after some days' pleasant sojourn with this delightful family, with an additional stock of contentment, and some useful and practical knowledge, that i trust i shall be the better for all my life. i am rather interested in a young lad that has come out from england to learn canadian farming. the poor boy had conceived the most romantic notions of a settler's life, partly from the favourable accounts he had read, and partly through the medium of a lively imagination, which had aided in the deception, and led him to suppose that his time would be chiefly spent in the fascinating amusements and adventures arising from hunting the forest in search of deer and other game, pigeon and duck-shooting, spearing fish by torchlight, and voyaging on the lakes in a birch-bark canoe in summer, skating in winter, or gliding over the frozen snow like a laplander in his sledge, wrapped up to the eyes in furs, and travelling at the rate of twelve miles an hour to the sound of an harmonious peal of bells. what a felicitous life to captivate the mind of a boy of fourteen, just let loose from the irksome restraint of boarding-school! how little did he dream of the drudgery inseparable from the duties of a lad of his age, in a country where the old and young, the master and the servant, are alike obliged to labour for a livelihood, without respect to former situation or rank! here the son of the gentleman becomes a hewer of wood and drawer of water; he learns to chop down trees, to pile brush-heaps, split rails for fences, attend the fires during the burning season, dressed in a coarse over-garment of hempen cloth, called a logging-shirt, with trousers to correspond, and a yankee straw hat flapped over his eyes, and a handspike to assist him in rolling over the burning brands. to tend and drive oxen, plough, sow, plant indian corn and pumpkins, and raise potatoe-hills, are among some of the young emigrant's accomplishments. his relaxations are but comparatively few, but they are seized with a relish and avidity that give them the greater charm. you may imagine the disappointment felt by the poor lad on seeing his fair visions of amusement fade before the dull realities and distasteful details of a young settler's occupation in the backwoods. youth, however, is the best season for coming to this country; the mind soon bends itself to its situation, and becomes not only reconciled, but in time pleased with the change of life. there is a consolation, too, in seeing that he does no more than others of equal pretensions as to rank and education are obliged to submit to, if they would prosper; and perhaps he lives to bless the country which has robbed him of a portion of that absurd pride that made him look with contempt on those whose occupations were of a humble nature. it were a thousand pities wilfully to deceive persons desirous of emigrating with false and flattering pictures of the advantages to be met with in this country. let the _pro_ and _con_ be fairly stated, and let the reader use his best judgment, unbiassed by prejudice or interest in a matter of such vital importance not only as regards himself, but the happiness and welfare of those over whose destinies nature has made him the guardian. it is, however, far more difficult to write on the subject of emigration than most persons think: it embraces so wide a field that what would be perfectly correct as regards one part of the province would by no means prove so as regarded another. one district differs from another, and one township from another, according to its natural advantages; whether it be long settled or unsettled, possessing water privileges or not; the soil and even the climate will be different, according to situation and circumstances. much depends on the tempers, habits, and dispositions of the emigrants themselves. what suits one will not another; one family will flourish, and accumulate every comfort about their homesteads, while others languish in poverty and discontent. it would take volumes to discuss every argument for and against, and to point out exactly who are and who are not fit subjects for emigration. have you read dr. dunlop's spirited and witty "backwoodsman?" if you have not, get it as soon as you can; it will amuse you. i think a backwoods-woman might be written in the same spirit, setting forth a few pages, in the history of bush-ladies, as examples for our sex. indeed, we need some wholesome admonitions on our duties and the folly of repining at following and sharing the fortunes of our spouses, whom we have vowed in happier hours to love "in riches and in poverty, in sickness and in health." too many pronounce these words without heeding their importance, and without calculating the chances that may put their faithfulness to the severe test of quitting home, kindred, and country, to share the hard lot of a settler's life; for even this sacrifice renders it hard to be borne; but the truly attached wife will do this, and more also, if required by the husband of her choice. but now it is time i say farewell: my dull letter, grown to a formidable packet, will tire you, and make you wish it at the bottom of the atlantic. letter xvi. indian hunters.--sail in a canoe.--want of libraries in the backwoods.-- new village.--progress of improvement.--fire-flies. having in a former letter given you some account of a winter visit to the indians, i shall now give a short sketch of their summer encampment, which i went to see one beautiful afternoon in june, accompanied by my husband and some friends that had come in to spend the day with us. the indians were encamped on a little peninsula jutting out between two small lakes; our nearest path would have been through the bush, but the ground was so encumbered by fallen trees that we agreed to go in a canoe. the day was warm, without being oppressively hot, as it too often is during the summer months: and for a wonder the mosquitoes and black- flies were so civil as not to molest us. our light bark skimmed gaily over the calm waters, beneath the overhanging shade of cedars, hemlock, and balsams, that emitted a delicious fragrance as the passing breeze swept through the boughs. i was in raptures with a bed of blue irises mixed with snow-white water-lilies that our canoe passed over. turning the stony bank that formed the point, we saw the thin blue smoke of the camp curling above the trees, and soon our canoe was safely moored alongside of those belonging to the indians, and by help of the straggling branches and underwood i contrived to scramble up a steep path, and soon found myself in front of the tent. it was a sunday afternoon; all the men were at home; some of the younger branches of the families (for there were three that inhabited the wigwam) were amusing themselves with throwing the tomahawk at a notch cut in the bark of a distant tree, or shooting at a mark with their bows and arrows, while the elders reposed on their blankets within the shade, some reading, others smoking, and gravely eyeing the young rival marksmen at their feats of skill. only one of the squaws was at home; this was my old acquaintance the hunter's wife, who was sitting on a blanket; her youngest, little david, a papouse of three years, who was not yet weaned, was reposing between her feet; she often eyed him with looks of great affection, and patted his shaggy head from time to time. peter, who is a sort of great man, though not a chief, sat beside his spouse, dressed in a handsome blue surtout-coat, with a red worsted sash about his waist. he was smoking a short pipe, and viewing the assembled party at the door of the tent with an expression of quiet interest; sometimes he lifted his pipe for an instant to give a sort of inward exclamation at the success or failure of his sons' attempts to hit the mark on the tree. the old squaw, as soon as she saw me, motioned me forward, and pointing to a vacant portion of her blanket, with a good-natured smile, signed for me to sit beside her, which i did, and amused myself with taking note of the interior of the wigwam and its inhabitants. the building was of an oblong form, open at both ends, but at night i was told the openings were closed by blankets; the upper part of the roof was also open; the sides were rudely fenced with large sheets of birch bark, drawn in and out between the sticks that made the frame-work of the tent; a long slender pole of iron-wood formed a low beam, from which depended sundry iron and brass pots and kettles, also some joints of fresh-killed venison and dried fish; the fires occupied the centre of the hut, around the embers of which reposed several meek deer-hounds; they evinced something of the quiet apathy of their masters, merely opening their eyes to look upon the intruders, and seeing all was well returned to their former slumbers, perfectly unconcerned by our entrance. the hunter's family occupied one entire side of the building, while joseph muskrat with his family, and joseph bolans and his squaw shared the opposite one, their several apartments being distinguished by their blankets, fishing-spears, rifles, tomahawks, and other property; as to the cooking utensils they seemed from their scarcity to be held in common among them; perfect amity appeared among the three families; and, if one might judge from outward appearance, they seemed happy and contented. on examining the books that were in the hands of the young men, they proved to be hymns and tracts, one side printed in english, the other the indian translation. in compliance with our wishes the men sang one of the hymns, which sounded very well, but we missed the sweet voices of the indian girls, whom i had left in front of the house, sitting on a pine-log and amusing themselves with my baby, and seeming highly delighted with him and his nurse. outside the tent the squaw showed me a birch-bark canoe that was building; the shape of the canoe is marked out by sticks stuck in the ground at regular distances; the sheets of bark being wetted, and secured in their proper places by cedar laths, which are bent so as to serve the purpose of ribs or timbers; the sheets of bark are stitched together with the tough roots of the tamarack, and the edges of the canoe also sewed or laced over with the same material; the whole is then varnished over with a thick gum. i had the honour of being paddled home by mrs. peter in a new canoe, just launched, and really the motion was delightful; seated at the bottom of the little bark, on a few light hemlock boughs, i enjoyed my voyage home exceedingly. the canoe, propelled by the amazonian arm of the swarthy matron, flew swiftly over the waters, and i was soon landed in a little cove within a short distance from my own door. in return for the squaw's civility i delighted her by a present of a few beads for working mocassins and knife-sheaths, with which she seemed very well pleased, carefully securing her treasure by tying them in a corner of her blanket with a bit of thread. with a peculiar reserve and gravity of temper, there is at the same time a degree of childishness about the indians in some things. i gave the hunter and his son one day some coloured prints, which they seemed mightily taken with, laughing immoderately at some of the fashionably dressed figures. when they left the house they seated themselves on a fallen tree, and called their hounds round them, displaying to each severally the pictures. the poor animals, instead of taking a survey of the gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen, held up their meek heads and licked their masters' hands and faces; but old peter was resolved the dogs should share the amusement of looking at the pictures and turned their faces to them, holding them fast by their long ears when they endeavoured to escape. i could hardly have supposed the grave indian capable of such childish behaviour. these indians appear less addicted to gay and tinselly adornments than formerly, and rather affect a european style in their dress; it is no unusual sight to see an indian habited in a fine cloth coat and trousers, though i must say the blanket-coats provided for them by government, and which form part of their annual presents, are far more suitable and becoming. the squaws, too, prefer cotton or stuff gowns, aprons and handkerchiefs, and such useful articles, to any sort of finery, though they like well enough to look at and admire them; they delight nevertheless in decking out the little ones, embroidering their cradle wrappings with silks and beads, and tacking the wings of birds to their shoulders. i was a little amused by the appearance of one of these indian cupids, adorned with the wings of the american war-bird; a very beautiful creature, something like our british bullfinch, only far more lively in plumage: the breast and under-feathers of the wings being a tint of the most brilliant carmine, shaded with black and white. this bird has been called the "war-bird," from its having first made its appearance in this province during the late american war; a fact that i believe is well authenticated, or at any rate has obtained general credence. i could hardly help smiling at your notion that we in the backwoods can have easy access to a circulation library. in one sense, indeed, you are not so far from truth, for every settler's library may be called a circulating one, as their books are sure to pass from friend to friend in due rotation; and, fortunately for us, we happen to have several excellently furnished ones in our neighbourhood, which are always open to us. there is a public library at york, and a small circulating library at cobourg, but they might just as well be on the other side of the atlantic for any access we can have to them. i know how it is; at home you have the same idea of the facility of travelling in this country as i once had: now i know what bush-roads are, a few miles' journey seems an awful undertaking. do you remember my account of a day's travelling through the woods? i am sorry to say they are but little amended since that letter was written. i have only once ventured to perform a similar journey, which took several hours _hard_ travelling, and, more by good luck than any other thing, arrived with whole bones at my destination. i could not help laughing at the frequent exclamations of the teamster, a shrewd yorkshire lad, "oh, if i had but the driving of his excellency the governor along this road, how i would make the old horses trot over the stumps and stones, till he should cry out again; i warrant he'd do _summut_ to mend them before he came along them again." unfortunately it is not a statute-road on this side the river, and has been cut by the settlers for their own convenience, so that i fear nothing will be done to improve it, unless it is by the inhabitants themselves. we hope soon to have a market for our grain nearer at hand than peterborough; a grist-mill has just been raised at the new village that is springing up. this will prove a great comfort to us; we have at present to fetch flour up at a great expense, through bad roads, and the loss of time to those that are obliged to send wheat to the town to be ground, is a serious evil; this will soon be remedied, to the joy of the whole neighbourhood. you do not know how important these improvements are, and what effect they have in raising the spirits of the emigrant, besides enhancing the value of his property in no trifling degree. we have already experienced the benefit of being near the saw-mill, as it not only enables us to build at a smaller expense, but enables us to exchange logs for sawn lumber. the great pine-trees which, under other circumstances, would be an encumbrance and drawback to clearing the land, prove a most profitable crop when cleared off in the form of saw-logs, which is easily done where they are near the water; the logs are sawn to a certain length, and dragged by oxen, during the winter, when the ground is hard, to the lake's edge; when the ice breaks up, the logs float down with the current and enter the mill-race; i have seen the lake opposite to our windows covered with these floating timbers, voyaging down to the saw-mill. how valuable would the great oaks and gigantic pines be on an estate in england; while here they are as little thought of as saplings would be at home. some years hence the timbers that are now burned up will be regretted. yet it is impossible to preserve them; they would prove a great encumbrance to the farmer. the oaks are desirable for splitting, as they make the most durable fences; pine, cedar, and white ash are also used for rail-cuts; maple and dry beech are the best sorts of wood for fires: white ash burns well. in making ley for soap, care is taken to use none but the ashes of hard wood, as oak, ash, maple, beech; any of the resinous trees are bad for the purpose, and the ley will not mingle with the fat. in boiling, to the great mortification of the uninitiated soap-boiler, who, by being made acquainted with this simple fact, might have been spared much useless trouble and waste of material, after months of careful saving. an american settler's wife told me this, and bade me be careful not to make use of any of the pine-wood ashes in running the ley. and here i must observe, that of all people the yankees, as they are termed, are the most industrious and ingenious; they are never at a loss for an expedient: if one thing fails them they adopt another, with a quickness of thought that surprises me, while to them it seems only a matter of course. they seem to possess a sort of innate presence of mind, and instead of wasting their energies in words, they _act_. the old settlers that have been long among them seem to acquire the same sort of habits, insomuch that it is difficult to distinguish them. i have heard the americans called a loquacious boasting people; now, as far as my limited acquaintance with them goes, i consider they are almost laconic, and if i dislike them it is for a certain cold brevity of manner that seems to place a barrier between you and them. i was somewhat struck with a remark made by a travelling clock-maker, a native of the state of ohio. after speaking of the superior climate of ohio, in answer to some questions of my husband, he said, he was surprised that gentlemen should prefer the canadas, especially the bush, where for many years they must want all the comforts and luxuries of life, to the rich, highly cultivated, and fruitful state of ohio, where land was much cheaper, both cleared and wild. to this we replied that, in the first place, british subjects preferred the british government; and, besides, they were averse to the manners of his countrymen. he candidly admitted the first objection; and in reply to the last observed, that the americans at large ought not to be judged by the specimens to be found in the british colonies, as they were, for the most part, persons of no reputation, many of whom had fled to the canadas to escape from debt, or other disgraceful conduct; and added, "it would be hard if the english were to be judged as a nation by the convicts of botany bay." now there was nothing unfair or rude in the manners of this stranger, and his defence of his nation was mild and reasonable, and such as any unprejudiced person must have respected him for. i have just been interrupted by a friend, who has called to tell me he has an opportunity of sending safe and free of expense to london or liverpool, and that he will enclose a packet for me in the box he is packing for england. i am delighted by the intelligence, but regret that i have nothing but a few flower-seeds, a specimen of indian workmanship, and a few butterflies to send you--the latter are for jane. i hope all will not share the fate of the last i sent. sarah wrote me word, when they came to look for the green moth i had enclosed in a little box, nothing of his earthly remains was visible beyond a little dust and some pink feet. i have, with some difficulty, been able to procure another and finer specimen; and, for fear it should meet with a similar annihilation, i will at least preserve the memory of its beauties, and give you a description of it. it is just five inches from wing to wing; the body the thickness of my little finger, snow-white, covered with long silken hair; the legs bright red, so are the antennae, which are toothed like a comb on either side, shorter than those of butterflies and elegantly curled; the wings, both upper and under, are of the most exquisite pale tint of green, fringed at the edges with golden colour; each wing has a small shaded crescent of pale blue, deep red, and orange; the blue forming the centre, like a half-closed eye; the lower wings elongated in deep scollop, so as to form two long tails, like those of the swallow-tail butterfly, only a full inch in length and deeply fringed; on the whole this moth is the most exquisite creature i have ever seen. we have a variety of the peacock butterfly, that is very rich, with innumerable eyes on the wings. the yellow swallow-tail is also very common, and the black and blue admiral, and the red, white, and black admiral, with many other beautiful varieties that i cannot describe. the largest butterfly i have yet seen is a gay vermilion, marked with jet black lines that form an elegant black lace pattern over its wide wings. then for dragon-flies, we have them of every size, shape, and colour. i was particularly charmed by a pair of superb blue ones that i used to see this summer in my walk to visit my sister. they were as large as butterflies, with black gauze wings; on each pair was marked a crescent of the brightest azure blue, shaded with scarlet; the bodies of these beautiful creatures were also blue. i have seen them scarlet and black, yellow and black, copper-coloured, green, and brown; the latter are great enemies to the mosquitoes and other small insects, and may be seen in vast numbers flitting around in all directions of an evening in search of prey. the fire-flies must not be forgotten, for of all others they are the most remarkable; their appearance generally precedes rain; they are often seen after dark, on mild damp evenings, sporting among the cedars at the edge of the wood, and especially near swamps, when the air is illuminated with their brilliant dancing light. sometimes they may be seen in groups, glancing like falling stars in mid-air, or descending so low as to enter your dwelling and flit about among the draperies of your bed or window curtains; the light they emit is more brilliant than that of the glowworm; but it is produced in the same manner from the under part of the body. the glowworm is also frequently seen, even as late as september, on mild, warm, dewy nights. we have abundance of large and small beetles, some most splendid: green and gold, rose-colour, red and black, yellow and black; some quite black, formidably large, with wide branching horns. wasps are not so troublesome as in england, but i suppose it is because we cannot offer such temptations as our home gardens hold out to these ravenous insects. one of our choppers brought me the other day what he called a hornet's nest; it was certainly too small and delicate a piece of workmanship for so large an insect; and i rather conjecture that it belonged to the beautiful black and gold insect called the wasp-fly, but of this i am not certain. the nest was about the size and shape of a turkey's egg, and was composed of six paper cups inserted one within the other, each lessening till the innermost of all appeared not larger than a pigeon's egg. on looking carefully within the orifice of the last cup, a small comb, containing twelve cells, of the most exquisite neatness, might be perceived, if anything, superior in regularity to the cells in the comb of the domestic bee, one of which was at least equal to three of these. the substance that composed the cups was of a fine silver grey silken texture, as fine as the finest india silk paper, and extremely brittle; when slightly wetted it became glutinous, and adhered a little to the finger; the whole was carefully fixed to a stick: i have seen one since fastened to a rough rail. i could not but admire the instinctive care displayed in the formation of this exquisite piece of insect architecture to guard the embryo animal from injury, either from the voracity of birds or the effect of rain, which could scarcely find entrance in the interior. i had carefully, as i thought, preserved my treasure, by putting it in one of my drawers, but a wicked little thief of a mouse found it out and tore it to pieces for the sake of the drops of honey contained in one or two of the cells. i was much vexed, as i purposed sending it by some favourable opportunity to a dear friend living in gloucester place, who took great delight in natural curiosities, and once showed me a nest of similar form to this, that had been found in a bee-hive; the material was much coarser, and, if i remember right, had but two cases instead of six. i have always felt a great desire to see the nest of a humming-bird, but hitherto have been disappointed. this summer i had some beds of mignionette and other flowers, with some most splendid major convolvuluses or "morning glories," as the americans call them; these lovely flowers tempted the hummingbirds to visit my garden, and i had the pleasure of seeing a pair of those beautiful creatures, but their flight is so peculiar that it hardly gives you a perfect sight of their colours; their motion when on the wing resembles the whirl of a spinning-wheel, and the sound they make is like the hum of a wheel at work; i shall plant flowers to entice them to build near us. i sometimes fear you will grow weary of my long dull letters; my only resources are domestic details and the natural history of the country, which i give whenever i think the subject has novelty to recommend it to your attention. possibly i may sometimes disappoint you by details that appear to place the state of the emigrant in an unfavourable light; i merely give facts as i have seen, or heard them stated. i could give you many flourishing accounts of settlers in this country; i could also reverse the picture, and you would come to the conclusion that there are many arguments to be used both for and against emigration. now, the greatest argument, and that which has the most weight, is necessity, and this will always turn the scale in the favour of emigration; and that same imperative dame necessity tells me it is _necessary_ for me to draw my letter to a conclusion. farewell, ever faithfully and affectionately, your attached sister. letter xvii. ague.--illness of the family.--probable cause.--root-house.--setting in of winter.--insect termed a "sawyer."--temporary church. november the th, . you will have been surprised, and possibly distressed, by my long silence of several months, but when i tell you it has been occasioned by sickness, you will cease to wonder that i did not write. my dear husband, my servant, the poor babe, and myself, were all at one time confined to our beds with ague. you know how severe my sufferings always were at home with intermittents, and need not marvel if they were no less great in a country where lake-fevers and all kinds of intermittent fevers abound. few persons escape the second year without being afflicted with this weakening complaint; the mode of treatment is repeated doses of calomel, with castor-oil or salts, and is followed up by quinine. those persons who do not choose to employ medical advice on the subject, dose themselves with ginger-tea, strong infusion of hyson, or any other powerful green tea, pepper, and whiskey, with many other remedies that have the sanction of custom or quackery. i will not dwell on this uncomfortable period, further than to tell you that we considered the complaint to have had its origin in a malaria, arising from a cellar below the kitchen. when the snow melted, this cellar became half full of water, either from the moisture draining through the spongy earth, or from the rising of a spring beneath the house; be it as it may, the heat of the cooking and franklin stoves in the kitchen and parlour, caused a fermentation to take place in the stagnant fluid before it could be emptied; the effluvia arising from this mass of putrifying water affected us all. the female servant, who was the most exposed to its baneful influence, was the first of our household that fell sick, after which, we each in turn became unable to assist each other. i think i suffer an additional portion of the malady from seeing the sufferings of my dear husband and my beloved child. i lost the ague in a fortnight's time,--thanks to calomel and quinine; so did my babe and his nurse: it has, however, hung on my husband during the whole of the summer, and thrown a damp upon his exertions and gloom upon his spirits. this is the certain effect of ague, it causes the same sort of depression on the spirits as a nervous fever. my dear child has not been well ever since he had the ague, and looks very pale and spiritless. we should have been in a most miserable condition, being unable to procure a female servant, a nurse, or any one to attend upon us, and totally unable to help ourselves; but for the prompt assistance of mary on one side, and susannah on the other, i know not what would have become of us in our sore trouble. this summer has been excessively hot and dry; the waters in the lakes and rivers being lower than they had been known for many years; scarcely a drop of rain fell for several weeks. this extreme drought rendered the potatoe-crop a decided failure. our indian-corn was very fine; so were the pumpkins. we had some fine vegetables in the garden, especially the peas and melons; the latter were very large and fine. the cultivation of the melon is very simple: you first draw the surrounding earth together with a broad hoe into a heap; the middle of this heap is then slightly hollowed out, so as to form a basin, the mould being raised round the edges; into this hollow you insert several melon-seeds, and leave the rest to the summer heat; if you water the plants from time to time, it is well for them; the soil should be fine black mould; and if your hills are inclining to a hollow part of your ground, so as to retain the moisture, so much the finer will be your fruit. it is the opinion of practical persons who have bought wisdom by some years' experience of the country, that in laying out and planting a garden, the beds should not be raised, as is the usual custom; and give us a reason, that the sun having such great power draws the moisture more readily from the earth where the beds are elevated above the level, and, in consequence of the dryness of the ground, the plants wither away. as there appears some truth in the remark, i am inclined to adopt the plan. vegetables are in general fine, and come quickly to maturity, considering the lateness of the season in which they are usually put into the ground. peas are always fine, especially the marrowfats, which are sometimes grown in the fields, on cleared lands that are under the plough. we have a great variety of beans, all of the french or kidney kind; there is a very prolific white runner, of which i send you some of the seed: the method of planting them is to raise a small hillock of mould by drawing the earth up with the hoe; flatten this, or rather hollow it a little in the middle, and drop in four or five seeds round the edges; as soon as the bean puts forth its runners insert a pole of five or six feet in the centre of the hill; the plants will all meet and twine up it, bearing a profusion of pods, which are cut and boiled as the scarlet-runners, or else, in their dry or ripe state, stewed and eaten with salt meat; this, i believe, is the more usual way of cooking them. the early bush-bean is a dwarf, with bright yellow seed. lettuces are very fine, and may be cultivated easily, and very early, by transplanting the seedlings that appear as soon as the ground is free from snow. cabbages and savoys, and all sorts of roots, keep during the winter in the cellars or root-houses; but to the vile custom of keeping green vegetables in the shallow, moist cellars below the kitchens, much of the sickness that attacks settlers under the various forms of agues, intermittent, remittent, and lake-fevers, may be traced. many, of the lower class especially, are not sufficiently careful in clearing these cellars from the decaying portions of vegetable matter, which are often suffered to accumulate from year to year to infect the air of the dwelling. where the house is small, and the family numerous, and consequently exposed to its influence by night, the baneful consequences may be readily imagined. "do not tell me of lakes and swamps as the cause of fevers and agues; look to your cellars," was the observation of a blunt but experienced yankee doctor. i verily believe it was the cellar that was the cause of sickness in our house all the spring and summer. a root-house is indispensably necessary for the comfort of a settler's family; if well constructed, with double log-walls, and the roof secured from the soaking in of the rain or melting snows, it preserves vegetables, meat, and milk excellently. you will ask if the use be so great, and the comfort so essential, why does not every settler build one? now, dear mamma, this is exactly what every new comer says; but he has to learn the difficulty there is at first of getting these matters accomplished, unless, indeed, he have (which is not often the case) the command of plenty of ready money, and can afford to employ extra workmen. labour is so expensive, and the working seasons so short, that many useful and convenient buildings are left to a future time; and a cellar, which one man can excavate in two days, if he work well, is made to answer the purpose, till the season of leisure arrives, or necessity obliges the root-house to be made. we are ourselves proof of this very sort of unwilling procrastination; but the logs are now cut for the root-house, and we shall have one early in the spring. i would, however, recommend any one that could possibly do so at first, to build a root- house without delay, and also to have a well dug; the springs lying very few feet below the surface renders this neither laborious or very expensive. the creeks will often fail in very dry weather, and the lake and river-waters grow warm and distasteful during the spring and summer. the spring-waters are generally cold and pure, even in the hottest weather, and delightfully refreshing. our winter seems now fairly setting in: the snow has twice fallen, and as often disappeared, since the middle of october; but now the ground is again hardening into stone; the keen north-west wind is abroad; and every outward object looks cold and wintry. the dark line of pines that bound the opposite side of the lake is already hoary and heavy with snow, while the half-frozen lake has a deep leaden tint, which is only varied in shade by the masses of ice which shoot out in long points, forming mimic bays and peninsulas. the middle of the stream, where the current is strongest, is not yet frozen over, but runs darkly along like a river between its frozen banks. in some parts where the banks are steep and overhung with roots and shrubs, the fallen snow and water take the most fantastic forms. i have stood of a bright winter day looking with infinite delight on the beautiful mimic waterfalls congealed into solid ice along the bank of the river; and by the mill-dam, from contemplating these petty frolics of father frost, i have been led to picture to myself the sublime scenery of the arctic regions. in spite of its length and extreme severity, i do like the canadian winter: it is decidedly the healthiest season of the year; and it is no small enjoyment to be exempted from the torments of the insect tribes, that are certainly great drawbacks to your comfort in the warmer months. we have just received your last packet;--a thousand thanks for the contents. we are all delighted with your useful presents, especially the warm shawls and merinos. my little james looks extremely well in his new frock and cloak; they will keep him very warm this cold weather: he kissed the pretty fur-lined slippers you sent me, and said, "pussy, pussy." by the way, we have a fine cat called nora crena, the parting gift of our friend ------, who left her as a keepsake for my boy. jamie dotes upon her; and i do assure you i regard her almost as a second whittington's cat: neither mouse nor chitmunk has dared intrude within our log-walls since she made her appearance; the very crickets, that used to distract us with their chirping from morning till night, have forsaken their old haunts. besides the crickets, which often swarm so as to become intolerable nuisances, destroying your clothes and woollens, we are pestered by large black ants, that gallop about, eating up sugar preserves, cakes, anything nice they can gain access to; these insects are three times the size of the black ants of britain, and have a most voracious appetite: when they find no better prey they kill each other, and that with the fierceness and subtilty of the spider. they appear less sociable in their habits than other ants; though, from the numbers that invade your dwellings, i should think they formed a community like the rest of their species. the first year's residence in a new log-house you are disturbed by a continual creaking sound which grates upon the ears exceedingly, till you become accustomed to it: this is produced by an insect commonly called a "sawyer." this is the larvae of some fly that deposits its eggs in the bark of the pine-trees. the animal in its immature state is of a whitish colour, the body composed of eleven rings; the head armed with a pair of short, hard pincers: the skin of this creature is so rough that on passing your finger over it, it reminds you of a rasp, yet to the eye it is perfectly smooth. you would be surprised at the heap of fine saw- dust that is to be seen below the hole they have been working in all night. these sawyers form a fine feast for the woodpeckers, and jointly they assist in promoting the rapid decomposition of the gigantic forest- trees, that would otherwise encumber the earth from age to age. how infinite is that wisdom that rules the natural world! how often do we see great events brought about by seemingly insignificant agents! yet are they all servants of the most high, working his will, and fulfilling his behests. one great want which has been sensibly felt in this distant settlement, i mean the want of public worship on the sabbath-day, promises to be speedily remedied. a subscription is about to be opened among the settlers of this and part of the adjacent township for the erection of a small building, which may answer the purpose of church and school-house; also for the means of paying a minister for stated seasons of attendance. ------ has allowed his parlour to be used as a temporary church, and service has been several times performed by a highly respectable young scotch clergyman; and i can assure you we have a considerable congregation, considering how scattered the inhabitants are, and that the emigrants consist of catholics and dissenters, as well as episcopalians. these distinctions, however, are not carried to such lengths in this country as at home; especially where the want of religious observances has been sensibly felt. the word of god appears to be listened to with gladness. may a blessing attend those that in spirit and in truth would restore again to us the public duties of the sabbath, which, left to our own guidance, we are but too much inclined to neglect. farewell. letter xviii. busy spring.--increase of society and comfort.--recollections of home.-- aurora borealis this has been a busy spring with us. first, sugar-making on a larger scale than our first attempt was, and since that we had workmen making considerable addition to our house; we have built a large and convenient kitchen, taking the former one for a bedroom; the root-house and dairy are nearly completed. we have a well of excellent water close beside the door, and a fine frame-barn was finished this week, which includes a good granary and stable, with a place for my poultry, in which i take great delight. besides a fine brood of fowls, the produce of two hens and a cock, or _rooster_, as the yankees term that bird, i have some ducks, and am to have turkeys and geese this summer. i lost several of my best fowls, not by the hawk but a horrid beast of the same nature as our polecat, called here a scunck; it is far more destructive in its nature than either fox or the hawk, for he comes like a thief in the night and invades the perch, leaving headless mementos of his barbarity and blood-thirsty propensities. we are having the garden, which hitherto has been nothing but a square enclosure for vegetables, laid out in a prettier form; two half circular wings sweep off from the entrance to each side of the house; the fence is a sort of rude basket or hurdle-work, such as you see at home, called by the country folk wattled fence: this forms a much more picturesque fence than those usually put up of split timber. along this little enclosure i have begun planting a sort of flowery hedge with some of the native shrubs that abound in our woods and lake- shores. among those already introduced are two species of shrubby honeysuckle, white and rose-blossomed: these are called by the american botanists _quilostium_. then i have the white _spiroea frutex_, which grows profusely on the lake-shore; the canadian wild rose; the red flowering raspberry (_rubus spectabilis_), leather-wood (_dircas_), called american mezereon, or moose-wood; this is a very pretty, and at the same time useful shrub, the bark being used by farmers as a substitute for cord in tying sacks, &c.; the indians sew their birch-bark baskets with it occasionally. wild gooseberry, red and black currants, apple-trees, with here and there a standard hawthorn, the native tree bearing nice red fruit i named before, are all i have as yet been able to introduce. the stoup is up, and i have just planted hops at the base of the pillars. i have got two bearing shoots of a purple wild grape from the island near us, which i long to see in fruit. my husband is in good spirits; our darling boy is well, and runs about everywhere. we enjoy a pleasant and friendly society, which has increased so much within the last two years that we can hardly regret our absence from the more populous town. my dear sister and her husband are comfortably settled in their new abode, and have a fine spot cleared and cropped. we often see them, and enjoy a chat of home--sweet, never-to-be-forgotten home; and cheat ourselves into the fond belief that, at no very distant time we may again retrace its fertile fields and flowery dales. with what delight we should introduce our young canadians to their grandmother and aunts; my little bushman shall early be taught to lisp the names of those unknown but dear friends, and to love the lands that gave birth to his parents, the bonny hills of the north and my own beloved england. not to regret my absence from my native land, and one so fair and lovely withal, would argue a heart of insensibility; yet i must say, for all its roughness, i love canada, and am as happy in my humble log-house as if it were courtly hall or bower; habit reconciles us to many things that at first were distasteful. it has ever been my way to extract the sweet rather than the bitter in the cup of life, and surely it is best and wisest so to do. in a country where constant exertion is called for from all ages and degrees of settlers, it would be foolish to a degree to damp our energies by complaints, and cast a gloom over our homes by sitting dejectedly down to lament for all that was so dear to us in the old country. since we are here, let us make the best of it, and bear with cheerfulness the lot we have chosen. i believe that one of the chief ingredients in human happiness is a capacity for enjoying the blessings we possess. though at our first outset we experienced many disappointments, many unlooked-for expenses, and many annoying delays, with some wants that to us seemed great privations, on the whole we have been fortunate, especially in the situation of our land, which has increased in value very considerably; our chief difficulties are now over, at least we hope so, and we trust soon to enjoy the comforts of a cleared farm. my husband is becoming more reconciled to the country, and i daily feel my attachment to it strengthening. the very stumps that appeared so odious, through long custom, seem to lose some of their hideousness; the eye becomes familiarized even with objects the most displeasing till they cease to be observed. some century hence how different will this spot appear! i can picture it to my imagination with fertile fields and groves of trees planted by the hand of taste;--all will be different; our present rude dwellings will have given place to others of a more elegant style of architecture, and comfort and grace will rule the scene which is now a forest wild. you ask me if i like the climate of upper canada; to be candid i do not think it deserves all that travellers have said of it. the summer heat of last year was very oppressive; the drought was extreme, and in some respects proved rather injurious, especially to the potatoe crop. the frosts set in early, and so did the snows; as to the far-famed indian summer it seems to have taken its farewell of the land, for little of it have we seen during three years' residence. last year there was not a semblance of it, and this year one horrible dark gloomy day, that reminded me most forcibly of a london fog, and which was to the full as dismal and depressing, was declared by the old inhabitants to be the commencement of the indian summer; the sun looked dim and red, and a yellow lurid mist darkened the atmosphere, so that it became almost necessary to light candles at noonday. if this be indian summer, then might a succession of london fogs be termed the "london summer," thought i, as i groped about in a sort of bewildering dusky light all that day; and glad was i when, after a day or two's heavy rain, the frost and snow set in. very variable, as far as our experience goes, this climate has been; no two seasons have been at all alike, and it is supposed it will be still more variable as the work of clearing the forest goes on from year to year. near the rivers and great lakes the climate is much milder and more equable; more inland, the snow seldom falls so as to allow of sleighing for weeks after it has become general; this, considering the state of our bush-roads, is rather a point in our favour, as travelling becomes less laborious, though still somewhat rough. i have seen the aurora borealis several times; also a splendid meteoric phenomenon that surpassed every thing i had ever seen or even heard of before. i was very much amused by overhearing a young lad giving a gentleman a description of the appearance made by a cluster of the shooting-stars as they followed each other in quick succession athwart the sky. "sir," said the boy, "i never saw such a sight before, and i can only liken the chain of stars to a logging-chain." certainly a most natural and unique simile, quite in character with the occupation of the lad, whose business was often with the oxen and logging-chain, and after all not more rustic than the familiar names given to many of our most superb constellations,--charles's wain, the plough, the sickle, &c. coming home one night last christmas from the house of a friend, i was struck by a splendid pillar of pale greenish light in the west: it rose to some height above the dark line of pines that crowned the opposite shores of the otanabee, and illumined the heavens on either side with a chaste pure light, such as the moon gives in her rise and setting; it was not quite pyramidical, though much broader at the base than at its highest point; it gradually faded, till a faint white glimmering light alone marked where its place had been, and even that disappeared after some half-hour's time. it was so fair and lovely a vision i was grieved when it vanished into thin air, and could have cheated fancy into the belief that it was the robe of some bright visitor from another and a better world;--imagination apart, could it be a phosphoric exhalation from some of our many swamps or inland lakes, or was it at all connected with the aurora that is so frequently seen in our skies? i must now close this epistle; i have many letters to prepare for friends, to whom i can only write when i have the opportunity of free conveyance, the inland postage being very high; and you must not only pay for all you receive but all you send to and from new york. adieu, my kindest and best of friends. douro, may st, . appendix [the following communications have been received from the writer of this work during its progress through the press.] maple-sugar. this spring i have made maple-sugar of a much finer colour and grain than any i have yet seen; and have been assured by many old settlers it was the best, or nearly the best, they had ever met with: which commendation induces me to give the plan i pursued in manufacturing it. the sap having been boiled down in the sugar-bush from about sixteen pailsful to two, i first passed it through a thin flannel bag, after the manner of a jelly-bag, to strain it from the first impurities, which are great. i then passed the liquor through another thicker flannel into the iron pot, in which i purposed boiling down the sugar, and while yet cold, or at best but lukewarm, beat up the white of one egg to a froth, and spread it gently over the surface of the liquor, watching the pot carefully after the fire began to heat it, that i might not suffer the scum to boil into the sugar. a few minutes before it comes to a boil, the scum must be carefully removed with a skimmer, or ladle,--the former is best. i consider that on the care taken to remove every particle of scum depends, in a great measure, the brightness and clearness of the sugar. the best rule i can give as to the sugaring-off, as it is termed, is to let the liquid continue at a fast boil: only be careful to keep it from coming over by keeping a little of the liquid in your stirring- ladle, and when it boils up to the top, or you see it rising too fast, throw in a little from time to time to keep it down; or if you boil on a cooking-stove, throwing open one or all the doors will prevent boiling over. those that sugar-off outside the house have a wooden crane fixed against a stump, the fire being lighted against the stump, and the kettle suspended on the crane: by this simple contrivance, (for any bush-boy can fix a crane of the kind,) the sugar need never rise over if common attention be paid to the boiling; but it does require constant watching: one idle glance may waste much of the precious fluid. i had only a small cooking-stove to boil my sugar on, the pots of which were thought too small, and not well shaped, so that at first my fears were that i must relinquish the trial; but i persevered, and experience convinces me a stove is an excellent furnace for the purpose; as you can regulate the heat as you like. one of the most anxious periods in the boiling i found to be when the liquor began first to assume a yellowish frothy appearance, and cast up so great a volume of steam from its surface as to obscure the contents of the pot; as it may then rise over almost unperceived by the most vigilant eye. as the liquor thickens into molasses, it becomes a fine yellow, and seems nothing but thick froth. when it is getting pretty well boiled down, the drops begin to fall clear and ropy from the ladle; and if you see little bright grainy-looking bubbles in it, drop some on a cold plate, and continue to stir or rub it till it is quite cold: if it is ready to granulate, you will find it gritty, and turn whitish or pale straw colour; and stiff. the sugar may then safely be poured off into a tin dish, pail, basin, or any other utensil. i tried two different methods after taking the sugar from the fire, but could find little difference in the look of the sugar, except that in one the quantity was broken up more completely; in the other the sugar remained in large lumps, but equally pure and sparkling. in the first i kept stirring the sugar till it began to cool and form a whitish thick substance, and the grains were well crystallised; in the other process, --which i think preferable, as being the least troublesome,--i waited till the mass was hardened into sugar, and then, piercing the crust in many places, i turned the mass into a cullender, and placed the cullender over a vessel to receive the molasses that drained from the sugar. in the course of the day or two, i frequently stirred the sugar, which thus became perfectly free from moisture, and had acquired a fine sparkling grain, tasting exactly like sugar-candy, free from any taste of the maple-sap, and fit for any purpose. i observed that in general maple-sugar, as it is commonly made, is hard and compact, showing little grain, and weighing very heavy in proportion to its bulk. exactly the reverse is the case with that i made, it being extremely light for its bulk, all the heavy molasses having been separated, instead of dried into the sugar. had the present season been at all a favourable one, which it was not, we should have made a good quantity of excellent sugar. vinegar. by boiling down five gallons of sap to one, and when just a little above the heat of new milk, putting in a cupful of barm (hop-rising will do if it be good), and letting the vessel remain in your kitchen chimney- corner during the summer, and perhaps longer, you will obtain a fine, cheap, pleasant, and strong vinegar, fit for any purpose. this plan i have pursued successfully two years. care must be taken that the cask or keg be well seasoned and tight before the vinegar is put in; as the dryness of the summer heat is apt to shrink the vessel, and make it leak. if putty well wrought, tar, or even yellow soap, be rubbed over the seams, and round the inner rim of the head of the cask, it will preserve it from opening. the equal temperature of the kitchen is preferred by experienced housewives to letting the vinegar stand abroad; they aver the coldness of the nights in this country is prejudicial to the process, being as speedily perfected as if it underwent no such check. by those well skilled in the manufacture of home-made wines and beer, excellent maple-wine and beer might be produced at a very trifling expense; i.e. that of the labour and skill exercised in the making it. every settler grows, as an ornament in his garden, or should grow, hops, which form one of the principal components of maple-beer when added to the sap. hop-rising. this excellent, and, i might add, indispensable, article in every settler's house, is a valuable substitute for ale or beer-yeast, and is made in the following simple manner:--take two double handfuls of hops, boil in a gallon of soft water, if you can get it, till the hops sink to the bottom of the vessel; make ready a batter formed by stirring a dessert-platefull of flour and cold water till smooth and pretty thick together; strain the hop-liquor while scalding hot into the vessel where your batter is mixed ready; let one person pour the hop-liquor while the other keeps stirring the batter. when cooled down to a gentle warmth, so that you can bear the finger well in it, add a cup or basinful of the former barm, or a bit of leaven, to set it to work; let the barm stand till it has worked well, then bottle and cork it. set it by in a cellar or cool place if in summer, and in winter it is also the best place to keep it from freezing. some persons add two or three mealy potatoes boiled and finely bruised, and it is a great improvement during the cool months of the year. potatoes in bread may be introduced very advantageously; and to first settlers, who have all their flour to buy, i think it must be a saving. the following method i found made more palatable and lighter bread than flour, mixed in the usual way:--supposing i wanted to make up about a stone and half of flour, i boiled (having first pared them carefully)-- say three dozen good-sized potatoes in about three quarts or a gallon of water, till the liquor had the appearance of a thin gruel, and the potatoes had become almost entirely incorporated with the water. with this potatoe-gruel the flour was mixed up, no water being required, unless by chance i had not enough of the mixture to moisten my flour sufficiently. the same process of kneading, fermenting with barm, &c., is pursued with the dough, as with other bread. in baking, it turns of a bright light brown, and is lighter than bread made after the common process, and therefore i consider the knowledge of it serviceable to the emigrant's family. salt-rising. this is a barm much used by the yanky settlers; but though the bread is decidedly whiter, and prettier to look at, than that raised in any other way, the peculiar flavour it imparts to the bread renders it highly disagreeable to some persons. another disadvantage is, the difficulty of fermenting this barm in the winter season, as it requires a temperature which is very difficult to preserve in a canadian winter day. moreover, after the barm has once reached its height, unless immediately made use of, it sinks, and rises again no more: careful people, of course, who know this peculiarity, are on the watch, being aware of the ill consequences of heavy bread, or having no bread but bannocks in the house. as near as i can recollect, the salt-rising is made as follows:--for a small baking of two or three loaves, or one large bake-kettle-loaf, (about the size of a london peck loaf,) take about a pint of moderately warm water, (a pleasant heat to the hand,) and stir into the jug or pot containing it as much flour as will make a good batter, not too thick; add to this half a tea-spoon of salt, not more, and set the vessel in a pan of moderately warm water, within a little distance of the fire, or in the sun: the water that surrounds the pot in which your rising is, must never be allowed to cool much below the original heat, more warm water being added (in the pan, not to the barm) till the whole is in an active state of fermentation, which will be from six to eight hours, when the dough must be mixed with it, and as much warm water or milk as you require. knead the mass till it is tough, and does not stick to the board. make up your loaf or loaves, and keep them warmly covered near the fire till they rise: they must be baked directly this second rising takes place. those that bake what i term a _shanty loaf_, in an iron bake-pot, or kettle, placed on the hot embers, set the dough to rise over a very few embers, or near the hot hearth, keeping the pot or pan turned as the loaf rises; when equally risen all over they put hot ashes beneath and upon the lid, taking care not to let the heat be too fierce at first. as this is the most common method of baking, and the first that a settler sees practised, it is as well they should be made familiar with it beforehand. at first i was inclined to grumble and rebel against the expediency of bake-pans or bake-kettles; but as cooking-stoves, iron ovens, and even brick and clay-built ovens, will not start up at your bidding in the bush, these substitutes are valuable, and perform a number of uses. i have eaten excellent light bread, baked on the emigrant's hearth in one of these kettles. i have eaten boiled potatoes, baked meats, excellent stews, and good soups, all cooked at different times in this universally useful utensil: so let it not be despised. it is one of those things peculiarly adapted to the circumstances of settlers in the bush before they have collected those comforts about their homesteads, within and without, that are the reward and the slow gleaning-up of many years of toil. there are several other sorts of rising similar to the salt-rising. "milk-rising" which is mixed with milk, warm from the cow, and about a third warm water; and "bran-rising," which is made with bran instead of flour, and is preferred by many persons to either of the former kinds. soft soap. of the making of soft soap i can give little or no correct information, never having been given any _certain_ rule myself, and my own experience is too limited. i was, however, given a hint from a professional gentleman, which i mean to act upon forthwith. instead of boiling the soap, which is some trouble, he assured me the best plan was to run off the ley from a barrel of ashes: into this ley i might put four or five pounds of any sort of grease, such as pot skimmings, rinds of bacon, or scraps from frying down suet; in short any refuse of the kind would do. the barrel with its contents may then be placed in a secure situation in the garden or yard, exposed to the sun and air. in course of time the ley and grease become incorporated: if the grease predominates it will be seen floating on the surface; in such case add more ley; if the mixture does not thicken, add more grease. now, this is the simplest, easiest, and clearest account i have yet received on the subject of soap-making, which hitherto has seemed a mystery, even though a good quantity was made last spring by one of my servants, and it turned out well: but she could not tell why it succeeded, for want of being able to explain the principle she worked from. candles. every one makes their own candles (i.e. if they have any materials to make them from). the great difficulty of making candies--and, as far as i see the only one, is procuring the tallow, which a bush-settler, until he begins to kill his own beef, sheep, and hogs, is rarely able to do, unless he buys; and a settler buys nothing that he can help. a cow, however, that is unprofitable, old, or unlikely to survive the severity of the coming winter, is often suffered to go dry during the summer, and get her own living, till she is fit to kill in the fall. such an animal is often slaughtered very advantageously, especially if the settler have little fodder for his cattle. the beef is often excellent, and good store of candles and soap may be made from the inside fat. these candles, if made three parts beef- and one part hogs-lard, will burn better than any store-candles, and cost less than half price. the tallow is merely melted in a pot or pan convenient for the purpose, and having run the cotton wicks into the moulds (tin or pewter moulds for six candles cost three shillings at the stores, and last many, many years), a stick or skewer is passed through the loops of your wicks, at the upper part of the stand, which serve the purpose of drawing the candles. the melted fat, not too hot, but in a fluid state, is then poured into the moulds till they are full; as the fat gets cold it shrinks, and leaves a hollow at the top of the mould: this requires filling up when quite cold. if the candles do not draw readily, plunge the mould for an instant into hot water and the candles will come out easily. many persons prefer making dip-candles for kitchen use; but for my own part i think the trouble quite as great, and give the preference, in point of neatness of look, to the moulds. it may be, my maid and i did not succeed so well in making the dips as the moulds. pickling. the great want of spring vegetables renders pickles a valuable addition to the table at the season when potatoes have become unfit and distasteful. if you have been fortunate in your maple-vinegar, a store of pickled cucumbers, beans, cabbage, &c. may be made during the latter part of the summer; but if the vinegar should not be fit at that time, there are two expedients: one is to make a good brine of boiled salt and water, into which throw your cucumbers, &c. (the cabbage, by the by, may be preserved in the root-house or cellar quite good, or buried in pits, well covered, till you want to make your pickle). those vegetables, kept in brine, must be covered close, and when you wish to pickle them, remove the top layer, which are not so good; and having boiled the vinegar with spices let it stand till it is cold. the cucumbers should previously have been well washed, and soaked in two or three fresh waters, and drained; then put in a jar, and the cold vinegar poured over them. the advantage of this is obvious; you can pickle at any season. another plan, and i have heard it much commended, is putting the cucumbers into a mixture of whiskey* and water, which in time turns to a fine vinegar, and preserves the colour and crispness of the vegetable; while the vinegar is apt to make them soft, especially if poured on boiling hot, as is the usual practice. [* in the "backwoodsman," this whiskey-receipt is mentioned as an abominable compound: perhaps the witty author had tasted the pickles in an improper state of progression. he gives a lamentable picture of american cookery, but declares the badness arises from want of proper receipts. these yeast-receipts will be extremely useful in england; as the want of fresh yeast is often severely felt in country districts.] appendix b. [in the wish to render this work of more practical value to persons desiring to emigrate, some official information is subjoined, under the following heads:--] statistics of emigration. i. the number of sales and grants of crown lands, clergy reserves, conditions, &c. ii. information for emigrants; number of emigrants arrived; with extracts from papers issued by government emigration agents, &c. iii. abstract of the american passengers' act, of session . iv. transfer of capital. v. canadian currency. vi. canada company. vii. british american land company. =================================== i. sales and grants of crown lands. the following tables, abstracted from parliamentary documents, exhibit-- . the quantity of crown lands _sold_ in upper and lower canada from to , inclusive, with the average price per acre, &c. . town and park lots sold in upper canada during the same period. . the quantity of crown lands granted without purchase, and the conditions on which the grants were given, from to , inclusive. . the amount of clergy reserves sold in each year since the sales commenced under the act and geo. iv., c. . --------------------------------------- crown lands sold from to , lower canada [transcription note: the data presented below was originally in the conventional tabular row / column format.] table row , column headings column : year. column : number of acres sold. column : average price per acre. column : amount of purchase money received within the first year. column : amount of purchase money remitted to military purchasers within the first year. column : amount of quit-rent at per cent on the purchase money received within the first year. column : whole amount of purchase money. row column : column : , acres column : shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : -, -, - column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : -, -, - column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : -, -, - column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : -, -, - column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : -, -, - column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : totals column : , column : -, - column : -, -, - column : -, -, - column : -, -, - column : , pounds, shillings, pence the conditions on which the land was sold were--on sales on instalments, to be paid within three years; or on sales on quit-rent, at per cent., capital redeemable at pleasure. n.b. sales on quit-rent ceased in . --------------------------------------- crown lands sold from to , upper canada [transcription note: the data presented below was originally in the conventional tabular row / column format.] table row , column headings column : year. column : number of acres sold. column : average price per acre. column : amount of purchase money received within the first year. column : whole amount of purchase money. row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : totals column : , acres column : - column : - column : , pounds, shillings, pence interest is now exacted on the instalments paid. three years is the number within which the whole amount of the purchase money is to be paid. the sales of town lots, water lots, and park lots, in upper canada, are not included in this table, on account of the disproportionate effect which the comparatively large sums paid for these small lots would have on the average price per acre. they are given, therefore, separately, in the following table:- --------------------------------------- town and park lots sold in upper canada from to [transcription note: the data presented below was originally in the conventional tabular row / column format.] [table] row , column headings column : year. column : number of acres sold. column : average price per acre. column : amount of purchase money received within the first year. column : whole amount of purchase money. row column : column : acres column : pounds, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : - column : -, - column : pounds, shillings, pence column : -, -, - row column : column : acres column : pounds, shillings, - / pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : acres column : pounds, shillings, - / pence column : pounds*, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : acres column : pounds, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : acres column : pounds, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : totals column : acres column : -,-,- column : -,-,- column : , pounds, shillings, pence there were no sales in . the pounds currency paid that year was paid as instalments on lots sold in the previous year. the whole amount of the purchase money to be paid within three years. *note.--it is so given in the parliamentary return, but probably the should be . --------------------------------------- the following exhibits the quantity of crown lands granted, and the conditions on which the grants were given, from to . [table] lower canada [transcription note: the data presented below was originally in the conventional tabular row / column format.] row , column headings column : year. column : number of acres granted to militia claimants. column : number of acres granted to discharged soldiers and pensioners. column : number of acres granted to officers. column : number of acres granted, not coming within the previous descriptions. column : total number of acres granted. row column : column : , column : - column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : - column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : - column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : column : , column : , row column : column : , column : - column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : - column : - column : , column : , row column : column : , column : - column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : - column : , row column : totals column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , _settler's conditions_.--that he do clear twenty feet of road on his lot within the space of ninety days. military & militia conditions.--that he do, within the space of three years, clear and cultivate four acres of his lot, and build a dwelling- house thereon. --------------------------------------- [table] upper canada [transcription note: the data presented below was originally in the conventional tabular row / column format.] row , column headings column : year. column : number of acres granted to militia claimants. column : number of acres granted to discharged soldiers and pensioners. column : number of acres granted to officers. column : number of acres granted, not coming within the previous descriptions. column : number of acres granted to u.e. loyalists.* column : total number of acres granted. row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : - column : , column : , column : , row column : totals column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , column : , , _condition_. - actual settlement. * u.e. loyalists means united english loyalists--individuals who fled from the united states on the breaking out of the american war of independence. the grants in the above column are mostly to the children of these individuals. --------------------------------------- the conditions in force in , the time from which the returns take their commencement, were enacted by orders in council of th october, , and st february, , applied equally to all classes of grantees, and were as follows:-- "that locatees shall clear thoroughly and fence five acres for every acres granted; and build a house feet by in the clear; and to clear one-half of the road, and chop down, without charring, one chain in depth across the lot next to road. these road duties to be considered as part of the five acres per . the whole to be completed within two years from date of the location, and upon proof of their fulfilment patents to issue. "on the th of may, , an additional stipulation was made in locations to discharged soldiers, which required an actual residence on their lots, in person, for five years before the issue of their patents. "on the th of november, , the then existing orders in council, respecting settlement duties, were cancelled, and it was ordered that in lieu thereof each locatee should clear half the road in front of his lot, and from feet in the centre of the road cut the stumps so low that waggon wheels might pass over them. upon proof of this, and that a settler had been resident on the lot two years, a patent might issue. locatees, however, were at liberty, instead of placing settlers on their lands, to clear, in addition to half the road on each lot, a chain in depth across the front, and to sow it and the road with grass seed. "upon discharged soldiers and seamen alone, under this order, it became imperative to reside on and improve their lands three years before the issue of the patent. "on the th of may, , an order in council was made, abolishing, in all cases except that of discharged soldiers and seamen, the regulations previously existing; and which directed that, upon proof of an actual settler being established on a lot, a patent should issue without the condition of settlement duty." the following extract is taken from "official information" circulated by mr. buchanan, and other government emigration agents in canada:-- "emigrants, wishing to obtain fertile lands in the canadas in a wild state by purchase from the crown, may rely on every facility being afforded them by the public authorities. extensive tracts are surveyed and offered for sale in upper canada monthly, and frequently every or days, by the commissioner of crown lands, at upset prices, varying according to situation from shillings to shillings per acre, excepting in the townships of sunnidale and nottawasaga, where the upset price of crown lands is shillings only. in lower canada, the commissioner of crown lands at quebec puts up land for sale, at fixed periods, in various townships, at from shillings pence to shillings pence halifax currency, per acre, payable by instalments. wild lands may also be purchased from the upper canada company on very easy terms, and those persons wanting improved farms will find little difficulty in obtaining such from private proprietors. on no account enter into any final engagement for your lands or farms _without personal examination_, and be certain of the following qualifications:-- " . a healthy situation. " . good land. " . a pure spring, or running stream of water. " . in the neighbourhood of a good, moral, and religious state of society, and schools for the education of your children. " . as near good roads and water transport as possible, saw and grist mills. " . a good title." ======================================= clergy reserves sold in each year since the sales commenced under the act and , geo. iv. c. lower canada [table] [transcription note: the data presented below was originally in the conventional tabular row / column format.] row , column headings column : year. column : number of acres sold. column : average price per acre. column : amount of purchase-money received within the first year. column : whole amount of the purchase-money. row column : column : , acres column : shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence* row column : column : , acres column : shillings, pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence* row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence* row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : totals column : , acres column : - column : - column : , pounds, shillings, pence the number of years within which the whole amount of the purchase-money is to be paid is three. * on sales on quit rent, at per cent., the capital redeemable at pleasure. n.b. sales on quit-rent ceased in . --------------------------------------- upper canada [table] [transcription note: the data presented below was originally in the conventional tabular row / column format.] row , column headings column : year. column : number of acres sold. column : average price per acre. column : amount of purchase-money received within the first year. column : whole amount of the purchase-money. row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , column : shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : column : , acres column : shillings, - / pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence column : , pounds, shillings, pence row column : totals column : , acres column : - column : - column : , pounds, shillings, pence the whole amount of the purchase-money to be paid in nine years. in addition to the purchase-money paid, interest has also been paid with each instalment, a statement of which is as follows:-- interest received in : pound, shillings, pence currency. interest received in : pound, shillings, pence currency. interest received in : pound, shillings, pence currency. interest received in : pound, shillings, pence currency. interest received in : pound, shillings, pence currency. ======================================= ii. information for emigrants in the year a little pamphlet of advice to emigrants was issued by his majesty's commissioners for emigration*, which contained some useful information in a small compass. the commission no longer exists. in lieu of it, j. denham pinnock, esq., has been appointed by government his majesty's agent for the furtherance of emigration from england to the british colonies. letters on the subject of emigration should be addressed to this gentleman at the colonial office, under cover to the colonial secretary of state. one chief object of his appointment is to afford facilities and information to parish authorities and landed proprietors desirous of furthering the emigration of labourers and others from their respective districts, especially with reference to the emigration clause of the poor laws amendment act. the following government emigration agents have also been appointed at the respective ports named:-- liverpool ...lieut. low, r.n. bristol ... lieut. henry, r.n. leith ... lieut. forrest, r.n. greenock ... lieut. hemmans, r.n. dublin ... lieut. hodder, r.n. cork ... lieut. friend, r.n. limerick ... lieut. lynch, r.n. belfast ... lieut. millar, r.n. sligo ... lieut. shuttleworth, r.n. and at quebec, a. c. buchanan, esq., the chief government emigration agent, will afford every information to all emigrants who seek his advice. [* "information published by his majesty's commissioners for emigration, respecting the british colonies in north america." london, c. knight, . price _twopence_.] the following is an extract from the pamphlet published in :-- "passages to quebec or new brunswick may either be engaged _inclusive_ of provisions, or _exclusive_ of provisions, in which case the ship- owner finds nothing but water, fuel, and bed places, without bedding. children under years of age are charged one-half, and under years of age one-third of the full price, and for children under months of age no charge is made. upon these conditions the price of passage from london, or from places on the east coast of great britain, has generally been pounds with provisions, or pounds without. from liverpool, greenock, and the principal ports of ireland, as the chances of delay are fewer, the charge is somewhat lower; this year [ ] it will probably be from pounds to pounds, shillings without provisions, or from pounds to pounds, including provisions. it is possible that in march and april passages may be obtained from dublin for pound, shillings or even pound, shillings; but the prices always grow higher as the season advances. in ships sailing from scotland or ireland, it has mostly been the custom for passengers to find their own provisions; but this practice has not been so general in london, and some shipowners, sensible of the dangerous mistakes which may be made in this matter through ignorance, are very averse to receive passengers who will not agree to be victualled by the ship. those who do resolve to supply their own provisions, should at least be careful not to lay in an insufficient stock; fifty days is the shortest period for which it is safe to provide, and from london the passage is sometimes prolonged to seventy-five days. the best months for leaving england are certainly march and april; the later emigrants do not find employment so abundant, and have less time in the colony before the commencement of winter." from a printed paper, issued by mr. buchanan at quebec, the following statements are taken: (the paper is dated july, ). "there is nothing of more importance to emigrants, on arrival at quebec, than correct information on the leading points connected with their future pursuits. many have suffered much by a want of caution, and by listening to the opinions of interested, designing characters, who frequently offer their advice unsolicited, and who are met generally about wharfs and landing-places frequented by strangers: to guard emigrants from falling into such errors, they should, immediately on arrival at quebec, proceed to the office of the chief agent for emigrants, sault-au-matelot street, lower town, where every information requisite for their future guidance in either getting settlements on lands, or obtaining employment in upper or lower canada, will be obtained _gratis_. on your route from quebec to your destination you will find many plans and schemes offered to your consideration, but turn away from them unless you are well satisfied of the purity of the statements: on all occasions when you stand in need of advice, apply only to the government agents, who will give every information required, _gratis_. "emigrants are informed that they may remain on board ship hours after arrival, nor can they be deprived of any of their usual accommodations for cooking or berthing during that period, and the master of the ship is bound to disembark the emigrants and their baggage _free of expense_, at the usual landing places, and at seasonable hours. _they should avoid drinking the water of the river st. lawrence, which has a strong tendency to produce bowel complaints in strangers_. "should you require to change your english money, go to some respectable merchant or dealer, or the banks: the currency in the canadas is at the rate of shillings the dollar, and is called halifax currency; at present the gold sovereign is worth, in quebec and montreal, about pound, shillings, pence currency. in new york shillings is calculated for the dollar, hence many are deceived when hearing of the rates of labour, &c.-- shillings in canada is equal to shillings in new york; thus shillings new york currency is equivalent to shillings halifax currency. "emigrants who wish to settle in lower canada or to obtain employment, are informed that many desirable situations are to be met with. wild lands may be obtained by purchase from the commissioner of crown lands in various townships in the province, and the british american land company are making extensive preparations for selling lands and farms in the eastern townships to emigrants. "farm labourers are much wanted in all the districts of upper canada, and, if industrious, they may be sure of obtaining very high wages; mechanics of almost every description, and good servants, male and _female_, are much in request. "emigrants proceeding to upper canada, either by the ottawa or st. lawrence route, are advised to supply themselves with provisions at montreal, such as bread, tea, sugar, and butter, which they will purchase cheaper and of _better quality_, until they reach kingston, than along the route. they are also particularly cautioned against the use of _ardent spirits or drinking cold river water_, or lying on the banks of the river exposed to the night dews; they should proceed at once from the steam-boat at montreal to _the entrance of the canal_ or lachine, from whence the durham and steam-boats start for prescott and bytown daily. the total expense for the transport of an adult emigrant from quebec to toronto and the head of lake ontario, by steam and durham-boats, will not exceed pound, shillings currency, or pound, shilling sterling. kingston, belleville, up the bay of quinte, cobourgh, and port hope, in the newcastle district, hamilton and niagara at the head of lake ontario, will be convenient stopping-places for families intending to purchase lands in upper canada. "there is considerable competition among the forwarding companies at montreal; emigrants therefore had better exercise a little caution before agreeing for their transport to prescott or kingston, and they should avoid those persons that crowd on board the steam-boats on arrival at montreal, offering their services to get passages, &c. caution is also necessary at prescott or kingston, in selecting regular conveyances up lake ontario. i would particularly advise emigrants destined for upper canada, not to incur the expense of lodging or delay at montreal, but to proceed on arrival of the steam-boat to the barges for bytown or prescott. "labourers or mechanics dependent on immediate employment, are requested to proceed immediately on arrival into the country. the chief agent will consider such persons as may loiter about the ports of landing beyond _four days_ after their arrival, to have no further claims on the protection of his majesty's agents for assistance or employment, unless they have been detained by sickness or some other satisfactory cause." --------------------------------------- comparative statement of the number of emigrants arrived at quebec from to inclusive:-- [table] [transcription note: the data presented below was originally in the conventional tabular row / column format.] england and wales : , : , : , : , : , : , ireland : , : , : , : , : , : , scotland : , : , : , : , : , : , hamburg & gibraltar. : nova scotia, newfoundland, west indies, &c. : : : : : : totals : , : , : , : , : , : , the total number of emigrants arrived at quebec, from to , is , . it will be remarked, that the number rose high in and , and fell very low in . --------------------------------------- distribution of the , emigrants who arrived at quebec during :- lower canada. city and district of quebec: , district of three rivers: district of st. francis and eastern townships: city and district of montreal: , ottawa district: total to lower canada: , upper canada. ottawa, bathurst, midland and eastern districts, as far as kingston, included: , district of newcastle, and townships in the vicinity of the bay of quinte: , toronto and the home district, including settlements around lake simco: , hamilton, guelph, and huron tracts, and situations adjacent: , niagara frontier and district, including the line of the welland canal, and round the head of lake ontario, to hamilton: , settlements bordering on lake erie, including the london district, adelaide settlement, and on to lake st. clair: , total to upper canada: , died of cholera in upper and lower canada: returned to united kingdom: went to the united states: , [total:] , --------------------------------------- of the number of , emigrants who arrived at quebec in , there were of:-- voluntary emigrants: , assisted by parochial aid: , number of males: , number of females: , number of children under fourteen years of age: , emigrants who prefer going into canada by way of new york will receive advice and direction by applying to the british consul at new york (james buchanan, esq.) formerly this gentleman could procure for emigrants who were positively determined to settle in the canadas, permission to land their baggage and effects free of custom-house duty; but in a letter dated th march, , he says:-- "in consequence of a change in the truly liberal course heretofore adopted at this port, in permitting, without unpacking or payment of duty, of the personal baggage, household, and farming utensils of emigrants landing here to pass in transit through this state to his majesty's provinces, upon evidence being furnished of the fact, and that such packages alone contained articles of the foregoing description, i deem it my duty to make known that all articles arriving at this port accompanying emigrants in transit to canada, will be subject to the same inspection as if to remain in the united states, and pay the duties to which the same are subjected. i think it proper to mention that all articles suited to new settlers are to be had in canada on better terms than they can be brought out--and such as are adapted to the country." the difference between proceeding to upper canada by way of quebec and new york, consists chiefly in the circumstance that the port of new york is open all the year round, while the navigation of the st. lawrence up to quebec and montreal is tedious, and the river is only open between seven and eight months of the year. the latter is, however, the cheapest route. but to those who can afford it, new york is the most comfortable as well as the most expeditious way of proceeding to upper canada. the route, as given in a printed paper, distributed by the british consul at new york, is as follows:-- "route from new york and albany by the erie canal to all parts of upper canada, west of kingston, by the way of oswego and buffalo:-- new york to albany, miles by steam-boat. albany to utica, do. by canal or stage. utica to syracuse, do. by canal or stage. syracuse to oswego, do. by canal or stage. syracuse to rochester, do. by canal or stage. rochester to buffalo, do. by canal or stage. total expense from albany to buffalo, by canal, exclusive of victuals for an adult steerage passenger--time going about or days-- dollars cents; ditto by packet-boats, and found, - / dollars, days going. "ditto do. by stage, in - / and days-- to dollars. "ditto do. from albany to oswego by canal, days going, - / dollars. "ditto do. by stage, days-- - / to dollars. "no extra charge for a moderate quantity of baggage. "route from new york to montreal, quebec, and all parts of lower canada:-- "new york to albany, miles by steam-boat, to dollars, exclusive of food. "albany to whitehall, by canal, miles, dollar; stage dollars. "whitehall to st. john's, by steam-boat, board included, cabin dollars; deck passage dollars without board. "st. john's to laprairie, miles per stage, shillings to shillings pence. "laprairie to montreal, per ferry steam-boat, miles. pence. "montreal to quebec, by steam-boat, miles, cabin, found, pound, shillings; deck passage, not found, shillings pence. "those proceeding to the eastern townships of lower canada, in the vicinity of sherbrooke, stanstead, &c., &c., will proceed to st. john's, from whence good roads lead to all the settled townships eastward. if they are going to the ottawa river, they will proceed from montreal and lachine, from whence stages, steamboats, and batteaux go daily to grenville, hull, and bytown, as also to chateauguay, glengary, cornwall, prescott, and all parts below kingston. "emigrants can avail themselves of the advice and assistance of the following gentlemen:--at montreal, carlisle buchanan, esq.; prescott, john patton, esq." --------------------------------------- number of emigrants who arrived at new york from the united kingdom for six years, from to :-- [table] [transcription note: the data presented below was originally in the conventional tabular row / column format.] row . headings column : year. column : england. column : ireland. column : scotland. column : total. row column : column : , column : , column : column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : , column : , column : , column : , row column : column : - column : - column : - column : , row column : * column : - column : - column : - column : , row column : total column : - column : - column : - column : , * the returns for are made up to the th november of that year. ======================================= iii. american passengers' act. the th geo. iv., c. , commonly called the "american passengers' act," was repealed during the session of , by an act then passed, the and will. iv., c. . the intention of the new act is, of course, to secure, as effectually as possible, and more effectually than the previous act did, the health and comfort of emigrants on board of passenger ships. by a clause of the act, copies or abstracts are to be kept on board ships for the perusal of passengers, who may thus have an opportunity of judging whether the law has been complied with; but the discovery of any infractions of the statute may be made at a time when, in the particular instance, it may be too late to remedy it, so far as the comfort and even the health of the passengers are concerned. it is to be hoped, therefore, that the humane intentions of the legislature will not be frustrated by any negligence on the part of those (especially of the officers of customs) whose business it is to see that the regulations of the act have been complied with before each emigrant ship leaves port. no passenger ship is to sail with more than three persons on board for every five tons of registered burthen. nor, whatever may be the tonnage, is there to be a greater number of passengers on board than after the rate of one person for every ten superficial feet of the lower deck or platform unoccupied by goods or stores, not being the personal luggage of the passengers. ships with more than one deck to have five feet and a half, at the least, between decks; and where a ship has only one deck, a platform is to be laid beneath the deck in such a manner as to afford a space of the height of at least five feet and a half, and no such ship to have more than two tiers of berths. ships having two tiers of berths to have an interval of at least six inches between the deck or platform, and the floor of the lower tier throughout the whole extent. passenger ships are to be provisioned in the following proportion:--pure water, to the amount of five gallons, to every week of the computed voyage, for each passenger--the water to be carried in tanks or sweet casks; seven pounds' weight of bread, biscuit, oatmeal, or bread stuffs, to every week for each passenger; potatoes may be included to one-third of the extent of supply, but seven pounds' weight of potatoes are to be reckoned equal to one pound of bread or bread stuffs. the voyage to north america is to be computed at ten weeks, by which each passenger will be secured fifty gallons of water, and seventy pounds weight of bread or bread stuffs for the voyage. where there are passengers, a medical practitioner is to be carried; if under , medicines of sufficient amount and kind are to be taken out as part of the necessary supplies. passenger ships are not to be allowed to carry out ardent spirits as merchandise beyond one-tenth of the quantity as would, but for this restriction, be allowed by the officers of the customs upon the victualling bill of such ship for the outward voyage only, according to the number of passengers. [an important restriction, which ought to be enforced to the letter of the law. the strong temptation which the tedium of a voyage presents to numbers pinned up in a small space to resort to drinking, has frequently made sad havoc of the money, comfort, and health of emigrants, when, especially, the ship steward has contrived to lay in a good stock of strong waters.] in the enumeration of passengers, _two_ children above seven, but under fourteen, or _three_ under seven years of age, are to be reckoned as one passenger. infants under months are not to be included in the enumeration. passengers are entitled to be maintained on board for hours after the ship has arrived at her destination. [emigrants whose means are limited may thus avoid much inconvenience and expense, by planning and executing with promptitude the route which they mean to take, instead of landing, and loitering in the expensive houses of entertainment of a sea-port.] masters of ships are to enter into bonds of , pounds for the due performance of the provisions of the act. the penalty on any infraction of the law is to be not less than pounds, nor more than pounds for each offence. [the government emigration agents at the various ports, or the officers of customs, will doubtless give every facility to passengers who seek their advice relative to any violation of the provisions of the act, and point out the proper course to be taken.] if there be any doubt that a ship about to sail is not sea-worthy, the collector and comptroller of the customs may cause the vessel to be surveyed. passengers detained beyond the time contracted for to sail, are to be maintained at the expense of the master of the ship; or, if they have contracted to victual themselves, they are to be paid shilling each for each day of detention not caused by stress of weather or other unavoidable cause. ======================================= iv. transfer of capital. it is, of course, of the greatest importance to emigrants that whatever capital they may possess, over the necessary expenses of the voyage, &c., should be remitted to canada in the _safest_ and most _profitable_ manner. both the british american land company and the canada company afford facilities to emigrants, by receiving deposits and granting letters of credit on their agents in canada, by which the emigrants obtain the benefit of the current premium of exchange. it is unsafe and injudicious to carry out a larger amount of specie than what will defray the necessary expenses of the voyage, because a double risk is incurred,--the danger of losing, and the temptation of squandering. the emigrant, therefore, who does not choose to remit his money through either of the before-mentioned companies, should procure a letter of credit from some respectable bank in the united kingdom on the montreal bank. ======================================= v. canadian currency. in all the british north american colonies accounts are kept and prices are quoted in pounds, shillings, and pence, as in england. the accounts are contra-distinguished by calling the former currency, or halifax currency, and the latter sterling or british sterling. the one pound halifax currency, or currency, as it is more commonly called, consists of four spanish dollars. the dollar is divided into five parts--called in spanish pistoreens--each of which is termed a shilling. each of these shillings or pistoreens is again subdivided into twelve parts, called pence, but improperly, for there is no coin answering to any such subdivision. to meet the want a great variety of copper coins are used, comprising the old english halfpenny, the halfpenny of later coinage, the penny, the farthing, the american cent.; all and each pass as the twenty-fourth part of the pistoreen or colonial shilling. pence in fact are not known, though almost anything of the copper kind will be taken as the twenty-fourth part of the pistoreen.* [* the americans also have their shilling, which is the eighth part of a dollar, or - / cents. it is no uncommon thing to hear the emigrant boast that he can get shillings per day in new york. he knows not that a dollar, which is equal to eight of these shillings, is in england equivalent but to shillings pence, and that the american shilling is, therefore, when compared with the english shilling in value, only - / pence, and consequently, that shillings a day is, in fact, but ten - / pence or shillings - / pence. this rate of payment it may be said is still great; so it is, but it is not often obtained by the labourer; when it is, it is for excessive labour, under a burning sun in sea-port towns, during the busy shipping season.] at a time when the spanish dollar, the piece of eight, as it was then called, was both finer and heavier than the coin now in circulation, its value at the mint price of silver** was found to be shilling pence sterling. accordingly, the pound currency was fixed at shillings sterling, and pounds sterling was equal to pounds currency, the rules of conversion being, _add one-ninth to sterling to obtain currency, and deduct one tenth from currency to find the sterling_. this was called the par of exchange, and was so then. so long as it continued correct, fluctuations were from a trifle above, to a trifle below par, and this fluctuation was a real _premium_ or _discount_, governed by the cost of the transportation of bullion from the one to the other side of the atlantic, an expense which now does not exceed, and rarely equals, per cent. shilling pence has long ceased to be the value of the dollar. both the weight and purity of the coin have been reduced, until its value in the london market*** is not more than shillings pence, the pound currency being consequently reduced to shillings pence sterling and pounds sterling become equivalent to pounds currency, or dollars, the common average rate now given for the pounds sterling bill of exchange in england. [** the mint price then coincided more nearly with the market price than at present.] [*** it is necessary to use the market price, as the difference between the mint and the market price is per cent., and as the spanish dollar possesses no conventional value, it is only worth what it will bring as an article of traffic.] the government, however, still sanction, nay, will not change, the old language, so that the difference is made up by adding what is commonly termed a _premium_. the difference between the _real_ par, shillings pence, and the nominal par, shillings pence, is pence or eight per cent. thus the fluctuations, instead of being from to per cent. below, to or per cent. above the _real_ par, are from to per cent. below, to to per cent. above per cent. _premium_ as it is called on the _nominal_ par, or from or to or per cent. _premium_ on the par. this leads to gross deception, and the emigrant in consequence is not unfrequently outrageously cheated by parties accounting to him for money obtained by sale of bills, minus this or some portion of this nominal premium. nothing is more common than to hear the new comer boast that he has sold his bill on england for per cent. premium, while in fact he has not received _par_ value. as by the above changes pounds sterling is shewn to be equal to currency, or dollars, the rule of conversion, in the absence of a law, where no understanding to the contrary existed, should be, _add one-fifth to sterling money, and currency is obtained, or deduct one-sixth from currency, and sterling is found._ an examination of the exchanges for ten years has proved this to be correct. ======================================= vi. the canada company. the canada company was incorporated by royal charter and act of parliament in . the following are extracts from the prospectus of the company:-- "the canada company have lands for sale in almost every part of the province of upper canada, on terms which cannot fail to be highly advantageous to the emigrant, as from the company requiring only one- fifth of the purchase-money to be paid in cash, and allowing the remainder to be divided into five annual payments, bearing interest, the settler, if industrious, is enabled to pay the balance from the produce of the land. "the lands of the canada company are of three descriptions, viz.-- scattered reserves: blocks or tracts of land, of from , to , acres each; the huron tract, containing upwards of , , acres. "_scattered reserves_. the scattered crown reserves are lots of land of from to acres each, distributed through nearly every township in the province, and partaking of the soil, climate, &c., of each particular township. these lands are especially desirable for persons who may have friends settled in their neighbourhood, and can be obtained at prices varying from shillings pence to shillings currency an acre. "_blocks of land._ the blocks or tracts lie entirely in that part of the province situated to the westward of the head of lake ontario, and contain lands which, for soil, climate, and powers of production, are equal, and perhaps superior, to any on the continent of america. these are worthy the attention of communities of emigrants, who from country, relationship, religion, or any other bond, wish to settle together. "the largest block of this kind in the company's possession is the township of guelph, containing upwards of , acres, of which the greater part has been already sold, and, in the space of a few years only, a town has been established, containing churches, schools, stores, taverns, and mills, and where there are mechanics of every kind, and a society of a highly respectable description. "_the huron territory_. this is a tract of the finest land in america, through which the canada company have cut two roads of upwards of miles in extent, of the best description of which a new country admits. the population there is rapidly on the increase. "the town of goderich, at the mouth of the river maitland, on lake huron, is very flourishing, and contains several excellent stores, or merchants' shops, in which any article usually required by a settler is to be obtained on reasonable terms. there is a good school established, which is well attended; a church of england and a presbyterian clergyman are appointed there; and as the churches in upper canada are now principally supported by the voluntary subscriptions of their respective congregations, an inference may be drawn of the respectable character of the inhabitants of this settlement and the neighbourhood. the town and township of goderich contain about , inhabitants; and since the steam-boat, built by the company for the accommodation of their settlers, has commenced running between goderich and sandwich, a great increase has taken place in the trade and prosperity of the settlement. in this tract there are four good saw-mills, three grist-mills, and in the neighbourhood of each will be found stores well supplied. and as the tract contains a million acres, the greater portion of which is open for sale, an emigrant or body of emigrants, however large, can have no difficulty in selecting eligible situations, according to their circumstances, however various they may be. the price of these lands is from shillings pence to shillings provincial currency, or about from shillings to shillings pence sterling per acre." emigrants wishing to communicate with the company should address the secretary, john perry esq., st. helen's-place, bishopsgate-street, london, or the company's agents at outports. ======================================= vii. the british american land company. the british american land company state, in their prospectus, that they have purchased from the british government "nearly , , of acres in the counties of shefford, stanstead, and sherbrooke," in what are termed "the eastern townships of lower canada." these townships comprise "a tract of country, lying inland, on the south side of the st. lawrence, between degrees and - / degrees north latitude, and degrees and degrees west longitude. this tract, containing between five and six millions of acres, is divided into eight counties, and these again are subdivided into about one hundred townships. these townships enjoy an important advantage in their geographical position. on the one side, they are of easy access from montreal, quebec, and three rivers, the shipping ports and great markets of the canadas; on the other, from new york up the hudson river and through lake champlain, as well as from boston and other parts on the seaboard of the atlantic. by their compact and contiguous position, facility of intercourse and mutual support are ensured throughout the whole, as well as a general participation in all local improvements." the terms on which the company propose to dispose of these lands "vary according to the situation, quality, and advantages which the different lots may possess; but in the first instance they will generally range from shillings to shillings currency per acre, and in all cases a deposit of part of the purchase-money will be required, viz.:--on the higher priced lots one-fifth; on the lower priced lots one-fourth. "the terms of payment for the balance will be six annual instalments, bearing the legal interest of the province from the date of sale; but should purchasers prefer anticipating the payments, they will have the option at any time of doing so. "the price of a building lot at port st. francis, for the present season ( ), is pounds shillings, payable pounds cash down, and the balance in one year, with interest. "deposits of purchase-money may be made with the company in london for lands to be selected by emigrants on their arrival in the country. "by the agreement between his majesty's government and the company, upwards of , pounds of the purchase-money paid by the latter are to be expended by them in public works and improvements, such as high roads, bridges, canals, school-houses, market-houses, churches, and parsonage-houses. this is an extremely important arrangement, and must prove highly beneficial to settlers, as it assures to them the improvement and advancement of this district. the formation of roads and other easy communications are the great wants of a new country; and the application of capital on works of this nature, which are beyond the means of private individuals, is the best mode by which the successful settlement may be promoted and accomplished. "the expenditure of the large sum above mentioned, will offer at the same time an opportunity of employment to honest and industrious labourers, immediately on arrival." the office of the british american land company is at , barge-yard, bucklersbury, london: they have also agents at the various outports. ======================================= transcription note: except for the tables in the appendix, which have been reformatted to accommodate the presentation of tables in plain text, this transcription attempts to faithfully reproduce the text and punctuation found in the printed version of the book. as a consequence, numerous instances of spelling and punctuation may appear incorrect by current standards. roughing it in the bush by susanna moodie to agnes strickland author of the “lives of the queens of england” this simple tribute of affection is dedicated by her sister susanna moodie transcriber's notes on this etext edition. thank you to the celebration of women writers (mary mark ockerbloom, editor) for providing the source text. it has since been proof-read and modified by comparison with multiple editions. there is a great deal of variation between different editions ranging from differences in names, spelling and punctuation to differences in what chapters and poems are included. this text is not meant to be authoritative or to match a certain paper edition; rather, its aim is to be be readable and inclusive of various material that appears in different editions. contents introduction to the third edition i a visit to grosse isle ii quebec iii our journey up the country iv tom wilson's emigration v our first settlement, and the borrowing system vi old satan and tom wilson's nose vii uncle joe and his family viii john monaghan ix phoebe r----, and our second moving x brian, the still-hunter xi the charivari xii the village hotel xiii the land-jobber xiv a journey to the woods xv the wilderness, and our indian friends xvi burning the fallow xvii our logging-bee xviii a trip to stony lake xix the “ould dhragoon” xx disappointed hopes xxi the little stumpy man xxii the fire xxiii the outbreak xxiv the whirlwind xxv the walk to dummer xxvi a change in our prospects xxvii adieu to the woods xxviii canadian sketches appendix a advertisement to the third edition appendix b canada: a contrast appendix c jeanie burns introduction to the third edition published by richard bentley in in most instances, emigration is a matter of necessity, not of choice; and this is more especially true of the emigration of persons of respectable connections, or of any station or position in the world. few educated persons, accustomed to the refinements and luxuries of european society, ever willingly relinquish those advantages, and place themselves beyond the protective influence of the wise and revered institutions of their native land, without the pressure of some urgent cause. emigration may, indeed, generally be regarded as an act of severe duty, performed at the expense of personal enjoyment, and accompanied by the sacrifice of those local attachments which stamp the scenes amid which our childhood grew, in imperishable characters, upon the heart. nor is it until adversity has pressed sorely upon the proud and wounded spirit of the well-educated sons and daughters of old but impoverished families, that they gird up the loins of the mind, and arm themselves with fortitude to meet and dare the heart-breaking conflict. the ordinary motives for the emigration of such persons may be summed up in a few brief words;--the emigrant's hope of bettering his condition, and of escaping from the vulgar sarcasms too often hurled at the less-wealthy by the purse-proud, common-place people of the world. but there is a higher motive still, which has its origin in that love of independence which springs up spontaneously in the breasts of the high-souled children of a glorious land. they cannot labour in a menial capacity in the country where they were born and educated to command. they can trace no difference between themselves and the more fortunate individuals of a race whose blood warms their veins, and whose name they bear. the want of wealth alone places an impassable barrier between them and the more favoured offspring of the same parent stock; and they go forth to make for themselves a new name and to find another country, to forget the past and to live in the future, to exult in the prospect of their children being free and the land of their adoption great. the choice of the country to which they devote their talents and energies depends less upon their pecuniary means than upon the fancy of the emigrant or the popularity of a name. from the year to , australia and the swan river were all the rage. no other portions of the habitable globe were deemed worthy of notice. these were the el dorados and lands of goshen to which all respectable emigrants eagerly flocked. disappointment, as a matter of course, followed their high-raised expectations. many of the most sanguine of these adventurers returned to their native shores in a worse condition than when they left them. in , the great tide of emigration flowed westward. canada became the great land-mark for the rich in hope and poor in purse. public newspapers and private letters teemed with the unheard-of advantages to be derived from a settlement in this highly-favoured region. its salubrious climate, its fertile soil, commercial advantages, great water privileges, its proximity to the mother country, and last, not least, its almost total exemption from taxation--that bugbear which keeps honest john bull in a state of constant ferment--were the theme of every tongue, and lauded beyond all praise. the general interest, once excited, was industriously kept alive by pamphlets, published by interested parties, which prominently set forth all the good to be derived from a settlement in the backwoods of canada; while they carefully concealed the toil and hardship to be endured in order to secure these advantages. they told of lands yielding forty bushels to the acre, but they said nothing of the years when these lands, with the most careful cultivation, would barely return fifteen; when rust and smut, engendered by the vicinity of damp over-hanging woods, would blast the fruits of the poor emigrant's labour, and almost deprive him of bread. they talked of log houses to be raised in a single day, by the generous exertions of friends and neighbours, but they never ventured upon a picture of the disgusting scenes of riot and low debauchery exhibited during the raising, or upon a description of the dwellings when raised--dens of dirt and misery, which would, in many instances, be shamed by an english pig-sty. the necessaries of life were described as inestimably cheap; but they forgot to add that in remote bush settlements, often twenty miles from a market town, and some of them even that distance from the nearest dwelling, the necessaries of life which would be deemed indispensable to the european, could not be procured at all, or, if obtained, could only be so by sending a man and team through a blazed forest road,--a process far too expensive for frequent repetition. oh, ye dealers in wild lands--ye speculators in the folly and credulity of your fellow men--what a mass of misery, and of misrepresentation productive of that misery, have ye not to answer for! you had your acres to sell, and what to you were the worn-down frames and broken hearts of the infatuated purchasers? the public believed the plausible statements you made with such earnestness, and men of all grades rushed to hear your hired orators declaim upon the blessings to be obtained by the clearers of the wilderness. men who had been hopeless of supporting their families in comfort and independence at home, thought that they had only to come out to canada to make their fortunes; almost even to realise the story told in the nursery, of the sheep and oxen that ran about the streets, ready roasted, and with knives and forks upon their backs. they were made to believe that if it did not actually rain gold, that precious metal could be obtained, as is now stated of california and australia, by stooping to pick it up. the infection became general. a canada mania pervaded the middle ranks of british society; thousands and tens of thousands for the space of three or four years landed upon these shores. a large majority of the higher class were officers of the army and navy, with their families--a class perfectly unfitted by their previous habits and education for contending with the stern realities of emigrant life. the hand that has long held the sword, and been accustomed to receive implicit obedience from those under its control, is seldom adapted to wield the spade and guide the plough, or try its strength against the stubborn trees of the forest. nor will such persons submit cheerfully to the saucy familiarity of servants, who, republicans in spirit, think themselves as good as their employers. too many of these brave and honourable men were easy dupes to the designing land-speculators. not having counted the cost, but only looked upon the bright side of the picture held up to their admiring gaze, they fell easily into the snares of their artful seducers. to prove their zeal as colonists, they were induced to purchase large tracts of wild land in remote and unfavourable situations. this, while it impoverished and often proved the ruin of the unfortunate immigrant, possessed a double advantage to the seller. he obtained an exorbitant price for the land which he actually sold, while the residence of a respectable settler upon the spot greatly enhanced the value and price of all other lands in the neighbourhood. it is not by such instruments as those i have just mentioned, that providence works when it would reclaim the waste places of the earth, and make them subservient to the wants and happiness of its creatures. the great father of the souls and bodies of men knows the arm which wholesome labour from infancy has made strong, the nerves which have become iron by patient endurance, by exposure to weather, coarse fare, and rude shelter; and he chooses such, to send forth into the forest to hew out the rough paths for the advance of civilization. these men become wealthy and prosperous, and form the bones and sinews of a great and rising country. their labour is wealth, not exhaustion; its produce independence and content, not home-sickness and despair. what the backwoods of canada are to the industrious and ever-to-be-honoured sons of honest poverty, and what they are to the refined and accomplished gentleman, these simple sketches will endeavour to portray. they are drawn principally from my own experience, during a sojourn of nineteen years in the colony. in order to diversify my subject, and make it as amusing as possible, i have between the sketches introduced a few small poems, all written during my residence in canada, and descriptive of the country. in this pleasing task, i have been assisted by my husband, j. w. dunbar moodie, author of “ten years in south africa.” belleville, upper canada canada canada, the blest--the free! with prophetic glance, i see visions of thy future glory, giving to the world's great story a page, with mighty meaning fraught, that asks a wider range of thought. borne onward on the wings of time, i trace thy future course sublime; and feel my anxious lot grow bright, while musing on the glorious sight;-- my heart rejoicing bounds with glee to hail thy noble destiny! even now thy sons inherit all thy british mother's spirit. ah! no child of bondage thou; with her blessing on thy brow, and her deathless, old renown circling thee with freedom's crown, and her love within thy heart, well may'st thou perform thy part, and to coming years proclaim thou art worthy of her name. home of the homeless!--friend to all who suffer on this earthly ball! on thy bosom sickly care quite forgets her squalid lair; gaunt famine, ghastly poverty before thy gracious aspect fly, and hopes long crush'd, grow bright again, and, smiling, point to hill and plain. by thy winter's stainless snow, starry heavens of purer glow, glorious summers, fervid, bright, basking in one blaze of light; by thy fair, salubrious clime; by thy scenery sublime; by thy mountains, streams, and woods; by thy everlasting floods; if greatness dwells beneath the skies, thou to greatness shalt arise! nations old, and empires vast, from the earth had darkly pass'd ere rose the fair auspicious morn when thou, the last, not least, wast born. through the desert solitude of trackless waters, forests rude, thy guardian angel sent a cry all jubilant of victory! “joy,” she cried, “to th' untill'd earth, let her joy in a mighty birth,-- night from the land has pass'd away, the desert basks in noon of day. joy, to the sullen wilderness, i come, her gloomy shades to bless, to bid the bear and wild-cat yield their savage haunts to town and field. joy, to stout hearts and willing hands, that win a right to these broad lands, and reap the fruit of honest toil, lords of the rich, abundant soil. “joy, to the sons of want, who groan in lands that cannot feed their own; and seek, in stern, determined mood, homes in the land of lake and wood, and leave their hearts' young hopes behind, friends in this distant world to find; led by that god, who from his throne regards the poor man's stifled moan. like one awaken'd from the dead, the peasant lifts his drooping head, nerves his strong heart and sunburnt hand, to win a potion of the land, that glooms before him far and wide in frowning woods and surging tide no more oppress'd, no more a slave, here freedom dwells beyond the wave. “joy, to those hardy sires who bore the day's first heat--their toils are o'er; rude fathers of this rising land, theirs was a mission truly grand. brave peasants whom the father, god, sent to reclaim the stubborn sod; well they perform'd their task, and won altar and hearth for the woodman's son. joy, to canada's unborn heirs, a deathless heritage is theirs; for, sway'd by wise and holy laws, its voice shall aid the world's great cause, shall plead the rights of man, and claim for humble worth an honest name; shall show the peasant-born can be, when call'd to action, great and free. like fire, within the flint conceal'd, by stern necessity reveal'd, kindles to life the stupid sod, image of perfect man and god. “joy, to thy unborn sons, for they shall hail a brighter, purer day; when peace and christian brotherhood shall form a stronger tie than blood-- and commerce, freed from tax and chain, shall build a bridge o'er earth and main; and man shall prize the wealth of mind, the greatest blessing to mankind; true christians, both in word and deed, ready in virtue's cause to bleed, against a world combined to stand, and guard the honour of the land. joy, to the earth, when this shall be, time verges on eternity.” chapter i a visit to grosse isle alas! that man's stern spirit e'er should mar a scene so pure--so exquisite as this. the dreadful cholera was depopulating quebec and montreal when our ship cast anchor off grosse isle, on the th of august , and we were boarded a few minutes after by the health-officers. one of these gentlemen--a little, shrivelled-up frenchman--from his solemn aspect and attenuated figure, would have made no bad representative of him who sat upon the pale horse. he was the only grave frenchman i had ever seen, and i naturally enough regarded him as a phenomenon. his companion--a fine-looking fair-haired scotchman--though a little consequential in his manners, looked like one who in his own person could combat and vanquish all the evils which flesh is heir to. such was the contrast between these doctors, that they would have formed very good emblems, one, of vigorous health, the other, of hopeless decay. our captain, a rude, blunt north-country sailor, possessing certainly not more politeness than might be expected in a bear, received his sprucely dressed visitors on the deck, and, with very little courtesy, abruptly bade them follow him down into the cabin. the officials were no sooner seated, than glancing hastily round the place, they commenced the following dialogue:-- “from what port, captain?” now, the captain had a peculiar language of his own, from which he commonly expunged all the connecting links. small words, such as “and” and “the,” he contrived to dispense with altogether. “scotland--sailed from port o' leith, bound for quebec, montreal-- general cargo--seventy-two steerage, four cabin passengers--brig anne, one hundred and ninety-two tons burden, crew eight hands.” here he produced his credentials, and handed them to the strangers. the scotchman just glanced over the documents, and laid them on the table. “had you a good passage out?” “tedious, baffling winds, heavy fogs, detained three weeks on banks--foul weather making gulf--short of water, people out of provisions, steerage passengers starving.” “any case of sickness or death on board?” “all sound as crickets.” “any births?” lisped the little frenchman. the captain screwed up his mouth, and after a moment's reflection he replied, “births? why, yes; now i think on't, gentlemen, we had one female on board, who produced three at a birth.” “that's uncommon,” said the scotch doctor, with an air of lively curiosity. “are the children alive and well? i should like much to see them.” he started up, and knocked his head--for he was very tall--against the ceiling. “confound your low cribs! i have nearly dashed out my brains.” “a hard task, that,” looked the captain to me. he did not speak, but i knew by his sarcastic grin what was uppermost in his thoughts. “the young ones all males--fine thriving fellows. step upon deck, sam frazer,” turning to his steward; “bring them down for doctors to see.” sam vanished, with a knowing wink to his superior, and quickly returned, bearing in his arms three fat, chuckle-headed bull-terriers, the sagacious mother following close at his heels, and looked ready to give and take offence on the slightest provocation. “here, gentlemen, are the babies,” said frazer, depositing his burden on the floor. “they do credit to the nursing of the brindled slut.” the old tar laughed, chuckled, and rubbed his hands in an ecstacy of delight at the indignation and disappointment visible in the countenance of the scotch esculapius, who, angry as he was, wisely held his tongue. not so the frenchman; his rage scarcely knew bounds--he danced in a state of most ludicrous excitement, he shook his fist at our rough captain, and screamed at the top of his voice-- “sacre, you bete! you tink us dog, ven you try to pass your puppies on us for babies?” “hout, man, don't be angry,” said the scotchman, stifling a laugh; “you see 'tis only a joke!” “joke! me no understand such joke. bete!” returned the angry frenchman, bestowing a savage kick on one of the unoffending pups which was frisking about his feet. the pup yelped; the slut barked and leaped furiously at the offender, and was only kept from biting him by sam, who could scarcely hold her back for laughing; the captain was uproarious; the offended frenchman alone maintained a severe and dignified aspect. the dogs were at length dismissed, and peace restored. after some further questioning from the officials, a bible was required for the captain to take an oath. mine was mislaid, and there was none at hand. “confound it!” muttered the old sailor, tossing over the papers in his desk; “that scoundrel, sam, always stows my traps out of the way.” then taking up from the table a book which i had been reading, which happened to be voltaire's history of charles xii., he presented it, with as grave an air as he could assume, to the frenchman. taking for granted that it was the volume required, the little doctor was too polite to open the book, the captain was duly sworn, and the party returned to the deck. here a new difficulty occurred, which nearly ended in a serious quarrel. the gentlemen requested the old sailor to give them a few feet of old planking, to repair some damage which their boat had sustained the day before. this the captain could not do. they seemed to think his refusal intentional, and took it as a personal affront. in no very gentle tones, they ordered him instantly to prepare his boats, and put his passengers on shore. “stiff breeze--short sea,” returned the bluff old seaman; “great risk in making land--boats heavily laden with women and children will be swamped. not a soul goes on shore this night.” “if you refuse to comply with our orders, we will report you to the authorities.” “i know my duty--you stick to yours. when the wind falls off, i'll see to it. not a life shall be risked to please you or your authorities.” he turned upon his heel, and the medical men left the vessel in great disdain. we had every reason to be thankful for the firmness displayed by our rough commander. that same evening we saw eleven persons drowned, from another vessel close beside us while attempting to make the shore. by daybreak all was hurry and confusion on board the anne. i watched boat after boat depart for the island, full of people and goods, and envied them the glorious privilege of once more standing firmly on the earth, after two long months of rocking and rolling at sea. how ardently we anticipate pleasure, which often ends in positive pain! such was my case when at last indulged in the gratification so eagerly desired. as cabin passengers, we were not included in the general order of purification, but were only obliged to send our servant, with the clothes and bedding we had used during the voyage, on shore, to be washed. the ship was soon emptied of all her live cargo. my husband went off with the boats, to reconnoitre the island, and i was left alone with my baby in the otherwise empty vessel. even oscar, the captain's scotch terrier, who had formed a devoted attachment to me during the voyage, forgot his allegiance, became possessed of the land mania, and was away with the rest. with the most intense desire to go on shore, i was doomed to look and long and envy every boatful of emigrants that glided past. nor was this all; the ship was out of provisions, and i was condemned to undergo a rigid fast until the return of the boat, when the captain had promised a supply of fresh butter and bread. the vessel had been nine weeks at sea; the poor steerage passengers for the two last weeks had been out of food, and the captain had been obliged to feed them from the ship's stores. the promised bread was to be obtained from a small steam-boat, which plied daily between quebec and the island, transporting convalescent emigrants and their goods in her upward trip, and provisions for the sick on her return. how i reckoned on once more tasting bread and butter! the very thought of the treat in store served to sharpen my appetite, and render the long fast more irksome. i could now fully realise all mrs. bowdich's longings for english bread and butter, after her three years' travel through the burning african deserts, with her talented husband. “when we arrived at the hotel at plymouth,” said she, “and were asked what refreshment we chose--'tea, and home-made bread and butter,' was my instant reply. 'brown bread, if you please, and plenty of it.' i never enjoyed any luxury like it. i was positively ashamed of asking the waiter to refill the plate. after the execrable messes, and the hard ship-biscuit, imagine the luxury of a good slice of english bread and butter!” at home, i laughed heartily at the lively energy with which that charming woman of genius related this little incident in her eventful history--but off grosse isle, i realised it all. as the sun rose above the horizon, all these matter-of-fact circumstances were gradually forgotten, and merged in the surpassing grandeur of the scene that rose majestically before me. the previous day had been dark and stormy, and a heavy fog had concealed the mountain chain, which forms the stupendous background to this sublime view, entirely from our sight. as the clouds rolled away from their grey, bald brows, and cast into denser shadow the vast forest belt that girdled them round, they loomed out like mighty giants--titans of the earth, in all their rugged and awful beauty--a thrill of wonder and delight pervaded my mind. the spectacle floated dimly on my sight--my eyes were blinded with tears--blinded with the excess of beauty. i turned to the right and to the left, i looked up and down the glorious river; never had i beheld so many striking objects blended into one mighty whole! nature had lavished all her noblest features in producing that enchanting scene. the rocky isle in front, with its neat farm-houses at the eastern point, and its high bluff at the western extremity, crowned with the telegraph--the middle space occupied by tents and sheds for the cholera patients, and its wooded shores dotted over with motley groups--added greatly to the picturesque effect of the land scene. then the broad, glittering river, covered with boats darting to and fro, conveying passengers from twenty-five vessels, of various size and tonnage, which rode at anchor, with their flags flying from the mast-head, gave an air of life and interest to the whole. turning to the south side of the st. lawrence, i was not less struck with its low fertile shores, white houses, and neat churches, whose slender spires and bright tin roofs shone like silver as they caught the first rays of the sun. as far as the eye could reach, a line of white buildings extended along the bank; their background formed by the purple hue of the dense, interminable forest. it was a scene unlike any i had ever beheld, and to which britain contains no parallel. mackenzie, an old scotch dragoon, who was one of our passengers, when he rose in the morning, and saw the parish of st. thomas for the first time, exclaimed: “weel, it beats a'! can thae white clouts be a' houses? they look like claes hung out to drie!” there was some truth in this odd comparison, and for some minutes, i could scarcely convince myself that the white patches scattered so thickly over the opposite shore could be the dwellings of a busy, lively population. “what sublime views of the north side of the river those habitans of st. thomas must enjoy,” thought i. perhaps familiarity with the scene has rendered them indifferent to its astonishing beauty. eastward, the view down the st. lawrence towards the gulf, is the finest of all, scarcely surpassed by anything in the world. your eye follows the long range of lofty mountains until their blue summits are blended and lost in the blue of the sky. some of these, partially cleared round the base, are sprinkled over with neat cottages; and the green slopes that spread around them are covered with flocks and herds. the surface of the splendid river is diversified with islands of every size and shape, some in wood, others partially cleared, and adorned with orchards and white farm-houses. as the early sun streamed upon the most prominent of these, leaving the others in deep shade, the effect was strangely novel and imposing. in more remote regions, where the forest has never yet echoed to the woodman's axe, or received the impress of civilisation, the first approach to the shore inspires a melancholy awe, which becomes painful in its intensity. land of vast hills and mighty streams, the lofty sun that o'er thee beams on fairer clime sheds not his ray, when basking in the noon of day thy waters dance in silver light, and o'er them frowning, dark as night, thy shadowy forests, soaring high, stretch forth beyond the aching eye, and blend in distance with the sky. and silence--awful silence broods profoundly o'er these solitudes; nought but the lapsing of the floods breaks the deep stillness of the woods; a sense of desolation reigns o'er these unpeopled forest plains. where sounds of life ne'er wake a tone of cheerful praise round nature's throne, man finds himself with god--alone. my daydreams were dispelled by the return of the boat, which brought my husband and the captain from the island. “no bread,” said the latter, shaking his head; “you must be content to starve a little longer. provision-ship not in till four o'clock.” my husband smiled at the look of blank disappointment with which i received these unwelcome tidings, “never mind, i have news which will comfort you. the officer who commands the station sent a note to me by an orderly, inviting us to spend the afternoon with him. he promises to show us everything worthy of notice on the island. captain ---- claims acquaintance with me; but i have not the least recollection of him. would you like to go?” “oh, by all means. i long to see the lovely island. it looks a perfect paradise at this distance.” the rough sailor-captain screwed his mouth on one side, and gave me one of his comical looks, but he said nothing until he assisted in placing me and the baby in the boat. “don't be too sanguine, mrs. moodie; many things look well at a distance which are bad enough when near.” i scarcely regarded the old sailor's warning, so eager was i to go on shore--to put my foot upon the soil of the new world for the first time--i was in no humour to listen to any depreciation of what seemed so beautiful. it was four o'clock when we landed on the rocks, which the rays of an intensely scorching sun had rendered so hot that i could scarcely place my foot upon them. how the people without shoes bore it, i cannot imagine. never shall i forget the extraordinary spectacle that met our sight the moment we passed the low range of bushes which formed a screen in front of the river. a crowd of many hundred irish emigrants had been landed during the present and former day; and all this motley crew--men, women, and children, who were not confined by sickness to the sheds (which greatly resembled cattle-pens) were employed in washing clothes, or spreading them out on the rocks and bushes to dry. the men and boys were in the water, while the women, with their scanty garments tucked above their knees, were trampling their bedding in tubs, or in holes in the rocks, which the retiring tide had left half full of water. those who did not possess washing-tubs, pails, or iron pots, or could not obtain access to a hole in the rocks, were running to and fro, screaming and scolding in no measured terms. the confusion of babel was among them. all talkers and no hearers--each shouting and yelling in his or her uncouth dialect, and all accompanying their vociferations with violent and extraordinary gestures, quite incomprehensible to the uninitiated. we were literally stunned by the strife of tongues. i shrank, with feelings almost akin to fear, from the hard-featured, sun-burnt harpies, as they elbowed rudely past me. i had heard and read much of savages, and have since seen, during my long residence in the bush, somewhat of uncivilised life; but the indian is one of nature's gentlemen--he never says or does a rude or vulgar thing. the vicious, uneducated barbarians who form the surplus of over-populous european countries, are far behind the wild man in delicacy of feeling or natural courtesy. the people who covered the island appeared perfectly destitute of shame, or even of a sense of common decency. many were almost naked, still more but partially clothed. we turned in disgust from the revolting scene, but were unable to leave the spot until the captain had satisfied a noisy group of his own people, who were demanding a supply of stores. and here i must observe that our passengers, who were chiefly honest scotch labourers and mechanics from the vicinity of edinburgh, and who while on board ship had conducted themselves with the greatest propriety, and appeared the most quiet, orderly set of people in the world, no sooner set foot upon the island than they became infected by the same spirit of insubordination and misrule, and were just as insolent and noisy as the rest. while our captain was vainly endeavouring to satisfy the unreasonable demands of his rebellious people, moodie had discovered a woodland path that led to the back of the island. sheltered by some hazel-bushes from the intense heat of the sun, we sat down by the cool, gushing river, out of sight, but, alas! not out of hearing of the noisy, riotous crowd. could we have shut out the profane sounds which came to us on every breeze, how deeply should we have enjoyed an hour amid the tranquil beauties of that retired and lovely spot! the rocky banks of the island were adorned with beautiful evergreens, which sprang up spontaneously in every nook and crevice. i remarked many of our favourite garden shrubs among these wildings of nature: the fillagree, with its narrow, dark glossy-green leaves; the privet, with its modest white blossoms and purple berries; the lignum-vitae, with its strong resinous odour; the burnet-rose, and a great variety of elegant unknowns. here, the shores of the island and mainland, receding from each other, formed a small cove, overhung with lofty trees, clothed from the base to the summit with wild vines, that hung in graceful festoons from the topmost branches to the water's edge. the dark shadows of the mountains, thrown upon the water, as they towered to the height of some thousand feet above us, gave to the surface of the river an ebon hue. the sunbeams, dancing through the thick, quivering foliage, fell in stars of gold, or long lines of dazzling brightness, upon the deep black waters, producing the most novel and beautiful effects. it was a scene over which the spirit of peace might brood in silent adoration; but how spoiled by the discordant yells of the filthy beings who were sullying the purity of the air and water with contaminating sights and sounds! we were now joined by the sergeant, who very kindly brought us his capful of ripe plums and hazel-nuts, the growth of the island; a joyful present, but marred by a note from captain ----, who had found that he had been mistaken in his supposed knowledge of us, and politely apologised for not being allowed by the health-officers to receive any emigrant beyond the bounds appointed for the performance of quarantine. i was deeply disappointed, but my husband laughingly told me that i had seen enough of the island; and turning to the good-natured soldier, remarked, that “it could be no easy task to keep such wild savages in order.” “you may well say that, sir--but our night scenes far exceed those of the day. you would think they were incarnate devils; singing, drinking, dancing, shouting, and cutting antics that would surprise the leader of a circus. they have no shame--are under no restraint--nobody knows them here, and they think they can speak and act as they please; and they are such thieves that they rob one another of the little they possess. the healthy actually run the risk of taking the cholera by robbing the sick. if you have not hired one or two stout, honest fellows from among your fellow passengers to guard your clothes while they are drying, you will never see half of them again. they are a sad set, sir, a sad set. we could, perhaps, manage the men; but the women, sir!--the women! oh, sir!” anxious as we were to return to the ship, we were obliged to remain until sun-down in our retired nook. we were hungry, tired, and out of spirits; the mosquitoes swarmed in myriads around us, tormenting the poor baby, who, not at all pleased with her first visit to the new world, filled the air with cries, when the captain came to tell us that the boat was ready. it was a welcome sound. forcing our way once more through the still squabbling crowd, we gained the landing place. here we encountered a boat, just landing a fresh cargo of lively savages from the emerald isle. one fellow, of gigantic proportions, whose long, tattered great-coat just reached below the middle of his bare red legs, and, like charity, hid the defects of his other garments, or perhaps concealed his want of them, leaped upon the rocks, and flourishing aloft his shilelagh, bounded and capered like a wild goat from his native mountains. “whurrah! my boys!” he cried, “shure we'll all be jintlemen!” “pull away, my lads!” said the captain. then turning to me, “well, mrs. moodie, i hope that you have had enough of grosse isle. but could you have witnessed the scenes that i did this morning--” here he was interrupted by the wife of the old scotch dragoon, mackenzie, running down to the boat and laying her hand familiarly upon his shoulder, “captain, dinna forget.” “forget what?” she whispered something confidentially in his ear. “oh, ho! the brandy!” he responded aloud. “i should have thought, mrs. mackenzie, that you had had enough of that same on yon island?” “aye, sic a place for decent folk,” returned the drunken body, shaking her head. “one needs a drap o' comfort, captain, to keep up one's heart ava.” the captain set up one of his boisterous laughs as he pushed the boat from the shore. “hollo! sam frazer! steer in, we have forgotten the stores.” “i hope not, captain,” said i; “i have been starving since daybreak.” “the bread, the butter, the beef, the onions, and potatoes are here, sir,” said honest sam, particularizing each article. “all right; pull for the ship. mrs. moodie, we will have a glorious supper, and mind you don't dream of grosse isle.” in a few minutes we were again on board. thus ended my first day's experience of the land of all our hopes. oh! can you leave your native land? a canadian song oh! can you leave your native land an exile's bride to be; your mother's home, and cheerful hearth, to tempt the main with me; across the wide and stormy sea to trace our foaming track, and know the wave that heaves us on will never bear us back? and can you in canadian woods with me the harvest bind, nor feel one lingering, sad regret for all you leave behind? can those dear hands, unused to toil, the woodman's wants supply, nor shrink beneath the chilly blast when wintry storms are nigh? amid the shades of forests dark, our loved isle will appear an eden, whose delicious bloom will make the wild more drear. and you in solitude will weep o'er scenes beloved in vain, and pine away your life to view once more your native plain. then pause, dear girl! ere those fond lips your wanderer's fate decide; my spirit spurns the selfish wish-- you must not be my bride. but oh, that smile--those tearful eyes, my firmer purpose move-- our hearts are one, and we will dare all perils thus to love! [this song has been set to a beautiful plaintive air, by my husband.] chapter ii quebec queen of the west!--upon thy rocky throne, in solitary grandeur sternly placed; in awful majesty thou sitt'st alone, by nature's master-hand supremely graced. the world has not thy counterpart--thy dower, eternal beauty, strength, and matchless power. the clouds enfold thee in their misty vest, the lightning glances harmless round thy brow; the loud-voiced thunder cannot shake thy nest, or warring waves that idly chafe below; the storm above, the waters at thy feet-- may rage and foam, they but secure thy seat. the mighty river, as it onward rushes to pour its floods in ocean's dread abyss, checks at thy feet its fierce impetuous gushes, and gently fawns thy rocky base to kiss. stern eagle of the crag! thy hold should be the mountain home of heaven-born liberty! true to themselves, thy children may defy the power and malice of a world combined; while britain's flag, beneath thy deep blue sky, spreads its rich folds and wantons in the wind; the offspring of her glorious race of old may rest securely in their mountain hold. on the nd of september, the anchor was weighed, and we bade a long farewell to grosse isle. as our vessel struck into mid-channel, i cast a last lingering look at the beautiful shores we were leaving. cradled in the arms of the st. lawrence, and basking in the bright rays of the morning sun, the island and its sister group looked like a second eden just emerged from the waters of chaos. with what joy could i have spent the rest of the fall in exploring the romantic features of that enchanting scene! but our bark spread her white wings to the favouring breeze, and the fairy vision gradually receded from my sight, to remain for ever on the tablets of memory. the day was warm, and the cloudless heavens of that peculiar azure tint which gives to the canadian skies and waters a brilliancy unknown in more northern latitudes. the air was pure and elastic, the sun shone out with uncommon splendour, lighting up the changing woods with a rich mellow colouring, composed of a thousand brilliant and vivid dyes. the mighty river rolled flashing and sparkling onward, impelled by a strong breeze, that tipped its short rolling surges with a crest of snowy foam. had there been no other object of interest in the landscape than this majestic river, its vast magnitude, and the depth and clearness of its waters, and its great importance to the colony, would have been sufficient to have riveted the attention, and claimed the admiration of every thinking mind. never shall i forget that short voyage from grosse isle to quebec. i love to recall, after the lapse of so many years, every object that awoke in my breast emotions of astonishment and delight. what wonderful combinations of beauty, and grandeur, and power, at every winding of that noble river! how the mind expands with the sublimity of the spectacle, and soars upward in gratitude and adoration to the author of all being, to thank him for having made this lower world so wondrously fair--a living temple, heaven-arched, and capable of receiving the homage of all worshippers. every perception of my mind became absorbed into the one sense of seeing, when, upon rounding point levi, we cast anchor before quebec. what a scene!--can the world produce such another? edinburgh had been the beau ideal to me of all that was beautiful in nature--a vision of the northern highlands had haunted my dreams across the atlantic; but all these past recollections faded before the present of quebec. nature has lavished all her grandest elements to form this astonishing panorama. there frowns the cloud-capped mountain, and below, the cataract foams and thunders; wood, and rock, and river combine to lend their aid in making the picture perfect, and worthy of its divine originator. the precipitous bank upon which the city lies piled, reflected in the still deep waters at its base, greatly enhances the romantic beauty of the situation. the mellow and serene glow of the autumnal day harmonised so perfectly with the solemn grandeur of the scene around me, and sank so silently and deeply into my soul, that my spirit fell prostrate before it, and i melted involuntarily into tears. yes, regardless of the eager crowds around me, i leant upon the side of the vessel and cried like a child--not tears of sorrow, but a gush from the heart of pure and unalloyed delight. i heard not the many voices murmuring in my ears--i saw not the anxious beings that thronged our narrow deck--my soul at that moment was alone with god. the shadow of his glory rested visibly on the stupendous objects that composed that magnificent scene; words are perfectly inadequate to describe the impression it made upon my mind--the emotions it produced. the only homage i was capable of offering at such a shrine was tears--tears the most heartfelt and sincere that ever flowed from human eyes. i never before felt so overpoweringly my own insignificance, and the boundless might and majesty of the eternal. canadians, rejoice in your beautiful city! rejoice and be worthy of her--for few, very few, of the sons of men can point to such a spot as quebec--and exclaim, “she is ours!--god gave her to us, in her beauty and strength!--we will live for her glory--we will die to defend her liberty and rights--to raise her majestic brow high above the nations!” look at the situation of quebec!--the city founded on the rock that proudly holds the height of the hill. the queen sitting enthroned above the waters, that curb their swiftness and their strength to kiss and fawn around her lovely feet. canadians!--as long as you remain true to yourselves and her, what foreign invader could ever dare to plant a hostile flag upon that rock-defended height, or set his foot upon a fortress rendered impregnable by the hand of nature? united in friendship, loyalty, and love, what wonders may you not achieve? to what an enormous altitude of wealth and importance may you not arrive? look at the st. lawrence, that king of streams, that great artery flowing from the heart of the world, through the length and breadth of the land, carrying wealth and fertility in its course, and transporting from town to town along its beautiful shores the riches and produce of a thousand distant climes. what elements of future greatness and prosperity encircle you on every side! never yield up these solid advantages to become an humble dependent on the great republic--wait patiently, loyally, lovingly, upon the illustrious parent from whom you sprang, and by whom you have been fostered into life and political importance; in the fulness of time she will proclaim your childhood past, and bid you stand up in your own strength, a free canadian people! british mothers of canadian sons!--learn to feel for their country the same enthusiasm which fills your hearts when thinking of the glory of your own. teach them to love canada--to look upon her as the first, the happiest, the most independent country in the world! exhort them to be worthy of her--to have faith in her present prosperity, in her future greatness, and to devote all their talents, when they themselves are men, to accomplish this noble object. make your children proud of the land of their birth, the land which has given them bread--the land in which you have found an altar and a home; do this, and you will soon cease to lament your separation from the mother country, and the loss of those luxuries which you could not, in honor to yourself, enjoy; you will soon learn to love canada as i now love it, who once viewed it with a hatred so intense that i longed to die, that death might effectually separate us for ever. but, oh! beware of drawing disparaging contrasts between the colony and its illustrious parent. all such comparisons are cruel and unjust;--you cannot exalt the one at the expense of the other without committing an act of treason against both. but i have wandered away from my subject into the regions of thought, and must again descend to common work-a-day realities. the pleasure we experienced upon our first glance at quebec was greatly damped by the sad conviction that the cholera-plague raged within her walls, while the almost ceaseless tolling of bells proclaimed a mournful tale of woe and death. scarcely a person visited the vessel who was not in black, or who spoke not in tones of subdued grief. they advised us not to go on shore if we valued our lives, as strangers most commonly fell the first victims to the fatal malady. this was to me a severe disappointment, who felt an intense desire to climb to the crown of the rock, and survey the noble landscape at my feet. i yielded at last to the wishes of my husband, who did not himself resist the temptation in his own person, and endeavored to content myself with the means of enjoyment placed within my reach. my eyes were never tired of wandering over the scene before me. it is curious to observe how differently the objects which call forth intense admiration in some minds will affect others. the scotch dragoon, mackenzie, seeing me look long and intently at the distant falls of montmorency, drily observed,-- “it may be a' vera fine; but it looks na' better to my thinken than hanks o' white woo' hung out o're the bushes.” “weel,” cried another, “thae fa's are just bonnie; 'tis a braw land, nae doubt; but no' just so braw as auld scotland.” “hout man! hauld your clavers, we shall a' be lairds here,” said a third; “and ye maun wait a muckle time before they wad think aucht of you at hame.” i was not a little amused at the extravagant expectations entertained by some of our steerage passengers. the sight of the canadian shores had changed them into persons of great consequence. the poorest and the worst-dressed, the least-deserving and the most repulsive in mind and morals, exhibited most disgusting traits of self-importance. vanity and presumption seemed to possess them altogether. they talked loudly of the rank and wealth of their connexions at home, and lamented the great sacrifices they had made in order to join brothers and cousins who had foolishly settled in this beggarly wooden country. girls, who were scarcely able to wash a floor decently, talked of service with contempt, unless tempted to change their resolution by the offer of twelve dollars a month. to endeavour to undeceive them was a useless and ungracious task. after having tried it with several without success, i left it to time and bitter experience to restore them to their sober senses. in spite of the remonstrances of the captain, and the dread of the cholera, they all rushed on shore to inspect the land of goshen, and to endeavour to realise their absurd anticipations. we were favoured, a few minutes after our arrival, with another visit from the health-officers; but in this instance both the gentlemen were canadians. grave, melancholy-looking men, who talked much and ominously of the prevailing disorder, and the impossibility of strangers escaping from its fearful ravages. this was not very consoling, and served to depress the cheerful tone of mind which, after all, is one of the best antidotes against this awful scourge. the cabin seemed to lighten, and the air to circulate more freely, after the departure of these professional ravens. the captain, as if by instinct, took an additional glass of grog, to shake off the sepulchral gloom their presence had inspired. the visit of the doctors was followed by that of two of the officials of the customs--vulgar, illiterate men, who, seating themselves at the cabin table, with a familiar nod to the captain, and a blank stare at us, commenced the following dialogue:-- custom-house officer (after making inquiries as to the general cargo of the vessel): “any good brandy on board, captain?” captain (gruffly): “yes.” officer: “best remedy for the cholera known. the only one the doctors can depend upon.” captain (taking the hint): “gentlemen, i'll send you up a dozen bottles this afternoon.” officer: “oh, thank you. we are sure to get it genuine from you. any edinburgh ale in your freight?” captain (with a slight shrug): “a few hundreds in cases. i'll send you a dozen with the brandy.” both: “capital!” first officer: “any short, large-bowled, scotch pipes, with metallic lids?” captain (quite impatiently): “yes, yes; i'll send you some to smoke, with the brandy. what else?” officer: “we will now proceed to business.” my readers would have laughed, as i did, could they have seen how doggedly the old man shook his fist after these worthies as they left the vessel. “scoundrels!” he muttered to himself; and then turning to me, “they rob us in this barefaced manner, and we dare not resist or complain, for fear of the trouble they can put us to. if i had those villains at sea, i'd give them a taste of brandy and ale that they would not relish.” the day wore away, and the lengthened shadows of the mountains fell upon the waters, when the horsley hill, a large three-masted vessel from waterford, that we had left at the quarantine station, cast anchor a little above us. she was quickly boarded by the health-officers, and ordered round to take up her station below the castle. to accomplish this object she had to heave her anchor; when lo! a great pine-tree, which had been sunk in the river, became entangled in the chains. uproarious was the mirth to which the incident gave rise among the crowds that thronged the decks of the many vessels then at anchor in the river. speaking-trumpets resounded on every side; and my readers may be assured that the sea-serpent was not forgotten in the multitude of jokes which followed. laughter resounded on all sides; and in the midst of the noise and confusion, the captain of the horsley hill hoisted his colours downwards, as if making signals of distress, a mistake which provoked renewed and long-continued mirth. i laughed until my sides ached; little thinking how the horsley hill would pay us off for our mistimed hilarity. towards night, most of the steerage passengers returned, greatly dissatisfied with their first visit to the city, which they declared to be a filthy hole, that looked a great deal better from the ship's side than it did on shore. this, i have often been told, is literally the case. here, as elsewhere, man has marred the magnificent creation of his maker. a dark and starless night closed in, accompanied by cold winds and drizzling rain. we seemed to have made a sudden leap from the torrid to the frigid zone. two hours before, my light summer clothing was almost insupportable, and now a heavy and well-lined plaid formed but an inefficient screen from the inclemency of the weather. after watching for some time the singular effect produced by the lights in the town reflected in the water, and weary with a long day of anticipation and excitement, i made up my mind to leave the deck and retire to rest. i had just settled down my baby in her berth, when the vessel struck, with a sudden crash that sent a shiver through her whole frame. alarmed, but not aware of the real danger that hung over us, i groped my way to the cabin, and thence ascended to the deck. here a scene of confusion prevailed that baffles description. by some strange fatality, the horsley hill had changed her position, and run foul of us in the dark. the anne was a small brig, and her unlucky neighbour a heavy three-masted vessel, with three hundred irish emigrants on board; and as her bowspirit was directly across the bows of the anne, and she anchored, and unable to free herself from the deadly embrace, there was no small danger of the poor brig going down in the unequal struggle. unable to comprehend what was going on, i raised my head above my companion ladder, just at the critical moment when the vessels were grappled together. the shrieks of the women, the shouts and oaths of the men, and the barking of the dogs in either ship, aided the dense darkness of the night in producing a most awful and stunning effect. “what is the matter?” i gasped out. “what is the reason of this dreadful confusion?” the captain was raging like a chafed bull, in the grasp of several frantic women, who were clinging, shrieking, to his knees. with great difficulty i persuaded the women to accompany me below. the mate hurried off with the cabin light upon the deck, and we were left in total darkness to await the result. a deep, strange silence fell upon my heart. it was not exactly fear, but a sort of nerving of my spirit to meet the worst. the cowardly behaviour of my companions inspired me with courage. i was ashamed of their pusillanimity and want of faith in the divine providence. i sat down, and calmly begged them to follow my example. an old woman, called williamson, a sad reprobate, in attempting to do so, set her foot within the fender, which the captain had converted into a repository for empty glass bottles; the smash that ensued was echoed by a shriek from the whole party. “god guide us,” cried the ancient dame; “but we are going into eternity. i shall be lost; my sins are more in number than the hairs of my head.” this confession was followed by oaths and imprecations too blasphemous to repeat. shocked and disgusted at her profanity, i bade her pray, and not waste the few moments that might be hers in using oaths and bad language. “did you not hear the crash?” said she. “i did; it was of your own making. sit down and be quiet.” here followed another shock, that made the vessel heave and tremble; and the dragging of the anchor increased the uneasy motion which began to fill the boldest of us with alarm. “mrs. moodie, we are lost,” said margaret williamson, the youngest daughter of the old woman, a pretty girl, who had been the belle of the ship, flinging herself on her knees before me, and grasping both my hands in hers. “oh, pray for me! pray for me! i cannot, i dare not, pray for myself; i was never taught a prayer.” her voice was choked with convulsive sobs, and scalding tears fell in torrents from her eyes over my hands. i never witnessed such an agony of despair. before i could say one word to comfort her, another shock seemed to lift the vessel upwards. i felt my own blood run cold, expecting instantly to go down; and thoughts of death, and the unknown eternity at our feet, flitted vaguely through my mind. “if we stay here, we shall perish,” cried the girl, springing to her feet. “let us go on deck, mother, and take our chance with the rest.” “stay,” i said; “you are safer here. british sailors never leave women to perish. you have fathers, husbands, brothers on board, who will not forget you. i beseech you to remain patiently here until the danger is past.” i might as well have preached to the winds. the headstrong creatures would no longer be controlled. they rushed simultaneously upon deck, just as the horsley hill swung off, carrying with her part of the outer frame of our deck and the larger portion of our stern. when tranquillity was restored, fatigued both in mind and body, i sunk into a profound sleep, and did not awake until the sun had risen high above the wave-encircled fortress of quebec. the stormy clouds had all dispersed during the night; the air was clear and balmy; the giant hills were robed in a blue, soft mist, which rolled around them in fleecy volumes. as the beams of the sun penetrated their shadowy folds, they gradually drew up like a curtain, and dissolved like wreaths of smoke into the clear air. the moment i came on deck, my old friend oscar greeted me with his usual joyous bark, and with the sagacity peculiar to his species, proceeded to shew me all the damage done to the vessel during the night. it was laughable to watch the motions of the poor brute, as he ran from place to place, stopping before, or jumping upon, every fractured portion of the deck, and barking out his indignation at the ruinous condition in which he found his marine home. oscar had made eleven voyages in the anne, and had twice saved the life of the captain. he was an ugly specimen of the scotch terrier, and greatly resembled a bundle of old rope-yarn; but a more faithful or attached creature i never saw. the captain was not a little jealous of oscar's friendship for me. i was the only person the dog had ever deigned to notice, and his master regarded it as an act of treason on the part of his four-footed favourite. when my arms were tired with nursing, i had only to lay my baby on my cloak on deck, and tell oscar to watch her, and the good dog would lie down by her, and suffer her to tangle his long curls in her little hands, and pull his tail and ears in the most approved baby fashion, without offering the least opposition; but if any one dared to approach his charge, he was alive on the instant, placing his paws over the child, and growling furiously. he would have been a bold man who had approached the child to do her injury. oscar was the best plaything, and as sure a protector, as katie had. during the day, many of our passengers took their departure; tired of the close confinement of the ship, and the long voyage, they were too impatient to remain on board until we reached montreal. the mechanics obtained instant employment, and the girls who were old enough to work, procured situations as servants in the city. before night, our numbers were greatly reduced. the old dragoon and his family, two scotch fiddlers of the name of duncan, a highlander called tam grant, and his wife and little son, and our own party, were all that remained of the seventy-two passengers that left the port of leith in the brig anne. in spite of the earnest entreaties of his young wife, the said tam grant, who was the most mercurial fellow in the world, would insist upon going on shore to see all the lions of the place. “ah, tam! tam! ye will die o' the cholera,” cried the weeping maggie. “my heart will brak if ye dinna bide wi' me an' the bairnie.” tam was deaf as ailsa craig. regardless of tears and entreaties, he jumped into the boat, like a wilful man as he was, and my husband went with him. fortunately for me, the latter returned safe to the vessel, in time to proceed with her to montreal, in tow of the noble steamer, british america; but tam, the volatile tam was missing. during the reign of the cholera, what at another time would have appeared but a trifling incident, was now invested with doubt and terror. the distress of the poor wife knew no bounds. i think i see her now, as i saw her then, sitting upon the floor of the deck, her head buried between her knees, rocking herself to and fro, and weeping in the utter abandonment of her grief. “he is dead! he is dead! my dear, dear tam! the pestilence has seized upon him; and i and the puir bairn are left alone in the strange land.” all attempts at consolation were useless; she obstinately refused to listen to probabilities, or to be comforted. all through the night i heard her deep and bitter sobs, and the oft-repeated name of him that she had lost. the sun was sinking over the plague-stricken city, gilding the changing woods and mountain peaks with ruddy light; the river mirrored back the gorgeous sky, and moved in billows of liquid gold; the very air seemed lighted up with heavenly fires, and sparkled with myriads of luminous particles, as i gazed my last upon that beautiful scene. the tow-line was now attached from our ship to the british america, and in company with two other vessels, we followed fast in her foaming wake. day lingered on the horizon just long enough to enable me to examine, with deep interest, the rocky heights of abraham, the scene of our immortal wolfe's victory and death; and when the twilight faded into night, the moon arose in solemn beauty, and cast mysterious gleams upon the strange stern landscape. the wide river, flowing rapidly between its rugged banks, rolled in inky blackness beneath the overshadowing crags; while the waves in mid-channel flashed along in dazzling light, rendered more intense by the surrounding darkness. in this luminous track the huge steamer glided majestically forward, flinging showers of red earth-stars from the funnel into the clear air, and looking like some fiery demon of the night enveloped in smoke and flame. the lofty groves of pine frowned down in hearse-like gloom upon the mighty river, and the deep stillness of the night, broken alone by its hoarse wailings, filled my mind with sad forebodings--alas! too prophetic of the future. keenly, for the first time, i felt that i was a stranger in a strange land; my heart yearned intensely for my absent home. home! the word had ceased to belong to my present--it was doomed to live for ever in the past; for what emigrant ever regarded the country of his exile as his home? to the land he has left, that name belongs for ever, and in no instance does he bestow it upon another. “i have got a letter from home!” “i have seen a friend from home!” “i dreamt last night that i was at home!” are expressions of everyday occurrence, to prove that the heart acknowledges no other home than the land of its birth. from these sad reveries i was roused by the hoarse notes of the bagpipe. that well-known sound brought every scotchman upon deck, and set every limb in motion on the decks of the other vessels. determined not to be outdone, our fiddlers took up the strain, and a lively contest ensued between the rival musicians, which continued during the greater part of the night. the shouts of noisy revelry were in no way congenial to my feelings. nothing tends so much to increase our melancholy as merry music when the heart is sad; and i left the scene with eyes brimful of tears, and my mind painfully agitated by sorrowful recollections and vain regrets. the strains we hear in foreign lands, no echo from the heart can claim; the chords are swept by strangers' hands, and kindle in the breast no flame, sweet though they be. no fond remembrance wakes to fling its hallowed influence o'er the chords; as if a spirit touch'd the string, breathing, in soft harmonious words, deep melody. the music of our native shore a thousand lovely scenes endears; in magic tones it murmurs o'er the visions of our early years;-- the hopes of youth; it wreathes again the flowers we wreathed in childhood's bright, unclouded day; it breathes again the vows we breathed, at beauty's shrine, when hearts were gay and whisper'd truth; it calls before our mental sight dear forms whose tuneful lips are mute, bright, sunny eyes long closed in night, warm hearts now silent as the lute that charm'd our ears; it thrills the breast with feelings deep, too deep for language to impart; and bids the spirit joy and weep, in tones that sink into the heart, and melt in tears. chapter iii our journey up the country fly this plague-stricken spot! the hot, foul air is rank with pestilence--the crowded marts and public ways, once populous with life, are still and noisome as a churchyard vault; aghast and shuddering, nature holds her breath in abject fear, and feels at her strong heart the deadly pangs of death. of montreal i can say but little. the cholera was at its height, and the fear of infection, which increased the nearer we approached its shores, cast a gloom over the scene, and prevented us from exploring its infected streets. that the feelings of all on board very nearly resembled our own might be read in the anxious faces of both passengers and crew. our captain, who had never before hinted that he entertained any apprehensions on the subject, now confided to us his conviction that he should never quit the city alive: “this cursed cholera! left it in russia--found it on my return to leith--meets me again in canada. no escape the third time.” if the captain's prediction proved true in his case, it was not so in ours. we left the cholera in england, we met it again in scotland, and, under the providence of god, we escaped its fatal visitation in canada. yet the fear and the dread of it on that first day caused me to throw many an anxious glance on my husband and my child. i had been very ill during the three weeks that our vessel was becalmed upon the banks of newfoundland, and to this circumstance i attribute my deliverance from the pestilence. i was weak and nervous when the vessel arrived at quebec, but the voyage up the st. lawrence, the fresh air and beautiful scenery were rapidly restoring me to health. montreal from the river wears a pleasing aspect, but it lacks the grandeur, the stern sublimity of quebec. the fine mountain that forms the background to the city, the island of st. helens in front, and the junction of the st. lawrence and the ottawa--which run side by side, their respective boundaries only marked by a long ripple of white foam, and the darker blue tint of the former river--constitute the most remarkable features in the landscape. the town itself was, at that period, dirty and ill-paved; and the opening of all the sewers, in order to purify the place and stop the ravages of the pestilence, rendered the public thoroughfares almost impassable, and loaded the air with intolerable effluvia, more likely to produce than stay the course of the plague, the violence of which had, in all probability, been increased by these long-neglected receptacles of uncleanliness. the dismal stories told us by the excise-officer who came to inspect the unloading of the vessel, of the frightful ravages of the cholera, by no means increased our desire to go on shore. “it will be a miracle if you escape,” he said. “hundreds of emigrants die daily; and if stephen ayres had not providentally come among us, not a soul would have been alive at this moment in montreal.” “and who is stephen ayres?” said i. “god only knows,” was the grave reply. “there was a man sent from heaven, and his name was john.” “but i thought this man was called stephen?” “ay, so he calls himself; but 'tis certain that he is not of the earth. flesh and blood could never do what he has done--the hand of god is in it. besides, no one knows who he is, or whence he comes. when the cholera was at the worst, and the hearts of all men stood still with fear, and our doctors could do nothing to stop its progress, this man, or angel, or saint, suddenly made his appearance in our streets. he came in great humility, seated in an ox-cart, and drawn by two lean oxen and a rope harness. only think of that! such a man in an _old ox-cart_, drawn by _rope harness!_ the thing itself was a miracle. he made no parade about what he could do, but only fixed up a plain pasteboard notice, informing the public that he possessed an infallible remedy for the cholera, and would engage to cure all who sent for him.” “and was he successful?” “successful! it beats all belief; and his remedy so simple! for some days we all took him for a quack, and would have no faith in him at all, although he performed some wonderful cures upon poor folks, who could not afford to send for the doctor. the indian village was attacked by the disease, and he went out to them, and restored upward of a hundred of the indians to perfect health. they took the old lean oxen out of the cart, and drew him back to montreal in triumph. this 'stablished him at once, and in a few days' time he made a fortune. the very doctors sent for him to cure them; and it is to be hoped that in a few days he will banish the cholera from the city.” “do you know his famous remedy?” “do i not?--did he not cure me when i was at the last gasp? why, he makes no secret of it. it is all drawn from the maple-tree. first he rubs the patient all over with an ointment, made of hog's lard and maple-sugar and ashes, from the maple-tree; and he gives him a hot draught of maple-sugar and ley, which throws him into a violent perspiration. in about an hour the cramps subside; he falls into a quiet sleep, and when he awakes he is perfectly restored to health.” such were our first tidings of stephen ayres, the cholera doctor, who is universally believed to have effected some wonderful cures. he obtained a wide celebrity throughout the colony.[ ] [ ] a friend of mine, in this town, has an original portrait of this notable empiric--this man sent from heaven. the face is rather handsome, but has a keen, designing expression, and is evidently that of an american, from its complexion and features. the day of our arrival in the port of montreal was spent in packing and preparing for our long journey up the country. at sunset, i went upon deck to enjoy the refreshing breeze that swept from the river. the evening was delightful; the white tents of the soldiers on the island of st. helens glittered in the beams of the sun, and the bugle-call, wafted over the waters, sounded so cheery and inspiring, that it banished all fears of the cholera, and, with fear, the heavy gloom that had clouded my mind since we left quebec. i could once more hold sweet converse with nature, and enjoy the soft loveliness of the rich and harmonious scene. a loud cry from one of the crew startled me; i turned to the river, and beheld a man struggling in the water a short distance from our vessel. he was a young sailor, who had fallen from the bowsprit of a ship near us. there is something terribly exciting in beholding a fellow-creature in imminent peril, without having the power to help him. to witness his death-struggles--to feel in your own person all the dreadful alternations of hope and fear--and, finally, to see him die, with scarcely an effort made for his preservation. this was our case. at the moment he fell into the water, a boat with three men was within a few yards of the spot, and actually sailed over the spot where he sank. cries of “shame!” from the crowd collected upon the bank of the river, had no effect in rousing these people to attempt the rescue of a perishing fellow-creature. the boat passed on. the drowning man again rose to the surface, the convulsive motion of his hands and feet visible above the water, but it was evident that the struggle would be his last. “is it possible that they will let a human being perish, and so near the shore, when an oar held out would save his life?” was the agonising question at my heart, as i gazed, half-maddened by excitement, on the fearful spectacle. the eyes of a multitude were fixed upon the same object--but not a hand stirred. every one seemed to expect from his fellow an effort which he was incapable of attempting himself. at this moment--splash! a sailor plunged into the water from the deck of a neighbouring vessel, and dived after the drowning man. a deep “thank god!” burst from my heart. i drew a freer breath as the brave fellow's head appeared above the water. he called to the man in the boat to throw him an oar, or the drowning man would be the death of them both. slowly they put back the boat--the oar was handed; but it came too late! the sailor, whose name was cook, had been obliged to shake off the hold of the dying man to save his own life. he dived again to the bottom, and succeeded in bringing to shore the body of the unfortunate being he had vainly endeavoured to succour. shortly after, he came on board our vessel, foaming with passion at the barbarous indifference manifested by the men in the boat. “had they given me the oar in time, i could have saved him. i knew him well--he was an excellent fellow, and a good seaman. he has left a wife and three children in liverpool. poor jane!--how can i tell her that i could not save her husband?” he wept bitterly, and it was impossible for any of us to witness his emotion without joining in his grief. from the mate i learned that this same young man had saved the lives of three women and a child when the boat was swamped at grosse isle, in attempting to land the passengers from the horsley hill. such acts of heroism are common in the lower walks of life. thus, the purest gems are often encased in the rudest crust; and the finest feelings of the human heart are fostered in the chilling atmosphere of poverty. while this sad event occupied all our thoughts, and gave rise to many painful reflections, an exclamation of unqualified delight at once changed the current of our thoughts, and filled us with surprise and pleasure. maggie grant had fainted in the arms of her husband. yes, there was tam--her dear, reckless tam, after all her tears and lamentations, pressing his young wife to his heart, and calling her by a thousand endearing pet names. he had met with some countrymen at quebec, had taken too much whiskey on the joyful occasion, and lost his passage in the anne, but had followed, a few hours later, in another steam-boat; and he assured the now happy maggie, as he kissed the infant tam, whom she held up to his admiring gaze, that he never would be guilty of the like again. perhaps he kept his word; but i much fear that the first temptation would make the lively laddie forget his promise. our luggage having been removed to the custom-house, including our bedding, the captain collected all the ship's flags for our accommodation, of which we formed a tolerably comfortable bed; and if our dreams were of england, could it be otherwise, with her glorious flag wrapped around us, and our heads resting upon the union jack? in the morning we were obliged to visit the city to make the necessary arrangements for our upward journey. the day was intensely hot. a bank of thunderclouds lowered heavily above the mountain, and the close, dusty streets were silent, and nearly deserted. here and there might be seen a group of anxious-looking, care-worn, sickly emigrants, seated against a wall among their packages, and sadly ruminating upon their future prospects. the sullen toll of the death-bell, the exposure of ready-made coffins in the undertakers' windows, and the oft-recurring notice placarded on the walls, of funerals furnished at such and such a place, at cheapest rate and shortest notice, painfully reminded us, at every turning of the street, that death was everywhere--perhaps lurking in our very path; we felt no desire to examine the beauties of the place. with this ominous feeling pervading our minds, public buildings possessed few attractions, and we determined to make our stay as short as possible. compared with the infected city, our ship appeared an ark of safety, and we returned to it with joy and confidence, too soon to be destroyed. we had scarcely re-entered our cabin, when tidings were brought to us that the cholera had made its appearance: a brother of the captain had been attacked. it was advisable that we should leave the vessel immediately, before the intelligence could reach the health-officers. a few minutes sufficed to make the necessary preparations; and in less than half an hour we found ourselves occupying comfortable apartments in goodenough's hotel, and our passage taken in the stage for the following morning. the transition was like a dream. the change from the close, rank ship, to large, airy, well-furnished rooms and clean attendants, was a luxury we should have enjoyed had not the dread of cholera involved all things around us in gloom and apprehension. no one spoke upon the subject; and yet it was evident that it was uppermost in the thoughts of all. several emigrants had died of the terrible disorder during the week, beneath the very roof that sheltered us, and its ravages, we were told, had extended up the country as far as kingston; so that it was still to be the phantom of our coming journey, if we were fortunate enough to escape from its head-quarters. at six o'clock the following morning, we took our places in the coach for lachine, and our fears of the plague greatly diminished as we left the spires of montreal in the distance. the journey from montreal westward has been so well described by many gifted pens, that i shall say little about it. the banks of the st. lawrence are picturesque and beautiful, particularly in those spots where there is a good view of the american side. the neat farm-houses looked to me, whose eyes had been so long accustomed to the watery waste, homes of beauty and happiness; and the splendid orchards, the trees at that season of the year being loaded with ripening fruit of all hues, were refreshing and delicious. my partiality for the apples was regarded by a fellow-traveller with a species of horror. “touch them not, if you value your life.” every draught of fresh air and water inspired me with renewed health and spirits, and i disregarded the well-meant advice; the gentlemen who gave it had just recovered from the terrible disease. he was a middle-aged man, a farmer from the upper province, canadian born. he had visited montreal on business for the first time. “well, sir,” he said, in answer to some questions put to him by my husband respecting the disease, “i can tell you what it is: a man smitten with the cholera stares death right in the face; and the torment he is suffering is so great that he would gladly die to get rid of it.” “you were fortunate, c----, to escape,” said a backwood settler, who occupied the opposite seat; “many a younger man has died of it.” “ay; but i believe i never should have taken it had it not been for some things they gave me for supper at the hotel; oysters, they called them, oysters; they were alive! i was once persuaded by a friend to eat them, and i liked them well enough at the time. but i declare to you that i felt them crawling over one another in my stomach all night. the next morning i was seized with the cholera.” “did you swallow them whole, c----?” said the former spokesman, who seemed highly tickled by the evil doings of the oysters. “to be sure. i tell you, the creatures are alive. you put them on your tongue, and i'll be bound you'll be glad to let them slip down as fast as you can.” “no wonder you had the cholera,” said the backwoodsman, “you deserved it for your barbarity. if i had a good plate of oysters here, i'd teach you the way to eat them.” our journey during the first day was performed partly by coach, partly by steam. it was nine o'clock in the evening when we landed at cornwell, and took coach for prescott. the country through which we passed appeared beautiful in the clear light of the moon; but the air was cold, and slightly sharpened by frost. this seemed strange to me in the early part of september, but it is very common in canada. nine passengers were closely packed into our narrow vehicle, but the sides being of canvas, and the open space allowed for windows unglazed, i shivered with cold, which amounted to a state of suffering, when the day broke, and we approached the little village of matilda. it was unanimously voted by all hands that we should stop and breakfast at a small inn by the road-side, and warm ourselves before proceeding to prescott. the people in the tavern were not stirring, and it was some time before an old white-headed man unclosed the door, and showed us into a room, redolent with fumes of tobacco, and darkened by paper blinds. i asked him if he would allow me to take my infant into a room with a fire. “i guess it was a pretty considerable cold night for the like of her,” said he. “come, i'll show you to the kitchen; there's always a fire there.” i cheerfully followed, accompanied by our servant. our entrance was unexpected, and by no means agreeable to the persons we found there. a half-clothed, red-haired irish servant was upon her knees, kindling up the fire; and a long, thin woman, with a sharp face, and an eye like a black snake, was just emerging from a bed in the corner. we soon discovered this apparition to be the mistress of the house. “the people can't come in here!” she screamed in a shrill voice, darting daggers at the poor old man. “sure there's a baby, and the two women critters are perished with cold,” pleaded the good old man. “what's that to me? they have no business in my kitchen.” “now, almira, do hold on. it's the coach has stopped to breakfast with us; and you know we don't often get the chance.” all this time the fair almira was dressing as fast as she could, and eyeing her unwelcome female guests, as we stood shivering over the fire. “breakfast!” she muttered, “what can we give them to eat? they pass our door a thousand times without any one alighting; and now, when we are out of everything, they must stop and order breakfast at such an unreasonable hour. how many are there of you?” turning fiercely to me. “nine,” i answered, laconically, continuing to chafe the cold hands and feet of the child. “nine! that bit of beef will be nothing, cut into steaks for nine. what's to be done, joe?” (to the old man.) “eggs and ham, summat of that dried venison, and pumpkin pie,” responded the aide-de-camp, thoughtfully. “i don't know of any other fixings.” “bestir yourself, then, and lay out the table, for the coach can't stay long,” cried the virago, seizing a frying-pan from the wall, and preparing it for the reception of eggs and ham. “i must have the fire to myself. people can't come crowding here, when i have to fix breakfast for nine; particularly when there is a good room elsewhere provided for their accommodation.” i took the hint, and retreated to the parlour, where i found the rest of the passengers walking to and fro, and impatiently awaiting the advent of breakfast. to do almira justice, she prepared from her scanty materials a very substantial breakfast in an incredibly short time, for which she charged us a quarter of a dollar per head. at prescott we embarked on board a fine new steam-boat, william iv., crowded with irish emigrants, proceeding to cobourg and toronto. while pacing the deck, my husband was greatly struck by the appearance of a middle-aged man and his wife, who sat apart from the rest, and seemed struggling with intense grief, which, in spite of all their efforts at concealment, was strongly impressed upon their features. some time after, i fell into conversation with the woman, from whom i learned their little history. the husband was factor to a scotch gentleman, of large landed property, who had employed him to visit canada, and report the capabilities of the country, prior to his investing a large sum of money in wild lands. the expenses of their voyage had been paid, and everything up to that morning had prospered them. they had been blessed with a speedy passage, and were greatly pleased with the country and the people; but of what avail was all this? their only son, a fine lad of fourteen, had died that day of the cholera, and all their hopes for the future were buried in his grave. for his sake they had sought a home in this far land; and here, at the very onset of their new career, the fell disease had taken him from them for ever--here, where, in such a crowd, the poor heart-broken mother could not even indulge her natural grief! “ah, for a place where i might greet!” she said; “it would relieve the burning weight at my heart. but with sae many strange eyes glowering upon me, i tak' shame to mysel' to greet.” “ah, jeannie, my puir woman,” said the husband, grasping her hand, “ye maun bear up; 'tis god's will; an sinfu' creatures like us mauna repine. but oh, madam,” turning to me, “we have sair hearts the day!” poor bereaved creatures, how deeply i commiserated their grief--how i respected the poor father, in the stern efforts he made to conceal from indifferent spectators the anguish that weighed upon his mind! tears are the best balm that can be applied to the anguish of the heart. religion teaches man to bear his sorrows with becoming fortitude, but tears contribute largely both to soften and to heal the wounds from whence they flow. at brockville we took in a party of ladies, which somewhat relieved the monotony of the cabin, and i was amused by listening to their lively prattle, and the little gossip with which they strove to wile away the tedium of the voyage. the day was too stormy to go upon deck--thunder and lightening, accompanied with torrents of rain. amid the confusion of the elements, i tried to get a peep at the lake of the thousand isles; but the driving storm blended all objects into one, and i returned wet and disappointed to my berth. we passed kingston at midnight, and lost all our lady passengers but two. the gale continued until daybreak, and noise and confusion prevailed all night, which were greatly increased by the uproarious conduct of a wild irish emigrant, who thought fit to make his bed upon the mat before the cabin door. he sang, he shouted, and harangued his countrymen on the political state of the emerald isle, in a style which was loud if not eloquent. sleep was impossible, whilst his stentorian lungs continued to pour forth torrents of unmeaning sound. our dutch stewardess was highly enraged. his conduct, she said, “was perfectly ondacent.” she opened the door, and bestowing upon him several kicks, bade him get away “out of that,” or she would complain to the captain. in answer to this remonstrance, he caught her by the foot, and pulled her down. then waving the tattered remains of his straw hat in the air, he shouted with an air of triumph, “git out wid you, you ould witch! shure the ladies, the purty darlints, never sent you wid that ugly message to pat, who loves them so intirely that he manes to kape watch over them through the blessed night.” then making us a ludicrous bow, he continued, “ladies, i'm at yer sarvice; i only wish i could get a dispensation from the pope, and i'd marry yeas all.” the stewardess bolted the door, and the mad fellow kept up such a racket that we all wished him at the bottom of the ontario. the following day was wet and gloomy. the storm had protracted the length of our voyage for several hours, and it was midnight when we landed at cobourg. there's rest (written at midnight on the river st. lawrence) there's rest when eve, with dewy fingers, draws the curtains of repose round the west, where light still lingers, and the day's last glory glows; there's rest in heaven's unclouded blue, when twinkling stars steal one by one, so softly on the gazer's view, as if they sought his glance to shun. there's rest when o'er the silent meads the deepening shades of night advance; and sighing through their fringe of reeds, the mighty stream's clear waters glance. there's rest when all above is bright, and gently o'er these summer isles the full moon pours her mellow light, and heaven on earth serenely smiles. there's rest when angry storms are o'er, and fear no longer vigil keeps; when winds are heard to rave no more, and ocean's troubled spirit sleeps; there's rest when to the pebbly strand, the lapsing billows slowly glide; and, pillow'd on the golden sand, breathes soft and low the slumbering tide. there's rest, deep rest, at this still hour-- a holy calm,--a pause profound; whose soothing spell and dreamy power lulls into slumber all around. there's rest for labour's hardy child, for nature's tribes of earth and air,-- whose sacred balm and influence mild, save guilt and sorrow, all may share. there's rest beneath the quiet sod, when life and all its sorrows cease, and in the bosom of his god the christian finds eternal peace,-- that peace the world cannot bestow, the rest a saviour's death-pangs bought, to bid the weary pilgrim know a rest surpassing human thought. chapter iv tom wilson's emigration “of all odd fellows, this fellow was the oddest. i have seen many strange fish in my days, but i never met with his equal.” about a month previous to our emigration to canada, my husband said to me, “you need not expect me home to dinner to-day; i am going with my friend wilson to y----, to hear mr. c---- lecture upon emigration to canada. he has just returned from the north american provinces, and his lectures are attended by vast numbers of persons who are anxious to obtain information on the subject. i got a note from your friend b---- this morning, begging me to come over and listen to his palaver; and as wilson thinks of emigrating in the spring, he will be my walking companion.” “tom wilson going to canada!” said i, as the door closed on my better-half. “what a backwoodsman he will make! what a loss to the single ladies of s----! what will they do without him at their balls and picnics?” one of my sisters, who was writing at a table near me, was highly amused at this unexpected announcement. she fell back in her chair and indulged in a long and hearty laugh. i am certain that most of my readers would have joined in her laugh had they known the object which provoked her mirth. “poor tom is such a dreamer,” said my sister, “it would be an act of charity in moodie to persuade him from undertaking such a wild-goose chase; only that i fancy my good brother is possessed with the same mania.” “nay, god forbid!” said i. “i hope this mr. ----, with the unpronounceable name, will disgust them with his eloquence; for b---- writes me word, in his droll way, that he is a coarse, vulgar fellow, and lacks the dignity of a bear. oh! i am certain they will return quite sickened with the canadian project.” thus i laid the flattering unction to my soul, little dreaming that i and mine should share in the strange adventures of this oddest of all odd creatures. it might be made a subject of curious inquiry to those who delight in human absurdities, if ever there were a character drawn in works of fiction so extravagantly ridiculous as some which daily experience presents to our view. we have encountered people in the broad thoroughfares of life more eccentric than ever we read of in books; people who, if all their foolish sayings and doings were duly recorded, would vie with the drollest creations of hood, or george colman, and put to shame the flights of baron munchausen. not that tom wilson was a romancer; oh no! he was the very prose of prose, a man in a mist, who seemed afraid of moving about for fear of knocking his head against a tree, and finding a halter suspended to its branches--a man as helpless and as indolent as a baby. mr. thomas, or tom wilson, as he was familiarly called by all his friends and acquaintances, was the son of a gentleman, who once possessed a large landed property in the neighbourhood; but an extravagant and profligate expenditure of the income which he derived from a fine estate which had descended from father to son through many generations, had greatly reduced the circumstances of the elder wilson. still, his family held a certain rank and standing in their native county, of which his evil courses, bad as they were, could not wholly deprive them. the young people--and a very large family they made of sons and daughters, twelve in number--were objects of interest and commiseration to all who knew them, while the worthless father was justly held in contempt and detestation. our hero was the youngest of the six sons; and from his childhood he was famous for his nothing-to-doishness. he was too indolent to engage heart and soul in the manly sports of his comrades; and he never thought it necessary to commence learning his lessons until the school had been in an hour. as he grew up to man's estate, he might be seen dawdling about in a black frock-coat, jean trousers, and white kid gloves, making lazy bows to the pretty girls of his acquaintance; or dressed in a green shooting-jacket, with a gun across his shoulder, sauntering down the wooded lanes, with a brown spaniel dodging at his heels, and looking as sleepy and indolent as his master. the slowness of all tom's movements was strangely contrasted with his slight, and symmetrical figure; that looked as if it only awaited the will of the owner to be the most active piece of human machinery that ever responded to the impulses of youth and health. but then, his face! what pencil could faithfully delineate features at once so comical and lugubrious--features that one moment expressed the most solemn seriousness, and the next, the most grotesque and absurd abandonment to mirth? in him, all extremes appeared to meet; the man was a contradiction to himself. tom was a person of few words, and so intensely lazy that it required a strong effort of will to enable him to answer the questions of inquiring friends; and when at length aroused to exercise his colloquial powers, he performed the task in so original a manner that it never failed to upset the gravity of the interrogator. when he raised his large, prominent, leaden-coloured eyes from the ground, and looked the inquirer steadily in the face, the effect was irresistible; the laugh would come--do your best to resist it. poor tom took this mistimed merriment in very good part, generally answering with a ghastly contortion which he meant for a smile, or, if he did trouble himself to find words, with, “well, that's funny! what makes you laugh? at me, i suppose? i don't wonder at it; i often laugh at myself.” tom would have been a treasure to an undertaker. he would have been celebrated as a mute; he looked as if he had been born in a shroud, and rocked in a coffin. the gravity with which he could answer a ridiculous or impertinent question completely disarmed and turned the shafts of malice back upon his opponent. if tom was himself an object of ridicule to many, he had a way of quietly ridiculing others that bade defiance to all competition. he could quiz with a smile, and put down insolence with an incredulous stare. a grave wink from those dreamy eyes would destroy the veracity of a travelled dandy for ever. tom was not without use in his day and generation; queer and awkward as he was, he was the soul of truth and honour. you might suspect his sanity--a matter always doubtful--but his honesty of heart and purpose, never. when you met tom in the streets, he was dressed with such neatness and care (to be sure it took him half the day to make his toilet), that it led many persons to imagine that this very ugly young man considered himself an adonis; and i must confess that i rather inclined to this opinion. he always paced the public streets with a slow, deliberate tread, and with his eyes fixed intently on the ground--like a man who had lost his ideas, and was diligently employed in searching for them. i chanced to meet him one day in this dreamy mood. “how do you do, mr. wilson?” he stared at me for several minutes, as if doubtful of my presence or identity. “what was that you said?” i repeated the question; and he answered, with one of his incredulous smiles-- “was it to me you spoke? oh, i am quite well, or i should not be walking here. by the way, did you see my dog?” “how should i know your dog?” “they say he resembles me. he's a queer dog, too; but i never could find out the likeness. good night!” this was at noonday; but tom had a habit of taking light for darkness, and darkness for light, in all he did or said. he must have had different eyes and ears, and a different way of seeing, hearing, and comprehending, than is possessed by the generality of his species; and to such a length did he carry this abstraction of soul and sense, that he would often leave you abruptly in the middle of a sentence; and if you chanced to meet him some weeks after, he would resume the conversation with the very word at which he had cut short the thread of your discourse. a lady once told him in jest that her youngest brother, a lad of twelve years old, had called his donkey braham, in honour of the great singer of that name. tom made no answer, but started abruptly away. three months after, she happened to encounter him on the same spot, when he accosted her, without any previous salutation, “you were telling me about a donkey, miss ----, a donkey of your brother's--braham, i think you called him--yes, braham; a strange name for an ass! i wonder what the great mr. braham would say to that. ha, ha, ha!” “your memory must be excellent, mr. wilson, to enable you to remember such a trifling circumstance all this time.” “trifling, do you call it? why, i have thought of nothing else ever since.” from traits such as these my readers will be tempted to imagine him brother to the animal who had dwelt so long in his thoughts; but there were times when he surmounted this strange absence of mind, and could talk and act as sensibly as other folks. on the death of his father, he emigrated to new south wales, where he contrived to doze away seven years of his valueless existence, suffering his convict servants to rob him of everything, and finally to burn his dwelling. he returned to his native village, dressed as an italian mendicant, with a monkey perched upon his shoulder, and playing airs of his own composition upon a hurdy-gurdy. in this disguise he sought the dwelling of an old bachelor uncle, and solicited his charity. but who that had once seen our friend tom could ever forget him? nature had no counterpart of one who in mind and form was alike original. the good-natured old soldier, at a glance, discovered his hopeful nephew, received him into his house with kindness, and had afforded him an asylum ever since. one little anecdote of him at this period will illustrate the quiet love of mischief with which he was imbued. travelling from w---- to london in the stage-coach (railways were not invented in those days), he entered into conversation with an intelligent farmer who sat next to him; new south wales, and his residence in that colony, forming the leading topic. a dissenting minister who happened to be his vis-a-vis, and who had annoyed him by making several impertinent remarks, suddenly asked him, with a sneer, how many years he had been there. “seven,” returned tom, in a solemn tone, without deigning a glance at his companion. “i thought so,” responded the other, thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets. “and pray, sir, what were you sent there for?” “stealing pigs,” returned the incorrigible tom, with the gravity of a judge. the words were scarcely pronounced when the questioner called the coachman to stop, preferring a ride outside in the rain to a seat within with a thief. tom greatly enjoyed the hoax, which he used to tell with the merriest of all grave faces. besides being a devoted admirer of the fair sex, and always imagining himself in love with some unattainable beauty, he had a passionate craze for music, and played upon the violin and flute with considerable taste and execution. the sound of a favourite melody operated upon the breathing automaton like magic, his frozen faculties experienced a sudden thaw, and the stream of life leaped and gambolled for a while with uncontrollable vivacity. he laughed, danced, sang, and made love in a breath, committing a thousand mad vagaries to make you acquainted with his existence. my husband had a remarkably sweet-toned flute, and this flute tom regarded with a species of idolatry. “i break the tenth commandment, moodie, whenever i hear you play upon that flute. take care of your black wife,” (a name he had bestowed upon the coveted treasure), “or i shall certainly run off with her.” “i am half afraid of you, tom. i am sure if i were to die, and leave you my black wife as a legacy, you would be too much overjoyed to lament my death.” such was the strange, helpless, whimsical being who now contemplated an emigration to canada. how he succeeded in the speculation the sequel will show. it was late in the evening before my husband and his friend tom wilson returned from y----. i had provided a hot supper and a cup of coffee after their long walk, and they did ample justice to my care. tom was in unusually high spirits, and appeared wholly bent upon his canadian expedition. “mr. c---- must have been very eloquent, mr. wilson,” said i, “to engage your attention for so many hours.” “perhaps he was,” returned tom, after a pause of some minutes, during which he seemed to be groping for words in the salt-cellar, having deliberately turned out its contents upon the tablecloth. “we were hungry after our long walk, and he gave us an excellent dinner.” “but that had nothing to do with the substance of his lecture.” “it was the substance, after all,” said moodie, laughing; “and his audience seemed to think so, by the attention they paid to it during the discussion. but, come, wilson, give my wife some account of the intellectual part of the entertainment.” “what! i--i--i--i give an account of the lecture? why, my dear fellow, i never listened to one word of it!” “i thought you went to y---- on purpose to obtain information on the subject of emigration to canada?” “well, and so i did; but when the fellow pulled out his pamphlet, and said that it contained the substance of his lecture, and would only cost a shilling, i thought that it was better to secure the substance than endeavour to catch the shadow--so i bought the book, and spared myself the pain of listening to the oratory of the writer. mrs. moodie! he had a shocking delivery, a drawling, vulgar voice; and he spoke with such a nasal twang that i could not bear to look at him, or listen to him. he made such grammatical blunders, that my sides ached with laughing at him. oh, i wish you could have seen the wretch! but here is the document, written in the same style in which it was spoken. read it; you have a rich treat in store.” i took the pamphlet, not a little amused at his description of mr. c----, for whom i felt an uncharitable dislike. “and how did you contrive to entertain yourself, mr. wilson, during his long address?” “by thinking how many fools were collected together, to listen to one greater than the rest. by the way, moodie, did you notice farmer flitch?” “no; where did he sit?” “at the foot of the table. you must have seen him, he was too big to be overlooked. what a delightful squint he had! what a ridiculous likeness there was between him and the roast pig he was carving! i was wondering all dinner-time how that man contrived to cut up that pig; for one eye was fixed upon the ceiling, and the other leering very affectionately at me. it was very droll; was it not?” “and what do you intend doing with yourself when you arrive in canada?” said i. “find out some large hollow tree, and live like bruin in winter by sucking my paws. in the summer there will be plenty of mast and acorns to satisfy the wants of an abstemious fellow.” “but, joking apart, my dear fellow,” said my husband, anxious to induce him to abandon a scheme so hopeless, “do you think that you are at all qualified for a life of toil and hardship?” “are you?” returned tom, raising his large, bushy, black eyebrows to the top of his forehead, and fixing his leaden eyes steadfastly upon his interrogator, with an air of such absurd gravity that we burst into a hearty laugh. “now what do you laugh for? i am sure i asked you a very serious question.” “but your method of putting it is so unusual that you must excuse us for laughing.” “i don't want you to weep,” said tom; “but as to our qualifications, moodie, i think them pretty equal. i know you think otherwise, but i will explain. let me see; what was i going to say?--ah, i have it! you go with the intention of clearing land, and working for yourself, and doing a great deal. i have tried that before in new south wales, and i know that it won't answer. gentlemen can't work like labourers, and if they could, they won't--it is not in them, and that you will find out. you expect, by going to canada, to make your fortune, or at least secure a comfortable independence. i anticipate no such results; yet i mean to go, partly out of a whim, partly to satisfy my curiosity whether it is a better country than new south wales; and lastly, in the hope of bettering my condition in a small way, which at present is so bad that it can scarcely be worse. i mean to purchase a farm with the three hundred pounds i received last week from the sale of my father's property; and if the canadian soil yields only half what mr. c---- says it does, i need not starve. but the refined habits in which you have been brought up, and your unfortunate literary propensities--(i say unfortunate, because you will seldom meet people in a colony who can or will sympathise with you in these pursuits)--they will make you an object of mistrust and envy to those who cannot appreciate them, and will be a source of constant mortification and disappointment to yourself. thank god! i have no literary propensities; but in spite of the latter advantage, in all probability i shall make no exertion at all; so that your energy, damped by disgust and disappointment, and my laziness, will end in the same thing, and we shall both return like bad pennies to our native shores. but, as i have neither wife nor child to involve in my failure, i think, without much self-flattery, that my prospects are better than yours.” this was the longest speech i ever heard tom utter; and, evidently astonished at himself, he sprang abruptly from the table, overset a cup of coffee into my lap, and wishing us _good day_ (it was eleven o'clock at night), he ran out of the house. there was more truth in poor tom's words than at that moment we were willing to allow; for youth and hope were on our side in those days, and we were most ready to believe the suggestions of the latter. my husband finally determined to emigrate to canada, and in the hurry and bustle of a sudden preparation to depart, tom and his affairs for a while were forgotten. how dark and heavily did that frightful anticipation weigh upon my heart! as the time for our departure drew near, the thought of leaving my friends and native land became so intensely painful that it haunted me even in sleep. i seldom awoke without finding my pillow wet with tears. the glory of may was upon the earth--of an english may. the woods were bursting into leaf, the meadows and hedge-rows were flushed with flowers, and every grove and copsewood echoed to the warblings of birds and the humming of bees. to leave england at all was dreadful--to leave her at such a season was doubly so. i went to take a last look at the old hall, the beloved home of my childhood and youth; to wander once more beneath the shade of its venerable oaks--to rest once more upon the velvet sward that carpeted their roots. it was while reposing beneath those noble trees that i had first indulged in those delicious dreams which are a foretaste of the enjoyments of the spirit-land. in them the soul breathes forth its aspirations in a language unknown to common minds; and that language is poetry. here annually, from year to year, i had renewed my friendship with the first primroses and violets, and listened with the untiring ear of love to the spring roundelay of the blackbird, whistled from among his bower of may blossoms. here, i had discoursed sweet words to the tinkling brook, and learned from the melody of waters the music of natural sounds. in these beloved solitudes all the holy emotions which stir the human heart in its depths had been freely poured forth, and found a response in the harmonious voice of nature, bearing aloft the choral song of earth to the throne of the creator. how hard it was to tear myself from scenes endeared to me by the most beautiful and sorrowful recollections, let those who have loved and suffered as i did, say. however the world had frowned upon me, nature, arrayed in her green loveliness, had ever smiled upon me like an indulgent mother, holding out her loving arms to enfold to her bosom her erring but devoted child. dear, dear england! why was i forced by a stern necessity to leave you? what heinous crime had i committed, that i, who adored you, should be torn from your sacred bosom, to pine out my joyless existence in a foreign clime? oh, that i might be permitted to return and die upon your wave-encircled shores, and rest my weary head and heart beneath your daisy-covered sod at last! ah, these are vain outbursts of feeling--melancholy relapses of the spring home-sickness! canada! thou art a noble, free, and rising country--the great fostering mother of the orphans of civilisation. the offspring of britain, thou must be great, and i will and do love thee, land of my adoption, and of my children's birth; and, oh, dearer still to a mother's heart-land of their graves! * * * * * * whilst talking over our coming separation with my sister c----, we observed tom wilson walking slowly up the path that led to the house. he was dressed in a new shooting-jacket, with his gun lying carelessly across his shoulder, and an ugly pointer dog following at a little distance. “well, mrs. moodie, i am off,” said tom, shaking hands with my sister instead of me. “i suppose i shall see moodie in london. what do you think of my dog?” patting him affectionately. “i think him an ugly beast,” said c----. “do you mean to take him with you?” “an ugly beast!--duchess a beast? why she is a perfect beauty!--beauty and the beast! ha, ha, ha! i gave two guineas for her last night.” (i thought of the old adage.) “mrs. moodie, your sister is no judge of a dog.” “very likely,” returned c----, laughing. “and you go to town to-night, mr. wilson? i thought as you came up to the house that you were equipped for shooting.” “to be sure; there is capital shooting in canada.” “so i have heard--plenty of bears and wolves. i suppose you take out your dog and gun in anticipation?” “true,” said tom. “but you surely are not going to take that dog with you?” “indeed i am. she is a most valuable brute. the very best venture i could take. my brother charles has engaged our passage in the same vessel.” “it would be a pity to part you,” said i. “may you prove as lucky a pair as whittington and his cat.” “whittington! whittington!” said tom, staring at my sister, and beginning to dream, which he invariably did in the company of women. “who was the gentleman?” “a very old friend of mine, one whom i have known since i was a very little girl,” said my sister; “but i have not time to tell you more about him now. if you so to st. paul's churchyard, and inquire for sir richard whittington and his cat, you will get his history for a mere trifle.” “do not mind her, mr. wilson, she is quizzing you,” quoth i; “i wish you a safe voyage across the atlantic; i wish i could add a happy meeting with your friends. but where shall we find friends in a strange land?” “all in good time,” said tom. “i hope to have the pleasure of meeting you in the backwoods of canada before three months are over. what adventures we shall have to tell one another! it will be capital. good-bye.” * * * * * * “tom has sailed,” said captain charles wilson, stepping into my little parlour a few days after his eccentric brother's last visit. “i saw him and duchess safe on board. odd as he is, i parted with him with a full heart; i felt as if we never should meet again. poor tom! he is the only brother left me now that i can love. robert and i never agreed very well, and there is little chance of our meeting in this world. he is married, and settled down for life in new south wales; and the rest--john, richard, george, are all gone--all!” “was tom in good spirits when you parted?” “yes. he is a perfect contradiction. he always laughs and cries in the wrong place. 'charles,' he said, with a loud laugh, 'tell the girls to get some new music against i return: and, hark ye! if i never come back, i leave them my kangaroo waltz as a legacy.'” “what a strange creature!” “strange, indeed; you don't know half his oddities. he has very little money to take out with him, but he actually paid for two berths in the ship, that he might not chance to have a person who snored sleep near him. thirty pounds thrown away upon the mere chance of a snoring companion! 'besides, charles,' quoth he, 'i cannot endure to share my little cabin with others; they will use my towels, and combs, and brushes, like that confounded rascal who slept in the same berth with me coming from new south wales, who had the impudence to clean his teeth with my toothbrush. here i shall be all alone, happy and comfortable as a prince, and duchess shall sleep in the after-berth, and be my queen.' and so we parted,” continued captain charles. “may god take care of him, for he never could take care of himself.” “that puts me in mind of the reason he gave for not going with us. he was afraid that my baby would keep him awake of a night. he hates children, and says that he never will marry on that account.” * * * * * * we left the british shores on the st of july, and cast anchor, as i have already shown, under the castle of st. louis, at quebec, on the nd of september, . tom wilson sailed the st of may, and had a speedy passage, and was, as we heard from his friends, comfortably settled in the bush, had bought a farm, and meant to commence operations in the fall. all this was good news, and as he was settled near my brother's location, we congratulated ourselves that our eccentric friend had found a home in the wilderness at last, and that we should soon see him again. on the th of september, the steam-boat william iv. landed us at the then small but rising town of ----, on lake ontario. the night was dark and rainy; the boat was crowded with emigrants; and when we arrived at the inn, we learnt that there was no room for us--not a bed to be had; nor was it likely, owing to the number of strangers that had arrived for several weeks, that we could obtain one by searching farther. moodie requested the use of a sofa for me during the night; but even that produced a demur from the landlord. whilst i awaited the result in a passage, crowded with strange faces, a pair of eyes glanced upon me through the throng. was it possible?--could it be tom wilson? did any other human being possess such eyes, or use them in such an eccentric manner? in another second he had pushed his way to my side, whispering in my ear, “we met, 'twas in a crowd.” “tom wilson, is that you?” “do you doubt it? i flatter myself that there is no likeness of such a handsome fellow to be found in the world. it is i, i swear!--although very little of me is left to swear by. the best part of me i have left to fatten the mosquitoes and black flies in that infernal bush. but where is moodie?” “there he is--trying to induce mr. s----, for love or money, to let me have a bed for the night.” “you shall have mine,” said tom. “i can sleep upon the floor of the parlour in a blanket, indian fashion. it's a bargain--i'll go and settle it with the yankee directly; he's the best fellow in the world! in the meanwhile here is a little parlour, which is a joint-stock affair between some of us young hopefuls for the time being. step in here, and i will go for moodie; i long to tell him what i think of this confounded country. but you will find it out all in good time;” and, rubbing his hands together with a most lively and mischievous expression, he shouldered his way through trunks, and boxes, and anxious faces, to communicate to my husband the arrangement he had so kindly made for us. “accept this gentleman's offer, sir, till to-morrow,” said mr. s----, “i can then make more comfortable arrangements for your family; but we are crowded--crowded to excess. my wife and daughters are obliged to sleep in a little chamber over the stable, to give our guests more room. hard that, i guess, for decent people to locate over the horses.” these matters settled, moodie returned with tom wilson to the little parlour, in which i had already made myself at home. “well, now, is it not funny that i should be the first to welcome you to canada?” said tom. “but what are you doing here, my dear fellow?” “shaking every day with the ague. but i could laugh in spite of my teeth to hear them make such a confounded rattling; you would think they were all quarrelling which should first get out of my mouth. this shaking mania forms one of the chief attractions of this new country.” “i fear,” said i, remarking how thin and pale he had become, “that this climate cannot agree with you.” “nor i with the climate. well, we shall soon be quits, for, to let you into a secret, i am now on my way to england.” “impossible!” “it is true.” “and the farm--what have you done with it?” “sold it.” “and your outfit?” “sold that too.” “to whom?” “to one who will take better care of both than i did. ah! such a country!--such people!--such rogues! it beats australia hollow; you know your customers there--but here you have to find them out. such a take-in!--god forgive them! i never could take care of money; and, one way or other, they have cheated me out of all mine. i have scarcely enough left to pay my passage home. but, to provide against the worst, i have bought a young bear, a splendid fellow, to make my peace with my uncle. you must see him; he is close by in the stable.” “to-morrow we will pay a visit to bruin; but tonight do tell us something about yourself, and your residence in the bush.” “you will know enough about the bush by-and-by. i am a bad historian,” he continued, stretching out his legs and yawning horribly, “a worse biographer. i never can find words to relate facts. but i will try what i can do; mind, don't laugh at my blunders.” we promised to be serious--no easy matter while looking at and listening to tom wilson, and he gave us, at detached intervals, the following account of himself:-- “my troubles began at sea. we had a fair voyage, and all that; but my poor dog, my beautiful duchess!--that beauty in the beast--died. i wanted to read the funeral service over her, but the captain interfered--the brute!--and threatened to throw me into the sea along with the dead bitch, as the unmannerly ruffian persisted in calling my canine friend. i never spoke to him again during the rest of the voyage. nothing happened worth relating until i got to this place, where i chanced to meet a friend who knew your brother, and i went up with him to the woods. most of the wise men of gotham we met on the road were bound to the woods; so i felt happy that i was, at least, in the fashion. mr. ---- was very kind, and spoke in raptures of the woods, which formed the theme of conversation during our journey--their beauty, their vastness, the comfort and independence enjoyed by those who had settled in them; and he so inspired me with the subject that i did nothing all day but sing as we rode along-- 'a life in the woods for me;' until we came to the woods, and then i soon learned to sing that same, as the irishman says, on the other side of my mouth.” here succeeded a long pause, during which friend tom seemed mightily tickled with his reminiscences, for he leaned back in his chair, and from time to time gave way to loud, hollow bursts of laughter. “tom, tom! are you going mad?” said my husband, shaking him. “i never was sane, that i know of,” returned he. “you know that it runs in the family. but do let me have my laugh out. the woods! ha! ha! when i used to be roaming through those woods, shooting--though not a thing could i ever find to shoot, for birds and beasts are not such fools as our english emigrants--and i chanced to think of you coming to spend the rest of your lives in the woods--i used to stop, and hold my sides, and laugh until the woods rang again. it was the only consolation i had.” “good heavens!” said i, “let us never go to the woods.” “you will repent if you do,” continued tom. “but let me proceed on my journey. my bones were well-nigh dislocated before we got to d----. the roads for the last twelve miles were nothing but a succession of mud-holes, covered with the most ingenious invention ever thought of for racking the limbs, called corduroy bridges; not breeches, mind you,--for i thought, whilst jolting up and down over them, that i should arrive at my destination minus that indispensable covering. it was night when we got to mr. ----'s place. i was tired and hungry, my face disfigured and blistered by the unremitting attentions of the blackflies that rose in swarms from the river. i thought to get a private room to wash and dress in, but there is no such thing as privacy in this country. in the bush, all things are in common; you cannot even get a bed without having to share it with a companion. a bed on the floor in a public sleeping-room! think of that; a public sleeping-room!--men, women, and children, only divided by a paltry curtain. oh, ye gods! think of the snoring, squalling, grumbling, puffing; think of the kicking, elbowing, and crowding; the suffocating heat, the mosquitoes, with their infernal buzzing--and you will form some idea of the misery i endured the first night of my arrival in the bush. “but these are not half the evils with which you have to contend. you are pestered with nocturnal visitants far more disagreeable than even the mosquitoes, and must put up with annoyances more disgusting than the crowded, close room. and then, to appease the cravings of hunger, fat pork is served to you three times a day. no wonder that the jews eschewed the vile animal; they were people of taste. pork, morning, noon, and night, swimming in its own grease! the bishop who complained of partridges every day should have been condemned to three months' feeding upon pork in the bush; and he would have become an anchorite, to escape the horrid sight of swine's flesh for ever spread before him. no wonder i am thin; i have been starved--starved upon pritters and port, and that disgusting specimen of unleavened bread, yclept cakes in the pan. “i had such a horror of the pork diet, that whenever i saw the dinner in progress i fled to the canoe, in the hope of drowning upon the waters all reminiscences of the hateful banquet; but even here the very fowls of the air and the reptiles of the deep lifted up their voices, and shouted, 'pork, pork, pork!'” m---- remonstrated with his friend for deserting the country for such minor evils as these, which, after all, he said, could easily be borne. “easily borne!” exclaimed the indignant wilson. “go and try them; and then tell me that. i did try to bear them with a good grace, but it would not do. i offended everybody with my grumbling. i was constantly reminded by the ladies of the house that gentlemen should not come to this country without they were able to put up with a _little_ inconvenience; that i should make as good a settler as a butterfly in a beehive; that it was impossible to be nice about food and dress in the _bush_; that people must learn to eat what they could get, and be content to be shabby and dirty, like their neighbours in the _bush_,--until that horrid word _bush_became synonymous with all that was hateful and revolting in my mind. “it was impossible to keep anything to myself. the children pulled my books to pieces to look at the pictures; and an impudent, bare-legged irish servant-girl took my towels to wipe the dishes with, and my clothes-brush to black the shoes--an operation which she performed with a mixture of soot and grease. i thought i should be better off in a place of my own, so i bought a wild farm that was recommended to me, and paid for it double what it was worth. when i came to examine my estate, i found there was no house upon it, and i should have to wait until the fall to get one put up, and a few acres cleared for cultivation. i was glad to return to my old quarters. “finding nothing to shoot in the woods, i determined to amuse myself with fishing; but mr. ---- could not always lend his canoe, and there was no other to be had. to pass away the time, i set about making one. i bought an axe, and went to the forest to select a tree. about a mile from the lake, i found the largest pine i ever saw. i did not much like to try my maiden hand upon it, for it was the first and the last tree i ever cut down. but to it i went; and i blessed god that it reached the ground without killing me in its way thither. when i was about it, i thought i might as well make the canoe big enough; but the bulk of the tree deceived me in the length of my vessel, and i forgot to measure the one that belonged to mr. ----. it took me six weeks hollowing it out, and when it was finished, it was as long as a sloop-of-war, and too unwieldy for all the oxen in the township to draw it to the water. after all my labour, my combats with those wood-demons the black-flies, sand-flies, and mosquitoes, my boat remains a useless monument of my industry. and worse than this, the fatigue i had endured while working at it late and early, brought on the ague; which so disgusted me with the country that i sold my farm and all my traps for an old song; purchased bruin to bear me company on my voyage home; and the moment i am able to get rid of this tormenting fever, i am off.” argument and remonstrance were alike in vain, he could not be dissuaded from his purpose. tom was as obstinate as his bear. the next morning he conducted us to the stable to see bruin. the young denizen of the forest was tied to the manger, quietly masticating a cob of indian corn, which he held in his paw, and looked half human as he sat upon his haunches, regarding us with a solemn, melancholy air. there was an extraordinary likeness, quite ludicrous, between tom and the bear. we said nothing, but exchanged glances. tom read our thoughts. “yes,” said he, “there is a strong resemblance; i saw it when i bought him. perhaps we are brothers;” and taking in his hand the chain that held the bear, he bestowed upon him sundry fraternal caresses, which the ungrateful bruin returned with low and savage growls. “he can't flatter. he's all truth and sincerity. a child of nature, and worthy to be my friend; the only canadian i ever mean to acknowledge as such.” about an hour after this, poor tom was shaking with ague, which in a few days reduced him so low that i began to think he never would see his native shores again. he bore the affliction very philosophically, and all his well days he spent with us. one day my husband was absent, having accompanied mr. s---- to inspect a farm, which he afterwards purchased, and i had to get through the long day at the inn in the best manner i could. the local papers were soon exhausted. at that period they possessed little or no interest for me. i was astonished and disgusted at the abusive manner in which they were written, the freedom of the press being enjoyed to an extent in this province unknown in more civilised communities. men, in canada, may call one another rogues and miscreants, in the most approved billingsgate, through the medium of the newspapers, which are a sort of safety-valve to let off all the bad feelings and malignant passions floating through the country, without any dread of the horsewhip. hence it is the commonest thing in the world to hear one editor abusing, like a pickpocket, an opposition brother; calling him a reptile--a crawling thing--a calumniator--a hired vendor of lies; and his paper a smut-machine--a vile engine of corruption, as base and degraded as the proprietor, &c. of this description was the paper i now held in my hand, which had the impudence to style itself the reformer--not of morals or manners, certainly, if one might judge by the vulgar abuse that defiled every page of the precious document. i soon flung it from me, thinking it worthy of the fate of many a better production in the olden times, that of being burned by the common hangman; but, happily, the office of hangman has become obsolete in canada, and the editors of these refined journals may go on abusing their betters with impunity. books i had none, and i wished that tom would make his appearance, and amuse me with his oddities; but he had suffered so much from the ague the day before that when he did enter the room to lead me to dinner, he looked like a walking corpse--the dead among the living! so dark, so livid, so melancholy, it was really painful to look upon him. “i hope the ladies who frequent the ordinary won't fall in love with me,” said he, grinning at himself in the miserable looking-glass that formed the case of the yankee clock, and was ostentatiously displayed on a side table; “i look quite killing to-day. what a comfort it is, mrs. m----, to be above all rivalry.” in the middle of dinner, the company was disturbed by the entrance of a person who had the appearance of a gentleman, but who was evidently much flustered with drinking. he thrust his chair in between two gentlemen who sat near the head of the table, and in a loud voice demanded fish. “fish, sir?” said the obsequious waiter, a great favourite with all persons who frequented the hotel; “there is no fish, sir. there was a fine salmon, sir, had you come sooner; but 'tis all eaten, sir.” “then fetch me some.” “i'll see what i can do, sir,” said the obliging tim, hurrying out. tom wilson was at the head of the table, carving a roast pig, and was in the act of helping a lady, when the rude fellow thrust his fork into the pig, calling out as he did so-- “hold, sir! give me some of that pig! you have eaten among you all the fish, and now you are going to appropriate the best parts of the pig.” tom raised his eyebrows, and stared at the stranger in his peculiar manner, then very coolly placed the whole of the pig on his plate. “i have heard,” he said, “of dog eating dog, but i never before saw pig eating pig.” “sir! do you mean to insult me?” cried the stranger, his face crimsoning with anger. “only to tell you, sir, that you are no gentleman. here, tim,” turning to the waiter, “go to the stable and bring in my bear; we will place him at the table to teach this man how to behave himself in the presence of ladies.” a general uproar ensued; the women left the table, while the entrance of the bear threw the gentlemen present into convulsions of laughter. it was too much for the human biped; he was forced to leave the room, and succumb to the bear. my husband concluded his purchase of the farm, and invited wilson to go with us into the country and try if change of air would be beneficial to him; for in his then weak state it was impossible for him to return to england. his funds were getting very low, and tom thankfully accepted the offer. leaving bruin in the charge of tim (who delighted in the oddities of the strange english gentleman), tom made one of our party to ----. the lament of a canadian emigrant though distant, in spirit still present to me, my best thoughts, my country, still linger with thee; my fond heart beats quick, and my dim eyes run o'er, when i muse on the last glance i gave to thy shore. the chill mists of night round thy white cliffs were curl'd, but i felt there was no spot like thee in the world-- no home to which memory so fondly would turn, no thought that within me so madly would burn. but one stood beside me whose presence repress'd the deep pang of sorrow that troubled my breast; and the babe on my bosom so calmly reclining, check'd the tears as they rose, and all useless repining. hard indeed was the struggle, from thee forced to roam; but for their sakes i quitted both country and home. bless'd isle of the free! i must view thee no more; my fortunes are cast on this far-distant shore; in the depths of dark forests my soul droops her wings; in tall boughs above me no merry bird sings; the sigh of the wild winds--the rush of the floods-- is the only sad music that wakens the woods. in dreams, lovely england! my spirit still hails thy soft waving woodlands, thy green, daisied vales. when my heart shall grow cold to the mother that bore me, when my soul, dearest nature! shall cease to adore thee, and beauty and virtue no longer impart delight to my bosom, and warmth to my heart, then the love i have cherish'd, my country, for thee, in the breast of thy daughter extinguish'd shall be. chapter v our first settlement, and the borrowing system to lend, or not to lend--is that the question? “those who go a-borrowing, go a-sorrowing,” saith the old adage; and a wiser saw never came out of the mouth of experience. i have tested the truth of this proverb since my settlement in canada, many, many times, to my cost; and what emigrant has not? so averse have i ever been to this practice, that i would at all times rather quietly submit to a temporary inconvenience than obtain anything i wanted in this manner. i verily believe that a demon of mischief presides over borrowed goods, and takes a wicked pleasure in playing off a thousand malicious pranks upon you the moment he enters your dwelling. plates and dishes, that had been the pride and ornament of their own cupboard for years, no sooner enter upon foreign service than they are broken; wine-glasses and tumblers, that have been handled by a hundred careless wenches in safety, scarcely pass into the hands of your servants when they are sure to tumble upon the floor, and the accident turns out a compound fracture. if you borrow a garment of any kind, be sure that you will tear it; a watch, that you will break it; a jewel, that you will lose it; a book, that it will be stolen from you. there is no end to the trouble and vexation arising out of this evil habit. if you borrow a horse, and he has the reputation of being the best-behaved animal in the district, you no sooner become responsible for his conduct than he loses his character. the moment that you attempt to drive him, he shows that he has a will of his own, by taking the reins into his own management, and running away in a contrary direction to the road that you wished him to travel. he never gives over his eccentric capers until he has broken his own knees, and the borrowed carriage and harness. so anxious are you about his safety, that you have not a moment to bestow upon your own. and why?--the beast is borrowed, and you are expected to return him in as good condition as he came to you. but of all evils, to borrow money is perhaps the worst. if of a friend, he ceases to be one the moment you feel that you are bound to him by the heavy clog of obligation. if of a usurer, the interest, in this country, soon doubles the original sum, and you owe an increasing debt, which in time swallows up all you possess. when we first came to the colony, nothing surprised me more than the extent to which this pernicious custom was carried, both by the native canadians, the european settlers, and the lower order of americans. many of the latter had spied out the goodness of the land, and _borrowed_ various portions of it, without so much as asking leave of the absentee owners. unfortunately, our new home was surrounded by these odious squatters, whom we found as ignorant as savages, without their courtesy and kindness. the place we first occupied was purchased of mr. b----, a merchant, who took it in payment of sundry large debts which the owner, a new england loyalist, had been unable to settle. old joe r----, the present occupant, had promised to quit it with his family, at the commencement of sleighing; and as the bargain was concluded in the month of september, and we were anxious to plough for fall wheat, it was necessary to be upon the spot. no house was to be found in the immediate neighbourhood, save a small dilapidated log tenement, on an adjoining farm (which was scarcely reclaimed from the bush) that had been some months without an owner. the merchant assured is that this could be made very comfortable until such time as it suited r---- to remove, and the owner was willing to let us have it for the moderate sum of four dollars a month. trusting to mr. b----'s word, and being strangers in the land, we never took the precaution to examine this delightful summer residence before entering upon it, but thought ourselves very fortunate in obtaining a temporary home so near our own property, the distance not exceeding half a mile. the agreement was drawn up, and we were told that we could take possession whenever it suited us. the few weeks that i had sojourned in the country had by no means prepossessed me in its favour. the home-sickness was sore upon me, and all my solitary hours were spent in tears. my whole soul yielded itself up to a strong and overpowering grief. one simple word dwelt for ever in my heart, and swelled it to bursting--“home!” i repeated it waking a thousand times a day, and my last prayer before i sank to sleep was still “home! oh, that i could return, if only to die at home!” and nightly i did return; my feet again trod the daisied meadows of england; the song of her birds was in my ears; i wept with delight to find myself once more wandering beneath the fragrant shade of her green hedge-rows; and i awoke to weep in earnest when i found it but a dream. but this is all digression, and has nothing to do with our unseen dwelling. the reader must bear with me in my fits of melancholy, and take me as i am. it was the nd september that we left the steam-boat hotel, to take possession of our new abode. during the three weeks we had sojourned at ----, i had not seen a drop of rain, and i began to think that the fine weather would last for ever; but this eventful day arose in clouds. moodie had hired a covered carriage to convey the baby, the servant-maid, and myself to the farm, as our driver prognosticated a wet day; while he followed with tom wilson and the teams that conveyed our luggage. the scenery through which we were passing was so new to me, so unlike anything that i had ever beheld before, that in spite of its monotonous character, it won me from my melancholy, and i began to look about me with considerable interest. not so my english servant, who declared that the woods were frightful to look upon; that it was a country only fit for wild beasts; that she hated it with all her heart and soul, and would go back as soon as she was able. about a mile from the place of our destination the rain began to fall in torrents, and the air, which had been balmy as a spring morning, turned as chilly as that of a november day. hannah shivered; the baby cried, and i drew my summer shawl as closely round as possible, to protect her from the sudden change in our hitherto delightful temperature. just then, the carriage turned into a narrow, steep path, overhung with lofty woods, and after labouring up it with considerable difficulty, and at the risk of breaking our necks, it brought us at length to a rocky upland clearing, partially covered with a second growth of timber, and surrounded on all sides by the dark forest. “i guess,” quoth our yankee driver, “that at the bottom of this 'ere swell, you'll find yourself to hum;” and plunging into a short path cut through the wood, he pointed to a miserable hut, at the bottom of a steep descent, and cracking his whip, exclaimed, “'tis a smart location that. i wish you britishers may enjoy it.” i gazed upon the place in perfect dismay, for i had never seen such a shed called a house before. “you must be mistaken; that is not a house, but a cattle-shed, or pig-sty.” the man turned his knowing, keen eye upon me, and smiled, half-humorously, half-maliciously, as he said-- “you were raised in the old country, i guess; you have much to learn, and more, perhaps, than you'll like to know, before the winter is over.” i was perfectly bewildered--i could only stare at the place, with my eyes swimming in tears; but as the horses plunged down into the broken hollow, my attention was drawn from my new residence to the perils which endangered life and limb at every step. the driver, however, was well used to such roads, and, steering us dexterously between the black stumps, at length drove up, not to the door, for there was none to the house, but to the open space from which that absent but very necessary appendage had been removed. three young steers and two heifers, which the driver proceeded to drive out, were quietly reposing upon the floor. a few strokes of his whip, and a loud burst of gratuitous curses, soon effected an ejectment; and i dismounted, and took possession of this untenable tenement. moodie was not yet in sight with the teams. i begged the man to stay until he arrived, as i felt terrified at being left alone in this wild, strange-looking place. he laughed, as well he might, at our fears, and said that he had a long way to go, and must be off; then, cracking his whip, and nodding to the girl, who was crying aloud, he went his way, and hannah and myself were left standing in the middle of the dirty floor. the prospect was indeed dreary. without, pouring rain; within, a fireless hearth; a room with but one window, and that containing only one whole pane of glass; not an article of furniture to be seen, save an old painted pine-wood cradle, which had been left there by some freak of fortune. this, turned upon its side, served us for a seat, and there we impatiently awaited the arrival of moodie, wilson, and a man whom the former had hired that morning to assist on the farm. where they were all to be stowed might have puzzled a more sagacious brain than mine. it is true there was a loft, but i could see no way of reaching it, for ladder there was none, so we amused ourselves, while waiting for the coming of our party, by abusing the place, the country, and our own dear selves for our folly in coming to it. now, when not only reconciled to canada, but loving it, and feeling a deep interest in its present welfare, and the fair prospect of its future greatness, i often look back and laugh at the feelings with which i then regarded this noble country. when things come to the worst, they generally mend. the males of our party no sooner arrived than they set about making things more comfortable. james, our servant, pulled up some of the decayed stumps, with which the small clearing that surrounded the shanty was thickly covered, and made a fire, and hannah roused herself from the stupor of despair, and seized the corn-broom from the top of the loaded waggon, and began to sweep the house, raising such an intolerable cloud of dust that i was glad to throw my cloak over my head, and run out of doors, to avoid suffocation. then commenced the awful bustle of unloading the two heavily-loaded waggons. the small space within the house was soon entirely blocked up with trunks and packages of all descriptions. there was scarcely room to move, without stumbling over some article of household stuff. the rain poured in at the open door, beat in at the shattered window, and dropped upon our heads from the holes in the roof. the wind blew keenly through a thousand apertures in the log walls; and nothing could exceed the uncomfortableness of our situation. for a long time the box which contained a hammer and nails was not to be found. at length hannah discovered it, tied up with some bedding which she was opening out in order to dry. i fortunately spied the door lying among some old boards at the back of the house, and moodie immediately commenced fitting it to its place. this, once accomplished, was a great addition to our comfort. we then nailed a piece of white cloth entirely over the broken window, which, without diminishing the light, kept out the rain. james constructed a ladder out of the old bits of boards, and tom wilson assisted him in stowing the luggage away in the loft. but what has this picture of misery and discomfort to do with borrowing? patience, my dear, good friends; i will tell you all about it by-and-by. while we were all busily employed--even the poor baby, who was lying upon a pillow in the old cradle, trying the strength of her lungs, and not a little irritated that no one was at leisure to regard her laudable endeavours to make herself heard--the door was suddenly pushed open, and the apparition of a woman squeezed itself into the crowded room. i left off arranging the furniture of a bed, that had been just put up in a corner, to meet my unexpected, and at that moment, not very welcome guest. her whole appearance was so extraordinary that i felt quite at a loss how to address her. imagine a girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age, with sharp, knowing-looking features, a forward, impudent carriage, and a pert, flippant voice, standing upon one of the trunks, and surveying all our proceedings in the most impertinent manner. the creature was dressed in a ragged, dirty purple stuff gown, cut very low in the neck, with an old red cotton handkerchief tied over her head; her uncombed, tangled locks falling over her thin, inquisitive face, in a state of perfect nature. her legs and feet were bare, and, in her coarse, dirty red hands, she swung to and fro an empty glass decanter. “what can she want?” i asked myself. “what a strange creature!” and there she stood, staring at me in the most unceremonious manner, her keen black eyes glancing obliquely to every corner of the room, which she examined with critical exactness. before i could speak to her, she commenced the conversation by drawling through her nose, “well, i guess you are fixing here.” i thought she had come to offer her services; and i told her that i did not want a girl, for i had brought one out with me. “how!” responded the creature, “i hope you don't take me for a help. i'd have you to know that i'm as good a lady as yourself. no; i just stepped over to see what was going on. i seed the teams pass our'n about noon, and i says to father, 'them strangers are cum; i'll go and look arter them.' 'yes,' says he, 'do--and take the decanter along. may be they'll want one to put their whiskey in.' 'i'm goin to,' says i; so i cum across with it, an' here it is. but, mind--don't break it--'tis the only one we have to hum; and father says 'tis so mean to drink out of green glass.” my surprise increased every minute. it seemed such an act of disinterested generosity thus to anticipate wants we had never thought of. i was regularly taken in. “my good girl,” i began, “this is really very kind--but--” “now, don't go to call me 'gall'--and pass off your english airs on us. we are _genuine_ yankees, and think ourselves as good--yes, a great deal better than you. i am a young lady.” “indeed!” said i, striving to repress my astonishment. “i am a stranger in the country, and my acquaintance with canadian ladies and gentlemen is very small. i did not mean to offend you by using the term girl; i was going to assure you that we had no need of the decanter. we have bottles of our own--and we don't drink whiskey.” “how! not drink whiskey? why, you don't say! how ignorant you must be! may be they have no whiskey in the old country?” “yes, we have; but it is not like the canadian whiskey. but, pray take the decanter home again--i am afraid that it will get broken in this confusion.” “no, no; father told me to leave it--and there it is;” and she planted it resolutely down on the trunk. “you will find a use for it till you have unpacked your own.” seeing that she was determined to leave the bottle, i said no more about it, but asked her to tell me where the well was to be found. “the well!” she repeated after me, with a sneer. “who thinks of digging wells when they can get plenty of water from the creek? there is a fine water privilege not a stone's-throw from the door,” and, jumping off the box, she disappeared as abruptly as she had entered. we all looked at each other; tom wilson was highly amused, and laughed until he held his sides. “what tempted her to bring this empty bottle here?” said moodie. “it is all an excuse; the visit, tom, was meant for you.” “you'll know more about it in a few days,” said james, looking up from his work. “that bottle is not brought here for nought.” i could not unravel the mystery, and thought no more about it, until it was again brought to my recollection by the damsel herself. our united efforts had effected a complete transformation in our uncouth dwelling. sleeping-berths had been partitioned off for the men; shelves had been put up for the accommodation of books and crockery, a carpet covered the floor, and the chairs and tables we had brought from ---- gave an air of comfort to the place, which, on the first view of it, i deemed impossible. my husband, mr. wilson, and james, had walked over to inspect the farm, and i was sitting at the table at work, the baby creeping upon the floor, and hannah preparing dinner. the sun shone warm and bright, and the open door admitted a current of fresh air, which tempered the heat of the fire. “well, i guess you look smart,” said the yankee damsel, presenting herself once more before me. “you old country folks are so stiff, you must have every thing nice, or you fret. but, then, you can easily do it; you have stacks of money; and you can fix everything right off with money.” “pray take a seat,” and i offered her a chair, “and be kind enough to tell me your name. i suppose you must live in the neighbourhood, although i cannot perceive any dwelling near us.” “my name! so you want to know my name. i arn't ashamed of my own; 'tis emily s----. i am eldest daughter to the _gentleman_ who owns this house.” “what must the father be,” thought i, “if he resembles the young _lady_, his daughter?” imagine a young lady, dressed in ragged petticoats, through whose yawning rents peeped forth, from time to time, her bare red knees, with uncombed elf-locks, and a face and hands that looked as if they had been unwashed for a month--who did not know a from b, and despised those who did. while these reflections, combined with a thousand ludicrous images, were flitting through my mind, my strange visitor suddenly exclaimed-- “have you done with that 'ere decanter i brought across yesterday?” “oh, yes! i have no occasion for it.” i rose, took it from the shelf, and placed it in her hand. “i guess you won't return it empty; that would be mean, father says. he wants it filled with whiskey.” the mystery was solved, the riddle made clear. i could contain my gravity no longer, but burst into a hearty fit of laughter, in which i was joined by hannah. our young lady was mortally offended; she tossed the decanter from hand to hand, and glared at us with her tiger-like eyes. “you think yourselves smart! why do you laugh in that way?” “excuse me--but you have such an odd way of borrowing that i cannot help it. this bottle, it seems, was brought over for your own convenience, not for mine. i am sorry to disappoint you, but i have no whiskey.” “i guess spirits will do as well; i know there is some in that keg, for i smells it.” “it contains rum for the workmen.” “better still. i calculate when you've been here a few months, you'll be too knowing to give rum to your helps. but old country folks are all fools, and that's the reason they get so easily sucked in, and be so soon wound-up. cum, fill the bottle, and don't be stingy. in this country we all live by borrowing. if you want anything, why just send and borrow from us.” thinking that this might be the custom of the country, i hastened to fill the decanter, hoping that i might get a little new milk for the poor weanling child in return; but when i asked my liberal visitor if she kept cows, and would lend me a little new milk for the baby, she burst out into high disdain. “milk! lend milk? i guess milk in the fall is worth a york shilling a quart. i cannot sell you a drop under.” this was a wicked piece of extortion, as the same article in the town, where, of course, it was in greater request, only brought three-pence the quart. “if you'll pay me for it, i'll bring you some to-morrow. but mind--cash down.” “and when do you mean to return the rum?” i said, with some asperity. “when father goes to the creek.” this was the name given by my neighbours to the village of p----, distant about four miles. day after day i was tormented by this importunate creature; she borrowed of me tea, sugar, candles, starch, blueing, irons, pots, bowls--in short, every article in common domestic use--while it was with the utmost difficulty we could get them returned. articles of food, such as tea and sugar, or of convenience, like candles, starch, and soap, she never dreamed of being required at her hands. this method of living upon their neighbours is a most convenient one to unprincipled people, as it does not involve the penalty of stealing; and they can keep the goods without the unpleasant necessity of returning them, or feeling the moral obligation of being grateful for their use. living eight miles from ----, i found these constant encroachments a heavy burden on our poor purse; and being ignorant of the country, and residing in such a lonely, out-of-the-way place, surrounded by these savages, i was really afraid of denying their requests. the very day our new plough came home, the father of this bright damsel, who went by the familiar and unenviable title of old satan, came over to borrow it (though we afterwards found out that he had a good one of his own). the land had never been broken up, and was full of rocks and stumps, and he was anxious to save his own from injury; the consequence was that the borrowed implement came home unfit for use, just at the very time that we wanted to plough for fall wheat. the same happened to a spade and trowel, bought in order to plaster the house. satan asked the loan of them for _one_ hour for the same purpose, and we never saw them again. the daughter came one morning, as usual, on one of these swindling expeditions, and demanded of me the loan of some fine slack. not knowing what she meant by fine slack, and weary of her importunities, i said i had none. she went away in a rage. shortly after she came again for some pepper. i was at work, and my work-box was open upon the table, well stored with threads and spools of all descriptions. miss satan cast her hawk's eye into it, and burst out in her usual rude manner-- “i guess you told me a tarnation big lie the other day.” unaccustomed to such language, i rose from my seat, and pointing to the door, told her to walk out, as i did not choose to be insulted in my own house. “your house! i'm sure it's father's,” returned the incorrigible wretch. “you told me that you had no fine slack, and you have stacks of it.” “what is fine slack?” said i, very pettishly. “the stuff that's wound upon these 'ere pieces of wood,” pouncing as she spoke upon one of my most serviceable spools. “i cannot give you that; i want it myself.” “i didn't ask you to give it. i only wants to borrow it till father goes to the creek.” “i wish he would make haste, then, as i want a number of things which you have borrowed of me, and which i cannot longer do without.” she gave me a knowing look, and carried off my spool in triumph. i happened to mention the manner in which i was constantly annoyed by these people, to a worthy english farmer who resided near us; and he fell a-laughing, and told me that i did not know the canadian yankees as well as he did, or i should not be troubled with them long. “the best way,” says he, “to get rid of them, is to ask them sharply what they want; and if they give you no satisfactory answer, order them to leave the house; but i believe i can put you in a better way still. buy some small article of them, and pay them a trifle over the price, and tell them to bring the change. i will lay my life upon it that it will be long before they trouble you again.” i was impatient to test the efficacy of his scheme that very afternoon miss satan brought me a plate of butter for sale. the price was three and ninepence; twice the sum, by-the-bye, that it was worth. “i have no change,” giving her a dollar; “but you can bring it me to-morrow.” oh, blessed experiment! for the value of one quarter dollar i got rid of this dishonest girl for ever; rather than pay me, she never entered the house again. about a month after this, i was busy making an apple-pie in the kitchen. a cadaverous-looking woman, very long-faced and witch-like, popped her ill-looking visage into the door, and drawled through her nose-- “do you want to buy a rooster?” now, the sucking-pigs with which we had been regaled every day for three weeks at the tavern, were called roasters; and not understanding the familiar phrases of the country, i thought she had a sucking-pig to sell. “is it a good one?” “i guess 'tis.” “what do you ask for it?” “two yorkers.” “that is very cheap, if it is any weight. i don't like them under ten or twelve pounds.” “ten or twelve pounds! why, woman, what do you mean? would you expect a rooster to be bigger nor a turkey?” we stared at each other. there was evidently some misconception on my part. “bring the roaster up; and if i like it, i will buy it, though i must confess that i am not very fond of roast pig.” “do you call this a pig?” said my she-merchant, drawing a fine game-cock from under her cloak. i laughed heartily at my mistake, as i paid her down the money for the bonny bird. this little matter settled, i thought she would take her departure; but that rooster proved the dearest fowl to me that ever was bought. “do you keep backy and snuff here?” says she, sideling close up to me. “we make no use of those articles.” “how! not use backy and snuff? that's oncommon.” she paused, then added in a mysterious, confidential tone-- “i want to ask you how your tea-caddy stands?” “it stands in the cupboard,” said i, wondering what all this might mean. “i know that; but have you any tea to spare?” i now began to suspect what sort of a customer the stranger was. “oh, you want to borrow some? i have none to spare.” “you don't say so. well now, that's stingy. i never asked anything of you before. i am poor, and you are rich; besides, i'm troubled so with the headache, and nothing does me any good but a cup of strong tea.” “the money i have just given you will buy a quarter of a pound of the best.” “i guess that isn't mine. the fowl belonged to my neighbour. she's sick; and i promised to sell it for her to buy some physic. money!” she added, in a coaxing tone, “where should i get money? lord bless you! people in this country have no money; and those who come out with piles of it, soon lose it. but emily s---- told me that you are tarnation rich, and draw your money from the old country. so i guess you can well afford to lend a neighbour a spoonful of tea.” “neighbour! where do you live, and what is your name?” “my name is betty fye--old betty fye; i live in the log shanty over the creek, at the back of your'n. the farm belongs to my eldest son. i'm a widow with twelve sons; and 'tis ---- hard to scratch along.” “do you swear?” “swear! what harm? it eases one's mind when one's vexed. everybody swears in this country. my boys all swear like sam hill; and i used to swear mighty big oaths till about a month ago, when the methody parson told me that if i did not leave it off i should go to a tarnation bad place; so i dropped some of the worst of them.” “you would do wisely to drop the rest; women never swear in my country.” “well, you don't say! i always heer'd they were very ignorant. will you lend me the tea?” the woman was such an original that i gave her what she wanted. as she was going off, she took up one of the apples i was peeling. “i guess you have a fine orchard?” “they say the best in the district.” “we have no orchard to hum, and i guess you'll want sarce.” “sarce! what is sarce?” “not know what sarce is? you are clever! sarce is apples cut up and dried, to make into pies in the winter. now do you comprehend?” i nodded. “well, i was going to say that i have no apples, and that you have a tarnation big few of them; and if you'll give me twenty bushels of your best apples, and find me with half a pound of coarse thread to string them upon, i will make you a barrel of sarce on shares--that is, give you one, and keep one for myself.” i had plenty of apples, and i gladly accepted her offer, and mrs. betty fye departed, elated with the success of her expedition. i found to my cost, that, once admitted into the house, there was no keeping her away. she borrowed everything that she could think of, without once dreaming of restitution. i tried all ways of affronting her, but without success. winter came, and she was still at her old pranks. whenever i saw her coming down the lane, i used involuntarily to exclaim, “betty fye! betty fye! fye upon betty fye! the lord deliver me from betty fye!” the last time i was honoured with a visit from this worthy, she meant to favour me with a very large order upon my goods and chattels. “well, mrs. fye, what do you want to-day?” “so many things that i scarce know where to begin. ah, what a thing 'tis to be poor! first, i want you to lend me ten pounds of flour to make some johnnie cakes.” “i thought they were made of indian meal?” “yes, yes, when you've got the meal. i'm out of it, and this is a new fixing of my own invention. lend me the flour, woman, and i'll bring you one of the cakes to taste.” this was said very coaxingly. “oh, pray don't trouble yourself. what next?” i was anxious to see how far her impudence would go, and determined to affront her if possible. “i want you to lend me a gown, and a pair of stockings. i have to go to oswego to see my husband's sister, and i'd like to look decent.” “mrs. fye, i never lend my clothes to any one. if i lent them to you, i should never wear them again.” “so much the better for me,” (with a knowing grin). “i guess if you won't lend me the gown, you will let me have some black slack to quilt a stuff petticoat, a quarter of a pound of tea and some sugar; and i will bring them back as soon as i can.” “i wonder when that will be. you owe me so many things that it will cost you more than you imagine to repay me.” “sure you're not going to mention what's past, i can't owe you much. but i will let you off the tea and the sugar, if you will lend me a five-dollar bill.” this was too much for my patience longer to endure, and i answered sharply-- “mrs. fye, it surprises me that such proud people as you americans should condescend to the meanness of borrowing from those whom you affect to despise. besides, as you never repay us for what you pretend to borrow, i look upon it as a system of robbery. if strangers unfortunately settle among you, their good-nature is taxed to supply your domestic wants, at a ruinous expense, besides the mortification of finding that they have been deceived and tricked out of their property. if you would come honestly to me and say, 'i want these things, i am too poor to buy them myself, and would be obliged to you to give them to me,' i should then acknowledge you as a common beggar, and treat you accordingly; give or not give, as it suited my convenience. but in the way in which you obtain these articles from me, you are spared even a debt of gratitude; for you well know that the many things which you have borrowed from me will be a debt owing to the day of judgment.” “s'pose they are,” quoth betty, not in the least abashed at my lecture on honesty, “you know what the scripture saith, 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.'” “ay, there is an answer to that in the same book, which doubtless you may have heard,” said i, disgusted with her hypocrisy, “'the wicked borroweth, and payeth not again.'” never shall i forget the furious passion into which this too apt quotation threw my unprincipled applicant. she lifted up her voice and cursed me, using some of the big oaths temporarily discarded for conscience sake. and so she left me, and i never looked upon her face again. when i removed to our own house, the history of which, and its former owner, i will give by-and-by, we had a bony, red-headed, ruffianly american squatter, who had “left his country for his country's good,” for an opposite neighbour. i had scarcely time to put my house in order before his family commenced borrowing, or stealing from me. it is even worse than stealing, the things procured from you being obtained on false pretences--adding lying to theft. not having either an oven or a cooking stove, which at that period were not so cheap or so common as they are now, i had provided myself with a large bake-kettle as a substitute. in this kettle we always cooked hot cakes for breakfast, preferring that to the trouble of thawing the frozen bread. this man's wife was in the habit of sending over for my kettle whenever she wanted to bake, which, as she had a large family, happened nearly every day, and i found her importunity a great nuisance. i told the impudent lad so, who was generally sent for it; and asked him what they did to bake their bread before i came. “i guess we had to eat cakes in the pan; but now we can borrow this kettle of your'n, mother can fix bread.” i told him that he could have the kettle this time; but i must decline letting his mother have it in future, for i wanted it for the same purpose. the next day passed over. the night was intensely cold, and i did not rise so early as usual in the morning. my servant was away at a quilting bee, and we were still in bed, when i heard the latch of the kitchen-door lifted up, and a step crossed the floor. i jumped out of bed, and began to dress as fast as i could, when philander called out, in his well-known nasal twang-- “missus! i'm come for the kettle.” i (through the partition ): “you can't have it this morning. we cannot get our breakfast without it.” philander: “nor more can the old woman to hum,” and, snatching up the kettle, which had been left to warm on the hearth, he rushed out of the house, singing, at the top of his voice-- “hurrah for the yankee boys!” when james came home for his breakfast, i sent him across to demand the kettle, and the dame very coolly told him that when she had done with it i _might_ have it, but she defied him to take it out of her house with her bread in it. one word more about this lad, philander, before we part with him. without the least intimation that his company would be agreeable, or even tolerated, he favoured us with it at all hours of the day, opening the door and walking in and out whenever he felt inclined. i had given him many broad hints that his presence was not required, but he paid not the slightest attention to what i said. one morning he marched in with his hat on, and threw himself down in the rocking-chair, just as i was going to dress my baby. “philander, i want to attend to the child; i cannot do it with you here. will you oblige me by going into the kitchen?” no answer. he seldom spoke during these visits, but wandered about the room, turning over our books and papers, looking at and handling everything. nay, i have even known him to take a lid off from the pot on the fire, to examine its contents. i repeated my request. philander: “well, i guess i shan't hurt the young 'un. you can dress her.” i: “but not with you here.” philander: “why not? _we_ never do anything that we are ashamed of.” i: “so it seems. but i want to sweep the room--you had better get out of the dust.” i took the broom from the corner, and began to sweep; still my visitor did not stir. the dust rose in clouds; he rubbed his eyes, and moved a little nearer to the door. another sweep, and, to escape its inflictions, he mounted the threshold. i had him now at a fair advantage, and fairly swept him out, and shut the door in his face. philander (looking through the window ): “well, i guess you did me then; but 'tis deuced hard to outwit a yankee.” this freed me from his company, and he, too, never repeated his visit; so i found by experience, that once smartly rebuked, they did not like to try their strength with you a second time. when a sufficient time had elapsed for the drying of my twenty bushels of apples, i sent a cornish lad, in our employ, to betty fye's, to inquire if they were ready, and when i should send the cart for them. dan returned with a yellow, smoke-dried string of pieces, dangling from his arm. thinking that these were a specimen of the whole, i inquired when we were to send the barrel for the rest. “lord, ma'am, this is all there be.” “impossible! all out of twenty bushels of apples!” “yes,” said the boy, with a grin. “the old witch told me that this was all that was left of your share; that when they were fixed enough, she put them under her bed for safety, and the mice and the children had eaten them all up but this string.” this ended my dealings with betty fye. i had another incorrigible borrower in the person of old betty b----. this betty was unlike the rest of my yankee borrowers; she was handsome in her person, and remarkably civil, and she asked for the loan of everything in such a frank, pleasant manner, that for some time i hardly knew how to refuse her. after i had been a loser to a considerable extent, and declined lending her any more, she refrained from coming to the house herself, but sent in her name the most beautiful boy in the world; a perfect cherub, with regular features, blue, smiling eyes, rosy cheeks, and lovely curling auburn hair, who said, in the softest tones imaginable, that mammy had sent him, with her compliments, to the english lady to ask the loan of a little sugar or tea. i could easily have refused the mother, but i could not find it in my heart to say nay to her sweet boy. there was something original about betty b----, and i must give a slight sketch of her. she lived in a lone shanty in the woods, which had been erected by lumberers some years before, and which was destitute of a single acre of clearing; yet betty had plenty of potatoes, without the trouble of planting, or the expense of buying; she never kept a cow, yet she sold butter and milk; but she had a fashion, and it proved a convenient one to her, of making pets of the cattle of her neighbours. if our cows strayed from their pastures, they were always found near betty's shanty, for she regularly supplied them with salt, which formed a sort of bond of union between them; and, in return for these little attentions, they suffered themselves to be milked before they returned to their respective owners. her mode of obtaining eggs and fowls was on the same economical plan, and we all looked upon betty as a sort of freebooter, living upon the property of others. she had had three husbands, and he with whom she now lived was not her husband, although the father of the splendid child whose beauty so won upon my woman's heart. her first husband was still living (a thing by no means uncommon among persons of her class in canada), and though they had quarrelled and parted years ago, he occasionally visited his wife to see her eldest daughter, betty the younger, who was his child. she was now a fine girl of sixteen, as beautiful as her little brother. betty's second husband had been killed in one of our fields by a tree falling upon him while ploughing under it. he was buried upon the spot, part of the blackened stump forming his monument. in truth, betty's character was none of the best, and many of the respectable farmers' wives regarded her with a jealous eye. “i am so jealous of that nasty betty b----,” said the wife of an irish captain in the army, and our near neighbour, to me, one day as we were sitting at work together. she was a west indian, and a negro by the mother's side, but an uncommonly fine-looking mulatto, very passionate, and very watchful over the conduct of her husband. “are you not afraid of letting captain moodie go near her shanty?” “no, indeed; and if i were so foolish as to be jealous, it would not be of old betty, but of the beautiful young betty, her daughter.” perhaps this was rather mischievous on my part, for the poor dark lady went off in a frantic fit of jealousy, but this time it was not of old betty. another american squatter was always sending over to borrow a small-tooth comb, which she called a vermin destroyer; and once the same person asked the loan of a towel, as a friend had come from the states to visit her, and the only one she had, had been made into a best “pinny” for the child; she likewise begged a sight in the looking-glass, as she wanted to try on a new cap, to see if it were fixed to her mind. this woman must have been a mirror of neatness when compared with her dirty neighbours. one night i was roused up from my bed for the loan of a pair of “steelyards.” for what purpose think you, gentle reader? to weigh a new-born infant. the process was performed by tying the poor squalling thing up in a small shawl, and suspending it to one of the hooks. the child was a fine boy, and weighed ten pounds, greatly to the delight of the yankee father. one of the drollest instances of borrowing i have ever heard of was told me by a friend. a maid-servant asked her mistress to go out on a particular afternoon, as she was going to have a party of her friends, and wanted the loan of the drawing-room. it would be endless to enumerate our losses in this way; but, fortunately for us, the arrival of an english family in our immediate vicinity drew off the attention of our neighbours in that direction, and left us time to recover a little from their persecutions. this system of borrowing is not wholly confined to the poor and ignorant; it pervades every class of society. if a party is given in any of the small villages, a boy is sent round from house to house, to collect all the plates and dishes, knives and forks, teaspoons and candlesticks, that are presentable, for the use of the company. during my stay at the hotel, i took a dress out of my trunk, and hung it up upon a peg in my chamber, in order to remove the creases it had received from close packing. returning from a walk in the afternoon, i found a note upon my dressing table, inviting us to spend the evening with a clergyman's family in the village; and as it was nearly time to dress, i went to the peg to take down my gown. was it a dream?--the gown was gone. i re-opened the trunk, to see if i had replaced it; i searched every corner of the room, but all in vain; nowhere could i discover the thing i sought. what had become of it? the question was a delicate one, which i did not like to put to the young ladies of the truly respectable establishment; still, the loss was great, and at that moment very inconvenient. while i was deliberating on what course to pursue, miss s---- entered the room. “i guess you missed your dress,” she said, with a smile. “do you know where it is?” “oh, sure. miss l----, the dressmaker, came in just after you left. she is a very particular friend of mine, and i showed her your dress. she admired it above all things, and borrowed it, to get the pattern for miss r----'s wedding dress. she promised to return it to-morrow.” “provoking! i wanted it to-night. who ever heard of borrowing a person's dress without the leave of the owner? truly, this is a free-and-easy country!” one very severe winter night, a neighbour borrowed of me a blanket--it was one of my best--for the use of a stranger who was passing the night at her house. i could not well refuse; but at that time, the world pressed me sore, and i could ill spare it. two years elapsed, and i saw no more of my blanket; at length i sent a note to the lady, requesting it to be returned. i got a very short answer back, and the blanket, alas! worn threadbare; the borrower stating that she had sent the article, but really she did not know what to do without it, as she wanted it to cover the children's bed. she certainly forgot that i, too, had children, who wanted covering as well as her own. but i have said so much of the ill results of others' borrowing, that i will close this sketch by relating my own experience in this way. after removing to the bush, many misfortunes befel us, which deprived us of our income, and reduced us to great poverty. in fact we were strangers, and the knowing ones took us in; and for many years we struggled with hardships which would have broken stouter hearts than ours, had not our trust been placed in the almighty, who among all our troubles never wholly deserted us. while my husband was absent on the frontier during the rebellion, my youngest boy fell very sick, and required my utmost care, both by night and day. to attend to him properly, a candle burning during the night was necessary. the last candle was burnt out; i had no money to buy another, and no fat from which i could make one. i hated borrowing; but, for the dear child's sake, i overcame my scruples, and succeeded in procuring a candle from a good neighbour, but with strict injunctions (for it was _her last_), that i must return it if i did not require it during the night. i went home quite grateful with my prize. it was a clear moonlight night--the dear boy was better, so i told old jenny, my irish servant, to go to bed, as i would lie down in my clothes by the child, and if he were worse i would get up and light the candle. it happened that a pane of glass was broken out of the window frame, and i had supplied its place by fitting in a shingle; my friend emilia s---- had a large tom-cat, who, when his mistress was absent, often paid me a predatory or borrowing visit; and tom had a practice of pushing in this wooden pane, in order to pursue his lawless depredations. i had forgotten all this, and never dreaming that tom would appropriate such light food, i left the candle lying in the middle of the table, just under the window. between sleeping and waking, i heard the pane gently pushed in. the thought instantly struck me that it was tom, and that, for lack of something better, he might steal my precious candle. i sprang up from the bed, just in time to see him dart through the broken window, dragging the long white candle after him. i flew to the door, and pursued him half over the field, but all to no purpose. i can see him now, as i saw him then, scampering away for dear life, with his prize trailing behind him, gleaming like a silver tail in the bright light of the moon. ah! never did i feel more acutely the truth of the proverb, “those that go a-borrowing go a-sorrowing,” than i did that night. my poor boy awoke ill and feverish, and i had no light to assist him, or even to look into his sweet face, to see how far i dared hope that the light of day would find him better. oh canada! thy gloomy woods a song oh canada! thy gloomy woods will never cheer the heart; the murmur of thy mighty floods but cause fresh tears to start from those whose fondest wishes rest beyond the distant main; who, 'mid the forests of the west, sigh for their homes again. i, too, have felt the chilling blight their shadows cast on me, my thought by day--my dream by night-- was of my own country. but independent souls will brave all hardships to be free; no more i weep to cross the wave, my native land to see. but ever as a thought most bless'd, her distant shores will rise, in all their spring-tide beauty dress'd. to cheer my mental eyes. and treasured in my inmost heart, the friends i left behind; but reason's voice, that bade us part, now bids me be resign'd. i see my children round me play, my husband's smiles approve; i dash regretful tears away, and lift my thoughts above: in humble gratitude to bless the almighty hand that spread our table in the wilderness, and gave my infants bread. chapter vi old satan and tom wilson's nose “a nose, kind sir! sure mother nature, with all her freaks, ne'er formed this feature. if such were mine, i'd try and trade it, and swear the gods had never made it.” after reducing the log cabin into some sort of order, we contrived, with the aid of a few boards, to make a bed-closet for poor tom wilson, who continued to shake every day with the pitiless ague. there was no way of admitting light and air into this domicile, which opened into the general apartment, but through a square hole cut in one of the planks, just wide enough to admit a man's head through the aperture. here we made tom a comfortable bed on the floor, and did the best we could to nurse him through his sickness. his long, thin face, emaciated with disease, and surrounded by huge black whiskers, and a beard of a week's growth, looked perfectly unearthly. he had only to stare at the baby to frighten her almost out of her wits. “how fond that young one is of me,” he would say; “she cries for joy at the sight of me.” among his curiosities, and he had many, he held in great esteem a huge nose, made hollow to fit his face, which his father, a being almost as eccentric as himself, had carved out of boxwood. when he slipped this nose over his own (which was no beautiful classical specimen of a nasal organ), it made a most perfect and hideous disguise. the mother who bore him never would have recognised her accomplished son. numberless were the tricks he played off with this nose. once he walked through the streets of ----, with this proboscis attached to his face. “what a nose! look at the man with the nose!” cried all the boys in the street. a party of irish emigrants passed at the moment. the men, with the courtesy natural to their nation, forbore to laugh in the gentleman's face; but after they had passed, tom looked back, and saw them bent half double in convulsions of mirth. tom made the party a low bow, gravely took off his nose, and put it in his pocket. the day after this frolic, he had a very severe fit of the ague, and looked so ill that i really entertained fears for his life. the hot fit had just left him, and he lay upon his bed bedewed with a cold perspiration, in a state of complete exhaustion. “poor tom,” said i, “he has passed a horrible day, but the worst is over, and i will make him a cup of coffee.” while preparing it, old satan came in and began to talk to my husband. he happened to sit directly opposite the aperture which gave light and air to tom's berth. this man was disgustingly ugly. he had lost one eye in a quarrel. it had been gouged out in the barbarous conflict, and the side of his face presented a succession of horrible scars inflicted by the teeth of his savage adversary. the nickname he had acquired through the country sufficiently testified to the respectability of his character, and dreadful tales were told of him in the neighbourhood, where he was alike feared and hated. the rude fellow, with his accustomed insolence, began abusing the old country folks. the english were great bullies, he said; they thought no one could fight but themselves; but the yankees had whipped them, and would whip them again. he was not afear'd of them, he never was afear'd in his life. scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when a horrible apparition presented itself to his view. slowly rising from his bed, and putting on the fictitious nose, while he drew his white nightcap over his ghastly and livid brow, tom thrust his face through the aperture, and uttered a diabolical cry; then sank down upon his unseen couch as noiselessly as he had arisen. the cry was like nothing human, and it was echoed by an involuntary scream from the lips of our maid-servant and myself. “good god! what's that?” cried satan, falling back in his chair, and pointing to the vacant aperture. “did you hear it? did you see it? it beats the universe. i never saw a ghost or the devil before!” moodie, who had recognised the ghost, and greatly enjoyed the fun, pretended profound ignorance, and coolly insinuated that old satan had lost his senses. the man was bewildered; he stared at the vacant aperture, then at us in turn, as if he doubted the accuracy of his own vision. “'tis tarnation odd,” he said; “but the women heard it too.” “i heard a sound,” i said, “a dreadful sound, but i saw no ghost.” “sure an' 'twas himsel',” said my lowland scotch girl, who now perceived the joke; “he was a-seeken' to gie us puir bodies a wee fricht.” “how long have you been subject to these sort of fits?” said i. “you had better speak to the doctor about them. such fancies, if they are not attended to, often end in madness.” “mad!” (very indignantly) “i guess i'm not mad, but as wide awake as you are. did i not see it with my own eyes? and then the noise--i could not make such a tarnation outcry to save my life. but be it man or devil, i don't care, i'm not afear'd,” doubling his fist very undecidedly at the hole. again the ghastly head was protruded--the dreadful eyes rolled wildly in their hollow sockets, and a yell more appalling than the former rang through the room. the man sprang from his chair, which he overturned in his fright, and stood for an instant with his one-eyeball starting from his head, and glaring upon the spectre; his cheeks deadly pale; the cold perspiration streaming from his face; his lips dissevered, and his teeth chattering in his head. “there--there--there. look--look, it comes again!--the devil!--the devil!” here tom, who still kept his eyes fixed upon his victim, gave a knowing wink, and thrust his tongue out of his mouth. “he is coming!--he is coming!” cried the affrighted wretch; and clearing the open doorway with one leap, he fled across the field at full speed. the stream intercepted his path--he passed it at a bound, plunged into the forest, and was out of sight. “ha, ha, ha!” chuckled poor tom, sinking down exhausted on his bed. “oh that i had strength to follow up my advantage, i would lead old satan such a chase that he should think his namesake was in truth behind him.” during the six weeks that we inhabited that wretched cabin, we never were troubled by old satan again. as tom slowly recovered, and began to regain his appetite, his soul sickened over the salt beef and pork, which, owing to our distance from ----, formed our principal fare. he positively refused to touch the sad bread, as my yankee neighbours very appropriately termed the unleavened cakes in the pan; and it was no easy matter to send a man on horseback eight miles to fetch a loaf of bread. “do, my dear mrs. moodie, like a good christian as you are, give me a morsel of the baby's biscuit, and try and make us some decent bread. the stuff your servant gives us is uneatable,” said wilson to me, in most imploring accents. “most willingly. but i have no yeast; and i never baked in one of those strange kettles in my life.” “i'll go to old joe's wife and borrow some,” said he; “they are always borrowing of you.” away he went across the field, but soon returned. i looked into his jug--it was empty. “no luck,” said he; “those stingy wretches had just baked a fine batch of bread, and they would neither lend nor sell a loaf; but they told me how to make their milk-emptyings.” “well, discuss the same;” but i much doubted if he could remember the recipe. “you are to take an old tin pan,” said he, sitting down on the stool, and poking the fire with a stick. “must it be an old one?” said i, laughing. “of course; they said so.” “and what am i to put into it?” “patience; let me begin at the beginning. some flour and some milk--but, by george! i've forgot all about it. i was wondering as i came across the field why they called the yeast _milk_-emptyings, and that put the way to make it quite out of my head. but never mind; it is only ten o'clock by my watch. i having nothing to do; i will go again.” he went. would i had been there to hear the colloquy between him and mrs. joe; he described it something to this effect:-- mrs. joe: “well, stranger, what do you want now?” tom: “i have forgotten the way you told me how to make the bread.” mrs. joe: “i never told you how to make bread. i guess you are a fool. people have to raise bread before they can bake it. pray who sent you to make game of me? i guess somebody as wise as yourself.” tom: “the lady at whose house i am staying.” mrs. joe: “lady! i can tell you that we have no ladies here. so the old woman who lives in the old log shanty in the hollow don't know how to make bread. a clever wife that! are you her husband?” (tom shakes his head.)--“her brother?”--(another shake.)--“her son? do you hear? or are you deaf?” (going quite close up to him.) tom (moving back): “mistress, i'm not deaf; and who or what i am is nothing to you. will you oblige me by telling me how to make the mill-emptyings; and this time i'll put it down in my pocket-book.” mrs. joe (with a strong sneer): “mill-emptyings! milk, i told you. so you expect me to answer your questions, and give back nothing in return. get you gone; i'll tell you no more about it.” tom (bowing very low): “thank you for your civility. is the old woman who lives in the little shanty near the apple-trees more obliging?” mrs. joe: “that's my husband's mother. you may try. i guess she'll give you an answer.” (exit, slamming the door in his face.) “and what did you do then ?” said i. “oh, went of course. the door was open, and i reconnoitred the premises before i ventured in. i liked the phiz of the old woman a deal better than that of her daughter-in-law, although it was cunning and inquisitive, and as sharp as a needle. she was busy shelling cobs of indian corn into a barrel. i rapped at the door. she told me to come in, and in i stepped. she asked me if i wanted her. i told her my errand, at which she laughed heartily.” old woman: “you are from the old country, i guess, or you would know how to make milk-emptyings. now, i always prefer bran-emptyings. they make the best bread. the milk, i opine, gives it a sourish taste, and the bran is the least trouble.” tom: “then let us have the bran, by all means. how do you make it?” old woman: “i put a double handful of bran into a small pot, or kettle, but a jug will do, and a teaspoonful of salt; but mind you don't kill it with salt, for if you do, it won't rise. i then add as much warm water, at blood-heat, as will mix it into a stiff batter. i then put the jug into a pan of warm water, and set it on the hearth near the fire, and keep it at the same heat until it rises, which it generally will do, if you attend to it, in two or three hours' time. when the bran cracks at the top, and you see white bubbles rising through it, you may strain it into your flour, and lay your bread. it makes good bread.” tom: “my good woman, i am greatly obliged to you. we have no bran; can you give me a small quantity?” old woman: “i never give anything. you englishers, who come out with stacks of money, can afford to buy.” tom: “sell me a small quantity.” old woman: “i guess i will.” (edging quite close, and fixing her sharp eyes on him.) “you must be very rich to buy bran.” tom (quizzically): “oh, very rich.” old woman: “how do you get your money?” tom (sarcastically): “i don't steal it.” old woman: “pr'aps not. i guess you'll soon let others do that for you, if you don't take care. are the people you live with related to you?” tom (hardly able to keep his gravity): “on eve's side. they are my friends.” old woman (in surprise): “and do they keep you for nothing, or do you work for your meat?” tom (impatiently): “is that bran ready?” (the old woman goes to the binn, and measures out a quart of bran.) “what am i to pay you?” old woman: “a york shilling.” tom (wishing to test her honesty): “is there any difference between a york shilling and a shilling of british currency?” old woman (evasively): “i guess not. is there not a place in england called york?” (looking up and leering knowingly in his face.) tom (laughing): “you are not going to come york over me in that way, or yankee either. there is threepence for your pound of bran; you are enormously paid.” old woman (calling after him): “but the recipe; do you allow nothing for the recipe?” tom: “it is included in the price of the bran.” “and so,” said he, “i came laughing away, rejoicing in my sleeve that i had disappointed the avaricious old cheat.” the next thing to be done was to set the bran rising. by the help of tom's recipe, it was duly mixed in the coffee-pot, and placed within a tin pan, full of hot water, by the side of the fire. i have often heard it said that a watched pot never boils; and there certainly was no lack of watchers in this case. tom sat for hours regarding it with his large heavy eyes, the maid inspected it from time to time, and scarce ten minutes were suffered to elapse without my testing the heat of the water, and the state of the emptyings; but the day slipped slowly away, and night drew on, and yet the watched pot gave no signs of vitality. tom sighed deeply when we sat down to tea with the old fare. “never mind,” said he, “we shall get some good bread in the morning; it must get up by that time. i will wait till then. i could almost starve before i could touch these leaden cakes.” the tea-things were removed. tom took up his flute, and commenced a series of the wildest voluntary airs that ever were breathed forth by human lungs. mad jigs, to which the gravest of mankind might have cut eccentric capers. we were all convulsed with laughter. in the midst of one of these droll movements, tom suddenly hopped like a kangaroo (which feat he performed by raising himself upon tip-toes, then flinging himself forward with a stooping jerk), towards the hearth, and squinting down into the coffee-pot in the most quizzical manner, exclaimed, “miserable chaff! if that does not make you rise nothing will.” i left the bran all night by the fire. early in the morning i had the satisfaction of finding that it had risen high above the rim of the pot, and was surrounded by a fine crown of bubbles. “better late than never,” thought i, as i emptied the emptyings into my flour. “tom is not up yet. i will make him so happy with a loaf of new bread, nice home-baked bread, for his breakfast.” it was my first canadian loaf. i felt quite proud of it, as i placed it in the odd machine in which it was to be baked. i did not understand the method of baking in these ovens; or that my bread should have remained in the kettle for half an hour, until it had risen the second time, before i applied the fire to it, in order that the bread should be light. it not only required experience to know when it was in a fit state for baking, but the oven should have been brought to a proper temperature to receive the bread. ignorant of all this, i put my unrisen bread into a cold kettle, and heaped a large quantity of hot ashes above and below it. the first intimation i had of the result of my experiment was the disagreeable odour of burning bread filling the house. “what is this horrid smell?” cried tom, issuing from his domicile, in his shirt sleeves. “do open the door, bell (to the maid); i feel quite sick.” “it is the bread,” said i, taking the lid of the oven with the tongs. “dear me, it is all burnt!” “and smells as sour as vinegar,” says he. “the black bread of sparta!” alas! for my maiden loaf! with a rueful face i placed it on the breakfast table. “i hoped to have given you a treat, but i fear you will find it worse than the cakes in the pan.” “you may be sure of that,” said tom, as he stuck his knife into the loaf, and drew it forth covered with raw dough. “oh, mrs. moodie! i hope you make better books than bread.” we were all sadly disappointed. the others submitted to my failure good-naturedly, and made it the subject of many droll, but not unkindly, witicisms. for myself, i could have borne the severest infliction from the pen of the most formidable critic with more fortitude than i bore the cutting up of my first loaf of bread. after breakfast, moodie and wilson rode into the town; and when they returned at night brought several long letters for me. ah! those first kind letters from home! never shall i forget the rapture with which i grasped them--the eager, trembling haste with which i tore them open, while the blinding tears which filled my eyes hindered me for some minutes from reading a word which they contained. sixteen years have slowly passed away--it appears half a century--but never, never can home letters give me the intense joy those letters did. after seven years' exile, the hope of return grows feeble, the means are still less in our power, and our friends give up all hope of our return; their letters grow fewer and colder, their expressions of attachment are less vivid; the heart has formed new ties, and the poor emigrant is nearly forgotten. double those years, and it is as if the grave had closed over you, and the hearts that once knew and loved you know you no more. tom, too, had a large packet of letters, which he read with great glee. after re-perusing them, he declared his intention of setting off on his return home the next day. we tried to persuade him to stay until the following spring, and make a fair trial of the country. arguments were thrown away upon him; the next morning our eccentric friend was ready to start. “good-bye!” quoth he, shaking me by the hand as if he meant to sever it from the wrist. “when next we meet it will be in new south wales, and i hope by that time you will know how to make better bread.” and thus ended tom wilson's emigration to canada. he brought out three hundred pounds, british currency; he remained in the country just four months, and returned to england with barely enough to pay his passage home. the backwoodsman son of the isles! rave not to me of the old world's pride and luxury; why did you cross the western deep, thus like a love-lorn maid to weep o'er comforts gone and pleasures fled, 'mid forests wild to earn your bread? did you expect that art would vie with nature here, to please the eye; that stately tower, and fancy cot, would grace each rude concession lot; that, independent of your hearth, men would admit your claims to birth? no tyrant's fetter binds the soul, the mind of man's above control; necessity, that makes the slave, has taught the free a course more brave; with bold, determined heart to dare the ills that all are born to share. believe me, youth, the truly great stoop not to mourn o'er fallen state; they make their wants and wishes less, and rise superior to distress; the glebe they break--the sheaf they bind-- but elevates a noble mind. contented in my rugged cot, your lordly towers i envy not; though rude our clime and coarse our cheer, true independence greets you here; amid these forests, dark and wild, dwells honest labour's hardy child. his happy lot i gladly share, and breathe a purer, freer air; no more by wealthy upstart spurn'd, the bread is sweet by labour earn'd; indulgent heaven has bless'd the soil, and plenty crowns the woodman's toil. beneath his axe, the forest yields its thorny maze to fertile fields; this goodly breadth of well-till'd land, well-purchased by his own right hand, with conscience clear, he can bequeath his children, when he sleeps in death. chapter vii uncle joe and his family “ay, your rogue is a laughing rogue, and not a whit the less dangerous for the smile on his lip, which comes not from an honest heart, which reflects the light of the soul through the eye. all is hollow and dark within; and the contortion of the lip, like the phosophoric glow upon decayed timber, only serves to point out the rotteness within.” uncle joe! i see him now before me, with his jolly red face, twinkling black eyes, and rubicund nose. no thin, weasel-faced yankee was he, looking as if he had lived upon 'cute ideas and speculations all his life; yet yankee he was by birth, ay, and in mind, too; for a more knowing fellow at a bargain never crossed the lakes to abuse british institutions and locate himself comfortably among despised britishers. but, then, he had such a good-natured, fat face, such a mischievous, mirth-loving smile, and such a merry, roguish expression in those small, jet-black, glittering eyes, that you suffered yourself to be taken in by him, without offering the least resistance to his impositions. uncle joe's father had been a new england loyalist, and his doubtful attachment to the british government had been repaid by a grant of land in the township of h----. he was the first settler in that township, and chose his location in a remote spot, for the sake of a beautiful natural spring, which bubbled up in a small stone basin in the green bank at the back of the house. “father might have had the pick of the township,” quoth uncle joe; “but the old coon preferred that sup of good water to the site of a town. well, i guess it's seldom i trouble the spring; and whenever i step that way to water the horses, i think what a tarnation fool the old one was, to throw away such a chance of making his fortune, for such cold lap.” “your father was a temperance man?” “temperance!--he had been fond enough of the whiskey bottle in his day. he drank up a good farm in the united states, and then he thought he could not do better than turn loyal, and get one here for nothing. he did not care a cent, not he, for the king of england. he thought himself as good, any how. but he found that he would have to work hard here to scratch along, and he was mightily plagued with the rheumatics, and some old woman told him that good spring water was the best cure for that; so he chose this poor, light, stony land on account of the spring, and took to hard work and drinking cold water in his old age.” “how did the change agree with him?” “i guess better than could have been expected. he planted that fine orchard, and cleared his hundred acres, and we got along slick enough as long as the old fellow lived.” “and what happened after his death, that obliged you to part with your land?” “bad times--bad crops,” said uncle joe, lifting his shoulders. “i had not my father's way of scraping money together. i made some deuced clever speculations, but they all failed. i married young, and got a large family; and the women critters ran up heavy bills at the stores, and the crops did not yield enough to pay them; and from bad we got to worse, and mr. c---- put in an execution, and seized upon the whole concern. he sold it to your man for double what it cost him; and you got all that my father toiled for during the last twenty years of his life for less than half the cash he laid out upon clearing it.” “and had the whiskey nothing to do with this change?” said i, looking him in the face suspiciously. “not a bit! when a man gets into difficulties, it is the only thing to keep him from sinking outright. when your husband has had as many troubles as i have had, he will know how to value the whiskey bottle.” this conversation was interrupted by a queer-looking urchin of five years old, dressed in a long-tailed coat and trousers, popping his black shock head in at the door, and calling out, “uncle joe!--you're wanted to hum.” “is that your nephew?” “no! i guess 'tis my woman's eldest son,” said uncle joe, rising, “but they call me uncle joe. 'tis a spry chap that--as cunning as a fox. i tell you what it is--he will make a smart man. go home, ammon, and tell your ma that i am coming.” “i won't,” said the boy; “you may go hum and tell her yourself. she has wanted wood cut this hour, and you'll catch it!” away ran the dutiful son, but not before he had applied his forefinger significantly to the side of his nose, and, with a knowing wink, pointed in the direction of home. uncle joe obeyed the signal, drily remarking that he could not leave the barn door without the old hen clucking him back. at this period we were still living in old satan's log house, and anxiously looking out for the first snow to put us in possession of the good substantial log dwelling occupied by uncle joe and his family, which consisted of a brown brood of seven girls, and the highly-prized boy who rejoiced in the extraordinary name of ammon. strange names are to be found in this free country. what think you, gentle reader, of solomon sly, reynard fox, and hiram dolittle and prudence fidget; all veritable names, and belonging to substantial yeomen? after ammon and ichabod, i should not be at all surprised to meet with judas iscariot, pilate, and herod. and then the female appellations! but the subject is a delicate one and i will forbear to touch upon it. i have enjoyed many a hearty laugh over the strange affectations which people designate here very handsome names. i prefer the old homely jewish names, such as that which it pleased my godfather and godmothers to bestow upon me, to one of those high-sounding christianities, the minervas, cinderellas, and almerias of canada. the love of singular names is here carried to a marvellous extent. it is only yesterday that, in passing through one busy village, i stopped in astonishment before a tombstone headed thus: “sacred to the memory of silence sharman, the beloved wife of asa sharman.” was the woman deaf and dumb, or did her friends hope by bestowing upon her such an impossible name to still the voice of nature, and check, by an admonitory appellative, the active spirit that lives in the tongue of woman? truly, asa sharman, if thy wife was silent by name as well as by nature, thou wert a fortunate man! but to return to uncle joe. he made many fair promises of leaving the residence we had bought, the moment he had sold his crops and could remove his family. we could see no interest which could be served by his deceiving us, and therefore we believed him, striving to make ourselves as comfortable as we could in the meantime in our present wretched abode. but matters are never so bad but that they may be worse. one day when we were at dinner, a waggon drove up to the door, and mr. ---- alighted, accompanied by a fine-looking, middle-aged man, who proved to be captain s----, who had just arrived from demarara with his wife and family. mr. ----, who had purchased the farm of old satan, had brought captain s---- over to inspect the land, as he wished to buy a farm, and settle in that neighbourhood. with some difficulty i contrived to accommodate the visitors with seats, and provide them with a tolerable dinner. fortunately, moodie had brought in a brace of fine fat partridges that morning; these the servant transferred to a pot of boiling water, in which she immersed them for the space of a minute--a novel but very expeditious way of removing the feathers, which then come off at the least touch. in less than ten minutes they were stuffed, trussed, and in the bake-kettle; and before the gentlemen returned from walking over the farm, the dinner was on the table. to our utter consternation, captain s---- agreed to purchase, and asked if we could give him possession in a week! “good heavens!” cried i, glancing reproachfully at mr. ----, who was discussing his partridge with stoical indifference. “what will become of us? where are we to go?” “oh, make yourself easy; i will force that old witch, joe's mother, to clear out.” “but 'tis impossible to stow ourselves into that pig-sty.” “it will only be for a week or two, at farthest. this is october; joe will be sure to be off by the first of sleighing.” “but if she refuses to give up the place?” “oh, leave her to me. i'll talk her over,” said the knowing land speculator. “let it come to the worst,” he said, turning to my husband, “she will go out for the sake of a few dollars. by-the-by, she refused to bar the dower when i bought the place; we must cajole her out of that. it is a fine afternoon; suppose we walk over the hill, and try our luck with the old nigger?” i felt so anxious about the result of the negotiation, that, throwing my cloak over my shoulders, and tying on my bonnet without the assistance of a glass, i took my husband's arm, and we walked forth. it was a bright, clear afternoon, the first week in october, and the fading woods, not yet denuded of their gorgeous foliage, glowed in a mellow, golden light. a soft purple haze rested on the bold outline of the haldimand hills, and in the rugged beauty of the wild landscape i soon forgot the purport of our visit to the old woman's log hut. on reaching the ridge of the hill, the lovely valley in which our future home lay smiled peacefully upoon us from amidst its fruitful orchards, still loaded with their rich, ripe fruit. “what a pretty place it is!” thought i, for the first time feeling something like a local interest in the spot, springing up in my heart. “how i wish those odious people would give us possession of the home which for some time has been our own.” the log hut that we were approaching, and in which the old woman, r----, resided by herself--having quarrelled years ago with her son's wife--was of the smallest dimensions, only containing one room, which served the old dame for kitchen, and bed-room, and all. the open door, and a few glazed panes, supplied it with light and air; while a huge hearth, on which crackled two enormous logs--which are technically termed a front and a back stick--took up nearly half the domicile; and the old woman's bed, which was covered with an unexceptionally clean patched quilt, nearly the other half, leaving just room for a small home-made deal table, of the rudest workmanship, two basswood-bottomed chairs, stained red, one of which was a rocking-chair, appropiated solely to the old woman's use, and a spinning wheel. amidst this muddle of things--for small as was the quantum of furniture, it was all crowded into such a tiny space that you had to squeeze your way through it in the best manner you could--we found the old woman, with a red cotton handkerchief tied over her grey locks, hood-fashion, shelling white bush-beans into a wooden bowl. without rising from her seat, she pointed to the only remaining chair. “i guess, miss, you can sit there; and if the others can't stand, they can make a seat of my bed.” the gentlemen assured her that they were not tired, and could dispense with seats. mr. ---- then went up to the old woman, and proffering his hand, asked after her health in his blandest manner. “i'm none the better for seeing you, or the like of you,” was the ungracious reply. “you have cheated my poor boy out of his good farm; and i hope it may prove a bad bargain to you and yours.” “mrs. r----,” returned the land speculator, nothing ruffled by her unceremonious greeting, “i could not help your son giving way to drink, and getting into my debt. if people will be so imprudent, they cannot be so stupid as to imagine that others can suffer for their folly.” “suffer!” repeated the old woman, flashing her small, keen black eyes upon him with a glance of withering scorn. “you suffer! i wonder what the widows and orphans you have cheated would say to that? my son was a poor, weak, silly fool, to be sucked in by the like of you. for a debt of eight hundred dollars--the goods never cost you four hundred--you take from us our good farm; and these, i s'pose,” pointing to my husband and me, “are the folk you sold it to. pray, miss,” turning quickly to me, “what might your man give for the place?” “three hundred pounds in cash.” “poor sufferer!” again sneered the hag. “four hundred dollars is a very _small_ profit in as many weeks. well, i guess, you beat the yankees hollow. and pray, what brought you here to-day, scenting about you like a carrion-crow? we have no more land for you to seize from us.” moodie now stepped forward, and briefly explained our situation, offering the old woman anything in reason to give up the cottage and reside with her son until he removed from the premises; which, he added, must be in a very short time. the old dame regarded him with a sarcastic smile. “i guess, joe will take his own time. the house is not built which is to receive him; and he is not a man to turn his back upon a warm hearth to camp in the wilderness. you were _green_ when you bought a farm of that man, without getting along with it the right of possession.” “but, mrs. r----, your son promised to go out the first of sleighing.” “wheugh!” said the old woman. “would you have a man give away his hat and leave his own head bare? it's neither the first snow nor the last frost that will turn joe out of his comfortable home. i tell you all that he will stay here, if it is only to plague you.” threats and remonstrances were alike useless, the old woman remained inexorable; and we were just turning to leave the house, when the cunning old fox exclaimed, “and now, what will you give me to leave my place?” “twelve dollars, if you give us possession next monday,” said my husband. “twelve dollars! i guess you won't get me out for that.” “the rent would not be worth more than a dollar a month,” said mr. ----, pointing with his cane to the dilapidated walls. “mr. moodie has offered you a year's rent for the place.” “it may not be worth a cent,” returned the woman; “for it will give everybody the rheumatism that stays a week in it--but it is worth that to me, and more nor double that just now to him. but i will not be hard with him,” continued she, rocking herself to and fro. “say twenty dollars, and i will turn out on monday.” “i dare say you will,” said mr. ----, “and who do you think would be fool enough to give you such an exorbitant sum for a ruined old shed like this?” “mind your own business, and make your own bargains,” returned the old woman, tartly. “the devil himself could not deal with you, for i guess he would have the worst of it. what do you say, sir?” and she fixed her keen eyes upon my husband, as if she would read his thoughts. “will you agree to my price?” “it is a very high one, mrs. r----; but as i cannot help myself, and you take advantage of that, i suppose i must give it.” “'tis a bargain,” cried the old crone, holding out her hard, bony hand. “come, cash down!” “not until you give me possession on monday next; or you might serve me as your son has done.” “ha!” said the old woman, laughing and rubbing her hands together; “you begin to see daylight, do you? in a few months, with the help of him,” pointing to mr. ----, “you will be able to go alone; but have a care of your teacher, for it's no good that you will learn from him. but will you really stand to your word, mister?” she added, in a coaxing tone, “if i go out on monday?” “to be sure i will; i never break my word.” “well, i guess you are not so clever as our people, for they only keep it as long as it suits them. you have an honest look; i will trust you; but i will not trust him,” nodding to mr. ----, “he can buy and sell his word as fast as a horse can trot. so on monday i will turn out my traps. i have lived here six-and-thirty years; 'tis a pretty place and it vexes me to leave it,” continued the poor creature, as a touch of natural feeling softened and agitated her world-hardened heart. “there is not an acre in cultivation but i helped to clear it, nor a tree in yonder orchard but i held it while my poor man, who is dead and gone, planted it; and i have watched the trees bud from year to year, until their boughs overshadowed the hut, where all my children, but joe, were born. yes, i came here young, and in my prime; and i must leave it in age and poverty. my children and husband are dead, and their bones rest beneath the turf in the burying-ground on the side of the hill. of all that once gathered about my knees, joe and his young ones alone remain. and it is hard, very hard, that i must leave their graves to be turned by the plough of a stranger.” i felt for the desolate old creature--the tears rushed to my eyes; but there was no moisture in hers. no rain from the heart could filter through that iron soil. “be assured, mrs. r----,” said moodie, “that the dead will be held sacred; the place will never be disturbed by me.” “perhaps not; but it is not long that you will remain here. i have seen a good deal in my time; but i never saw a gentleman from the old country make a good canadian farmer. the work is rough and hard, and they get out of humour with it, and leave it to their hired helps, and then all goes wrong. they are cheated on all sides, and in despair take to the whiskey bottle, and that fixes them. i tell you what it is, mister--i give you just three years to spend your money and ruin yourself; and then you will become a confirmed drunkard, like the rest.” the first part of her prophecy was only too true. thank god! the last has never been fulfilled, and never can be. perceiving that the old woman was not a little elated with her bargain, mr. ---- urged upon her the propriety of barring the dower. at first, she was outrageous, and very abusive, and rejected all his proposals with contempt; vowing that she would meet him in a certain place below, before she would sign away her right to the property. “listen to reason, mrs. r----,” said the land speculator. “if you will sign the papers before the proper authorities, the next time your son drives you to c----, i will give you a silk gown.” “pshaw! buy a shroud for yourself; you will need it before i want a silk gown,” was the ungracious reply. “consider woman; a black silk of the best quality.” “to mourn in for my sins, or for the loss of the farm?” “twelve yards,” continued mr. ----, without noticing her rejoinder, “at a dollar a yard. think what a nice church-going gown it will make.” “to the devil with you! i never go to church.” “i thought as much,” said mr. ----, winking to us. “well, my dear madam, what will satisfy you?” “i'll do it for twenty dollars,” returned the old woman, rocking herself to and fro in her chair; her eyes twinkling, and her hands moving convulsively, as if she already grasped the money so dear to her soul. “agreed,” said the land speculator. “when will you be in town?” “on tuesday, if i be alive. but, remember, i'll not sign till i have my hand on the money.” “never fear,” said mr. ----, as we quitted the house; then, turning to me, he added, with a peculiar smile,” that's a devilish smart woman. she would have made a clever lawyer.” monday came, and with it all the bustle of moving, and, as is generally the case on such occasions, it turned out a very wet day. i left old satan's hut without regret, glad, at any rate, to be in a place of my own, however humble. our new habitation, though small, had a decided advantage over the one we were leaving. it stood on a gentle slope; and a narrow but lovely stream, full of pretty speckled trout, ran murmuring under the little window; the house, also, was surrounded by fine fruit trees. i know not how it was, but the sound of that tinkling brook, for ever rolling by, filled my heart with a strange melancholy, which for many nights deprived me of rest. i loved it, too. the voice of waters, in the stillness of night, always had an extraordinary effect upon my mind. their ceaseless motion and perpetual sound convey to me the idea of life--eternal life; and looking upon them, glancing and flashing on, now in sunshine, now in shade, now hoarsely chiding with the opposing rock, now leaping triumphantly over it, creates within me a feeling of mysterious awe of which i never could wholly divest myself. a portion of my own spirit seemed to pass into that little stream. in its deep wailings and fretful sighs, i fancied myself lamenting for the land i had left for ever; and its restless and impetuous rushings against the stones which choked its passage, were mournful types of my own mental struggles against the destiny which hemmed me in. through the day the stream still moaned and travelled on,--but, engaged in my novel and distasteful occupations, i heard it not; but whenever my winged thoughts flew homeward, then the voice of the brook spoke deeply and sadly to my heart, and my tears flowed unchecked to its plaintive and harmonious music. in a few hours i had my new abode more comfortably arranged than the old, although its dimensions were much smaller. the location was beautiful, and i was greatly consoled by this circumstance. the aspect of nature ever did, and i hope ever will continue-- “to shoot marvellous strength into my heart.” as long as we remain true to the divine mother, so long will she remain faithful to her suffering children. at that period my love for canada was a feeling very nearly allied to that which the condemned criminal entertains for his cell--his only hope of escape being through the portals of the grave. the fall rains had commenced. in a few days the cold wintry showers swept all the gorgeous crimson from the trees; and a bleak and desolate waste presented itself to the shuddering spectator. but, in spite of wind and rain, my little tenement was never free from the intrusion of uncle joe's wife and children. their house stood about a stone's-throw from the hut we occupied, in the same meadow, and they seemed to look upon it still as their own, although we had literally paid for it twice over. fine strapping girls they were, from five years old to fourteen, but rude and unnurtured as so many bears. they would come in without the least ceremony, and, young as they were, ask me a thousand impertinent questions; and when i civilly requested them to leave the room, they would range themselves upon the door-step, watching my motions, with their black eyes gleaming upon me through their tangled, uncombed locks. their company was a great annoyance, for it obliged me to put a painful restraint upon the thoughtfulness in which it was so delightful to me to indulge. their visits were not visits of love, but of mere idle curiosity, not unmingled with malicious pleasure at my awkward attempts at canadian house-wifieries. the simplicity, the fond, confiding faith of childhood is unknown in canada. there are no children here. the boy is a miniature man--knowing, keen, and wide awake; as able to drive a bargain and take an advantage of his juvenile companion as the grown-up, world-hardened man. the girl, a gossipping flirt, full of vanity and affectation, with a premature love of finery, and an acute perception of the advantages to be derived from wealth, and from keeping up a certain appearance in the world. the flowers, the green grass, the glorious sunshine, the birds of the air, and the young lambs gambolling down the verdant slopes, which fill the heart of a british child with a fond ecstacy, bathing the young spirit in elysium, would float unnoticed before the vision of a canadian child; while the sight of a dollar, or a new dress, or a gay bonnet, would swell its proud bosom with self-importance and delight. the glorious blush of modest diffidence, the tear of gentle sympathy, are so rare on the cheek, or in the eye of the young, that their appearance creates a feeling of surprise. such perfect self-reliance in beings so new to the world is painful to a thinking mind. it betrays a great want of sensibility and mental culture, and a melancholy knowledge of the arts of life. for a week i was alone, my good scotch girl having left me to visit her father. some small baby-articles were needed to be washed, and after making a great preparation, i determined to try my unskilled hand upon the operation. the fact is, i knew nothing about the task i had imposed upon myself, and in a few minutes rubbed the skin off my wrists, without getting the clothes clean. the door was open, as it generally was, even during the coldest winter days, in order to let in more light, and let out the smoke, which otherwise would have enveloped us like a cloud. i was so busy that i did not perceive that i was watched by the cold, heavy, dark eyes of mrs. joe, who, with a sneering laugh, exclaimed-- “well, thank god! i am glad to see you brought to work at last. i hope you may have to work as hard as i have. i don't see, not i, why you, who are no better than me, should sit still all day, like a lady!” “mrs. r----,” said i, not a little annoyed at her presence, “what concern is it of yours whether i work or sit still? i never interfere with you. if you took it into your head to lie in bed all day, i should never trouble myself about it.” “ah, i guess you don't look upon us as fellow-critters, you are so proud and grand. i s'pose you britishers are not made of flesh and blood like us. you don't choose to sit down at meat with your helps. now, i calculate, we think them a great deal better nor you.” “of course,” said i, “they are more suited to you than we are; they are uneducated, and so are you. this is no fault in either; but it might teach you to pay a little more respect to those who are possessed of superior advantages. but, mrs. r----, my helps, as you call them, are civil and obliging, and never make unprovoked and malicious speeches. if they could so far forget themselves, i should order them to leave the house.” “oh, i see what you are up to,” replied the insolent dame; “you mean to say that if i were your help you would turn me out of your house; but i'm a free-born american, and i won't go at your bidding. don't think i came here out of regard to you. no, i hate you all; and i rejoice to see you at the wash-tub, and i wish that you may be brought down upon your knees to scrub the floors.” this speech only caused a smile, and yet i felt hurt and astonished that a woman whom i had never done anything to offend should be so gratuitously spiteful. in the evening she sent two of her brood over to borrow my “long iron,” as she called an italian iron. i was just getting my baby to sleep, sitting upon a low stool by the fire. i pointed to the iron upon the shelf, and told the girl to take it. she did so, but stood beside me, holding it carelessly in her hand, and staring at the baby, who had just sunk to sleep upon my lap. the next moment the heavy iron fell from her relaxed grasp, giving me a severe blow upon my knee and foot; and glanced so near the child's head that it drew from me a cry of terror. “i guess that was nigh braining the child,” quoth miss amanda, with the greatest coolness, and without making the least apology. master ammon burst into a loud laugh. “if it had, mandy, i guess we'd have cotched it.” provoked at their insolence, i told them to leave the house. the tears were in my eyes, for i felt that had they injured the child, it would not have caused them the least regret. the next day, as we were standing at the door, my husband was greatly amused by seeing fat uncle joe chasing the rebellious ammon over the meadow in front of the house. joe was out of breath, panting and puffing like a small steam-engine, and his face flushed to deep red with excitement and passion. “you ---- young scoundrel!” he cried, half choked with fury, “if i catch up to you, i'll take the skin off you!” “you ---- old scoundrel, you may have my skin if you can get at me,” retorted the precocious child, as he jumped up upon the top of the high fence, and doubled his fist in a menacing manner at his father. “that boy is growing too bad,” said uncle joe, coming up to us out of breath, the perspiration streaming down his face. “it is time to break him in, or he'll get the master of us all.” “you should have begun that before,” said moodie. “he seems a hopeful pupil.” “oh, as to that, a little swearing is manly,” returned the father; “i swear myself, i know, and as the old cock crows, so crows the young one. it is not his swearing that i care a pin for, but he will not do a thing i tell him to.” “swearing is a dreadful vice,” said i, “and, wicked as it is in the mouth of a grown-up person, it is perfectly shocking in a child; it painfully tells he has been brought up without the fear of god.” “pooh! pooh! that's all cant; there is no harm in a few oaths, and i cannot drive oxen and horses without swearing. i dare say that you can swear too when you are riled, but you are too cunning to let us hear you.” i could not help laughing outright at this supposition, but replied very quietly, “those who practice such iniquities never take any pains to conceal them. the concealment would infer a feeling of shame; and when people are conscious of the guilt, they are in the road to improvement.” the man walked whistling away, and the wicked child returned unpunished to his home. the next minute the old woman came in. “i guess you can give me a piece of silk for a hood,” said she, “the weather is growing considerable cold.” “surely it cannot well be colder than it is at present,” said i, giving her the rocking-chair by the fire. “wait a while; you know nothing of a canadian winter. this is only november; after the christmas thaw, you'll know something about the cold. it is seven-and-thirty years ago since i and my man left the u-ni-ted states. it was called the year of the great winter. i tell you, woman, that the snow lay so deep on the earth, that it blocked up all the roads, and we could drive a sleigh whither we pleased, right over the snake fences. all the cleared land was one wide white level plain; it was a year of scarcity, and we were half starved; but the severe cold was far worse nor the want of provisions. a long and bitter journey we had of it; but i was young then, and pretty well used to trouble and fatigue; my man stuck to the british government. more fool he! i was an american born, and my heart was with the true cause. but his father was english, and, says he, 'i'll live and die under their flag.' so he dragged me from my comfortable fireside to seek a home in the far canadian wilderness. trouble! i guess you think you have your troubles; but what are they to mine?” she paused, took a pinch of snuff, offered me the box, sighed painfully, pushed the red handkerchief from her high, narrow, wrinkled brow, and continued: “joe was a baby then, and i had another helpless critter in my lap--an adopted child. my sister had died from it, and i was nursing it at the same breast with my boy. well, we had to perform a journey of four hundred miles in an ox-cart, which carried, besides me and the children, all our household stuff. our way lay chiefly through the forest, and we made but slow progress. oh! what a bitter cold night it was when we reached the swampy woods where the city of rochester now stands. the oxen were covered with icicles, and their breath sent up clouds of steam. 'nathan,' says i to my man, 'you must stop and kindle a fire; i am dead with cold, and i fear the babes will be frozen.' we began looking about for a good spot to camp in, when i spied a light through the trees. it was a lone shanty, occupied by two french lumberers. the men were kind; they rubbed our frozen limbs with snow, and shared with us their supper and buffalo skins. on that very spot where we camped that night, where we heard nothing but the wind soughing amongst the trees, and the rushing of the river, now stands the great city of rochester. i went there two years ago, to the funeral of a brother. it seemed to me like a dream. where we foddered our beasts by the shanty fire now stands the largest hotel in the city; and my husband left this fine growing country to starve here.” i was so much interested in the old woman's narrative--for she was really possessed of no ordinary capacity, and, though rude and uneducated might have been a very superior person under different circumstances--that i rummaged among my store, and soon found a piece of black silk, which i gave her for the hood she required. the old woman examined it carefully over, smiled to herself, but, like all her people, was too proud to return a word of thanks. one gift to the family always involved another. “have you any cotton-batting, or black sewing-silk, to give me, to quilt it with?” “no.” “humph!” returned the old dame, in a tone which seemed to contradict my assertion. she then settled herself in her chair, and, after shaking her foot awhile, and fixing her piercing eyes upon me for some minutes, she commenced the following list of interrogatories:-- “is your father alive?” “no; he died many years ago, when i was a young girl.” “is your mother alive?” “yes.” “what is her name?” i satisfied her on this point. “did she ever marry again?” “she might have done so, but she loved her husband too well, and preferred living single.” “humph! we have no such notions here. what was your father?” “a gentleman, who lived upon his own estate.” “did he die rich?” “he lost the greater part of his property from being surety for another.” “that's a foolish business. my man burnt his fingers with that. and what brought you out to this poor country--you, who are no more fit for it than i am to be a fine lady?” “the promise of a large grant of land, and the false statements we heard regarding it.” “do you like the country?” “no; and i fear i never shall.” “i thought not; for the drop is always on your cheek, the children tell me; and those young ones have keen eyes. now, take my advice: return while your money lasts; the longer you remain in canada the less you will like it; and when your money is all spent, you will be like a bird in a cage; you may beat your wings against the bars, but you can't get out.” there was a long pause. i hoped that my guest had sufficiently gratified her curiosity, when she again commenced:-- “how do you get your money? do you draw it from the old country, or have you it with you in cash?” provoked by her pertinacity, and seeing no end to her cross-questioning, i replied, very impatiently, “mrs. r----, is it the custom in your country to catechise strangers whenever you meet with them?” “what do you mean?” she said, colouring, i believe, for the first time in her life. “i mean,” quoth i, “an evil habit of asking impertinent questions.” the old woman got up, and left the house without speaking another word. the sleigh-bells 'tis merry to hear, at evening time, by the blazing hearth the sleigh-bells chime; to know the bounding steeds bring near the loved one to our bosom dear. ah, lightly we spring the fire to raise, till the rafters glow with the ruddy blaze; those merry sleigh-bells, our hearts keep time responsive to their fairy chime. ding-dong, ding-dong, o'er vale and hill, their welcome notes are trembling still. 'tis he, and blithely the gay bells sound, as glides his sleigh o'er the frozen ground; hark! he has pass'd the dark pine wood, he crosses now the ice-bound flood, and hails the light at the open door that tells his toilsome journey's o'er. the merry sleigh-bells! my fond heart swells and throbs to hear the welcome bells; ding-dong, ding-dong, o'er ice and snow, a voice of gladness, on they go. our hut is small, and rude our cheer, but love has spread the banquet here; and childhood springs to be caress'd by our beloved and welcome guest. with a smiling brow, his tale he tells, the urchins ring the merry sleigh-bells; the merry sleigh-bells, with shout and song they drag the noisy string along; ding-dong, ding-dong, the father's come the gay bells ring his welcome home. from the cedar-swamp the gaunt wolves howl, from the oak loud whoops the felon owl; the snow-storm sweeps in thunder past, the forest creaks beneath the blast; no more i list, with boding fear, the sleigh-bells' distant chime to hear. the merry sleigh-bells, with soothing power shed gladness on the evening hour. ding-dong, ding-dong, what rapture swells the music of those joyous bells. [many versions have been given of this song, and it has been set to music in the states. i here give the original copy, written whilst leaning on the open door of my shanty, and watching for the return of my husband.] chapter viii john monaghan “dear mother nature! on thy ample breast hast thou not room for thy neglected son? a stern necessity has driven him forth alone and friendless. he has naught but thee, and the strong hand and stronger heart thou gavest, to win with patient toil his daily bread.” a few days after the old woman's visit to the cottage, our servant james absented himself for a week, without asking leave, or giving any intimation of his intention. he had under his care a fine pair of horses, a yoke of oxen, three cows, and a numerous family of pigs, besides having to chop all the firewood required for our use. his unexpected departure caused no small trouble in the family; and when the truant at last made his appearance, moodie discharged him altogether. the winter had now fairly set in--the iron winter of . the snow was unusually deep, and it being our first winter in canada, and passed in such a miserable dwelling, we felt it very severely. in spite of all my boasted fortitude--and i think my powers of endurance have been tried to the uttermost since my sojourn in this country--the rigour of the climate subdued my proud, independent english spirit, and i actually shamed my womanhood and cried with the cold. yes, i ought to blush at evincing such unpardonable weakness; but i was foolish and inexperienced, and unaccustomed to the yoke. my husband did not much relish performing the menial duties of a servant in such weather, but he did not complain, and in the meantime commenced an active inquiry for a man to supply the place of the one we had lost; but at that season of the year no one was to be had. it was a bitter, freezing night. a sharp wind howled without, and drove the fine snow through the chinks in the door, almost to the hearth-stone, on which two immense blocks of maple shed forth a cheering glow, brightening the narrow window-panes, and making the blackened rafters ruddy with the heart-invigorating blaze. the toils of the day were over, the supper things cleared away, and the door closed for the night. moodie had taken up his flute, the sweet companion of happier days, at the earnest request of our homesick scotch servant-girl, to cheer her drooping spirits by playing some of the touching national airs of the glorious mountain land, the land of chivalry and song, the heroic north. before retiring to rest, bell, who had an exquisite ear for music, kept time with foot and hand, while large tears gathered in her soft blue eyes. “ay, 'tis bonnie thae songs; but they mak' me greet, an' my puir heart is sair, sair when i think on the bonnie braes and the days o'lang syne.” poor bell! her heart was among the hills, and mine had wandered far, far away to the green groves and meadows of my own fair land. the music and our reveries were alike abruptly banished by a sharp blow upon the door. bell rose and opened it, when a strange, wild-looking lad, barefooted, and with no other covering to his head than the thick, matted locks of raven blackness that hung like a cloud over his swarthy, sunburnt visage, burst into the room. “guidness defend us! wha ha'e we here?” screamed bell, retreating into a corner. “the puir callant's no cannie.” my husband turned hastily round to meet the intruder, and i raised the candle from the table the better to distinguish his face; while bell, from her hiding-place, regarded him with unequivocal glances of fear and mistrust, waving her hands to me, and pointing significantly to the open door, as if silently beseeching me to tell her master to turn him out. “shut the door, man,” said moodie, whose long scrutiny of the strange being before us seemed upon the whole satisfactory; “we shall be frozen.” “thin faith, sir, that's what i am,” said the lad, in a rich brogue, which told, without asking, the country to which he belonged. then stretching his bare hands to the fire, he continued, “by jove, sir, i was never so near gone in my life!” “where do you come from, and what is your business here? you must be aware that this is a very late hour to take a house by storm in this way.” “thrue for you, sir. but necessity knows no law; and the condition you see me in must plade for me. first, thin, sir, i come from the township of d----, and want a masther; and next to that, bedad! i want something to ate. as i'm alive, and 'tis a thousand pities that i'm alive at all at all, for shure god almighty never made sich a misfortunate crather afore nor since; i have had nothing to put in my head since i ran away from my ould masther, mr. f----, yesterday at noon. money i have none, sir; the divil a cent. i have neither a shoe to my foot nor a hat to my head, and if you refuse to shelter me the night, i must be contint to perish in the snow, for i have not a frind in the wide wurld.” the lad covered his face with his hands, and sobbed aloud. “bell,” i whispered; “go to the cupboard and get the poor fellow something to eat. the boy is starving.” “dinna heed him, mistress, dinna credit his lees. he is ane o' those wicked papists wha ha' just stepped in to rob and murder us.” “nonsense! do as i bid you.” “i winna be fashed aboot him. an' if he bides here, i'll e'en flit by the first blink o' the morn.” “isabel, for shame! is this acting like a christian, or doing as you would be done by?” bell was as obstinate as a rock, not only refusing to put down any food for the famished lad, but reiterating her threat of leaving the house if he were suffered to remain. my husband, no longer able to endure her selfish and absurd conduct, got angry in good earnest, and told her that she might please herself; that he did not mean to ask her leave as to whom he received into his house. i, for my part, had no idea that she would realise her threat. she was an excellent servant, clean, honest, and industrious, and loved the dear baby. “you will think better of it in the morning,” said i, as i rose and placed before the lad some cold beef and bread, and a bowl of milk, to which the runaway did ample justice. “why did you quit your master, my lad?” said moodie. “because i could live wid him no longer. you see, sir, i'm a poor foundling from the belfast asylum, shoved out by the mother that bore me, upon the wide wurld, long before i knew that i was in it. as i was too young to spake for myself intirely, she put me into a basket, wid a label round my neck, to tell the folks that my name was john monaghan. this was all i ever got from my parents; and who or what they were, i never knew, not i, for they never claimed me; bad cess to them! but i've no doubt it's a fine illigant gintleman he was, and herself a handsome rich young lady, who dared not own me for fear of affronting the rich jintry, her father and mother. poor folk, sir, are never ashamed of their children; 'tis all the threasure they have, sir; but my parents were ashamed of me, and they thrust me out to the stranger and the hard bread of depindence.” the poor lad signed deeply, and i began to feel a growing interest in his sad history. “have you been in the country long?” “four years, madam. you know my masther, mr. f----; he brought me out wid him as his apprentice, and during the voyage he trated me well. but the young men, his sons, are tyrants, and full of durty pride; and i could not agree wid them at all at all. yesterday, i forgot to take the oxen out of the yoke, and musther william tied me up to a stump, and bate me with the raw hide. shure the marks are on me showlthers yet. i left the oxen and the yoke, and turned my back upon them all, for the hot blood was bilin' widin me; and i felt that if i stayed it would be him that would get the worst of it. no one had ever cared for me since i was born, so i thought it was high time to take care of myself. i had heard your name, sir, and i thought i would find you out; and if you want a lad, i will work for you for my kape, and a few dacent clothes.” a bargain was soon made. moodie agreed to give monaghan six dollars a month, which he thankfully accepted; and i told bell to prepare his bed in a corner of the kitchen. but mistress bell thought fit to rebel. having been guilty of one act of insubordination, she determined to be consistent, and throw off the yoke altogether. she declared that she would do no such thing; that her life and that all our lives were in danger; and that she would never stay another night under the same roof with that papist vagabond. “papist!” cried the indignant lad, his dark eyes flashing fire, “i'm no papist, but a protestant like yourself; and i hope a deuced dale better christian. you take me for a thief; yet shure a thief would have waited till you were all in bed and asleep, and not stepped in forenint you all in this fashion.” there was both truth and nature in the lad's argument; but bell, like an obstinate woman as she was, chose to adhere to her own opinion. nay, she even carried her absurd prejudices so far that she brought her mattress and laid it down on the floor in my room, for fear that the irish vagabond should murder her during the night. by the break of day she was off; leaving me for the rest of the winter without a servant. monaghan did all in his power to supply her place; he lighted the fires, swept the house, milked the cows, nursed the baby, and often cooked the dinner for me, and endeavoured by a thousand little attentions to show the gratitude he really felt for our kindness. to little katie he attached himself in an extraordinary manner. all his spare time he spent in making little sleighs and toys for her, or in dragging her in the said sleighs up and down the steep hills in front of the house, wrapped up in a blanket. of a night, he cooked her mess of bread and milk, as she sat by the fire, and his greatest delight was to feed her himself. after this operation was over, he would carry her round the floor on his back, and sing her songs in native irish. katie always greeted his return from the woods with a scream of joy, holding up her fair arms to clasp the neck of her dark favourite. “now the lord love you for a darlint!” he would cry, as he caught her to his heart. “shure you are the only one of the crathers he ever made who can love poor john monaghan. brothers and sisters i have none--i stand alone in the wurld, and your bonny wee face is the sweetest thing it contains for me. och, jewil! i could lay down my life for you, and be proud to do that same.” though careless and reckless about everything that concerned himself, john was honest and true. he loved us for the compassion we had shown him; and he would have resented any injury offered to our persons with his best blood. but if we were pleased with our new servant, uncle joe and his family were not, and they commenced a series of petty persecutions that annoyed him greatly, and kindled into a flame all the fiery particles of his irritable nature. moodie had purchased several tons of hay of a neighbouring farmer, for the use of his cattle, and it had to be stowed into the same barn with some flax and straw that belonged to uncle joe. going early one morning to fodder the cattle, john found uncle joe feeding his cows with his master's hay, and as it had diminished greatly in a very short time, he accused him in no measured terms of being the thief. the other very coolly replied that he had taken a little of the hay in order to repay himself for his flax, that monaghan had stolen for the oxen. “now by the powers!” quoth john, kindling into wrath, “that is adding a big lie to a dirthy petty larceny. i take your flax, you ould villain! shure i know that flax is grown to make linen wid, not to feed oxen. god almighty has given the crathers a good warm coat of their own; they neither require shifts nor shirts.” “i saw you take it, you ragged irish vagabond, with my own eyes.” “thin yer two eyes showed you a wicked illusion. you had betther shut up yer head, or i'll give you that for an eye-salve that shall make you see thrue for the time to come.” relying upon his great size, and thinking that the slight stripling, who, by-the-bye, was all bones and sinews, was no match for him, uncle joe struck monaghan over the head with the pitchfork. in a moment the active lad was upon him like a wild cat, and in spite of the difference of his age and weight, gave the big man such a thorough dressing that he was fain to roar aloud for mercy. “own that you are a thief and a liar, or i'll murther you!” “i'll own to anything whilst your knee is pressing me into a pancake. come now--there's a good lad--let me get up.” monaghan felt irresolute, but after extorting from uncle joe a promise never to purloin any of the hay again, he let him rise. “for shure,” he said, “he began to turn so black in the face, i thought he'd burst intirely.” the fat man neither forgot nor forgave this injury; and though he dared not attack john personally, he set the children to insult and affront him upon all occasions. the boy was without socks, and i sent him to old mrs. r----, to inquire of her what she would charge for knitting him two pairs of socks. the reply was, a dollar. this was agreed to, and dear enough they were; but the weather was very cold, and the lad was barefooted, and there was no other alternative than either to accept her offer, or for him to go without. in a few days, monaghan brought them home; but i found upon inspecting them that they were old socks new-footed. this was rather too glaring a cheat, and i sent the lad back with them, and told him to inform mrs. r---- that as he had agreed to give the price for new socks, he expected them to be new altogether. the avaricious old woman did not deny the fact, but she fell to cursing and swearing in an awful manner, and wished so much evil to the lad, that, with the superstitious fear so common to the natives of his country, he left her under the impression that she was gifted with the evil eye, and was an “owld witch.” he never went out of the yard with the waggon and horses, but she rushed to the door, and cursed him for a bare-heeled irish blackguard, and wished that he might overturn the waggon, kill the horses, and break his own worthless neck. “ma'am,” said john to me one day, after returning from c---- with the team, “it would be betther for me to lave the masther intirely; for shure if i do not, some mischief will befall me or the crathers. that wicked owld wretch! i cannot thole her curses. shure it's in purgatory i am all the while.” “nonsense, monaghan! you are not a catholic, and need not fear purgatory. the next time the old woman commences her reprobate conduct, tell her to hold her tongue, and mind her own business, for curses, like chickens come home to roost.” the boy laughed heartily at the old turkish proverb, but did not reckon much on its efficacy to still the clamorous tongue of the ill-natured old jade. the next day he had to pass her door with the horses. no sooner did she hear the sound of the wheels, than out she hobbled, and commenced her usual anathemas. “bad luck to yer croaking, yer ill-conditioned owld raven. it is not me you are desthroying shure, but yer own poor miserable sinful sowl. the owld one has the grief of ye already, for 'curses, like chickens, come home to roost'; so get in wid ye, and hatch them to yerself in the chimley corner. they'll all be roosting wid ye by-and-by; and a nice warm nest they'll make for you, considering the brave brood that belongs to you.” whether the old woman was as superstitious as john, i know not; or whether she was impressed with the moral truth of the proverb--for, as i have before stated, she was no fool--is difficult to tell; but she shrunk back into her den, and never attacked the lad again. poor john bore no malice in his heart, not he; for, in spite of all the ill-natured things he had to endure from uncle joe and his family, he never attempted to return evil for evil. in proof of this, he was one day chopping firewood in the bush, at some distance from joe, who was engaged in the same employment with another man. a tree in falling caught upon another, which, although a very large maple, was hollow and very much decayed, and liable to be blown down by the least shock of the wind. the tree hung directly over the path that uncle joe was obliged to traverse daily with his team. he looked up, and perceived, from the situation it occupied, that it was necessary for his own safety to cut it down; but he lacked courage to undertake so hazardous a job, which might be attended, if the supporting tree gave way during the operation, with very serious consequences. in a careless tone, he called to his companion to cut down the tree. “do it yourself, h----,” said the axe man, with a grin. “my wife and children want their man as much as your hannah wants you.” “i'll not put axe to it,” quoth joe. then, making signs to his comrade to hold his tongue, he shouted to monaghan, “hollo, boy! you're wanted here to cut down this tree. don't you see that your master's cattle might be killed if they should happen to pass under it, and it should fall upon them.” “thrue for you, masther joe; but your own cattle would have the first chance. why should i risk my life and limbs, by cutting down the tree, when it was yerself that threw it so awkwardly over the other?” “oh, but you are a boy, and have no wife and children to depend upon you for bread,” said joe, gravely. “we are both family men. don't you see that 'tis your duty to cut down the tree?” the lad swung the axe to and fro in his hand, eyeing joe and the tree alternately; but the natural kind-heartedness of the creature, and his reckless courage, overcame all idea of self-preservation, and raising aloft his slender but muscular arm, he cried out, “if it's a life that must be sacrificed, why not mine as well as another? here goes! and the lord have mercy on my sinful sowl!” the tree fell, and, contrary to their expectations, without any injury to john. the knowing yankee burst into a loud laugh. “well, if you arn't a tarnation soft fool, i never saw one.” “what do you mane?” exclaimed john, his dark eyes flashing fire. “if 'tis to insult me for doing that which neither of you dared to do, you had better not thry that same. you have just seen the strength of my spirit. you had better not thry again the strength of my arm, or, may be, you and the tree would chance to share the same fate;” and, shouldering his axe, the boy strode down the hill, to get scolded by me for his foolhardiness. the first week of march, all the people were busy making maple sugar. “did you ever taste any maple sugar, ma'am?” asked monaghan, as he sat feeding katie one evening by the fire. “no, john.” “well, then, you've a thrate to come; and it's myself that will make miss katie, the darlint, an illigant lump of that same.” early in the morning john was up, hard at work, making troughs for the sap. by noon he had completed a dozen, which he showed me with great pride of heart. i felt a little curious about this far-famed maple sugar, and asked a thousand questions about the use to which the troughs were to be applied; how the trees were to be tapped, the sugar made, and if it were really good when made? to all my queries, john responded, “och! 'tis illigant. it bates all the sugar that ever was made in jamaky. but you'll see before to-morrow night.” moodie was away at p----, and the prospect of the maple sugar relieved the dulness occasioned by his absence. i reckoned on showing him a piece of sugar of our own making when he came home, and never dreamt of the possibility of disappointment. john tapped his trees after the most approved fashion, and set his troughts to catch the sap; but miss amanda and master ammon upset them as fast as they filled, and spilt all the sap. with great difficulty, monaghan saved the contents of one large iron pot. this he brought in about nightfall, and made up a roaring fire, in order to boil in down into sugar. hour after hour passed away, and the sugar-maker looked as hot and black as the stoker in a steam-boat. many times i peeped into the large pot, but the sap never seemed to diminish. “this is a tedious piece of business,” thought i, but seeing the lad so anxious, i said nothing. about twelve o'clock he asked me, very mysteriously, for a piece of pork to hang over the sugar. “pork!” said i, looking into the pot, which was half full of a very black-looking liquid; “what do you want with pork?” “shure an' 'tis to keep the sugar from burning.” “but, john, i see no sugar!” “och, but 'tis all sugar, only 'tis molasses jist now. see how it sticks to the ladle. aha! but miss katie will have the fine lumps of sugar when she awakes in the morning.” i grew so tired and sleepy that i left john to finish his job, went to bed, and soon forgot all about the maple sugar. at breakfast i observed a small plate upon the table, placed in a very conspicuous manner on the tea-tray, the bottom covered with a hard, black substance, which very much resembled pitch. “what is that dirty-looking stuff, john?” “shure an 'tis the maple sugar.” “can people eat that?” “by dad, an' they can; only thry it, ma'arm.” “why, 'tis so hard, i cannot cut it.” with some difficulty, and not without cutting his finger, john broke a piece off, and stuffed it into the baby's mouth. the poor child made a horrible face, and rejected it as if it had been poison. for my own part, i never tasted anything more nauseous. it tasted like a compound of pork grease and tobacco juice. “well, monaghan, if this be maple sugar, i never wish to taste any again.” “och, bad luck to it!” said the lad, flinging it away, plate and all. “it would have been first-rate but for the dirthy pot, and the blackguard cinders, and its burning to the bottom of the pot. that owld hag, mrs. r----, bewitched it with her evil eye.” “she is not so clever as you think, john,” said i, laughing. “you have forgotten how to make the sugar since you left d----; but let us forget the maple sugar, and think of something else. had you not better get old mrs. r---- to mend that jacket for you; it is too ragged.” “ay, dad! an it's mysel' is the illigant tailor. wasn't i brought up to the thrade in the foundling hospital?” “and why did you quit it?” “because it's a low, mane thrade for a jintleman's son.” “but, john, who told you that you were a gentleman's son?” “och! but i'm shure of it, thin. all my propensities are gintale. i love horses, and dogs, and fine clothes, and money. och! that i was but a jintleman! i'd show them what life is intirely, and i'd challenge masther william, and have my revenge out of him for the blows he gave me.” “you had better mend your trousers,” said i, giving him a tailor's needle, a pair of scissors, and some strong thread. “shure, an' i'll do that same in a brace of shakes,” and sitting down upon a ricketty three-legged stool of his own manufacturing, he commenced his tailoring by tearing off a piece of his trousers to patch the elbows of his jacket. and this trifling act, simple as it may appear, was a perfect type of the boy's general conduct, and marked his progress through life. the present for him was everything; he had no future. while he supplied stuff from the trousers to repair the fractures in the jacket, he never reflected that both would be required on the morrow. poor john! in his brief and reckless career, how often have i recalled that foolish act of his. it now appears to me that his whole life was spent in tearing his trousers to repair his jacket. in the evening john asked me for a piece of soap. “what do you want with soap, john?” “to wash my shirt, ma'am. shure an' i'm a baste to be seen, as black as the pots. sorra a shirt have i but the one, an' it has stuck on my back so long that i can thole it no longer.” i looked at the wrists and collar of the condemned garment, which was all of it that john allowed to be visible. they were much in need of soap and water. “well, john, i will leave you the soap, but can you wash?” “och, shure, an' i can thry. if i soap it enough, and rub long enough, the shirt must come clane at last.” i thought the matter rather doubtful; but when i went to bed i left what he required, and soon saw through the chinks in the boards a roaring fire, and heard john whistling over the tub. he whistled and rubbed, and washed and scrubbed, but as there seemed no end to the job, and he was a long washing this one garment as bell would have been performing the same operation on fifty, i laughed to myself, and thought of my own abortive attempts in that way, and went fast asleep. in the morning john came to his breakfast, with his jacket buttoned up to his throat. “could you not dry your shirt by the fire, john? you will get cold wanting it.” “aha, by dad! it's dhry enough now. the divil has made tinder of it long afore this.” “why, what has happened to it? i heard you washing all night.” “washing! faith, an' i did scrub it till my hands were all ruined intirely, and thin i took the brush to it; but sorra a bit of the dirth could i get out of it. the more i rubbed the blacker it got, until i had used up all the soap, and the perspiration was pouring off me like rain. 'you dirthy owld bit of a blackguard of a rag,' says i, in an exthremity of rage, 'you're not fit for the back of a dacent lad an' a jintleman. the divil may take ye to cover one of his imps;' an' wid that i sthirred up the fire, and sent it plump into the middle of the blaze.” “and what will you do for a shirt?” “faith, do as many a betther man has done afore me, go widout.” i looked up two old shirts of my husband's, which john received with an ecstacy of delight. he retired instantly to the stable, but soon returned, with as much of the linen breast of the garment displayed as his waistcoat would allow. no peacock was ever prouder of his tail than the wild irish lad was of the old shirt. john had been treated very much like a spoiled child, and, like most spoiled children, he was rather fond of having his own way. moodie had set him to do something which was rather contrary to his own inclinations; he did not object to the task in words, for he was rarely saucy to his employers, but he left the following stave upon the table, written in pencil upon a scrap of paper torn from the back of an old letter:-- “a man alive, an ox may drive unto a springing well; to make him drink, as he may think, no man can him compel. “john monaghan.” the emigrant's bride a canadian ballad the waves that girt my native isle, the parting sunbeams tinged with red; and far to seaward, many a mile, a line of dazzling glory shed. but, ah, upon that glowing track, no glance my aching eyeballs threw; as i my little bark steer'd back to bid my love a last adieu. upon the shores of that lone bay, with folded arms the maiden stood; and watch'd the white sails wing their way across the gently heaving flood. the summer breeze her raven hair swept lightly from her snowy brow; and there she stood, as pale and fair as the white foam that kiss'd my prow. my throbbing heart with grief swell'd high, a heavy tale was mine to tell; for once i shunn'd the beauteous eye, whose glance on mine so fondly fell. my hopeless message soon was sped, my father's voice my suit denied; and i had promised not to wed, against his wish, my island bride. she did not weep, though her pale face the trace of recent sorrow wore; but, with a melancholy grace, she waved my shallop from the shore. she did not weep; but oh! that smile was sadder than the briny tear that trembled on my cheek the while i bade adieu to one so dear. she did not speak--no accents fell from lips that breathed the balm of may; in broken words i strove to tell all that my broken heart would say. she did not speak--but to my eyes she raised the deep light of her own. as breaks the sun through cloudy skies, my spirit caught a brighter tone. “dear girl!” i cried, “we ne'er can part, my angry father's wrath i'll brave; he shall not tear thee from my heart. fly, fly with me across the wave!” my hand convulsively she press'd, her tears were mingling fast with mine; and, sinking trembling on my breast, she murmur'd out, “for ever thine!” chapter ix phoebe r----, and our second moving “she died in early womanhood, sweet scion of a stem so rude; a child of nature, free from art, with candid brow and open heart; the flowers she loved now gently wave above her low and nameless grave.” it was during the month of march that uncle joe's eldest daughter, phoebe, a very handsome girl, and the best of the family, fell sick. i went over to see her. the poor girl was very depressed, and stood but a slight chance for her life, being under medical treatment of three or four old women, who all recommended different treatment and administered different nostrums. seeing that the poor girl was dangerously ill, i took her mother aside, and begged her to lose no time in procuring proper medical advice. mrs. joe listened to me very sullenly, and said there was no danger; that phoebe had caught a violent cold by going hot from the wash-tub to fetch a pail of water from the spring; that the neighbours knew the nature of her complaint, and would soon cure her. the invalid turned upon me her fine dark eyes, in which the light of fever painfully burned, and motioned me to come near her. i sat down by her, and took her burning hand in mine. “i am dying, mrs. moodie, but they won't believe me. i wish you would talk to mother to send for the doctor.” “i will. is there anything i can do for you?--anything i can make for you, that you would like to take?” she shook her head. “i can't eat. but i want to ask you one thing, which i wish very much to know.” she grasped my hand tightly between her own. her eyes looked darker, and her feverish cheek paled. “what becomes of people when they die?” “good heavens!” i exclaimed involuntarily; “can you be ignorant of a future state?” “what is a future state?” i endeavoured, as well as i was able, to explain to her the nature of the soul, its endless duration, and responsibility to god for the actions done in the flesh; its natural depravity and need of a saviour; urging her, in the gentlest manner, to lose no time in obtaining forgiveness of her sins, through the atoning blood of christ. the poor girl looked at me with surprise and horror. these things were all new to her. she sat like one in a dream; yet the truth seemed to flash upon her at once. “how can i speak to god, who never knew him? how can i ask him to forgive me?” “you must pray to him.” “pray! i don't know how to pray. i never said a prayer in my life. mother; can you teach me how to pray?” “nonsense!” said mrs. joe, hurrying forward. “why should you trouble yourself about such things? mrs. moodie, i desire you not to put such thoughts into my daughter's head. we don't want to know anything about jesus christ here.” “oh, mother, don't speak so to the lady! do mrs. moodie, tell me more about god and my soul. i never knew until now that i had a soul.” deeply compassionating the ignorance of the poor girl, in spite of the menaces of the heathen mother--for she was no better, but rather worse, seeing that the heathen worships in ignorance a false god, while this woman lived without acknowledging a god at all, and therefore considered herself free from all moral restraint--i bid phoebe good-bye, and promised to bring my bible, and read to her the next day. the gratitude manifested by this sick girl was such a contrast to the rudeness and brutality of the rest of the family, that i soon felt a powerful interest in her fate. the mother did not actually forbid me the house, because she saw that my visits raised the drooping spirits of her child, whom she fiercely loved, and, to save her life, would cheerfully have sacrificed her own. but she never failed to make all the noise she could to disturb my reading and conversation with phoebe. she could not be persuaded that her daughter was really in any danger, until the doctor told her that her case was hopeless; then the grief of the mother burst forth, and she gave way to the most frantic and impious complainings. the rigour of the winter began to abate. the beams of the sun during the day were warm and penetrating, and a soft wind blew from the south. i watched, from day to day, the snow disappearing from the earth, with indescribable pleasure, and at length it wholly vanished; not even a solitary patch lingered under the shade of the forest trees; but uncle joe gave no sign of removing his family. “does he mean to stay all the summer?” thought i. “perhaps he never intends going at all. i will ask him, the next time he comes to borrow whiskey.” in the afternoon he walked in to light his pipe, and, with some anxiety, i made the inquiry. “well, i guess we can't be moving afore the end of may. my missus expects to be confined the fore part of the month, and i shan't move till she be quite smart agin.” “you are not using us well, in keeping us out of the house so long.” “oh, i don't care a curse about any of you. it is my house as long as i choose to remain in it, and you may put up with it the best way you can,” and, humming a yankee tune, he departed. i had borne patiently the odious, cribbed-up place during the winter, but now the hot weather was coming, it seemed almost insupportable, as we were obliged to have a fire in the close room, in order to cook our provisions. i consoled myself as well as i could by roaming about the fields and woods, and making acquaintance with every wild flower as it blossomed, and in writing long letters to home friends, in which i abused one of the finest countries in the world as the worst that god ever called out of chaos. i can recall to memory, at this moment, the few lines of a poem which commenced in this strain; nor am i sorry that the rest of it has passed into oblivion:-- oh! land of waters, how my spirit tires, in the dark prison of thy boundless woods; no rural charm poetic thought inspires, no music murmurs in thy mighty floods; though vast the features that compose thy frame, turn where we will, the landscape's still the same. the swampy margin of thy inland seas, the eternal forest girdling either shore, its belt of dark pines sighing in the breeze, and rugged fields, with rude huts dotted o'er, show cultivation unimproved by art, that sheds a barren chillness on the heart. how many home-sick emigrants, during their first winter in canada, will respond to this gloomy picture! let them wait a few years; the sun of hope will arise and beautify the landscape, and they will proclaim the country one of the finest in the world. the middle of may at length arrived, and, by the number of long, lean women, with handkerchiefs of all colours tied over their heads, who passed my door, and swarmed into mrs. joe's house, i rightly concluded that another young one had been added to the tribe; and shortly after, uncle joe himself announced the important fact, by putting his jolly red face in at the door, and telling me, that “his missus had got a chopping boy; and he was right glad of it, for he was tired of so many gals, and that he should move in a fortnight, if his woman did kindly.” i had been so often disappointed that i paid very little heed to him, but this time he kept his word. the _last_ day of may, they went, bag and baggage, the poor sick phoebe, who still lingered on, and the new-born infant; and right joyfully i sent a scotch girl (another bell, whom i had hired in lieu of her i had lost), and monaghan, to clean out the augean stable. in a few minutes john returned, panting his indignation. “the house,” he said, “was more filthy than a pig-sty.” but that was not the worst of it, uncle joe, before he went, had undermined the brick chimney, and let all the water into the house. “oh, but if he comes here agin,” he continued, grinding his teeth and doubling his fist, “i'll thrash him for it. and thin, ma'am, he has girdled round all the best graft apple-trees, the murtherin' owld villain, as if it could spile his digestion our ating them.” “it would require a strong stomach to digest apple-trees, john; but never mind, it can't be helped, and we may be very thankful that these people are gone at last.” john and bell scrubbed at the house all day, and in the evening they carried over the furniture, and i went to inspect our new dwelling. it looked beautifully clean and neat. bell had whitewashed all the black, smoky walls and boarded ceilings, and scrubbed the dirty window-frames, and polished the fly-spotted panes of glass, until they actually admitted a glimpse of the clear air and the blue sky. snow-white fringed curtains, and a bed, with furniture to correspond, a carpeted floor, and a large pot of green boughs on the hearthstone, gave an air of comfort and cleanliness to a room which, only a few hours before, had been a loathsome den of filth and impurity. this change would have been very gratifying, had not a strong, disagreeable odour almost deprived me of my breath as i entered the room. it was unlike anything i had ever smelt before, and turned me so sick and faint that i had to cling to the door-post for support. “where does this dreadful smell come from?” “the guidness knows, ma'am; john and i have searched the house from the loft to the cellar, but we canna find out the cause of thae stink.” “it must be in the room, bell; and it is impossible to remain here, or live in this house, until it is removed.” glancing my eyes all round the place, i spied what seemed to me a little cupboard, over the mantel-shelf, and i told john to see if i was right. the lad mounted upon a chair, and pulled open a small door, but almost fell to the ground with the dreadful stench which seemed to rush from the closet. “what is it, john?” i cried from the open door. “a skunk! ma'am, a skunk! shure, i thought the divil had scorched his tail, and left the grizzled hair behind him. what a strong perfume it has!” he continued, holding up the beautiful but odious little creature by the tail. “by dad! i know all about it now. i saw ned layton, only two days ago, crossing the field with uncle joe, with his gun on his shoulder, and this wee bit baste in his hand. they were both laughing like sixty. 'well, if this does not stink the scotchman out of the house,' said joe, 'i'll be contint to be tarred and feathered;' and thin they both laughed until they stopped to draw breath.” i could hardly help laughing myself; but i begged monaghan to convey the horrid creature away, and putting some salt and sulphur into a tin plate, and setting fire to it, i placed it on the floor in the middle of the room, and closed all the doors for an hour, which greatly assisted in purifying the house from the skunkification. bell then washed out the closet with strong ley, and in a short time no vestige remained of the malicious trick that uncle joe had played off upon us. the next day, we took possession of our new mansion, and no one was better pleased with the change than little katie. she was now fifteen months old, and could just begin to prattle, but she dared not venture to step alone, although she would stand by a chair all day, and even climb upon it. she crept from room to room, feeling and admiring everything, and talking to it in her baby language. so fond was the dear child of flowers, that her father used to hold her up to the apple-trees, then rich in their full spring beauty, that she might kiss the blossoms. she would pat them with her soft white hands, murmuring like a bee among the branches. to keep her quiet whilst i was busy, i had only to give her a bunch of wild flowers. she would sit as still as a lamb, looking first at one and then another, pressing them to her little breast in a sort of ecstacy, as if she comprehended the worth of this most beautiful of god's gifts to man. she was a sweet, lovely flower herself, and her charming infant graces reconciled me, more than aught else, to a weary lot. was she not purely british? did not her soft blue eyes, and sunny curls, and bright rosy cheeks for ever remind me of her saxon origin, and bring before me dear forms and faces i could never hope to behold again? the first night we slept in the new house, a demon of unrest had taken possession of it in the shape of a countless swarm of mice. they scampered over our pillows, and jumped upon our faces, squeaking and cutting a thousand capers over the floor. i never could realise the true value of whittington's invaluable cat until that night. at first we laughed until our sides ached, but in reality it was no laughing matter. moodie remembered that we had left a mouse-trap in the old house; he went and brought it over, baited it, and set it on the table near the bed. during the night no less than fourteen of the provoking vermin were captured; and for several succeeding nights the trap did equal execution. how uncle joe's family could have allowed such a nuisance to exist astonished me; to sleep with these creatures continually running over us was impossible; and they were not the only evils in the shape of vermin we had to contend with. the old logs which composed the walls of the house were full of bugs and large black ants; and the place, owing to the number of dogs that always had slept under the beds with the children, was infested with fleas. it required the utmost care to rid the place of these noisome and disgusting tenants. arriving in the country in the autumn, we had never experienced any inconvenience from the mosquitoes, but after the first moist, warm spring days, particularly after the showers, these tormenting insects annoyed us greatly. the farm, lying in a valley cut up with little streams in every direction, made us more liable to their inflictions. the hands, arms, and face of the poor babe were covered every morning with red inflamed bumps, which often threw out blisters. the banks of the little streams abounded with wild strawberries, which, although small, were of a delicious flavour. thither bell and i, and the baby, daily repaired to gather the bright red berries of nature's own providing. katie, young as she was, was very expert at helping herself, and we used to seat her in the middle of a fine bed, whilst we gathered farther on. hearing her talking very lovingly to something in the grass, which she tried to clutch between her white hands, calling it “pitty, pitty;” i ran to the spot, and found that it was a large garter-snake that she was so affectionately courting to her embrace. not then aware that this formidable-looking reptile was perfectly harmless, i snatched the child up in my arms, and ran with her home; never stopping until i gained the house, and saw her safely seated in her cradle. it had been a very late, cold spring, but the trees had fully expanded into leaf, and the forest world was glorious in its beauty. every patch of cleared land presented a vivid green to the eye; the brook brawled in the gay sunshine, and the warm air was filled with soft murmurs. gorgeous butterflies floated about like winged flowers, and feelings allied to poetry and gladness once more pervaded my heart. in the evening we wandered through the woodland paths, beneath the glowing canadian sunset, and gathered rare specimens of strange plants and flowers. every object that met my eyes was new to me, and produced that peculiar excitement which has its origin in a thirst for knowledge, and a love of variety. we had commenced gardening, too, and my vegetables did great credit to my skill and care; and, when once the warm weather sets in, the rapid advance of vegetation in canada is astonishing. not understanding much about farming, especially in a climate like canada, moodie was advised by a neighbouring settler to farm his farm upon shares. this advice seemed very reasonable; and had it been given disinterestedly, and had the persons recommended (a man and his wife) been worthy or honest people, we might have done very well. but the farmer had found out their encroaching ways, was anxious to get rid of them himself, and saw no better way of doing so than by palming them upon us. from our engagement with these people commenced that long series of losses and troubles to which their conduct formed the prelude. they were to live in the little shanty that we had just left, and work the farm. moodie was to find them the land, the use of his implements and cattle, and all the seed for the crops; and to share with them the returns. besides this, they unfortunately were allowed to keep their own cows, pigs, and poultry. the produce of the orchard, with which they had nothing to do, was reserved for our own use. for the first few weeks, they were civil and obliging enough; and had the man been left to himself, i believe we should have done pretty well; but the wife was a coarse-minded, bold woman, who instigated him to every mischief. they took advantage of us in every way they could, and were constantly committing petty depredations. from our own experience of this mode of farming, i would strenuously advise all new settlers never to embrace any such offer, without they are well acquainted with the parties, and can thoroughly rely upon their honesty; or else, like mrs. o----, they may impudently tell you that they can cheat you as they please, and defy you to help yourself. all the money we expended upon the farm was entirely for these people's benefit, for by their joint contrivances very little of the crops fell to our share; and when any division was made, it was always when moodie was absent from home; and there was no person present to see fair play. they sold what apples and potatoes they pleased, and fed their hogs ad libitum. but even their roguery was more tolerable than the irksome restraint which their near vicinity, and constantly having to come in contact with them, imposed. we had no longer any privacy, our servants were cross-questioned, and our family affairs canvassed by these gossiping people, who spread about a thousand falsehoods regarding us. i was so much disgusted with this shareship, that i would gladly have given them all the proceeds of the farm to get rid of them, but the bargain was for twelve months, and bad as it was, we could not break our engagement. one little trick of this woman's will serve to illustrate her general conduct. a neighbouring farmer's wife had presented me with some very pretty hens, who followed to the call of old betty fye's handsome game-cock. i was always fond of fowls, and the innocent katie delighted in her chicks, and would call them round her to the sill of the door to feed from her hand. mrs. o---- had the same number as i had, and i often admired them when marshalled forth by her splendid black rooster. one morning i saw her eldest son chop off the head of the fine bird; and i asked his mother why she had allowed him to kill the beautiful creature. she laughed, and merely replied that she wanted it for the pot. the next day my sultan walked over to the widowed hens, and took all his seraglio with him. from that hour i never gathered a single egg; the hens deposited all their eggs in mrs. o----'s hen-house. she used to boast of this as an excellent joke among her neighbours. on the th of june, my dear little agnes was born. a few days after this joyful event, i heard a great bustle in the room adjoining to mine, and old dolly rowe, my cornish nurse, informed me that it was occasioned by the people who came to attend the funeral of phoebe r----. she only survived the removal of the family a week; and at her own request had been brought all the way from the ---- lake plains to be interred in the burying ground on the hill which overlooked the stream. as i lay upon my pillow i could distinctly see the spot, and mark the long funeral procession, as it wound along the banks of the brook. it was a solemn and imposing spectacle, that humble funeral. when the waggons reached the rude enclosure, the coffin was carefully lifted to the ground, the door in the lid opened, and old and young approached, one after another, to take a last look at the dead, before consigning her to the oblivion of the grave. poor phoebe! gentle child, of coarse, unfeeling parents, few shed more sincerely a tear for thy early fate than the stranger whom they hated and despised. often have i stood beside that humble mound, when the song of the lark was above me, and the bee murmuring at my feet, and thought that it was well for thee that god opened the eyes of thy soul, and called thee out of the darkness of ignorance and sin to glory in his marvellous light. sixteen years have passed away since i heard anything of the family, or what had become of them, when i was told by a neighbour of theirs, whom i accidentally met last winter, that the old woman, who now nearly numbers a hundred years, is still living, and inhabits a corner of her son's barn, as she still quarrels too much with his wife to reside with joe; that the girls are all married and gone; and that joe himself, although he does not know a letter, has commenced travelling preacher. after this, who can doubt the existence of miracles in the nineteenth century? the faithful heart that loves thee still i kneel beside the cold grey stone that tells me, dearest, thou art gone to realms more bless'd--and left me still to struggle with this world of ill. but oft from out the silent mound delusive fancy breathes a sound; my pent-up heart within me burns, and all the blessed past returns. thy form is present to mine eye, thy voice is whispering in mine ear, the love that spake in days gone by; and rapture checks the starting tear. thy deathless spirit wakes to fill the faithful heart that loves thee still. for thee the day's bright glow is o'er, and summer's roses bloom no more; the song of birds in twilight bowers, the breath of spring's delicious flowers, the towering wood and mountain height, the glorious pageantry of night; which fill'd thy soul with musings high, and lighted up thy speaking eye; the mournful music of the wave can never reach thy lonely grave. thou dost but sleep! it cannot be that ardent heart is silent now-- that death's dark door has closed on thee; and made thee cold to all below. ah, no! the flame death could not chill, thy tender love survives thee still. that love within my breast enshrined, in death alone shall be resign'd; and when the eve, thou lovest so well, pours on my soul its soothing spell, i leave the city's busy scene to seek thy dwelling, cold and green,-- in quiet sadness here to shed love's sacred tribute o'er the dead-- to dream again of days gone by, and hold sweet converse here with thee; in the soft air to feel thy sigh, whilst winds and waters answer me. yes!--though resign'd to heaven's high will, my joy shall be to love thee still! chapter x brian, the still-hunter “o'er memory's glass i see his shadow flit, though he was gathered to the silent dust long years ago. a strange and wayward man, that shunn'd companionship, and lived apart; the leafy covert of the dark brown woods, the gleamy lakes, hid in their gloomy depths, whose still, deep waters never knew the stroke of cleaving oar, or echoed to the sound of social life, contained for him the sum of human happiness. with dog and gun, day after day he track'd the nimble deer through all the tangled mazes of the forest.” it was early day. i was alone in the old shanty, preparing breakfast, and now and then stirring the cradle with my foot, when a tall, thin, middle-aged man walked into the house, followed by two large, strong dogs. placing the rifle he had carried on his shoulder, in a corner of the room, he advanced to the hearth, and without speaking, or seemingly looking at me, lighted his pipe and commenced smoking. the dogs, after growling and snapping at the cat, who had not given the strangers a very courteous reception, sat down on the hearth-stone on either side of their taciturn master, eyeing him from time to time, as if long habit had made them understand all his motions. there was a great contrast between the dogs. the one was a brindled bulldog of the largest size, a most formidable and powerful brute; the other a staghound, tawny, deep-chested, and strong-limbed. i regarded the man and his hairy companions with silent curiosity. he was between forty and fifty years of age; his head, nearly bald, was studded at the sides with strong, coarse, black curling hair. his features were high, his complexion brightly dark, and his eyes, in size, shape, and colour, greatly resembled the eyes of a hawk. the face itself was sorrowful and taciturn; and his thin, compressed lips looked as if they were not much accustomed to smile, or often to unclose to hold social communion with any one. he stood at the side of the huge hearth, silently smoking, his eyes bent on the fire, and now and then he patted the heads of his dogs, reproving their exuberant expression of attachment, with--“down, music; down, chance!” “a cold, clear morning,” said i, in order to attract his attention and draw him into conversation. a nod, without raising his head, or withdrawing his eyes from the fire, was his only answer; and, turning from my unsociable guest, i took up the baby, who just then awoke, sat down on a low stool by the table, and began feeding her. during this operation, i once or twice caught the stranger's hawk-eye fixed upon me and the child, but word spoke he none; and presently, after whistling to his dogs, he resumed his gun, and strode out. when moodie and monaghan came in to breakfast, i told them what a strange visitor i had had; and moodie laughed at my vain attempt to induce him to talk. “he is a strange being,” i said; “i must find out who and what he is.” in the afternoon an old soldier, called layton, who had served during the american war, and got a grant of land about a mile in the rear of our location, came in to trade for a cow. now, this layton was a perfect ruffian; a man whom no one liked, and whom all feared. he was a deep drinker, a great swearer, in short, a perfect reprobate; who never cultivated his land, but went jobbing about from farm to farm, trading horses and cattle, and cheating in a pettifogging way. uncle joe had employed him to sell moodie a young heifer, and he had brought her over for him to look at. when he came in to be paid, i described the stranger of the morning; and as i knew that he was familiar with every one in the neighbourhood, i asked if he knew him. “no one should know him better than myself,” he said; “'tis old brian b----, the still-hunter, and a near neighbour of your'n. a sour, morose, queer chap he is, and as mad as a march hare! he's from lancashire, in england, and came to this country some twenty years ago, with his wife, who was a pretty young lass in those days, and slim enough then, though she's so awful fleshy now. he had lots of money, too, and he bought four hundred acres of land, just at the corner of the concession line, where it meets the main road. and excellent land it is; and a better farmer, while he stuck to his business, never went into the bush, for it was all bush here then. he was a dashing, handsome fellow, too, and did not hoard the money, either; he loved his pipe and his pot too well; and at last he left off farming, and gave himself to them altogether. many a jolly booze he and i have had, i can tell you. brian was an awful passionate man, and, when the liquor was in, and the wit was out, as savage and as quarrelsome as a bear. at such times there was no one but ned layton dared go near him. we once had a pitched battle, in which i was conqueror; and ever arter he yielded a sort of sulky obedience to all i said to him. arter being on the spree for a week or two, he would take fits of remorse, and return home to his wife; would fall down at her knees, and ask her forgiveness, and cry like a child. at other times he would hide himself up in the woods, and steal home at night, and get what he wanted out of the pantry, without speaking a word to any one. he went on with these pranks for some years, till he took a fit of the blue devils. “'come away, ned, to the ---- lake, with me,' said he; 'i am weary of my life, and i want a change.' “'shall we take the fishing-tackle?' says i. 'the black bass are in prime season, and f---- will lend us the old canoe. he's got some capital rum up from kingston. we'll fish all day, and have a spree at night.' “'it's not to fish i'm going,' says he. “'to shoot, then? i've bought rockwood's new rifle.' “'it's neither to fish nor to shoot, ned: it's a new game i'm going to try; so come along.' “well, to the ---- lake we went. the day was very hot, and our path lay through the woods, and over those scorching plains, for eight long miles. i thought i should have dropped by the way; but during our long walk my companion never opened his lips. he strode on before me, at a half-run, never once turning his head. “'the man must be the devil!' says i, 'and accustomed to a warmer place, or he must feel this. hollo, brian! stop there! do you mean to kill me?' “'take it easy,' says he; 'you'll see another day arter this--i've business on hand, and cannot wait.' “well, on we went, at the same awful rate, and it was mid-day when we got to the little tavern on the lake shore, kept by one f----, who had a boat for the convenience of strangers who came to visit the place. here we got our dinner, and a glass of rum to wash it down. but brian was moody, and to all my jokes he only returned a sort of grunt; and while i was talking with f----, he steps out, and a few minutes arter we saw him crossing the lake in the old canoe. “'what's the matter with brian?' says f----; 'all does not seem right with him, ned. you had better take the boat, and look arter him.' “'pooh!' says i; 'he's often so, and grows so glum nowadays that i will cut his acquaintance altogether if he does not improve.' “'he drinks awful hard,' says f----; 'may be he's got a fit of the delirium-tremulous. there is no telling what he may be up to at this minute.' “my mind misgave me, too, so i e'en takes the oars, and pushes out, right upon brian's track; and, by the lord harry! if i did not find him, upon my landing on the opposite shore, lying wallowing in his blood with his throat cut. 'is that you, brian?' says i, giving him a kick with my foot, to see if he was alive or dead. 'what on earth tempted you to play me and f---- such a dirty, mean trick, as to go and stick yourself like a pig, bringing such a discredit upon the house?--and you so far from home and those who should nurse you?' “i was so mad with him, that (saving your presence, ma'am) i swore awfully, and called him names that would be ondacent to repeat here; but he only answered with groans and a horrid gurgling in his throat. 'it's a choking you are,' said i, 'but you shan't have your own way, and die so easily, either, if i can punish you by keeping you alive.' so i just turned him upon his stomach, with his head down the steep bank; but he still kept choking and growing black in the face.” layton then detailed some particulars of his surgical practice which it is not necessary to repeat. he continued-- “i bound up his throat with my handkerchief, and took him neck and heels, and threw him into the bottom of the boat. presently he came to himself a little, and sat up in the boat; and--would you believe it?--made several attempts to throw himself in the water. 'this will not do,' says i; 'you've done mischief enough already by cutting your weasand! if you dare to try that again, i will kill you with the oar.' i held it up to threaten him; he was scared, and lay down as quiet as a lamb. i put my foot upon his breast. 'lie still, now! or you'll catch it.' he looked piteously at me; he could not speak, but his eyes seemed to say, 'have pity upon me, ned; don't kill me.' “yes, ma'am; this man, who had just cut his throat, and twice arter that tried to drown himself, was afraid that i should knock him on the head and kill him. ha! ha! i shall never forget the work that f---- and i had with him arter i got him up to the house. “the doctor came, and sewed up his throat; and his wife--poor crittur!--came to nurse him. bad as he was, she was mortal fond of him! he lay there, sick and unable to leave his bed, for three months, and did nothing but pray to god to forgive him, for he thought the devil would surely have him for cutting his own throat; and when he got about again, which is now twelve years ago, he left off drinking entirely, and wanders about the woods with his dogs, hunting. he seldom speaks to any one, and his wife's brother carries on the farm for the family. he is so shy of strangers that 'tis a wonder he came in here. the old wives are afraid of him; but you need not heed him--his troubles are to himself, he harms no one.” layton departed, and left me brooding over the sad tale which he had told in such an absurd and jesting manner. it was evident from the account he had given of brian's attempt at suicide, that the hapless hunter was not wholly answerable for his conduct--that he was a harmless maniac. the next morning, at the very same hour, brian again made his appearance; but instead of the rifle across his shoulder, a large stone jar occupied the place, suspended by a stout leather thong. without saying a word, but with a truly benevolent smile, that flitted slowly over his stern features, and lighted them up, like a sunbeam breaking from beneath a stormy cloud, he advanced to the table, and unslinging the jar, set it down before me, and in a low and gruff, but by no means an unfriendly voice, said, “milk, for the child,” and vanished. “how good it was of him! how kind!” i exclaimed, as i poured the precious gift of four quarts of pure new milk out into a deep pan. i had not asked him--had never said that the poor weanling wanted milk. it was the courtesy of a gentleman--of a man of benevolence and refinement. for weeks did my strange, silent friend steal in, take up the empty jar, and supply its place with another replenished with milk. the baby knew his step, and would hold out her hands to him and cry, “milk!” and brian would stoop down and kiss her, and his two great dogs lick her face. “have you any children, mr. b----?” “yes, five; but none like this.” “my little girl is greatly indebted to you for your kindness.” “she's welcome, or she would not get it. you are strangers; but i like you all. you look kind, and i would like to know more about you.” moodie shook hands with the old hunter, and assured him that we should always be glad to see him. after this invitation, brian became a frequent guest. he would sit and listen with delight to moodie while he described to him elephant-hunting at the cape; grasping his rifle in a determined manner, and whistling an encouraging air to his dogs. i asked him one evening what made him so fond of hunting. “'tis the excitement,” he said; “it drowns thought, and i love to be alone. i am sorry for the creatures, too, for they are free and happy; yet i am led by an instinct i cannot restrain to kill them. sometimes the sight of their dying agonies recalls painful feelings; and then i lay aside the gun, and do not hunt for days. but 'tis fine to be alone with god in the great woods--to watch the sunbeams stealing through the thick branches, the blue sky breaking in upon you in patches, and to know that all is bright and shiny above you, in spite of the gloom that surrounds you.” after a long pause, he continued, with much solemn feeling in his look and tone-- “i lived a life of folly for years, for i was respectably born and educated, and had seen something of the world, perhaps more than was good, before i left home for the woods; and from the teaching i had received from kind relatives and parents i should have known how to have conducted myself better. but, madam, if we associate long with the depraved and ignorant, we learn to become even worse than they are. i felt deeply my degradation--felt that i had become the slave to low vice; and in order to emancipate myself from the hateful tyranny of evil passions, i did a very rash and foolish thing. i need not mention the manner in which i transgressed god's holy laws; all the neighbours know it, and must have told you long ago. i could have borne reproof, but they turned my sorrow into indecent jests, and, unable to bear their coarse ridicule, i made companions of my dogs and gun, and went forth into the wilderness. hunting became a habit. i could no longer live without it, and it supplies the stimulant which i lost when i renounced the cursed whiskey bottle. “i remember the first hunting excursion i took alone in the forest. how sad and gloomy i felt! i thought that there was no creature in the world so miserable as myself. i was tired and hungry, and i sat down upon a fallen tree to rest. all was still as death around me, and i was fast sinking to sleep, when my attention was aroused by a long, wild cry. my dog, for i had not chance then, and he's no hunter, pricked up his ears, but instead of answering with a bark of defiance, he crouched down, trembling, at my feet. 'what does this mean?' i cried, and i cocked my rifle and sprang upon the log. the sound came nearer upon the wind. it was like the deep baying of a pack of hounds in full cry. presently a noble deer rushed past me, and fast upon his trail--i see them now, like so many black devils--swept by a pack of ten or fifteen large, fierce wolves, with fiery eyes and bristling hair, and paws that seemed hardly to touch the ground in their eager haste. i thought not of danger, for, with their prey in view, i was safe; but i felt every nerve within me tremble for the fate of the poor deer. the wolves gained upon him at every bound. a close thicket intercepted his path, and, rendered desperate, he turned at bay. his nostrils were dilated, and his eyes seemed to send forth long streams of light. it was wonderful to witness the courage of the beast. how bravely he repelled the attacks of his deadly enemies, how gallantly he tossed them to the right and left, and spurned them from beneath his hoofs; yet all his struggles were useless, and he was quickly overcome and torn to pieces by his ravenous foes. at that moment he seemed more unfortunate than even myself, for i could not see in what manner he had deserved his fate. all his speed and energy, his courage and fortitude, had been exerted in vain. i had tried to destroy myself; but he, with every effort vigorously made for self-preservation, was doomed to meet the fate he dreaded! is god just to his creatures?” with this sentence on his lips, he started abruptly from his seat, and left the house. one day he found me painting some wild flowers, and was greatly interested in watching the progress i made in the group. late in the afternoon of the following day he brought me a large bunch of splendid spring flowers. “draw these,” said he; “i have been all the way to the ---- lake plains to find them for you.” little katie, grasping them one by one, with infantile joy, kissed every lovely blossom. “these are god's pictures,” said the hunter, “and the child, who is all nature, understands them in a minute. is it not strange that these beautiful things are hid away in the wilderness, where no eyes but the birds of the air, and the wild beasts of the wood, and the insects that live upon them, ever see them? does god provide, for the pleasure of such creatures, these flowers? is his benevolence gratified by the admiration of animals whom we have been taught to consider as having neither thought nor reflection? when i am alone in the forest, these thoughts puzzle me.” knowing that to argue with brian was only to call into action the slumbering fires of his fatal malady, i turned the conversation by asking him why he called his favourite dog chance? “i found him,” he said, “forty miles back in the bush. he was a mere skeleton. at first i took him for a wolf, but the shape of his head undeceived me. i opened my wallet, and called him to me. he came slowly, stopping and wagging his tail at every step, and looking me wistfully in the face. i offered him a bit of dried venison, and he soon became friendly, and followed me home, and has never left me since. i called him chance, after the manner i happened with him; and i would not part with him for twenty dollars.” alas, for poor chance! he had, unknown to his master, contracted a private liking for fresh mutton, and one night he killed no less than eight sheep that belonged to mr. d----, on the front road; the culprit, who had been long suspected, was caught in the very act, and this mischance cost him his life. brian was sad and gloomy for many weeks after his favourite's death. “i would have restored the sheep fourfold,” he said, “if he would but have spared the life of my dog.” my recollections of brian seemed more particularly to concentrate in the adventures of one night, when i happened to be left alone, for the first time since my arrival in canada. i cannot now imagine how i could have been such a fool as to give way for four-and-twenty hours to such childish fears; but so it was, and i will not disguise my weakness from my indulgent reader. moodie had bought a very fine cow of a black man, named mollineux, for which he was to give twenty-seven dollars. the man lived twelve miles back in the woods; and one fine, frosty spring day--(don't smile at the term frosty, thus connected with the genial season of the year; the term is perfectly correct when applied to the canadian spring, which, until the middle of may, is the most dismal season of the year)--he and john monaghan took a rope, and the dog, and sallied forth to fetch the cow home. moodie said that they should be back by six o'clock in the evening, and charged me to have something cooked for supper when they returned, as he doubted not their long walk in the sharp air would give them a good appetite. this was during the time that i was without a servant, and living in old mrs. ----'s shanty. the day was so bright and clear, and katie was so full of frolic and play, rolling upon the floor, or toddling from chair to chair, that the day passed on without my feeling remarkably lonely. at length the evening drew nigh, and i began to expect my husband's return, and to think of the supper that i was to prepare for his reception. the red heifer that we had bought of layton, came lowing to the door to be milked; but i did not know how to milk in those days, and, besides this, i was terribly afraid of cattle. yet, as i knew that milk would be required for the tea, i ran across the meadow to mrs. joe, and begged that one of her girls would be so kind as to milk for me. my request was greeted with a rude burst of laughter from the whole set. “if you can't milk,” said mrs. joe, “it's high time you should learn. my girls are above being helps.” “i would not ask you but as a great favour; i am afraid of cows.” “afraid of cows! lord bless the woman! a farmer's wife, and afraid of cows!” here followed another laugh at my expense; and, indignant at the refusal of my first and last request, when they had all borrowed so much from me, i shut the inhospitable door, and returned home. after many ineffectual attempts, i succeeded at last, and bore my half-pail of milk in triumph to the house. yes! i felt prouder of that milk than many an author of the best thing he ever wrote, whether in verse or prose; and it was doubly sweet when i considered that i had procured it without being under any obligation to my ill-natured neighbours. i had learned a useful lesson of independence, to which, in after-years, i had often again to refer. i fed little katie and put her to bed, made the hot cakes for tea, boiled the potatoes, and laid the ham, cut in nice slices, in the pan, ready to cook the moment i saw the men enter the meadow, and arranged the little room with scrupulous care and neatness. a glorious fire was blazing on the hearth, and everything was ready for their supper; and i began to look out anxiously for their arrival. the night had closed in cold and foggy, and i could no longer distinguish any object at more than a few yards from the door. bringing in as much wood as i thought would last me for several hours, i closed the door; and for the first time in my life i found myself at night in a house entirely alone. then i began to ask myself a thousand torturing questions as to the reason of their unusual absence. had they lost their way in the woods? could they have fallen in with wolves (one of my early bugbears)? could any fatal accident have befallen them? i started up, opened the door, held my breath, and listened. the little brook lifted up its voice in loud, hoarse wailing, or mocked, in its babbling to the stones, the sound of human voices. as it became later, my fears increased in proportion. i grew too superstitious and nervous to keep the door open. i not only closed it, but dragged a heavy box in front, for bolt there was none. several ill-looking men had, during the day, asked their way to toronto. i felt alarmed, lest such rude wayfarers should come to-night and demand a lodging, and find me alone and unprotected. once i thought of running across to mrs. joe, and asking her to let one of the girls stay with me until moodie returned; but the way in which i had been repulsed in the evening prevented me from making a second appeal to their charity. hour after hour wore away, and the crowing of the cocks proclaimed midnight, and yet they came not. i had burnt out all my wood, and i dared not open the door to fetch in more. the candle was expiring in the socket, and i had not courage to go up into the loft and procure another before it went finally out. cold, heart-weary, and faint, i sat and cried. every now and then the furious barking of the dogs at the neighbouring farms, and the loud cackling of the geese upon our own, made me hope that they were coming; and then i listened till the beating of my own heart excluded all other sounds. oh, that unwearied brook! how it sobbed and moaned like a fretful child;--what unreal terrors and fanciful illusions my too active mind conjured up, whilst listening to its mysterious tones! just as the moon rose, the howling of a pack of wolves, from the great swamp in our rear, filled the whole air. their yells were answered by the barking of all the dogs in the vicinity, and the geese, unwilling to be behind-hand in the general confusion, set up the most discordant screams. i had often heard, and even been amused, during the winter, particularly on thaw nights, with hearing the howls of these formidable wild beasts; but i had never before heard them alone, and when one dear to me was abroad amid their haunts. they were directly in the track that moodie and monaghan must have taken; and i now made no doubt that they had been attacked and killed on their return through the woods with the cow, and i wept and sobbed until the cold grey dawn peered in upon me through the small dim window. i have passed many a long cheerless night, when my dear husband was away from me during the rebellion, and i was left in my forest home with five little children, and only an old irish woman to draw and cut wood for my fire, and attend to the wants of the family, but that was the saddest and longest night i ever remember. just as the day broke, my friends the wolves set up a parting benediction, so loud, and wild, and near to the house, that i was afraid lest they should break through the frail window, or come down the low wide chimney, and rob me of my child. but their detestable howls died away in the distance, and the bright sun rose up and dispersed the wild horrors of the night, and i looked once more timidly around me. the sight of the table spread, and the uneaten supper, renewed my grief, for i could not divest myself of the idea that moodie was dead. i opened the door, and stepped forth into the pure air of the early day. a solemn and beautiful repose still hung like a veil over the face of nature. the mists of night still rested upon the majestic woods, and not a sound but the flowing of the waters went up in the vast stillness. the earth had not yet raised her matin hymn to the throne of the creator. sad at heart, and weary and worn in spirit, i went down to the spring and washed my face and head, and drank a deep draught of its icy waters. on returning to the house i met, near the door, old brian the hunter, with a large fox dangling across his shoulder, and the dogs following at his heels. “good god! mrs. moodie, what is the matter? you are early abroad this morning, and look dreadful ill. is anything wrong at home? is the baby or your husband sick?” “oh!” i cried, bursting into tears, “i fear he is killed by the wolves.” the man stared at me, as if he doubted the evidence of his senses, and well he might; but this one idea had taken such strong possession of my mind that i could admit no other. i then told him, as well as i could find words, the cause of my alarm, to which he listened very kindly and patiently. “set your heart at rest; your husband is safe. it is a long journey on foot to mollineux, to one unacquainted with a blazed path in a bush road. they have stayed all night at the black man's shanty, and you will see them back at noon.” i shook my head and continued to weep. “well, now, in order to satisfy you, i will saddle my mare, and ride over to the nigger's, and bring you word as fast as i can.” i thanked him sincerely for his kindness, and returned, in somewhat better spirits, to the house. at ten o'clock my good messenger returned with the glad tidings that all was well. the day before, when half the journey had been accomplished, john monaghan let go the rope by which he led the cow, and she had broken away through the woods, and returned to her old master; and when they again reached his place, night had set in, and they were obliged to wait until the return of day. moodie laughed heartily at all my fears; but indeed i found them no joke. brian's eldest son, a lad of fourteen, was not exactly an idiot, but what, in the old country, is very expressively termed by the poor people a “natural.” he could feed and assist himself, had been taught imperfectly to read and write, and could go to and from the town on errands, and carry a message from one farm-house to another; but he was a strange, wayward creature, and evidently inherited, in no small degree, his father's malady. during the summer months he lived entirely in the woods, near his father's dwelling, only returning to obtain food, which was generally left for him in an outhouse. in the winter, driven home by the severity of the weather, he would sit for days together moping in the chimney-corner, without taking the least notice of what was passing around him. brian never mentioned this boy--who had a strong, active figure; a handsome, but very inexpressive face--without a deep sigh; and i feel certain that half his own dejection was occasioned by the mental aberration of his child. one day he sent the lad with a note to our house, to know if moodie would purchase the half of an ox that he was going to kill. there happened to stand in the corner of the room an open wood box, into which several bushels of fine apples had been thrown; and, while moodie was writing an answer to the note, the eyes of the idiot were fastened, as if by some magnetic influence, upon the apples. knowing that brian had a very fine orchard, i did not offer the boy any of the fruit. when the note was finished, i handed it to him. the lad grasped it mechanically, without removing his fixed gaze from the apples. “give that to your father, tom.” the boy answered not--his ears, his eyes, his whole soul, were concentrated in the apples. ten minutes elapsed, but he stood motionless, like a pointer at dead set. “my good boy, you can go.” he did not stir. “is there anything you want?” “i want,” said the lad, without moving his eyes from the objects of his intense desire, and speaking in a slow, pointed manner, which ought to have been heard to be fully appreciated, “i want ap-ples!” “oh, if that's all, take what you like.” the permission once obtained, the boy flung himself upon the box with the rapacity of a hawk upon its prey, after being long poised in the air, to fix its certain aim; thrusting his hands to the right and left, in order to secure the finest specimens of the coveted fruit, scarcely allowing himself time to breathe until he had filled his old straw hat, and all his pockets, with apples. to help laughing was impossible; while this new tom o' bedlam darted from the house, and scampered across the field for dear life, as if afraid that we should pursue him, to rob him of his prize. it was during this winter that our friend brian was left a fortune of three hundred pounds per annum; but it was necessary for him to return to his native country, in order to take possession of the property. this he positively refused to do; and when we remonstrated with him on the apparent imbecility of this resolution, he declared that he would not risk his life, in crossing the atlantic twice for twenty times that sum. what strange inconsistency was this, in a being who had three times attempted to take away that which he dreaded so much to lose accidentally! i was much amused with an account which he gave me, in his quaint way, of an excursion he went upon with a botanist, to collect specimens of the plants and flowers of upper canada. “it was a fine spring day, some ten years ago, and i was yoking my oxen to drag in some oats i had just sown, when a little, fat, punchy man, with a broad, red, good-natured face, and carrying a small black leathern wallet across his shoulder, called to me over the fence, and asked me if my name was brian b----? i said, 'yes; what of that?' “'only you are the man i want to see. they tell me that you are better acquainted with the woods than any person in these parts; and i will pay you anything in reason if you will be my guide for a few days.' “'where do you want to go?' said i. “'nowhere in particular,' says he. 'i want to go here and there, in all directions, to collect plants and flowers.' “that is still-hunting with a vengeance, thought i. 'to-day i must drag in my oats. if to-morrow will suit, we will be off.' “'and your charge?' said he. 'i like to be certain of that.' “'a dollar a day. my time and labour upon my farm, at this busy season, is worth more than that.' “'true,' said he. 'well, i'll give you what you ask. at what time will you be ready to start?' “'by daybreak, if you wish it.' “away he went; and by daylight next morning he was at my door, mounted upon a stout french pony. 'what are you going to do with that beast?' said i. 'horses are of no use on the road that you and i are to travel. you had better leave him in my stable.' “'i want him to carry my traps,' said he; 'it may be some days that we shall be absent.' “i assured him that he must be his own beast of burthen, and carry his axe, and blanket, and wallet of food upon his own back. the little body did not much relish this arrangement; but as there was no help for it, he very good-naturedly complied. off we set, and soon climbed the steep ridge at the back of your farm, and got upon ---- lake plains. the woods were flush with flowers; and the little man grew into such an ecstacy, that at every fresh specimen he uttered a yell of joy, cut a caper in the air, and flung himself down upon them, as if he was drunk with delight. 'oh, what treasures! what treasures!' he cried. 'i shall make my fortune!' “it is seldom i laugh,” quoth brian, “but i could not help laughing at this odd little man; for it was not the beautiful blossoms, such as you delight to paint, that drew forth these exclamations, but the queer little plants, which he had rummaged for at the roots of old trees, among the moss and long grass. he sat upon a decayed trunk, which lay in our path, i do believe for a long hour, making an oration over some greyish things, spotted with red, that grew upon it, which looked more like mould than plants, declaring himself repaid for all the trouble and expense he had been at, if it were only to obtain a sight of them. i gathered him a beautiful blossom of the lady's slipper; but he pushed it back when i presented it to him, saying, 'yes, yes; 'tis very fine. i have seen that often before; but these lichens are splendid.' “the man had so little taste that i thought him a fool, and so i left him to talk to his dear plants, while i shot partridges for our supper. we spent six days in the woods, and the little man filled his black wallet with all sorts of rubbish, as if he wilfully shut his eyes to the beautiful flowers, and chose only to admire ugly, insignificant plants that everybody else passes by without noticing, and which, often as i had been in the woods, i never had observed before. i never pursued a deer with such earnestness as he continued his hunt for what he called 'specimens.' “when we came to the cold creek, which is pretty deep in places, he was in such a hurry to get at some plants that grew under the water, that in reaching after them he lost his balance and fell head over heels into the stream. he got a thorough ducking, and was in a terrible fright; but he held on to the flowers which had caused the trouble, and thanked his stars that he had saved them as well as his life. well, he was an innocent man,” continued brian; “a very little made him happy, and at night he would sing and amuse himself like a child. he gave me ten dollars for my trouble, and i never saw him again; but i often think of him, when hunting in the woods that we wandered through together, and i pluck the wee plants that he used to admire, and wonder why he preferred them to the fine flowers.” when our resolution was formed to sell our farm, and take up our grant of land in the backwoods, no one was so earnest in trying to persuade us to give up this ruinous scheme as our friend brian b----, who became quite eloquent in his description of the trials and sorrows that awaited us. during the last week of our stay in the township of h----, he visited us every evening, and never bade us good-night without a tear moistening his cheek. we parted with the hunter as with an old friend; and we never met again. his fate was a sad one. after we left that part of the country, he fell into a moping melancholy, which ended in self-destruction. but a kinder, warmer-hearted man, while he enjoyed the light of reason, has seldom crossed our path. the dying hunter to his dog lie down, lie down, my noble hound! that joyful bark give o'er; it wakes the lonely echoes round, but rouses me no more. thy lifted ears, thy swelling chest, thine eye so keenly bright, no longer kindle in my breast the thrill of fierce delight; as following thee, on foaming steed, my eager soul outstripp'd thy speed. lie down, lie down, my faithful hound! and watch this night with me. for thee again the horn shall sound, by mountain, stream, and tree; and thou, along the forest glade, shall track the flying deer when, cold and silent, i am laid in chill oblivion here. another voice shall cheer thee on, and glory when the chase is won. lie down, lie down, my gallant hound! thy master's life is sped; and, couch'd upon the dewy ground, 'tis thine to watch the dead. but when the blush of early day is kindling in the sky, then speed thee, faithful friend, away, and to my agnes hie; and guide her to this lonely spot, though my closed eyes behold her not. lie down, lie down, my trusty hound! death comes, and now we part. in my dull ear strange murmurs sound-- more faintly throbs my heart; the many twinkling lights of heaven scarce glimmer in the blue-- chill round me falls the breath of even, cold on my brow the dew; earth, stars, and heavens are lost to sight-- the chase is o'er!--brave friend, good-night! chapter xi the charivari our fate is seal'd! 'tis now in vain to sigh for home, or friends, or country left behind. come, dry those tears, and lift the downcast eye to the high heaven of hope, and be resign'd; wisdom and time will justify the deed, the eye will cease to weep, the heart to bleed. love's thrilling sympathies, affections pure, all that endear'd and hallow'd your lost home, shall on a broad foundation, firm and sure, establish peace; the wilderness become, dear as the distant land you fondly prize, or dearer visions that in memory rise. the moan of the wind tells of the coming rain that it bears upon its wings; the deep stillness of the woods, and the lengthened shadows they cast upon the stream, silently but surely foreshow the bursting of the thunder-cloud; and who that has lived for any time upon the coast, can mistake the language of the waves; that deep prophetic surging that ushers in the terrible gale? so it is with the human heart--it has its mysterious warnings, its fits of sunshine and shade, of storm and calm, now elevated with anticipations of joy, now depressed by dark presentiments of ill. all who have ever trodden this earth, possessed of the powers of thought and reflection, of tracing effects back to their causes, have listened to these voices of the soul, and secretly acknowledged their power; but few, very few, have had courage boldly to declare their belief in them: the wisest and the best have given credence to them, and the experience of every day proves their truth; yea, the proverbs of past ages abound with allusions to the same subject, and though the worldly may sneer, and the good man reprobate the belief in a theory which he considers dangerous, yet the former, when he appears led by an irresistible impulse to enter into some fortunate, but until then unthought-of speculation; and the latter, when he devoutly exclaims that god has met him in prayer, unconsciously acknowledge the same spiritual agency. for my own part, i have no doubts upon the subject, and have found many times, and at different periods of my life, that the voice in the soul speaks truly; that if we gave stricter heed to its mysterious warnings, we should be saved much after-sorrow. well do i remember how sternly and solemnly this inward monitor warned me of approaching ill, the last night i spent at home; how it strove to draw me back as from a fearful abyss, beseeching me not to leave england and emigrate to canada, and how gladly would i have obeyed the injunction had it still been in my power. i had bowed to a superior mandate, the command of duty; for my husband's sake, for the sake of the infant, whose little bosom heaved against my swelling heart, i had consented to bid adieu for ever to my native shores, and it seemed both useless and sinful to draw back. yet, by what stern necessity were we driven forth to seek a new home amid the western wilds? we were not compelled to emigrate. bound to england by a thousand holy and endearing ties, surrounded by a circle of chosen friends, and happy in each other's love, we possessed all that the world can bestow of good--but _wealth_. the half-pay of a subaltern officer, managed with the most rigid economy, is too small to supply the wants of a family; and if of a good family, not enough to maintain his original standing in society. true, it may find his children bread, it may clothe them indifferently, but it leaves nothing for the indispensable requirements of education, or the painful contingencies of sickness and misfortune. in such a case, it is both wise and right to emigrate; nature points it out as the only safe remedy for the evils arising out of an over-dense population, and her advice is always founded upon justice and truth. up to the period of which i now speak, we had not experienced much inconvenience from our very limited means. our wants were few, and we enjoyed many of the comforts and even some of the luxuries of life; and all had gone on smoothly and lovingly with us until the birth of our first child. it was then that prudence whispered to the father, “you are happy and contented now, but this cannot always last; the birth of that child whom you have hailed with as much rapture as though she were born to inherit a noble estate, is to you the beginning of care. your family may increase, and your wants will increase in proportion; out of what fund can you satisfy their demands? some provision must be made for the future, and made quickly, while youth and health enable you to combat successfully with the ills of life. when you married for inclination, you knew that emigration must be the result of such an act of imprudence in over-populated england. up and be doing, while you still possess the means of transporting yourself to a land where the industrious can never lack bread, and where there is a chance that wealth and independence may reward virtuous toil.” alas! that truth should ever whisper such unpleasant realities to the lover of ease--to the poet, the author, the musician, the man of books, of refined taste and gentlemanly habits. yet he took the hint, and began to bestir himself with the spirit and energy so characteristic of the glorious north, from whence he sprung. “the sacrifice,” he said, “must be made, and the sooner the better. my dear wife, i feel confident that you will respond to the call of duty, and, hand-in-hand and heart-in-heart we will go forth to meet difficulties, and, by the help of god, to subdue them.” dear husband! i take shame to myself that my purpose was less firm, that my heart lingered so far behind yours in preparing for this great epoch in our lives; that, like lot's wife, i still turned and looked back, and clung with all my strength to the land i was leaving. it was not the hardships of an emigrant's life i dreaded. i could bear mere physical privations philosophically enough; it was the loss of the society in which i had moved, the want of congenial minds, of persons engaged in congenial pursuits, that made me so reluctant to respond to my husband's call. i was the youngest in a family remarkable for their literary attainments; and, while yet a child, i had seen riches melt away from our once prosperous home, as the canadian snows dissolve before the first warm days of spring, leaving the verdureless earth naked and bare. there was, however, a spirit in my family that rose superior to the crushing influences of adversity. poverty, which so often degrades the weak mind, became their best teacher, the stern but fruitful parent of high resolve and ennobling thought. the very misfortunes that overwhelmed, became the source from whence they derived both energy and strength, as the inundation of some mighty river fertilises the shores over which it first spreads ruin and desolation. without losing aught of their former position in society, they dared to be poor; to place mind above matter, and make the talents with which the great father had liberally endowed them, work out their appointed end. the world sneered, and summer friends forsook them; they turned their backs upon the world, and upon the ephemeral tribes that live but in its smiles. from out of the solitude in which they dwelt, their names went forth through the crowded cities of that cold, sneering world, and their names were mentioned with respect by the wise and good; and what they lost in wealth, they more than regained in well-earned reputation. brought up in this school of self-denial, it would have been strange indeed if all its wise and holy precepts had brought forth no corresponding fruit. i endeavoured to reconcile myself to the change that awaited me, to accommodate my mind and pursuits to the new position in which i found myself placed. many a hard battle had we to fight with old prejudices, and many proud swellings of the heart to subdue, before we could feel the least interest in the land of our adoption, or look upon it as our home. all was new, strange, and distasteful to us; we shrank from the rude, coarse familiarity of the uneducated people among whom we were thrown; and they in return viewed us as innovators, who wished to curtail their independence, by expecting from them the kindly civilities and gentle courtesies of a more refined community. they considered us proud and shy, when we were only anxious not to give offense. the semi-barbarous yankee squatters, who had “left their country for their country's good,” and by whom we were surrounded in our first settlement, detested us, and with them we could have no feeling in common. we could neither lie nor cheat in our dealings with them; and they despised us for our ignorance in trading and our want of smartness. the utter want of that common courtesy with which a well-brought-up european addresses the poorest of his brethren, is severely felt at first by settlers in canada. at the period of which i am now speaking, the titles of “sir” or “madam” were very rarely applied by inferiors. they entered your house without knocking; and while boasting of their freedom, violated one of its dearest laws, which considers even the cottage of the poorest labourer his castle, and his privacy sacred. “is your man to hum?”--“is the woman within?” were the general inquiries made to me by such guests, while my bare-legged, ragged irish servants were always spoken to, as “sir” and “mem,” as if to make the distinction more pointed. why they treated our claims to their respect with marked insult and rudeness, i never could satisfactorily determine, in any way that could reflect honour on the species, or even plead an excuse for its brutality, until i found that this insolence was more generally practised by the low, uneducated emigrants from britain, who better understood your claims to their civility, than by the natives themselves. then i discovered the secret. the unnatural restraint which society imposes upon these people at home forces them to treat their more fortunate brethren with a servile deference which is repugnant to their feelings, and is thrust upon them by the dependent circumstances in which they are placed. this homage to rank and education is not sincere. hatred and envy lie rankling at their heart, although hidden by outward obsequiousness. necessity compels their obedience; they fawn, and cringe, and flatter the wealth on which they depend for bread. but let them once emigrate, the clog which fettered them is suddenly removed; they are free; and the dearest privilege of this freedom is to wreak upon their superiors the long-locked-up hatred of their hearts. they think they can debase you to their level by disallowing all your claims to distinction; while they hope to exalt themselves and their fellows into ladies and gentlemen by sinking you back to the only title you received from nature--plain “man” and “woman.” oh, how much more honourable than their vulgar pretensions! i never knew the real dignity of these simple epithets until they were insultingly thrust upon us by the working-classes of canada. but from this folly the native-born canadian is exempt; it is only practised by the low-born yankee, or the yankeefied british peasantry and mechanics. it originates in the enormous reaction springing out of a sudden emancipation from a state of utter dependence to one of unrestrained liberty. as such, i not only excuse, but forgive it, for the principle is founded in nature; and, however disgusting and distasteful to those accustomed to different treatment from their inferiors, it is better than a hollow profession of duty and attachment urged upon us by a false and unnatural position. still it is very irksome until you think more deeply upon it; and then it serves to amuse rather than to irritate. and here i would observe, before quitting this subject, that of all follies, that of taking out servants from the old country is one of the greatest, and is sure to end in the loss of the money expended in their passage, and to become the cause of deep disappointment and mortification to yourself. they no sooner set foot upon the canadian shores then they become possessed with this ultra-republican spirit. all respect for their employers, all subordination, is at an end; the very air of canada severs the tie of mutual obligation which bound you together. they fancy themselves not only equal to you in rank, but that ignorance and vulgarity give them superior claims to notice. they demand in terms the highest wages, and grumble at doing half the work, in return, which they cheerfully performed at home. they demand to eat at your table, and to sit in your company; and if you refuse to listen to their dishonest and extravagant claims, they tell you that “they are free; that no contract signed in the old country is binding in 'meriky'; that you may look out for another person to fill their place as soon as you like; and that you may get the money expended in their passage and outfit in the best manner you can.” i was unfortunately persuaded to take out a woman with me as a nurse for my child during the voyage, as i was in very poor health; and her conduct, and the trouble and expense she occasioned, were a perfect illustration of what i have described. when we consider the different position in which servants are placed in the old and new world, this conduct, ungrateful as it then appeared to me, ought not to create the least surprise. in britain, for instance, they are too often dependent upon the caprice of their employers for bread. their wages are low; their moral condition still lower. they are brought up in the most servile fear of the higher classes, and they feel most keenly their hopeless degradation, for no effort on their part can better their condition. they know that if once they get a bad character, they must starve or steal; and to this conviction we are indebted for a great deal of their seeming fidelity and long and laborious service in our families, which we owe less to any moral perception on their part of the superior kindness or excellence of their employers, than to the mere feeling of assurance, that as long as they do their work well, and are cheerful and obedient, they will be punctually paid their wages, and well housed and fed. happy is it for them and their masters when even this selfish bond of union exists between them! but in canada the state of things in this respect is wholly reversed. the serving class, comparatively speaking, is small, and admits of little competition. servants that understand the work of the country are not easily procured, and such always can command the highest wages. the possession of a good servant is such an addition to comfort, that they are persons of no small consequence, for the dread of starving no longer frightens them into servile obedience. they can live without you, and they well know that you cannot do without them. if you attempt to practise upon them that common vice of english mistresses, to scold them for any slight omission or offence, you rouse into active operation all their new-found spirit of freedom and opposition. they turn upon you with a torrent of abuse; they demand their wages, and declare their intention of quitting you instantly. the more inconvenient the time for you, the more bitter become their insulting remarks. they tell you, with a high hand, that “they are as good as you; that they can get twenty better places by the morrow, and that they don't care a snap for your anger.” and away they bounce, leaving you to finish a large wash, or a heavy job of ironing, in the best way you can. when we look upon such conduct as the reaction arising out of their former state, we cannot so much blame them, and are obliged to own that it is the natural result of a sudden emancipation from former restraint. with all their insolent airs of independence, i must confess that i prefer the canadian to the european servant. if they turn out good and faithful, it springs more from real respect and affection, and you possess in your domestic a valuable assistant and friend; but this will never be the case with a servant brought out with you from the old country, for the reasons before assigned. the happy independence enjoyed in this highly-favoured land is nowhere better illustrated than in the fact that no domestic can be treated with cruelty or insolence by an unbenevolent or arrogant master. forty years has made as great a difference in the state of society in canada as it has in its commercial and political importance. when we came to the canadas, society was composed of elements which did not always amalgamate in the best possible manner. we were reckoned no addition to the society of c----. authors and literary people they held in supreme detestation; and i was told by a lady, the very first time i appeared in company, that “she heard that i wrote books, but she could tell me that they did not want a mrs. trollope in canada.” i had not then read mrs. trollope's work on america, or i should have comprehended at once the cause of her indignation; for she was just such a person as would have drawn forth the keen satire of that far-seeing observer of the absurdities of our nature, whose witty exposure of american affectation has done more towards producing a reform in that respect, than would have resulted from a thousand grave animadversions soberly written. another of my self-constituted advisers informed me, with great asperity in her look and tone, that “it would be better for me to lay by the pen, and betake myself to some more useful employment; that she thanked her god that she could make a shirt, and see to the cleaning of her house!” these remarks were perfectly gratuitous, and called forth by no observation of mine; for i tried to conceal my blue stockings beneath the long conventional robes of the tamest common-place, hoping to cover the faintest tinge of the objectionable colour. i had spoken to neither of these women in my life, and was much amused by their remarks; particularly as i could both make a shirt, and attend to the domestic arrangement of my family, as well as either of them. i verily believe that they expected to find an author one of a distinct species from themselves; that they imagined the aforesaid biped should neither eat, drink, sleep, nor talk like other folks;--a proud, useless, self-conceited, affected animal, that deserved nothing but kicks and buffets from the rest of mankind. anxious not to offend them, i tried to avoid all literary subjects. i confined my conversation to topics of common interest; but this gave greater offence than the most ostentatious show of learning, for they concluded that i would not talk on such subjects, because i thought them incapable of understanding me. this was more wounding to their self-love than the most arrogant assumption on my part; and they regarded me with a jealous, envious stand-a-loofishness, that was so intolerable that i gave up all ideas of visiting them. i was so accustomed to hear the whispered remark, or to have it retailed to me by others, “oh, yes; she can write, but she can do nothing else,” that i was made more diligent in cultivating every branch of domestic usefulness; so that these ill-natured sarcasms ultimately led to my acquiring a great mass of most useful practical knowledge. yet--such is the contradiction inherent in our poor fallen nature--these people were more annoyed by my proficiency in the common labours of the household, than they would have been by any displays of my unfortunate authorship. never was the fable of the old man and his ass so truly verified. there is a very little of the social, friendly visiting among the canadians which constitutes the great charm of home. their hospitality is entirely reserved for those monster meetings in which they vie with each other in displaying fine clothes and costly furniture. as these large parties are very expensive, few families can afford to give more than one during the visiting season, which is almost exclusively confined to the winter. the great gun, once fired, you meet no more at the same house around the social board until the ensuing year, and would scarcely know that you had a neighbor, were it not for a formal morning call made now and then, just to remind you that such individuals are in the land of the living, and still exist in your near vicinity. i am speaking of visiting in the towns and villages. the manners and habits of the european settlers in the country are far more simple and natural, and their hospitality more genuine and sincere. they have not been sophisticated by the hard, worldly wisdom of a canadian town, and still retain a warm remembrance of the kindly humanities of home. among the women, a love of dress exceeds all other passions. in public they dress in silks and satins, and wear the most expensive ornaments, and they display considerable taste in the arrangement and choice of colours. the wife of a man in moderate circumstances, whose income does not exceed two or three hundred pounds a-year, does not hesitate in expending ten or fifteen pounds upon one article of outside finery, while often her inner garments are not worth as many sous; thus sacrificing to outward show all the real comforts of life. the aristocracy of wealth is bad enough; but the aristocracy of dress is perfectly contemptible. could raphael visit canada in rags, he would be nothing in their eyes beyond a common sign-painter. great and manifold, even to the ruin of families, are the evils arising from this inordinate love for dress. they derive their fashions from the french and the americans--seldom from the english, whom they far surpass in the neatness and elegance of their costume. the canadian women, while they retain the bloom and freshness of youth, are exceedingly pretty; but these charms soon fade, owing, perhaps, to the fierce extremes of their climate, or the withering effect of the dry metallic air of stoves, and their going too early into company and being exposed, while yet children, to the noxious influence of late hours, and the sudden change from heated rooms to the cold, biting, bitter winter blast. though small of stature, they are generally well and symmetrically formed, and possess a graceful, easy carriage. the early age at which they marry, and are introduced into society, takes from them all awkwardness and restraint. a girl of fourteen can enter a crowded ball-room with as much self-possession, and converse with as much confidence, as a matron of forty. the blush of timidity and diffidence is, indeed, rare upon the cheek of a canadian beauty. their education is so limited and confined to so few accomplishments, and these not very perfectly taught, that their conversation seldom goes beyond a particular discussion on their own dress, or that of their neighbours, their houses, furniture, and servants, sometimes interlarded with a _little harmless gossip_, which, however, tells keenly upon the characters of their dear friends. yet they have abilities, excellent practical abilities, which, with a little mental culture, would render them intellectual and charming companions. at present, too many of these truly lovely girls remind one of choice flowers half buried in weeds. music and dancing are their chief accomplishments. in the former they seldom excel. though possessing an excellent general taste for music, it is seldom in their power to bestow upon its study the time which is required to make a really good musician. they are admirable proficients in the other art, which they acquire readily, with the least instruction, often without any instruction at all, beyond that which is given almost intuitively by a good ear for time, and a quick perception of the harmony of motion. the waltz is their favorite dance, in which old and young join with the greatest avidity; it is not unusual to see parents and their grown-up children dancing in the same set in a public ball-room. their taste in music is not for the sentimental; they prefer the light, lively tunes of the virginian minstrels to the most impassioned strains of bellini. on entering one of the public ball-rooms, a stranger would be delighted with such a display of pretty faces and neat figures. i have hardly ever seen a really plain canadian girl in her teens; and a downright ugly one is almost unknown. the high cheek-bones, wide mouth, and turned-up nose of the saxon race, so common among the lower classes in britain, are here succeeded in the next generation, by the small oval face, straight nose, and beautifully-cut mouth of the american; while the glowing tint of the albion rose pales before the withering influence of late hours and stove-heat. they are naturally a fine people, and possess capabilities and talents, which when improved by cultivation will render them second to no people in the world; and that period is not far distant. idiots and mad people are so seldom met with among natives of the colony, that not one of this description of unfortunates has ever come under my own immediate observation. to the benevolent philanthropist, whose heart has bled over the misery and pauperism of the lower classes in great britain, the almost entire absence of mendicity from canada would be highly gratifying. canada has few, if any, native beggars; her objects of charity are generally imported from the mother country, and these are never suffered to want food or clothing. the canadians are a truly charitable people; no person in distress is driven with harsh and cruel language from their doors; they not only generously relieve the wants of suffering strangers cast upon their bounty, but they nurse them in sickness, and use every means in their power to procure them employment. the number of orphan children yearly adopted by wealthy canadians, and treated in every respect as their own, is almost incredible. it is a glorious country for the labouring classes, for while blessed with health they are always certain of employment, and certain also to derive from it ample means of support for their families. an industrious, hard-working man in a few years is able to purchase from his savings a homestead of his own; and in process of time becomes one of the most important and prosperous class of settlers in canada, her free and independent yeomen, who form the bones and sinews of this rising country, and from among whom she already begins to draw her senators, while their educated sons become the aristocrats of the rising generation. it has often been remarked to me by people long resident in the colony, that those who come to the country destitute of means, but able and willing to work, invariably improve their condition and become independent; while the gentleman who brings out with him a small capital is too often tricked and cheated out of his property, and drawn into rash and dangerous speculations which terminate in his ruin. his children, neglected and uneducated, yet brought up with ideas far beyond their means, and suffered to waste their time in idleness, seldom take to work, and not unfrequently sink down to the lowest class. but i have dwelt long enough upon these serious subjects; and i will leave my husband, who is better qualified than myself, to give a more accurate account of the country, while i turn to matters of a lighter and a livelier cast. it was towards the close of the summer of , which had been unusually cold and wet for canada, while moodie was absent at d----, inspecting a portion of his government grant of land, that i was startled one night, just before retiring to rest, by the sudden firing of guns in our near vicinity, accompanied by shouts and yells, the braying of horns, the beating of drums, and the barking of all the dogs in the neighborhood. i never heard a more stunning uproar of discordant and hideous sounds. what could it all mean? the maid-servant, as much alarmed as myself, opened the door and listened. “the goodness defend us!” she exclaimed, quickly closing it, and drawing a bolt seldom used. “we shall be murdered. the yankees must have taken canada, and are marching hither.” “nonsense! that cannot be it. besides they would never leave the main road to attack a poor place like this. yet the noise is very near. hark! they are firing again. bring me the hammer and some nails, and let us secure the windows.” the next moment i laughed at my folly in attempting to secure a log hut, when the application of a match to its rotten walls would consume it in a few minutes. still, as the noise increased, i was really frightened. my servant, who was irish (for my scotch girl, bell, had taken to herself a husband and i had been obliged to hire another in her place, who had only been a few days in the country), began to cry and wring her hands, and lament her hard fate in coming to canada. just at this critical moment, when we were both self-convicted of an arrant cowardice, which would have shamed a canadian child of six years old, mrs. o---- tapped at the door, and although generally a most unwelcome visitor, from her gossiping, mischievous propensities, i gladly let her in. “do tell me,” i cried, “the meaning of this strange uproar?” “oh, 'tis nothing,” she replied, laughing; “you and mary look as white as a sheet; but you need not be alarmed. a set of wild fellows have met to charivari old satan, who has married his fourth wife to-night, a young gal of sixteen. i should not wonder if some mischief happens among them, for they are a bad set, made up of all the idle loafers about port h---- and c----.” “what is a charivari?” said i. “do, pray, enlighten me.” “have you been nine months in canada, and ask that question? why i thought you knew everything! well, i will tell you what it is. the charivari is a custom that the canadians got from the french, in the lower province, and a queer custom it is. when an old man marries a young wife, or an old woman a young husband, or two old people, who ought to be thinking of their graves, enter for the second or third time into the holy estate of wedlock, as the priest calls it, all the idle young fellows in the neighborhood meet together to charivari them. for this purpose they disguise themselves, blackening their faces, putting their clothes on hind part before, and wearing horrible masks, with grotesque caps on their head, adorned with cocks' feathers and bells. they then form in a regular body, and proceed to the bridegroom's house, to the sound of tin kettles, horns, and drums, cracked fiddles, and all the discordant instruments they can collect together. thus equipped, they surround the house where the wedding is held, just at the hour when the happy couple are supposed to be about to retire to rest--beating upon the door with clubs and staves, and demanding of the bridegroom admittance to drink the bride's health, or in lieu there of to receive a certain sum of money to treat the band at the nearest tavern. “if the bridegroom refuses to appear and grant their request, they commence the horrible din you hear, firing guns charged with peas against the doors and windows, rattling old pots and kettles, and abusing him for his stinginess in no measured terms. sometimes they break open the doors, and seize upon the bridegroom; and he may esteem himself a very fortunate man, under such circumstances, if he escapes being ridden upon a rail, tarred and feathered, and otherwise maltreated. i have known many fatal accidents arise out of an imprudent refusal to satisfy the demands of the assailants. people have even lost their lives in the fray; and i think the government should interfere, and put down these riotous meetings. surely, it is very hard, that an old man cannot marry a young gal, if she is willing to take him, without asking the leave of such a rabble as that. what right have they to interfere with his private affairs?” “what, indeed?” said i, feeling a truly british indignation at such a lawless infringement upon the natural rights of man. “i remember,” continued mrs. o----, who had got fairly started upon a favorite subject, “a scene of this kind, that was acted two years ago, at ----, when old mr. p---- took his third wife. he was a very rich storekeeper, and had made during the war a great deal of money. he felt lonely in his old age, and married a young, handsome widow, to enliven his house. the lads in the village were determined to make him pay for his frolic. this got wind, and mr. p---- was advised to spend the honeymoon in toronto; but he only laughed, and said that 'he was not going to be frightened from his comfortable home by the threats of a few wild boys.' in the morning, he was married at the church, and spent the day at home, where he entertained a large party of his own and the bride's friends. during the evening, all the idle chaps in the town collected round the house, headed by a mad young bookseller, who had offered himself for their captain, and, in the usual forms, demanded a sight of the bride, and liquor to drink her health. they were very good-naturedly received by mr. p----, who sent a friend down to them to bid them welcome, and to inquire on what terms they would consent to let him off, and disperse. “the captain of the band demanded sixty dollars, as he, mr. p----, could well afford to pay it. “'that's too much, my fine fellows!' cried mr. p---- from the open window. 'say twenty-five, and i will send you down a cheque upon the bank of montreal for the money.' “'thirty! thirty! thirty! old boy!' roared a hundred voices. 'your wife's worth that. down with the cash, and we will give you three cheers, and three times three for the bride, and leave you to sleep in peace. if you hang back, we will raise such a 'larum about your ears that you shan't know that your wife's your own for a month to come!' “'i'll give you twenty-five,' remonstrated the bridegroom, not the least alarmed at their threats, and laughing all the time in his sleeve. “'thirty; not one copper less!' here they gave him such a salute of diabolical sounds that he ran from the window with his hands to his ears, and his friend came down stairs to the verandah, and gave them the sum they required. they did not expect that the old man would have been so liberal, and they gave him the 'hip, hip, hip hurrah!' in fine style, and marched off the finish the night and spend the money at the tavern.” “and do people allow themselves to be bullied out of their property by such ruffians?” “ah, my dear! 'tis the custom of the country, and 'tis not so easy to put it down. but i can tell you that a charivari is not always a joke. “there was another affair that happened, just before you came to the place, that occasioned no small talk in the neighbourhood; and well it might, for it was a most disgraceful piece of business, and attended with very serious consequences. some of the charivari party had to fly, or they might have ended their days in the penitentiary. “there was runaway nigger from the states came to the village, and set up a barber's poll, and settled among us. i am no friend to the blacks; but really tom smith was such a quiet, good-natured fellow, and so civil and obliging, that he soon got a good business. he was clever, too, and cleaned old clothes until they looked almost as good as new. well, after a time he persuaded a white girl to marry him. she was not a bad-looking irish woman, and i can't think what bewitched the creature to take him. “her marriage with the black man created a great sensation in the town. all the young fellows were indignant at his presumption and her folly, and they determined to give them the charivari in fine style, and punish them both for the insult they had put upon the place. “some of the young gentlemen in the town joined in the frolic. they went so far as to enter the house, drag the poor nigger from his bed, and in spite of his shrieks for mercy, they hurried him out into the cold air--for it was winter--and almost naked as he was, rode him upon a rail, and so ill-treated him that he died under their hands. “they left the body, when they found what had happened, and fled. the ringleaders escaped across the lake to the other side; and those who remained could not be sufficiently identified to bring them to trial. the affair was hushed up; but it gave great uneasiness to several respectable families whose sons were in the scrape.” “good heavens! are such things permitted in a christian country? but scenes like these must be of rare occurrence?” “they are more common than you imagine. a man was killed up at w---- the other day, and two others dangerously wounded, at a charivari. the bridegroom was a man in middle life, a desperately resolute and passionate man, and he swore that if such riff-raff dared to interfere with him, he would shoot at them with as little compunction as he would at so many crows. his threats only increased the mischievous determination of the mob to torment him; and when he refused to admit their deputation, or even to give them a portion of the wedding cheer, they determined to frighten him into compliance by firing several guns, loaded with peas, at his door. their salute was returned from the chamber windows, by the discharge of a double-barrelled gun, loaded with buck-shot. the crowd gave back with a tremendous yell. their leader was shot through the heart, and two of the foremost in the scuffle dangerously wounded. they vowed they would set fire to the house, but the bridegroom boldly stepped to the window, and told them to try it, and before they could light a torch he would fire among them again, as his gun was reloaded, and he would discharge it at them as long as one of them dared to remain on his premises. “they cleared off; but though mr. a---- was not punished for the _accident_, as it was called, he became a marked man, and lately left the colony, to settle in the united states. “why, mrs. moodie, you look quite serious. i can, however, tell you a less dismal tale, a charivari would seldom be attended with bad consequences if people would take it as a joke, and join in the spree.” “a very dignified proceeding, for a bride and bridegroom to make themselves the laughing-stock of such people!” “oh, but custom reconciles us to everything; and 'tis better to give up a little of our pride than endanger the lives of our fellow-creatures. i have been told a story of a lady in the lower province, who took for her second husband a young fellow, who, as far as his age was concerned, might have been her son. the mob surrounded her house at night, carrying her effigy in an open coffin, supported by six young lads, with white favours in their hats; and they buried the poor bride, amid shouts of laughter, and the usual accompaniments, just opposite her drawing-room windows. the widow was highly amused by the whole of their proceedings, but she wisely let them have their own way. she lived in a strong stone house, and she barred the doors, and closed the iron shutters, and set them at defiance. “'as long as she enjoyed her health,' she said, 'they were welcome to bury her in effigy as often as they pleased; she was really glad to be able to afford amusement to so many people.' “night after night, during the whole of that winter, the same party beset her house with their diabolical music; but she only laughed at them. “the leader of the mob was a young lawyer from these parts, a sad, mischievous fellow; the widow became aware of this, and she invited him one evening to take tea with a small party at her house. he accepted the invitation, was charmed with her hearty and hospitable welcome, and soon found himself quite at home; but only think how ashamed he must have felt, when the same 'larum commenced, at the usual hour, in front of the lady's house! “'oh,' said mrs. r----, smiling to her husband, 'here come our friends. really, mr. k----, they amuse us so much of an evening that i should feel quite dull without them.' “from that hour the charivari ceased, and the old lady was left to enjoy the society of her young husband in quiet. “i assure you, mrs. m----, that the charivari often deters old people from making disgraceful marriages, so that it is not wholly without its use.” a few days after the charivari affair, mrs. d---- stepped in to see me. she was an american; a very respectable old lady, who resided in a handsome frame-house on the main road. i was at dinner, the servant-girl, in the meanwhile, nursing my child at a distance. mrs. d---- sat looking at me very seriously until i concluded my meal, her dinner having been accomplished several hours before. when i had finished, the girl give me the child, and then removed the dinner-service into an outer room. “you don't eat with your helps,” said my visitor. “is not that something like pride?” “it is custom,” said i; “we were not used to do so at home, and i think that keeping a separate table is more comfortable for both parties.” “are you not both of the same flesh and blood? the rich and the poor meet together, and the lord is the maker of them all.” “true. your quotation is just, and i assent to it with all my heart. there is no difference in the flesh and blood; but education makes a difference in the mind and manners, and, till these can assimilate, it is better to keep them apart.” “ah! you are not a good christian, mrs. moodie. the lord thought more of the poor than he did of the rich, and he obtained more followers from among them. now, _we_ always take our meals with our people.” presently after, while talking over the affairs of our households, i happened to say that the cow we had bought of mollineux had turned out extremely well, and gave a great deal of milk. “that man lived with us several years,” she said; “he was an excellent servant, and d---- paid him his wages in land. the farm he now occupies formed a part of our u.e. grant. but, for all his good conduct, i never could abide him, for being a _black_.” “indeed! is he not the same flesh and blood as the rest?” the colour rose into mrs. d----'s sallow face, and she answered with much warmth-- “what! do you mean to compare _me_ with a _nigger!_” “not exactly. but, after all, the colour makes the only difference between him and uneducated men of the same class.” “mrs. moodie!” she exclaimed, holding up her hands in pious horror; “they are the children of the devil! god never condescended to make a nigger.” “such an idea is an impeachment of the power and majesty of the almighty. how can you believe such an ignorant fable?” “well, then,” said my monitress, in high dudgeon, “if the devil did not make them, they are descended from cain.” “but all cain's posterity perished in the flood.” my visitor was puzzled. “the african race, it is generally believed, are the descendants of ham, and to many of their tribes the curse pronounced against him seems to cling. to be the servant of servants is bad enough, without our making their condition worse by our cruel persecutions. christ came to seek and to save that which was lost; and in proof of this inestimable promise, he did not reject the ethiopian eunuch who was baptised by philip, and who was, doubtless, as black as the rest of his people. do you not admit mollineux to your table with your other helps?” “mercy sake! do you think that i would sit down at the same table with a nigger? my helps would leave the house if i dared to put such an affront upon them. sit down with a dirty black, indeed!” “do you think, mrs. d----, that there will be any negroes in heaven?” “certainly not, or i, for one, would never wish to go there;” and out of the house she sallied in high disdain. yet this was the woman who had given me such a plausible lecture on pride. alas, for our fallen nature! which is more subversive of peace and christian fellowship--ignorance of our own characters, or the characters of others? our departure for the woods became now a frequent theme of conversation. my husband had just returned from an exploring expedition to the backwoods, and was delighted with the prospect of removing thither. the only thing i listened to in their praise, with any degree of interest, was a lively song, which he had written during his brief sojourn at douro:-- to the woods!--to the woods! to the woods!--to the woods!--the sun shines bright, the smoke rises high in the clear frosty air; our axes are sharp, and our hearts are light, let us toil while we can and drive away care. though homely our food, we are merry and strong, and labour is wealth, which no man can deny; at eve we will chase the dull hours with a song, and at grey peep of dawn let this be our cry, to the woods!--to the woods!--&c. hark! how the trees crack in the keen morning blast, and see how the rapids are cover'd with steam; thaw your axes, my lads, the sun rises fast, and gilds the pine tops with his bright golden beam. to the woods!--to the woods!--&c. come, chop away, lads! the wild woods resound, let your quick-falling strokes in due harmony ring; see, the lofty tree shivers--it falls to the ground! now with voices united together we'll sing-- to the woods!--to the woods!--the sun shines bright, the smoke rises high in the clear frosty air; our axes are sharp, and our hearts are light, let us toil while we can and drive away care, and drive away care. j.w.d.m. chapter xii the village hotel well, stranger, here you are all safe and sound; you're now on shore. methinks you look aghast,-- as if you'd made some slight mistake, and found a land you liked not. think not of the past; your leading-strings are cut; the mystic chain that bound you to your fair and smiling shore is sever'd now, indeed. 'tis now in vain to sigh for joys that can return no more. emigration, however necessary as the obvious means of providing for the increasing population of early-settled and over-peopled countries, is indeed a very serious matter to the individual emigrant and his family. he is thrown adrift, as it were, on a troubled ocean, the winds and currents of which are unknown to him. his past experience, and his judgment founded on experience, will be useless to him in this new sphere of action. in an old country, where generation after generation inhabits the same spot, the mental dispositions and prejudices of our ancestors become in a manner hereditary, and descend to their children with their possessions. in a new colony, on the contrary, the habits and associations of the emigrant having been broken up for ever, he is suddenly thrown on his own internal resources, and compelled to act and decide at once; not unfrequently under pain of misery or starvation. he is surrounded with dangers, often without the ordinary means which common-sense and prudence suggest of avoiding them,--because the _experience_ on which these common qualities are founded is wanting. separated for ever from those warm-hearted friends, who in his native country would advise or assist him in his first efforts, and surrounded by people who have an interest in misleading and imposing upon him, every-day experience shows that no amount of natural sagacity or prudence, founded on experience in other countries, will be an effectual safeguard against deception and erroneous conclusions. it is a fact worthy of observation, that among emigrants possessing the qualities of industry and perseverance so essential to success in all countries, those who possess the smallest share of original talent and imagination, and the least of a speculative turn of mind, are usually the most successful. they follow the beaten track and prosper. however humbling this reflection may be to human vanity, it should operate as a salutary check on presumption and hasty conclusions. after a residence of sixteen years in canada, during which my young and helpless family have been exposed to many privations, while we toiled incessantly and continued to hope even against hope, these reflections naturally occur to our minds, not only as the common-sense view of the subject, but as the fruit of long and daily-bought experience. after all this long probation in the backwoods of canada, i find myself brought back in circumstances nearly to the point from whence i started, and am compelled to admit that had i only followed my own unassisted judgment, when i arrived with my wife and child in canada, and quietly settled down on the cleared farm i had purchased, in a well-settled neighbourhood, and with the aid of the means i then possessed, i should now in all probability have been in easy if not in affluent circumstances. native canadians, like yankees, will make money where people from the old country would almost starve. their intimate knowledge of the country, and of the circumstances of the inhabitants, enables them to turn their money to great advantage; and i must add, that few people from the old country, however avaricious, can bring themselves to stoop to the unscrupulous means of acquiring property which are too commonly resorted to in this country. these reflections are a rather serious commencement of a sketch which was intended to be of a more lively description; one of my chief objects in writing this chapter being to afford a connecting link between my wife's sketches, and to account for some circumstances connected with our situation, which otherwise would be unintelligible to the reader. before emigrating to canada, i had been settled as a bachelor in south africa for about twelve years. i use the word settled, for want of a better term--for a bachelor can never, properly, be said to be settled. he has no object in life--no aim. he is like a knife without a blade, or a gun without a barrel. he is always in the way, and nobody cares for him. if he work on a farm, as i did, for i never could look on while others were working without lending a hand, he works merely for the sake of work. he benefits nobody by his exertions, not even himself; for he is restless and anxious, has a hundred indescribable ailments, which no one but himself can understand; and for want of the legitimate cares and anxieties connected with a family, he is full of cares and anxieties of his own creating. in short, he is in a false position, as every man must be who presumes to live alone when he can do better. this was my case in south africa. i had plenty of land, and of all the common necessaries of life; but i lived for years without companionship, for my nearest english neighbour was twenty-five miles off. i hunted the wild animals of the country, and had plenty of books to read; but, from talking broken dutch for months together, i almost forgot how to speak my own language correctly. my very ideas (for i had not entirely lost the reflecting faculty) became confused and limited, for want of intellectual companions to strike out new lights, and form new combinations in the regions of thought; clearly showing that man was not intended to live alone. getting, at length, tired of this solitary and unproductive life, i started for england, with the resolution of placing my domestic matters on a more comfortable footing. by a happy accident, at the house of a literary friend in london, i became acquainted with one to whose cultivated mind, devoted affections, and untiring energy of character, i have been chiefly indebted for many happy hours, under the most adverse circumstances, as well as for much of that hope and firm reliance upon providence which have enabled me to bear up against overwhelming misfortunes. i need not here repeat what has been already stated respecting the motives which induced us to emigrate to canada. i shall merely observe that when i left south africa it was with the intention of returning to that colony, where i had a fine property, to which i was attached in no ordinary degree, on account of the beauty of the scenery and delightful climate. however, mrs. moodie, somehow or other, had imbibed an invincible dislike to that colony, for some of the very reasons that i liked it myself. the wild animals were her terror, and she fancied that every wood and thicket was peopled with elephants, lions, and tigers, and that it would be utterly impossible to take a walk without treading on dangerous snakes in the grass. unfortunately, she had my own book on south africa to quote triumphantly in confirmation of her vague notions of danger; and, in my anxiety to remove these exaggerated impressions, i would fain have retracted my own statements of the hair-breadth escapes i had made, in conflicts with wild animals, respecting which the slightest insinuation of doubt from another party would have excited my utmost indignation. in truth, before i became familiarised with such danger, i had myself entertained similar notions, and my only wonder, in reading such narratives before leaving my own country, was how the inhabitants of the country managed to attend to their ordinary business in the midst of such accumulated dangers and annoyances. fortunately, these hair-breadth escapes are of rare occurrence; but travellers and book-makers, like cooks, have to collect high-flavoured dishes, from far and near, the better to please the palates of their patrons. so it was with my south african adventures; i threw myself in the way of danger from the love of strong excitement, and i collected all my adventures together, and related them in pure simplicity, without very particularly informing the reader over what space of time or place my narrative extended, or telling him that i could easily have kept out of harm's way had i felt so inclined. all these arguments, however, had little influence on my good wife, for i could not deny that i had seen such animals in abundance in south africa; and she thought she should never be safe among such neighbours. at last, between my wife's fear of the wild animals of africa, and a certain love of novelty, which formed a part of my own character, i made up my mind, as they write on stray letters in the post-office, to “try canada.” so here we are, just arrived in the village of c----, situated on the northern shore of lake ontario. mrs. moodie has already stated that we procured lodgings at a certain hotel in the village of c---- kept by s----, a truly excellent and obliging american. the british traveller is not a little struck, and in many instances disgusted, with a certain air of indifference in the manners of such persons in canada, which is accompanied with a tone of equality and familiarity exceedingly unlike the limber and oily obsequiousness of tavern-keepers in england. i confess i felt at the time not a little annoyed with mr. s----'s free-and-easy manner, and apparent coolness and indifference when he told us he had no spare room in his house to accommodate our party. we endeavoured to procure lodgings at another tavern, on the opposite side of the street; but soon learned that, in consequence of the arrival of an unusual number of immigrants, all the taverns in the village were already filled to overflowing. we returned to mr. s----, and after some further conversation, he seemed to have taken a kind of liking to us, and became more complaisant in his manner, until our arrangement with tom wilson, as already related, relieved us from further difficulty. i _now_ perfectly understand the cause of this apparent indifference on the part of our host. of all people, englishmen, when abroad, are the most addicted to the practice of giving themselves arrogant airs towards those persons whom they look upon in the light of dependents on their bounty; and they forget that an american tavern-keeper holds a very different position in society from one of the same calling in england. the manners and circumstances of new countries are utterly opposed to anything like pretension in any class of society; and our worthy host, and his excellent wife--who had both held a respectable position in the society of the united states--had often been deeply wounded in their feelings by the disgusting and vulgar arrogance of english _gentleman_ and _ladies_, as they are called. knowing from experience the truth of the saying that “what cannot be cured must be endured,” we were particularly civil to mr. s----; and it was astonishing how quickly his manners thawed. we had not been long in the house before we were witnesses of so many examples of the purest benevolence, exhibited by mr. s---- and his amiable family, that it was impossible to regard them with any feeling but that of warm regard and esteem. s---- was, in truth, a noble-hearted fellow. whatever he did seemed so much a matter of habit, that the idea of selfish design or ostentation was utterly excluded from the mind. i could relate several instances of the disinterested benevolence of this kind-hearted tavern-keeper. i shall just mention one, which came under my own observation while i lived near c----. i had frequently met a young englishman, of the name of m----, at mr. s----'s tavern. his easy and elegant manners, and whole deportment, showed that he had habitually lived in what is called the best society. he had emigrated to canada with , or , pounds, had bought horses, run races, entertained many of the wealthy people of toronto, or york, as it was then called, and had done a number of other exceedingly foolish things. of course his money was soon absorbed by the thirsty canadians, and he became deeply involved in debt. m---- had spent a great deal of money at s----'s tavern, and owed him or pounds. at length he was arrested for debt by some other party, was sent to the district gaol, which was nearly two miles from c----, and was compelled at first to subsist on the gaol allowance. what greatly aggravated the misfortunes of poor m----, a man without suspicion or guile, was a bitter disappointment in another quarter. he had an uncle in england, who was very rich, and who intended to leave him all his property. some kind friend, to whom m---- had confided his expectations, wrote to england, informing the old man of his nephew's extravagance and hopes. the uncle there-upon cast him off, and left his property, when he died, to another relative. as soon as the kind-hearted tavern-keeper heard of the poor fellow's imprisonment, he immediately went to see him, and, though he had not the slightest hope of ever being paid one farthing of his claim, mr. s----, for many months that poor m---- lay in gaol, continued to send him an excellent dinner every day from his tavern, to which he always added a bottle of wine; for as mr. s---- remarked, “poor m----, i guess, is accustomed to live well.” as soon as mr. s---- found that we did not belong to that class of people who fancy they exalt themselves by insulting others, there were no bounds to the obligingness of his disposition. as i had informed him that i wished to buy a cleared farm near lake ontario, he drove me out every day in all directions, and wherever he thought farms were to be had cheap. before proceeding further in my account of the inhabitants, i shall endeavour to give the reader some idea of the appearance of the village and the surrounding country. of course, from the existence of a boundless forest, only partially cleared, there is a great sameness and uniformity in canadian scenery. we had a stormy passage from kingston to c----, and the wind being directly ahead, the plunging of the steam-boat between the sharp seas of lake ontario produced a “motion” which was decidedly “unconstitutional;” and, for the first time since we left england, we experienced a sensation which strongly reminded us of sea-sickness. the general appearance of the coast from the lake was somewhat uninviting. the land appeared to be covered everywhere with the dense unbroken forest, and though there were some gently sloping hills and slight elevations, showing the margin of extensive clearings, there was a general want of a background of high hills or mountains, which imparts so much interest to the scenery of every country. on reaching c----, however, we found that we had been much deceived as to the features of the country, when viewed at a less distance. immediately on the shores of the great lake, the land is generally flat for two or three miles inland; and as the farms are there measured out in long, narrow strips, a mile and a quarter long, and a quarter of a mile wide, the back parts of the lots, which are reserved for firewood, are only visible at a distance. this narrow belt of the primeval forest, which runs along the rear of all the lots in the first line of settlements, or concession as it is here called, necessarily conceals the houses and clearings of the next concession, unless the land beyond rises into hills. this arrangement, however convenient, tends greatly to mar the beauty of canadian scenery. the unvarying monotony of rail-fences and quadrangular enclosures, occasions a tiresome uniformity in the appearance of the country, which is increased by the almost total absence of those little graceful ornaments in detail, in the immediate neighbourhood of the homesteads, which give such a charm to english rural scenery. the day after our arrival, we had an opportunity to examine the town, or rather village, of c----. it then consisted chiefly of one long street, parallel with the shore of the lake, and the houses, with very few exceptions, were built of wood; but they were all finished, and painted with such a degree of neatness, that their appearance was showy, and in some instances elegant, from the symmetry of their proportions. immediately beyond the bounds of the village, we, for the first time, witnessed the operation of clearing up a thick cedar-swamp. the soil looked black and rich, but the water stood in pools, and the trunks and branches of the cedars were leaning in all directions, and at all angles, with their thick foliage and branches intermingled in wild confusion. the roots spread along the uneven surface of the ground so thickly that they seemed to form a vast net-work, and apparently covered the greater part of the surface of the ground. the task of clearing such a labyrinth seemed utterly hopeless. my heart almost sickened at the prospect of clearing such land, and i was greatly confirmed in my resolution of buying a farm cleared to my hand. the clearing process, however, in this unpromising spot, was going on vigorously. several acres had been chopped down, and the fire had run through the prostrate trees, consuming all the smaller branches and foliage, and leaving the trunks and ground as black as charcoal could make them. among this vast mass of ruins, four or five men were toiling with yoke of oxen. the trees were cut into manageable lengths, and were then dragged by the oxen together, so that they could be thrown up into large log-heaps to burn. the men looked, with their bare arms, hands, and faces begrimed with charcoal, more like negroes than white men; and were we, like some shallow people, to compare their apparent condition with that of the negro slaves in more favoured regions, we should be disposed to consider the latter the happier race. but this disgusting work was the work of freemen, high-spirited and energetic fellows, who feared neither man nor wild beast, and trusted to their own strong arms to conquer all difficulties, while they could discern the light of freedom and independence glimmering through the dark woods before them. a few years afterwards, i visited c----, and looked about for the dreadful cedar-swamp which struck such a chill into my heart, and destroyed the illusion which had possessed my mind of the beauty of the canadian woods. the trees were gone, the tangled roots were gone, and the cedar-swamp was converted into a fair grassy meadow, as smooth as a bowling-green. about sixteen years after my first visit to this spot, i saw it again, and it was covered with stone and brick houses; and one portion of it was occupied by a large manufactory, five or six stories high, with steam-engines, spinning-jennies, and all the machinery for working up the wool of the country into every description of clothing. this is civilisation! this is freedom! the sites of towns and villages in canada are never selected at random. in england, a concurrence of circumstances has generally led to the gradual formation of hamlets, villages, and towns. in many instances, towns have grown up in barbarous ages around a place of refuge during war; around a fortalice or castle, and more frequently around the ford over a river, where the detention of travellers has led to the establishment of a place of entertainment, a blacksmith's or carpenter's shop. a village or town never grows to any size in canada without a saw or a grist mill, both which require a certain amount of water-power to work the machinery. whenever there is a river or stream available for such purposes, and the surrounding country is fertile, the village rapidly rises to be a considerable town. frame-houses are so quickly erected, and the materials are so easily procured near a saw-mill, that, in the first instance, no other description of houses is to be found in our incipient towns. but as the town increases, brick and stone houses rapidly supplant these less substantial edifices, which seldom remain good for more than thirty or forty years. mr. s----'s tavern, or hotel, was an extensive frame-building of the kind common in the country. all the lodgers frequent the same long table at all their meals, at one end of which the landlord generally presides. mr. s----, however, usually preferred the company of his family in another part of the house; and some one of the gentlemen who boarded at the tavern, and who possessed a sufficiently large organ of self-esteem, voted himself into the post of honour, without waiting for an invitation from the rest of the company. this happy individual is generally some little fellow, with a long, protruding nose; some gentleman who can stretch his neck and backbone almost to dislocation, and who has a prodigious deal of talk, all about nothing. the taverns in this country are frequented by all single men, and by many married men without children, who wish to avoid the trouble and greater expense of keeping house. thus a large portion of the population of the towns take all their meals at the hotels or taverns, in order to save both expense and time. the extraordinary despatch used at meals in the united states has often been mentioned by travellers. the same observation equally applies to canada, and for the same reason. wages are high, and time is, therefore, valuable in both countries, and as one clerk is waiting in the shop while another is bolting his dinner, it would of course be exceedingly unkind to protract unnecessarily the sufferings of the hungry expectant; no one possessing any bowels of compassion could act so cruelly. for the same reason, every one is expected to take care of himself, without minding his neighbours. at times a degree of compassion is extended by some naturalised old countryman towards some diffident, over-scrupulous new comer, by offering to help him first; but such marks of consideration, except to ladies, to whom all classes in canada are attentive, are never continued a bit longer than is thought sufficient for becoming acquainted with the ways of the country. soon after our arrival at c----, i remember asking a person, who was what the canadians call “a hickory quaker,” from the north of ireland, to help me to a bit of very nice salmon-trout, which was vanishing alarmingly fast from the breakfast-table. obadiah very considerately lent a deaf ear to my repeated entreaties, pretending to be intently occupied with his own plate of fish; then, transferring the remains of the salmon-trout to his own place, he turned round to me with the most innocent face imaginable, saying very coolly, “i beg your pardon, friend, did you speak to me? there is such a noise at the table, i cannot hear very well.” between meals there is “considerable of drinking,” among the idlers about the tavern, of the various ingenious yankee inventions resorted to in this country to disturb the brain. in the evening the plot thickens, and a number of young and middle-aged men drop in, and are found in little knots in the different public rooms. the practice of “treating” is almost universal in this country, and, though friendly and sociable in its way, is the fruitful source of much dissipation. it is almost impossible, in travelling, to steer clear of this evil habit. strangers are almost invariably drawn into it in the course of business. the town of c---- being the point where a large number of emigrants landed on their way to the backwoods of this part of the colony, it became for a time a place of great resort, and here a number of land-jobbers were established, who made a profitable trade of buying lands from private individuals, or at the government sales of wild land, and selling them again to the settlers from the old country. though my wife had some near relatives settled in the backwoods, about forty miles inland, to the north of c----, i had made up my mind to buy a cleared farm near lake ontario, if i could get one to my mind, and the price of which would come within my limited means. a number of the recent settlers in the backwoods, among whom were several speculators, resorted frequently to c----; and as soon as a new batch of settlers arrived on the lake shore, there was a keen contest between the land-jobbers of c---- and those of the backwoods to draw the new comer into their nets. the demand created by the continual influx of immigrants had caused a rapid increase in the price of lands, particularly of wild lands, and the grossest imposition was often practiced by these people, who made enormous profits by taking advantage of the ignorance of the new settlers and of their anxiety to settle themselves at once. i was continually cautioned by these people against buying a farm in any other locality than the particular one they themselves represented as most eligible, and their rivals were always represented as unprincipled land-jobbers. finding these accusations to be mutual, i naturally felt myself constrained to believe both parties to be alike. sometimes i got hold of a quiet farmer, hoping to obtain something like disinterested advice; but in nine cases out of ten, i am sorry to say, i found that the rage for speculation and trading in land, which was so prevalent in all the great thoroughfares, had already poisoned their minds also, and i could rarely obtain an opinion or advice which was utterly free from self-interest. they generally had some lot of land to sell--or, probably, they would like to have a new comer for a neighbour, in the hope of selling him a span of horses or some cows at a higher price than they could obtain from the older settlers. in mentioning this unamiable trait in the character of the farmers near c----, i by no means intend to give it as characteristic of the farmers in general. it is, properly speaking, a _local_ vice, produced by the constant influx of strangers unacquainted with the ways of the country, which tempts the farmers to take advantage of their ignorance. stanzas where is religion found? in what bright sphere dwells holy love, in majesty serene shedding its beams, like planet o'er the scene; the steady lustre through the varying year still glowing with the heavenly rays that flow in copious streams to soften human woe? it is not 'mid the busy scenes of life, where careworn mortals crowd along the way that leads to gain--shunning the light of day; in endless eddies whirl'd, where pain and strife distract the soul, and spread the shades of night, where love divine should dwell in purest light. short-sighted man!--go seek the mountain's brow, and cast thy raptured eye o'er hill and dale; the waving woods, the ever-blooming vale, shall spread a feast before thee, which till now ne'er met thy gaze--obscured by passion's sway; and nature's works shall teach thee how to pray. or wend thy course along the sounding shore, where giant waves resistless onward sweep to join the awful chorus of the deep-- curling their snowy manes with deaf'ning roar, flinging their foam high o'er the trembling sod, and thunder forth their mighty song to god! j.w.d.m. chapter xiii the land-jobber some men, like greedy monsters of the deep, still prey upon their kind;--their hungry maws engulph their victims like the rav'nous shark that day and night untiring plies around the foamy bubbling wake of some great ship; and when the hapless mariner aloft hath lost his hold, and down he falls amidst the gurgling waters on her lee, then, quick as thought, the ruthless felon-jaws close on his form;--the sea is stain'd with blood-- one sharp wild shriek is heard--and all is still! the lion, tiger, alligator, shark-- the wily fox, the bright enamelled snake-- all seek their prey by force or stratagem; but when--their hunger sated--languor creeps around their frames, they quickly sink to rest. not so with man--_he_ never hath enough; he feeds on all alike; and, wild or tame, he's but a cannibal. he burns, destroys, and scatters death to sate his morbid lust for empty fame. but when the love of gain hath struck its roots in his vile, sordid heart,-- each gen'rous impulse chill'd,--like vampire, now, he sucks the life-blood of his friends or foes until he viler grows than savage beast. and when, at length, stretch'd on his bed of death, and powerless, friendless, o'er his clammy brow the dark'ning shades descend, strong to the last his avarice lives; and while he feebly plucks his wretched coverlet, he gasps for breath, and thinks he gathers gold! j.w.d.m. i had a letter of introduction to a gentleman of large property, at c----, who, knowing that i wished to purchase a farm, very kindly drove me out to several lots of land in the immediate neighbourhood. he showed me seven or eight very eligible lots of cleared land, some of them with good houses and orchards; but somehow or other, on inquiry, i found they all belonged to himself, and, moreover, the prices were beyond my limited means. for one farm he asked pounds; for another, pounds, and so on. after inquiring in other quarters, i saw i had no chance of getting a farm in that neighbourhood for the price i could afford to pay down, which was only about pounds. after satisfying myself as to this fact, i thought it the wiser course at once to undeceive my very obliging friend, whose attentions were obviously nicely adjusted to the estimate he had formed in his own mind of my pecuniary resources. on communicating this discouraging fact, my friend's countenance instantly assumed a cold and stony expression, and i almost expected that he would have stopped his horses and set me down, to walk with other poor men. as may well be supposed, i was never afterwards honoured with a seat in his carriage. he saw just what i was worth, and i saw what his friendship was worth; and thus our brief acquaintance terminated. having thus let the cat out of the bag, when i might, according to the usual way of the world, have sported for awhile in borrowed plumage, and rejoiced in the reputation of being in more prosperous circumstances without fear of detection, i determined to pursue the same course, and make use of the little insight i had obtained into the ways of the land-jobbers of canada, to procure a cleared farm on more reasonable terms. it is not uncommon for the land speculators to sell a farm to a respectable settler at an unusually low price, in order to give a character to a neighbourhood where they hold other lands, and thus to use him as a decoy duck for friends or countrymen. there was very noted character at c----, mr. q----, a great land-jobber, who did a large business in this way on his own account, besides getting through a great deal of dirty work for other more respectable speculators, who did not wish to drink at taverns and appear personally in such matters. to mr. q---- i applied, and effected a purchase of a farm of one hundred and fifty acres, about fifty of which were cleared, for pounds, as i shall mention more particularly in the sequel. in the meantime, the character of this distinguished individual was--for he was long gone to give an account of his misdeeds in the other world--so remarkable, that i must endeavour to describe it for the edification of the reader. q---- kept a shop, or store, in c----; but he left the principal management of this establishment to his clerks; while, taking advantage of the influx of emigrants, he pursued, with unrivalled success, the profitable business of land-jobbing. in his store, before taking to this business, he had been accustomed for many years to retail goods to the farmers at high prices, on the usual long credit system. he had thus got a number of farmers deeply in his debt, and, in many cases, in preference to suing them, had taken mortgages on their farms. by this means, instead of merely recovering the money owing to him by the usual process of law, he was enabled, by threatening to foreclose the mortgages, to compel them to sell their farms nearly on his own terms, whenever an opportunity occurred to re-sell them advantageously to new comers. thus, besides making thirty or forty per cent. on his goods, he often realised more than a hundred per cent. on his land speculations. in a new country, where there is no great competition in mercantile business, and money is scarce, the power and profits of store-keepers are very great. mr. q---- was one of the most grasping of this class. his heart was case-hardened, and his conscience, like gum, elastic; it would readily stretch, on the shortest notice, to any required extent, while his well-tutored countenance betrayed no indication of what was passing in his mind. but i must not forget to give a sketch of the appearance, or outward man, of this highly-gifted individual. he was about the middle size, thin and limber, and somewhat loose in his lower joints, like most of the native canadians and yankees. he had a slight stoop in his shoulders, and his long, thin neck was continually stretched out before him, while his restless little cunning eyes were roaming about in search of prey. his face, when well watched, was an index to his selfish and unfeeling soul. complexion he had none, except that sempiternally enduring red-and-tawny mixture which is acquired by exposure and hard drinking. his cheeks and the corners of his eyes were marked by an infinity of curved lines, and, like most avaricious and deceitful men, he had a long, crooked chin, and that peculiar prominent and slightly aquiline nose which, by people observant of such indications, has been called “the rogue's nose.” but how shall i describe his eye--that small hole through which you can see an honest man's heart? q----'s eye was like no other eye i had ever seen. his face and mouth could assume a good-natured expression, and smile; but his eye was still the same--it never smiled, but remained cold, hard, dry, and inscrutable. if it had any expression at all, it was an unhappy one. such were the impressions created by his appearance, when the observer was unobserved by him; for he had the art of concealing the worst traits of his character in an extraordinary degree, and when he suspected that the curious hieroglyphics which nature had stamped on his visage were too closely scanned, he knew well how to divert the investigator's attention to some other object. he was a humorist, besides, in his way, because he found that jokes and fun admirably served his turn. they helped to throw people off their guard, and to conceal his hang-dog look. he had a hard head, as well as hard heart, and could stand any quantity of drink. his drinking, however, like everything else about him, had a motive; and, instead of trying to appear sober, like other drunkards, he rather wished to appear a little elevated. in addition to his other acquirements, q---- was a most accomplished gambler. in short, no virtuous man, who employs every passing moment of his short life in doing good to his fellow-creatures, could be more devoted and energetic in his endeavours to serve god and mankind, than q---- was in his endeavours to ease them of their spare cash. he possessed a great deal of that free-and-easy address and tact which distinguish the canadians; and, in addition to the current coin of vulgar flattery which is found so useful in all countries, his quick eye could discover the high-minded gentleman by a kind of instinct, which did not seem quite natural to his sordid character, and, knowing that such men are not to be taken by vulgar adulation, he could address them with deferential respect; against which no minds are entirely secure. thus he wriggled himself into their good graces. after a while the unfavourable impression occasioned by his sinister countenance would become more faint, while his well-feigned kindness and apparent indulgence to his numerous debtors would tell greatly in his favour. my first impression of this man was pretty nearly such as i have described; and, though i suspected and shunned him, i was sure to meet him at every turn. at length this unfavourable feeling wore off in some degree, and finding him in the best society of the place, i began to think that his countenance belied him, and i reproached myself for my ungenerous suspicions. feeling a certain security in the smallness of my available capital, i did not hesitate in applying to mr. q---- to sell me a farm, particularly as i was aware of his anxiety to induce me to settle near c----, for the reasons already stated. i told him that pounds was the very largest sum i could give for a farm, and that, if i could not get one for that price, i should join my friends in the backwoods. q----, after scratching his head, and considering for a few minutes, told me that he knew a farm which he could sell me for that price, particularly as he wished to get rid of a set of yankee rascals who prevented emigrants from settling in that neighbourhood. we afterwards found that there was but too good reason for the character he gave of some of our neighbours. q---- held a mortgage for pounds on a farm belonging to a certain yankee settler, named joe h----, as security for a debt incurred for goods at his store, in c----. the idea instantly struck q---- that he would compel joe h---- to sell him his farm, by threatening to foreclose the mortgage. i drove out with mr. q---- next day to see the farm in question. it was situated in a pretty retired valley, surrounded by hills, about eight miles from c----, and about a mile from the great road leading to toronto. there was an extensive orchard upon the farm, and two log houses, and a large frame-barn. a considerable portion of the cleared land was light and sandy; and the uncleared part of the farm, situated on the flat, rocky summit of a high hill, was reserved for “a sugar bush,” and for supplying fuel. on the whole, i was pleased with the farm, which was certainly cheap at the price of pounds; and i therefore at once closed the bargain with mr. q----. at that time i had not the slightest idea but that the farm actually belonged to the land-jobber; and i am to this day unable to tell by what means he succeeded in getting mr. h---- to part with his property. the father of joe h---- had cleared the farm, and while the soil was new it gave good crops; but as the rich surface, or “black muck,” as it is called, became exhausted by continual cropping, nothing but a poor, meagre soil remained. the early settlers were wretched farmers; they never ploughed deep enough, and never thought of manuring the land. after working the land for several years, they would let it lie waste for three or four years without sowing grass-seeds, and then plough it up again for wheat. the greater part of the hay raised on these farms was sold in the towns, and the cattle were fed during the long severe winter on wheat-straw. the natural result of this poor nourishment was, that their cattle continually degenerated, and great numbers died every spring of a disease called the “hollow horn,” which appears to be peculiar to this country. when the lands became sterile, from this exhausting treatment, they were called “worn-out farms;” and the owners generally sold them to new settlers from the old country, and with the money they received, bought a larger quantity of wild lands, to provide for their sons; by whom the same improvident process was recommenced. these early settlers were, in fact, only fit for pioneers to a more thrifty class of settlers. joe h----, or “uncle joe,” as the country people call any acquaintance, after a fashion borrowed, no doubt, from the dutch settlers of the state of new york, was, neither by his habits nor industry, likely to become more prosperous than his neighbours of the same thoughtless class. his father had worked hard in his time, and uncle joe thought he had a good right to enjoy himself. the nearest village was only five miles from his place, and he was never without some excuse for going thither every two or three days. his horse wanted shoeing, or his plough or waggon wanted “to be fixed” by the blacksmith or carpenter. as a matter of course, he came home “pretty high;” for he was in the constant habit of pouring a half-tumbler of whiskey down his throat, standing bolt upright at the bar of the tavern, after which he would drink about the same quantity of cold water to wash it down. these habits together with bad farming, and a lazy, slovenly helpmate, in a few years made joe as poor as he could desire to be; and at last he was compelled to sell his farm to mr. q----. after we had got settled down on this farm, i had often occasion to drive into c----, for the purpose of buying groceries and other necessaries, as we then thought them, at the store of mr. q----. on these occasions i always took up my quarters, for the time, at the tavern of our worthy yankee friend, mr. s----. as i drove up to the door, i generally found s---- walking about briskly on the boarded platform, or “stoop,” in front of the house, welcoming his guests in his own peculiar free-and-easy style, looking after their horses, and seeing that his people were attentive to their duties. i think i see him now before me with his thin, erect, lathy figure, his snub nose, and puckered-up face, wriggling and twisting himself about, in his desire to please his customers. on stopping in front of the tavern, shortly after our settlement on the farm, mr. s---- stepped up to me, in the most familiar manner imaginable, holding out his hand quite condescendingly,--“ah, mister moodie, ha-a-w do you do?--and ha-a-w's the old woman?” at first i could not conceive whom he meant by this very homely appellation; and i very simply asked him what person he alluded to, as i had no old woman in my establishment. “why, _your_ old woman, to be sure--your missus--mrs. moodie, i guess. you don't quite understand our language yet.” “o! now i understand you; she's quite well, i thank you; and how is our friend mrs. s----?” i replied, laying a slight emphasis on the _mrs_., by way of a gentle hint for his future guidance. “mrs. s----, i guess she's smart, pret-ty _con_-siderable. she'll be right glad to see you, for you're pretty considerable of a favour-_ite_ with her, i tell you; but now tell me what you will drink?--for it's my treat.” as he said these words, he strutted into the tavern before me, throwing his head and shoulders back, and rising on his tiptoes at every step. mrs. s---- had been a very handsome woman, and still retained much of her good looks. she was a most exemplary housewife and manager. i was often astonished to witness the incessant toil she had to ensure in attending to the wants of such a numerous household. she had plenty of irish “helps” in the kitchen; but they knew as much of cookery as they did of astronomy, and poor mrs. s----'s hands, as well as her head, were in constant requisition. she had two very pretty daughters, whom she would not suffer to do any rough work which would spoil their soft white hands. mrs. s----, no doubt, foresaw that she could not expect to keep such fair creatures long in such a marrying country as canada, and, according to the common caution of divines, she held these blessings with a loose hand. there was one sweet little girl, whom i had often seen in her father's arms, with her soft dark eyes, and her long auburn ringlets hanging in wild profusion over his shoulders. “i guess she likes pa, _some_,” mr. s---- would say when i remarked her fondness for him. this little fairy had a natural genius for music, and though she was only four years old, she would sit for an hour at a time at the door of our room to hear me play on the flute, and would afterwards sing all the airs she picked up, with the sweetest voice in the world. humble as the calling of a tavern-keeper may be considered in england, it is looked upon in the united states, where mrs. s---- was “raised,” as extremely respectable; and i have never met with women, in any class of society elsewhere, who possessed more of the good-feeling and unobtrusive manners which should belong to ladies than in the family of this worthy tavern-keeper. when i contrast their genuine kindness and humanity with the haughty, arrogant airs assumed by some ladies of a higher standing in society from england who sojourned in their house at the same time with ourselves--when i remember their insolent way of giving their orders to mrs. s----, and their still more wounding condescension--i confess i cannot but feel ashamed of my countrywomen. all these patronising airs, i doubt not, were assumed purposely to impress the minds of those worthy people with an idea of their vast superiority. i have sometimes, i confess, been a little annoyed with the familiarity of the americans, canadians as well as yankees; but i must say that experience has taught me to blame myself at least as much as them. if, instead of sending our youthful aristocracy to the continent of europe, to treat the natives with contempt and increase the unpopularity of the british abroad, while their stock of native arrogance is augmented by the cringing complaisance of those who only bow to their superiority in wealth, they were sent to the united states, or even to canada, they would receive a lesson or two which would be of infinite service to them; some of their most repulsive prejudices and peculiarities would soon be rubbed off by the rough towel of democracy. it is curious to observe the remarkable diversity in the accounts given by recent emigrants to this country of their treatment, and of the manners and character of the people in the united states and in canada. some meet with constant kindness, others with nothing but rudeness and brutality. of course there is truth in both accounts; but strangers from an aristocratical country do not usually make sufficient allowance for the habits and prejudices of a people of a land, in which, from the comparatively equal distribution of property, and the certain prosperity attendant on industry, the whole constitution of society is necessarily democratical, irrespectively of political institutions. those who go to such a country with the notion that they will carry everything before them by means of pretence and assumption, will find themselves grievously deceived. to use a homely illustration, it is just as irrational to expect to force a large body through a small aperture. in both cases they will meet with unyielding resistance. when a poor and industrious mechanic, farmer, or labourer comes here without pretensions of any kind, no such complaints are to be heard. he is treated with respect, and every one seems willing to help him forward. if in after-years the manners of such a settler should grow in importance with his prosperity--which is rarely the case--his pretensions would be much more readily tolerated than those of any unknown or untried individual in a higher class of society. the north americans generally are much more disposed to value people according to the estimate they form of their industry, and other qualities which more directly lead to the acquisition of property, and to the benefit of the community, than for their present and actual wealth. while they pay a certain mock homage to a wealthy immigrant, when they have a motive in doing so, they secretly are more inclined to look on him as a well-fledged goose who has come to america to be plucked. in truth, many of them are so dexterous in this operation that the unfortunate victim is often stripped naked before he is aware that he has lost a feather. there seems to be a fatality attending riches imported into canada. they are sure to make to themselves wings and flee away, while wealth is no less certain to adhere to the poor and industrious settler. the great fault of the canadian character is an unwillingness to admit the just claims of education and talent, however unpretending, to some share of consideration. in this respect the americans of the united states are greatly superior to the canadians, because they are better educated and their country longer settled. these genuine republicans, when their theory of the original and natural equality among them is once cheerfully admitted, are ever ready to show respect to _mental_ superiority, whether natural or acquired. my evenings on visiting c---- were usually spent at mr. s----'s tavern, where i was often much amused with the variety of characters who were there assembled, and who, from the free-and-easy familiarity of the colonial manners, had little chance of concealing their peculiarities from an attentive observer. mr q----, of course, was always to be found there, drinking, smoking cigars, and cracking jokes. to a casual observer he appeared to be a regular boon companion without an object but that of enjoying the passing hour. among his numerous accomplishments, he had learnt a number of sleight-of-hand tricks from the travelling conjurors who visit the country, and are generally willing to sell their secrets singly, at a regulated price. this seemed a curious investment for q----, but he knew how to turn everything to account. by such means he was enabled to contribute to the amusement of the company, and thus became a kind of favourite. if he could not manage to sell a lot of land to an immigrant or speculator, he would carelessly propose to some of the company to have a game at whist or loo, to pass the time away; and he never failed to conjure most of their money into his pockets. at this time a new character made his appearance at c----, at mr. b----, an english farmer of the true yeoman breed. he was a short-legged, long-bodied, corpulent little man. he wore a brown coat, with ample skirts, and a vast expanse of vest, with drab-coloured small-clothes and gaiters. b---- was a jolly, good-natured looking man, with an easy blunt manner which might easily pass for honesty. q---- had sold him a lot of wild land in some out-of-the-way township, by making mr. b---- believe that he could sell it again very soon, with a handsome profit. of course his bargain was not a good one. he soon found from its situation that the land was quite unsaleable, there being no settlements in the neighbourhood. instead of expressing any resentment, he fairly acknowledged that q---- was his master at a bargain, and gave him full credit for his address and cunning, and quite resolved in his own mind to profit by the lesson he had received. now, with all their natural acuteness and habitual dexterity in such matters, the canadians have one weak point; they are too ready to believe that englishmen are made of money. all that an emigrant has to do to acquire the reputation of having money, is to seem quite easy, and free from care or anxiety for the future, and to maintain a certain degree of reserve in talking of his private affairs. mr. b---- perfectly understood how to play his cards with the land-jobber; and his fat, jolly physiognomy, and rustic, provincial manners and accent, greatly assisted him in the deception. every day q---- drove him out to look at different farms. b---- talked carelessly of buying some large “block” of land, that would have cost him some or pounds, providing he could only find the kind of soil he particularly liked for farming purposes. as he seemed to be in no hurry in making his selection, q---- determined to make him useful, in the meantime, in promoting his views with respect to others. he therefore puffed mr. b---- up to everybody as a norfolk farmer of large capital, and always appealed to him to confirm the character he gave of any farm he wished to sell to a new comer. b----, on his side, was not slow in playing into q----'s hand on these occasions, and without being at all suspected of collusion. in the evening, mr. b---- would walk into the public room of the tavern, apparently fatigued with his exertions through the day; fling himself carelessly on a sofa, and unbutton his gaiters and the knees of his small-clothes. he took little notice of anybody unless he was spoken to, and his whole demeanour seemed to say, as plainly as words, “i care for nobody, nobody cares for me.” this was just the kind of man for q----. he instantly saw that he would be an invaluable ally and coadjutor, without seeming to be so. when b---- made his appearance in the evening, q---- was seldom at the tavern, for his time had not yet come. in the meanwhile, b---- was sure to be drawn gradually into conversation by some emigrants, who, seeing that he was a practical farmer, would be desirous of getting his opinion respecting certain farms which they thought of purchasing. there was such an appearance of blunt simplicity of character about him, that most of these inquirers thought he was forgetting his own interest in telling them so much as he did. in the course of conversation, he would mention several farms he had been looking at with the intention of purchasing, and he would particularly mention some one of them as possessing extraordinary advantages, but which had some one disadvantage which rendered it ineligible for him; such as being too small, a circumstance which, in all probability, would recommend it to another description of settler. it is hard to say whether q---- was or was not deceived by b----; but though he used him for the present as a decoy, he no doubt expected ultimately to sell him some of his farms, with a very handsome profit. b----, however whose means were probably extremely small, fought shy of buying; and after looking at a number of farms, he told q---- that, on mature reflection, he thought he could employ his capital more profitably by renting a number of farms, and working them in the english manner, which he felt certain would answer admirably in canada, instead of sinking his capital at once in the purchase of lands. q---- was fairly caught; and b---- hired some six or seven farms from him, which he worked for some time, no doubt greatly to his own advantage, for he neither paid rent nor wages. occasionally, other land-speculators would drop into the tavern, when a curious game would be played between q---- and them. once of the speculators would ask another if he did not own some land in a particular part of the country, as he had bought some lots in the same quarter, without seeing them, and would like to know if they were good. the other would answer in the affirmative, and pretend to desire to purchase the lots mentioned. the former, in his turn, would pretend reluctance, and make a similar offer of buying. all this cunning manoeuvring would be continued for a time, in the hope of inducing some third party or stranger to make an offer for the land, which would be accepted. it often happened that some other person, who had hitherto taken no part in the course of these conversations, and who appeared to have no personal interest in the matter, would quietly inform the stranger that he knew the land in question, and that it was all of the very best quality. it would be endless to describe all the little artifices practised by these speculators to induce persons to purchase from them. besides a few of these unprincipled traders in land, some of whom are found in most of the towns, there are a large number of land-speculators who own both wild and improved farms in all parts of the colony who do not descend to these discreditable arts, but wait quietly until their lands become valuable by the progress of improvement in their neighbourhood, when they readily find purchasers--or, rather, the purchasers find them out, and obtain their lands at reasonable prices. in , when we came to canada, a great speculation was carried on in the lands of the u.e. (or united empire) loyalists. the sons and daughters of these loyalists, who had fled to canada from the united states at the time of the revolutionary war, were entitled to free grants of lots of wild land. besides these, few free grants of land were made by the british government, except those made to half-pay officers of the army and navy, and of course there was a rapid rise in their value. almost all the persons entitled to such grants had settled in the eastern part of the upper province, and as the large emigration which had commenced to canada had chiefly flowed into the more western part of the colony, they were, in general, ignorant of the increased value of their lands, and were ready to sell them for a mere trifle. they were bought by the speculators at from s. d. to s. d. per acre, and often for much less, and were sold again, with an enormous profit, at from s. to s., and sometimes even s. per acre, according to their situation. as to personally examining these lands, it was a thing never thought of, for their price was so low that it was almost impossible to lose by the purchase. the supply of u.e. loyalists' lands, or claims for land, for a long time seemed to be almost inexhaustible; for the loyal refugees appear to have been prolific beyond all precedent, and most of those who held office at the capital of the province, or who could command a small capital, became speculators and throve prodigiously. many persons, during the early days of the colony, were thus enriched, without risk or labour, from the inexhaustible “quivers” of the u.e. loyalists. though the bulk of the speculators bought lands at haphazard, certain parties who found favour at the government offices managed to secure the best lands which were for sale or location, before they were exposed to fair competition at the periodical public sales in the different districts. thus a large portion of the wild lands in the colony were and are still held: the absentee proprietors profiting from the increased value given to their property by the improvements of the actual settlers, while they contribute little or nothing to the cultivation of the country. the progress of the colony has thus been retarded, and its best interests sacrificed, to gratify the insatiable cupidity of a clique who boasted the exclusive possession of all the loyalty in the country; and every independent man who dared to raise his voice against such abuses was branded as a republican. mr. q---- dealt largely in these “u.e. rights,” as they were called, and so great was the emigration in that the lands he bought at s. d. per acre he could readily sell again to emigrants and canadians at from s. to s. per acre, according to situation and the description of purchasers he met with. i have stated that the speculators generally buy lands at hap-hazard. by this i mean as to the quality of the lands. all colonists accustomed to observe the progress of settlement, and the local advantages which hasten improvement, acquire a peculiar sagacity in such matters. unfortunately for many old countrymen, they are generally entirely destitute of this kind of knowledge, which is only acquired by long observation and experience in colonies. the knowledge of the causes which promote the rapid settlement of a new country, and of those in general which lead to the improvement of the physical condition of mankind may be compared to the knowledge of a language. the inhabitant of a civilised and long-settled country may speak and write his own language with the greatest purity, but very few ever reflect on the amount of thought, metaphor, and ingenuity which has been expended by their less civilised ancestors in bringing that language to perfection. the barbarian first feels the disadvantage of a limited means of communicating his ideas, and with great labour and ingenuity devises the means, from time to time, to remedy the imperfections of his language. he is compelled to analyse and study it in its first elements, and to augment the modes of expression in order to keep pace with the increasing number of his wants and ideas. a colony bears the same relation to an old-settled country that a grammar does to a language. in a colony, society is seen in its first elements, the country itself is in its rudest and simplest form. the colonist knows them in this primitive state, and watches their progress step by step. in this manner he acquires an intimate knowledge of the philosophy of improvement, which is almost unattainable by an individual who has lived from his childhood in a highly complex and artificial state of society, where everything around him was formed and arranged long before he came into the world; he sees the effects, the causes existed long before his time. his place in society--his portion of the wealth of the country--his prejudices--his religion itself, if he has any, are all more or less hereditary. he is in some measure a mere machine, or rather a part of one. he is a creature of education, rather than of original thought. the colonist has to create--he has to draw on his own stock of ideas, and to rouse up all his latent energies to meet all his wants in his new position. thus his thinking principle is strengthened, and he is more energetic. when a moderate share of education is added to these advantages--for they are advantages in one sense--he becomes a superior being. i have indulged in these reflections, with manifest risk of being thought somewhat prosy by my more lively readers, in order to guard my countrymen, english, scotch, and irish, against a kind of presumption which is exceedingly common among them when they come to canada--of fancying that they are as capable of forming correct opinions on local matters as the canadians themselves. it is always somewhat humbling to our self-love to be compelled to confess what may be considered an error of judgment, but my desire to guard future settlers against similar mistakes overpowers my reluctance to own that i fell into the common error of many of my countrymen, of purchasing wild land, on speculation, with a very inadequate capital. this was one of the chief causes of much suffering, in which for many years my family became involved; but through which, supported by trust in providence, and the energy of a devoted partner, i continued by her aid to struggle, until when least expected, the light of hope at length dawned upon us. in reflecting on this error--for error and imprudence it was, even though the result had been fortunate--i have still this poor comfort, that there was not one in a hundred of persons similarly situated but fell into the same mistake, of trusting too much to present appearances, without sufficient experience in the country. i had, as i have already stated, about pounds when i arrived in canada. this sum was really advantageously invested in a cleared farm, which possessed an intrinsic and not a merely speculative value. afterwards a small legacy of about pounds fell into my hands, and had i contented myself with this farm, and purchased two adjoining cleared farms containing two hundred acres of land of the finest quality which were sold far below their value by the thriftless owners, i should have done well, or at all events have invested my money profitably. but the temptation to buy wild land at s. an acre, which was expected to double in value in a few months, with the example of many instances of similar speculation proving successful which came under my notice, proved irresistible. in emigration was just at its height, and a great number of emigrants, several of whom were of the higher class, and possessed of considerable capital, were directed to the town of c----, in the rear of which extensive tracts of land were offered to settlers at the provincial government sales. had this extensive emigration continued, i should have been enabled to double my capital, by selling my wild lands to settlers; but, unfortunately, the prevalence of cholera during that year, and other causes, gave such a serious check to emigration to canada that it has never been renewed to the same extent since that time. besides the chance of a check to emigration generally, the influx of strangers is often extremely capricious in the direction it takes, flowing one year into one particular locality, and afterwards into another. both these results, neither of which was foreseen by any one, unfortunately for me, ensued just at that time. it seemed natural that emigrants should flow into a fertile tract of land, and emigration was confidently expected steadily to increase; these were our anticipations, but neither of them was realised. were it suitable to the character of these sketches, i would enter into the subject of emigration and the progress of improvement in canada, respecting which my judgment has been matured by experience and observation; but such considerations would be out of place in volumes like the present, and i shall therefore proceed with my narrative. i had obtained my cleared farm on easy terms, and, in so far as the probability of procuring a comfortable subsistence was concerned, we had no reason to complain; but comfort and happiness do not depend entirely on a sufficiency of the necessaries of life. some of our neighbours were far from being agreeable to us. being fresh from england, it could hardly be expected that we could at once accommodate ourselves to the obtrusive familiarity of persons who had no conception of any differences in taste or manners arising from education and habits acquired in a more refined state of society. i allude more particularly to some rude and demoralised american farmers from the united states, who lived in our immediate neighbourhood. our neighbours from the same country were worthy, industrious people; but, on the whole, the evil greatly predominated over the good amongst them. at a few miles' distance from our farm, we had some intelligent english neighbours, of a higher class; but they were always so busily occupied with their farming operations that they had little leisure or inclination for that sort of easy intercourse to which we had been accustomed. if we called in the forenoon, we generally found our neighbour hard at work in the fields, and his wife over head and ears in her domestic occupations. we had to ring the bell repeatedly before we could gain admittance, to allow her time to change her ordinary dress. long before this could be effected, or we could enter the door, sundry reconnoitring parties of the children would peep at us round the corners of the house, and then scamper off to make their reports. it seems strange that sensible people should not at once see the necessity of accommodating their habits to their situation and circumstances, and receive their friends without appearing to be ashamed of their employments. this absurdity, however, is happily confined to the would-be-genteel people in the country, who visit in the towns, and occasionally are ambitious enough to give large parties to the aristocracy of the towns. the others, who do not pretend to vie with the townspeople in such follies, are a great deal more easy and natural in their manners, and more truly independent and hospitable. now that we are better acquainted with the country, we much prefer the conversation of the intelligent and unpretending class of farmers, who, though their education has been limited, often possess a rich fund of strong commonsense and liberality of sentiment, and not unfrequently great observation and originality of mind. at the period i refer to, a number of the american settlers from the united states, who composed a considerable part of the population, regarded british settlers with an intense feeling of dislike, and found a pleasure in annoying and insulting them when any occasion offered. they did not understand us, nor did we them, and they generally mistook the reserve which is common with the british towards strangers for pride and superciliousness. “you britishers are too superstitious,” one of them told me on a particular occasion. it was some time before i found out what he meant by the term “superstitious,” and that it was generally used by them for “supercilious.” new settlers of the lower classes were then in the habit of imitating their rudeness and familiarity, which they mistook for independence. to a certain extent, this feeling still exists amongst the working class from europe, but they have learnt to keep it within prudent bounds for their own sakes; and the higher class have learnt to moderate their pretensions, which will not be tolerated here, where labourers are less dependent on them for employment. the character of both classes, in fact, has been altered very much for the better, and a better and healthier feeling exists between them--much more so, indeed, than in england. the labouring class come to this country, too often with the idea that the higher class are their tyrants and oppressors; and, with a feeling akin to revenge, they are often inclined to make their employers in canada suffer in their turn. this feeling is the effect of certain depressing causes, often remote and beyond the reach of legislation, but no less real on that account; and just in proportion to the degree of poverty and servility which exists among the labouring class in the particular part of the united kingdom from which they come, will be the reaction here. when emigrants have been some years settled in canada, they find out their particular and just position, as well as their duties and interests, and then they begin to feel truly happy. the fermentation arising from the strange mixture of discordant elements and feelings gradually subsides, but until this takes place, the state of society is anything but agreeable or satisfactory. such was its state at c----, in ; and to us it was distasteful, that though averse, for various reasons, to commence a new settlement, we began to listen to the persuasions of our friends, who were settled in the township of d----, about forty miles from c----, and who were naturally anxious to induce us to settle among them. mrs. moodie's brother, s----, had recently formed a settlement in that township, and just before our arrival in canada had been joined by an old brother officer and countryman of mine, mr. t----, who was married to mrs. moodie's sister. the latter, who like myself, was a half-pay officer, had purchased a lot of wild land, close to the farm occupied by s----. mr. s---- s---- had emigrated to canada while quite a youth, and was thoroughly acquainted with the backwoods, and with the use of the felling-axe, which he wielded with all the ease and dexterity of a native. i had already paid some flying visits to the backwoods and found the state of society, though rude and rough, more congenial to our european tastes and habits, for several gentlemen of liberal education were settled in the neighbourhood, among whom there was a constant interchange of visits and good offices. all these gentlemen had recently arrived from england, ireland, or scotland, and all the labouring class were also fresh from the old country and consequently very little change had taken place in the manners or feelings of either class. there we felt we could enjoy the society of those who could sympathise with our tastes and prejudices, and who, from inclination as well as necessity, were inclined to assist each other in their farming operations. there is no situation in which men feel more the necessity of mutual assistance than in clearing land. alone, a man may fell the trees on a considerable extent of woodland; but without the assistance of two or three others, he cannot pile up the logs previous to burning. common labours and common difficulties, as among comrades during a campaign, produce a social unity of feeling among backwoods-men. there is, moreover, a peculiar charm in the excitement of improving a wilderness for the benefit of children and posterity; there is in it, also, that consciousness of usefulness which forms so essential an ingredient in true happiness. every tree that falls beneath the axe opens a wider prospect, and encourages the settler to persevere in his efforts to attain independence. mr. s---- had secured for me a portion of the military grant of four hundred acres, which i was entitled to as a half-pay officer, in his immediate neighbourhood. though this portion amounted to only sixty acres, it was so far advantageous to me as being in a settled part of the country. i bought a clergy reserve of two hundred acres, in the rear of the sixty acres for pound per acre, for which immediately afterwards i was offered pounds per acre, for at that period there was such an influx of settlers into that locality that lands had risen rapidly to a fictitious price. i had also purchased one hundred acres more for pound s. per acre, from a private individual; this also was considered cheap at the time. these lots, forming altogether a compact farm of three hundred and sixty acres, were situated on the sloping banks of a beautiful lake, or, rather, expansion of the river otonabee, about half-a-mile wide, and studded with woody islets. from this lake i afterwards procured many a good meal for my little family, when all other means of obtaining food had failed us. i thus secured a tract of land which was amply sufficient for the comfortable subsistence of a family, had matters gone well with me. it should be distinctly borne in mind by the reader, that uncleared land in a remote situation from markets possesses, properly speaking, no intrinsic value, like cleared land, for a great deal of labour or money must be expended before it can be made to produce anything to sell. my half-pay, which amounted to about pounds per annum of canadian currency, was sufficient to keep us supplied with food, and to pay for clearing a certain extent of land, say ten acres every year, for wheat, which is immediately afterwards sown with grass-seeds to supply hay for the cattle during winter. unfortunately, at this period, a great change took place in my circumstances, which it was impossible for the most prudent or cautious to have foreseen. an intimation from the war-office appeared in all the newspapers, calling on half-pay officers either to sell their commissions or to hold themselves in readiness to join some regiment. this was a hard alternative, as many of these officers were situated; for a great many of them had been tempted to emigrate to canada by the grants of land which were offered them by government, and had expended all their means in improving these grants, which were invariably given to them in remote situations, where they were worse than worthless to any class of settlers but those who could command sufficient labour in their own families to make the necessary clearings and improvements. rather than sell my commission, i would at once have made up my mind to join a regiment in any part of the world; but, when i came to think of the matter, i recollected that the expense of an outfit, and of removing my family--to say nothing of sacrificing my property in the colony--would render it utterly impossible for me to accept this unpleasant alternative after being my own master for eighteen years, and after effectually getting rid of all the habits which render a military life attractive to a young man. under these circumstances, i too hastily determined to sell out of the army. this, of course, was easily managed. i expected to get about pounds for my commission; and, before the transaction was concluded, i was inquiring anxiously for some mode of investing the proceeds, as to yield a yearly income. unfortunately, as it turned out, i made a bargain with mr. q---- for twenty-five shares, of pounds each, in a fine steamer, which had just been built at c----, and which was expected to pay at least twenty-five per cent. to the shareholders. this amount of stock q---- offered me for the proceeds of my commission, whatever amount it might be sold for; offering at the same time to return all he should receive above pounds sterling. as i had nothing but his word for this part of the agreement, he did not recollect it when he obtained pounds, which was pounds more than i expected. some boats on lake ontario, while the great emigration lasted, and there was less competition, yielded more than thirty per cent.; and there seemed then no reason to doubt that the new boat would be equally profitable. it is possible that q---- foresaw what actually happened; or, more probably, he thought he could employ his money better in land speculations. as soon as the steamer began to run, a quarrel took place between the shareholders who resided at c----, where she was built, and those who lived at the capital of the upper province--york, as it was then called. the consequence was that she remained idle a long time, and at last she came under the entire control of the shareholders at york, who managed the boat as they liked, and to suit their own interests. afterwards, though the boat continued to be profitably employed, somehow or other all her earnings were consumed in repairs, &c., and for several years i never received a penny for my shares. at last the steamer was sold, and i only received about a fourth part of my original stock. this, as may be supposed, was a bitter disappointment to me; for i had every reason to think that i had not only invested my money well, but very profitably, judging from the profits of the other boats on the lake. had i received the proceeds of my commission, and bought bank stock in the colony--which then and still yields eight per cent.--my pounds sterling, equal to pounds currency, would have given me pounds per annum, which, with my own labour, would have kept my family tolerably well, have helped to pay servants, and have saved us all much privation and harassing anxiety. having thus supplied the painful details of a transaction, a knowledge of which was necessary to explain many circumstances in our situation, otherwise unintelligible, i shall proceed with my narrative. the government did not carry out its intention with respect to half-pay officers in the colonies; but many officers, like myself, had already sold their commissions, under the apprehension of being compelled to accept this hard alternative. i was suddenly thrown on my own resources, to support a helpless and increasing family, without any regular income. i had this consolation, however, under my misfortune, that i had acted from the best motives, and without the most remote idea that i was risking the comfort and happiness of those depending upon me. i found very soon, that i had been too precipitate, as people often are in extraordinary positions; though, had the result been more fortunate, most people would have commended my prudence and foresight. we determined, however, to bear up manfully against our ill-fortune, and trust to that providence which never deserts those who do not forget their own duties in trying circumstances. it is curious how, on such occasions, some stray stanzas which hang about the outskirts of the memory, will suddenly come to our aid. thus, i often caught myself humming over some of the verses of that excellent moral song “the pilot,” and repeating, with a peculiar emphasis, the concluding lines of each stanza, “fear not! but trust in providence, wherever thou may'st be.” such songs do good; and a peculiar blessing seems to attend every composition, in prose or verse, which inculcates good moral sentiments, or tends to strengthen our virtuous resolutions. this fine song, i feel assured, will live embalmed in the memory of mankind long after the sickly, affected, and unnatural ditties of its author have gone to their merited oblivion. sometimes, however, in spite of my good resolutions, when left alone, the dark clouds of despondency would close around me, and i could not help contrasting the happy past in our life with my gloomy anticipations of the future. sleep, which should bring comfort and refreshment, often only aggravated my painful regrets, by recalling scenes which had nearly escaped my waking memory. in such a mood the following verses were written:-- oh, let me sleep! oh, let me sleep! nor wake to sadness the heart that, sleeping, dreams of gladness; for sleep is death, without the pain-- then wake me not to life again. oh, let me sleep! nor break the spell that soothes the captive in his cell; that bursts his chains, and sets him free, to revel in his liberty. loved scenes, array'd in tenderest hue, now rise in beauty to my view; and long-lost friends around me stand, or, smiling, grasp my willing hand. again i seek my island home; along the silent bays i roam, or, seated on the rocky shore, i hear the angry surges roar. and oh, how sweet the music seems i've heard amid my blissful dreams! but of the sadly pleasing strains, nought save the thrilling sense remains. those sounds so loved in scenes so dear, still--still they murmur in my ear: but sleep alone can bless the sight with forms that face with morning's light. j.w.d.m. chapter xiv a journey to the woods 'tis well for us poor denizens of earth that god conceals the future from our gaze; or hope, the blessed watcher on life's tower, would fold her wings, and on the dreary waste close the bright eye that through the murky clouds of blank despair still sees the glorious sun. it was a bright frosty morning when i bade adieu to the farm, the birthplace of my little agnes, who, nestled beneath my cloak, was sweetly sleeping on my knee, unconscious of the long journey before us into the wilderness. the sun had not as yet risen. anxious to get to our place of destination before dark, we started as early as we could. our own fine team had been sold the day before for forty pounds; and one of our neighbours, a mr. d----, was to convey us and our household goods to douro for the sum of twenty dollars. during the week he had made several journeys, with furniture and stores; and all that now remained was to be conveyed to the woods in two large lumber sleighs, one driven by himself, the other by a younger brother. it was not without regret that i left melsetter, for so my husband had called the place, after his father's estate in orkney. it was a beautiful, picturesque spot; and, in spite of the evil neighbourhood, i had learned to love it; indeed, it was much against my wish that it was sold. i had a great dislike to removing, which involves a necessary loss, and is apt to give to the emigrant roving and unsettled habits. but all regrets were now useless; and happily unconscious of the life of toil and anxiety that awaited us in those dreadful woods, i tried my best to be cheerful, and to regard the future with a hopeful eye. our driver was a shrewd, clever man, for his opportunities. he took charge of the living cargo, which consisted of my husband, our maid-servant, the two little children, and myself--besides a large hamper, full of poultry, a dog, and a cat. the lordly sultan of the imprisoned seraglio thought fit to conduct himself in a very eccentric manner, for at every barn-yard we happened to pass, he clapped his wings, and crowed so long and loud that it afforded great amusement to the whole party, and doubtless was very edifying to the poor hens, who lay huddled together as mute as mice. “that 'ere rooster thinks he's on the top of the heap,” said our driver, laughing. “i guess he's not used to travelling in a close conveyance. listen! how all the crowers in the neighbourhood give him back a note of defiance! but he knows that he's safe enough at the bottom of the basket.” the day was so bright for the time of year (the first week in february), that we suffered no inconvenience from the cold. little katie was enchanted with the jingling of the sleigh-bells, and, nestled among the packages, kept singing or talking to the horses in her baby lingo. trifling as these little incidents were, before we had proceeded ten miles on our long journey, they revived my drooping spirits, and i began to feel a lively interest in the scenes through which we were passing. the first twenty miles of the way was over a hilly and well-cleared country; and as in winter the deep snow fills up the inequalities, and makes all roads alike, we glided as swiftly and steadily along as if they had been the best highways in the world. anon, the clearings began to diminish, and tall woods arose on either side of the path; their solemn aspect, and the deep silence that brooded over their vast solitudes, inspiring the mind with a strange awe. not a breath of wind stirred the leafless branches, whose huge shadows reflected upon the dazzling white covering of snow, lay so perfectly still, that it seemed as if nature had suspended her operations, that life and motion had ceased, and that she was sleeping in her winding-sheet, upon the bier of death. “i guess you will find the woods pretty lonesome,” said our driver, whose thoughts had been evidently employed on the same subject as our own. “we were once in the woods, but emigration has stepped ahead of us, and made our'n a cleared part of the country. when i was a boy, all this country, for thirty miles on every side of us, was bush land. as to peterborough, the place was unknown; not a settler had ever passed through the great swamp, and some of them believed that it was the end of the world.” “what swamp is that?” asked i. “oh, the great cavan swamp. we are just two miles from it; and i tell you that the horses will need a good rest, and ourselves a good dinner, by the time we are through it. ah, mrs. moodie, if ever you travel that way in summer, you will know something about corduroy roads. i was 'most jolted to death last fall; i thought it would have been no bad notion to have insured my teeth before i left c----. i really expected that they would have been shook out of my head before we had done manoeuvring over the big logs.” “how will my crockery stand it in the next sleigh?” quoth i. “if the road is such as you describe, i am afraid that i shall not bring a whole plate to douro.” “oh, the snow is a great leveller--it makes all rough places smooth. but with regard to this swamp, i have something to tell you. about ten years ago, no one had ever seen the other side of it; and if pigs or cattle strayed away into it, they fell a prey to the wolves and bears, and were seldom recovered. “an old scotch emigrant, who had located himself on this side of it, so often lost his beasts that he determined during the summer season to try and explore the place, and see if there were any end to it. so he takes an axe on his shoulder, and a bag of provisions for a week, not forgetting a flask of whiskey, and off he starts all alone, and tells his wife that if he never returned, she and little jock must try and carry on the farm without him; but he was determined to see the end of the swamp, even if it led to the other world. he fell upon a fresh cattle-track, which he followed all that day; and towards night he found himself in the heart of a tangled wilderness of bushes, and himself half eaten up with mosquitoes and black-flies. he was more than tempted to give in, and return home by the first glimpse of light. “the scotch are a tough people; they are not easily daunted--a few difficulties only seem to make them more eager to get on; and he felt ashamed the next moment, as he told me, of giving up. so he finds out a large thick cedar-tree for his bed, climbs up, and coiling himself among the branches like a bear, he was soon fast asleep. “the next morning, by daylight, he continued his journey, not forgetting to blaze with his axe the trees to the right and left as he went along. the ground was so spongy and wet that at every step he plunged up to his knees in water, but he seemed no nearer the end of the swamp than he had been the day before. he saw several deer, a raccoon, and a ground-hog, during his walk, but was unmolested by bears or wolves. having passed through several creeks, and killed a great many snakes, he felt so weary towards the close of the second day that he determined to go home the next morning. but just as he began to think his search was fruitless he observed that the cedars and tamaracks which had obstructed his path became less numerous, and were succeeded by bass and soft maple. the ground, also, became less moist, and he was soon ascending a rising slope, covered with oak and beech, which shaded land of the very best quality. the old man was now fully convinced that he had cleared the great swamp; and that, instead of leading to the other world, it had conducted him to a country that would yield the very best returns for cultivation. his favourable report led to the formation of the road that we are about to cross, and to the settlement of peterborough, which is one of the most promising new settlements in this district, and is surrounded by a splendid back country.” we were descending a very steep hill, and encountered an ox-sleigh, which was crawling slowly up it in a contrary direction. three people were seated at the bottom of the vehicle upon straw, which made a cheap substitute for buffalo-robes. perched, as we were, upon the crown of the height, we looked completely down into the sleigh, and during the whole course of my life i never saw three uglier mortals collected into such a narrow space. the man was blear-eyed, with a hare-lip, through which protruded two dreadful yellow teeth that resembled the tusks of a boar. the woman was long-faced, high cheek-boned, red-haired, and freckled all over like a toad. the boy resembled his hideous mother, but with the addition of a villanous obliquity of vision which rendered him the most disgusting object in this singular trio. as we passed them, our driver gave a knowing nod to my husband, directing, at the same time, the most quizzical glance towards the strangers, as he exclaimed, “we are in luck, sir! i think that 'ere sleigh may be called beauty's egg-basket!” we made ourselves very merry at the poor people's expense, and mr. d----, with his odd stories and yankeefied expressions, amused the tedium of our progress through the great swamp, which in summer presents for several miles one uniform bridge of rough and unequal logs, all laid loosely across huge sleepers, so that they jump up and down, when pressed by the wheels, like the keys of a piano. the rough motion and jolting occasioned by this collision is so distressing that it never fails to entail upon the traveller sore bones and an aching head for the rest of the day. the path is so narrow over these logs that two waggons cannot pass without great difficulty, which is rendered more dangerous by the deep natural ditches on either side of the bridge, formed by broad creeks that flow out of the swamp, and often terminate in mud-holes of very ominous dimensions. the snow, however, hid from us all the ugly features of the road, and mr. d---- steered us through in perfect safety, and landed us at the door of a little log house which crowned the steep hill on the other side of the swamp, and which he dignified with the name of a tavern. it was now two o'clock. we had been on the road since seven; and men, women, and children were all ready for the good dinner that mr. d---- had promised us at this splendid house of entertainment, where we were destined to stay for two hours, to refresh ourselves and rest the horses. “well, mrs. j----, what have you got for our dinner?” said our driver, after he had seen to the accommodation of his teams. “pritters[ ] and pork, sir. nothing else to be had in the woods. thank god, we have enough of that!” [ ] vulgar canadian for potatoes. d---- shrugged up his shoulders, and looked at us. “we've plenty of that same at home. but hunger's good sauce. come, be spry, widow, and see about it, for i am very hungry.” i inquired for a private room for myself and the children, but there were no private rooms in the house. the apartment we occupied was like the cobbler's stall in the old song, and i was obliged to attend upon them in public. “you have much to learn, ma'am, if you are going to the woods,” said mrs. j----. “to unlearn, you mean,” said mr. d----. “to tell you the truth, mrs. moodie, ladies and gentlemen have no business in the woods. eddication spoils man or woman for that location. so, widow (turning to our hostess), you are not tired of living alone yet?” “no, sir; i have no wish for a second husband. i had enough of the first. i like to have my own way--to lie down mistress, and get up master.” “you don't like to be put out of your old way,” returned he, with a mischievous glance. she coloured very red; but it might be the heat of the fire over which she was frying the pork for our dinner. i was very hungry, but i felt no appetite for the dish she was preparing for us. it proved salt, hard, and unsavoury. d---- pronounced it very bad, and the whiskey still worse, with which he washed it down. i asked for a cup of tea and a slice of bread. but they were out of tea, and the hop-rising had failed, and there was no bread in the house. for this disgusting meal we paid at the rate of a quarter of a dollar a-head. i was glad when the horses being again put to, we escaped from the rank odour of the fried pork, and were once more in the fresh air. “well, mister; did not you grudge your money for that bad meat?” said d----, when we were once more seated in the sleigh. “but in these parts, the worse the fare the higher the charge.” “i would not have cared,” said i, “if i could have got a cup of tea.” “tea! it's poor trash. i never could drink tea in my life. but i like coffee, when 'tis boiled till it's quite black. but coffee is not good without plenty of trimmings.” “what do you mean by trimmings?” he laughed. “good sugar, and sweet cream. coffee is not worth drinking without trimmings.” often in after years have i recalled the coffee trimmings, when endeavouring to drink the vile stuff which goes by the name of coffee in the houses of entertainment in the country. we had now passed through the narrow strip of clearing which surrounded the tavern, and again entered upon the woods. it was near sunset, and we were rapidly descending a steep hill, when one of the traces that held our sleigh suddenly broke. d---- pulled up in order to repair the damage. his brother's team was close behind, and our unexpected stand-still brought the horses upon us before j. d---- could stop them. i received so violent a blow from the head of one of them, just in the back of the neck, that for a few minutes i was stunned and insensible. when i recovered, i was supported in the arms of my husband, over whose knees i was leaning, and d---- was rubbing my hands and temples with snow. “there, mr. moodie, she's coming to. i thought she was killed. i have seen a man before now killed by a blow from a horse's head in the like manner.” as soon as we could, we resumed our places in the sleigh; but all enjoyment of our journey, had it been otherwise possible, was gone. when we reached peterborough, moodie wished us to remain at the inn all night, as we had still eleven miles of our journey to perform, and that through a blazed forest-road, little travelled, and very much impeded by fallen trees and other obstacles; but d---- was anxious to get back as soon as possible to his own home, and he urged us very pathetically to proceed. the moon arose during our stay at the inn, and gleamed upon the straggling frame-houses which then formed the now populous and thriving town of peterborough. we crossed the wild, rushing, beautiful otonabee river by a rude bridge, and soon found ourselves journeying over the plains or level heights beyond the village, which were thinly wooded with picturesque groups of oak and pine, and very much resembled a gentleman's park at home. far below, to our right (for we were upon the smith-town side) we heard the rushing of the river, whose rapid waters never receive curb from the iron chain of winter. even while the rocky banks are coated with ice, and the frost-king suspends from every twig and branch the most beautiful and fantastic crystals, the black waters rush foaming along, a thick steam rising constantly above the rapids, as from a boiling pot. the shores vibrate and tremble beneath the force of the impetuous flood, as it whirls round cedar-crowned islands and opposing rocks, and hurries on to pour its tribute into the rice lake, to swell the calm, majestic grandeur of the trent, till its waters are lost in the beautiful bay of quinte, and finally merged in the blue ocean of ontario. the most renowned of our english rivers dwindle into little muddy rills when compared with the sublimity of the canadian waters. no language can adequately express the solemn grandeur of her lake and river scenery; the glorious islands that float, like visions from fairy land, upon the bosom of these azure mirrors of her cloudless skies. no dreary breadth of marshes, covered with flags, hide from our gaze the expanse of heaven-tinted waters; no foul mud-banks spread their unwholesome exhalations around. the rocky shores are crowned with the cedar, the birch, the alder, and soft maple, that dip their long tresses in the pure stream; from every crevice in the limestone the hare-bell and canadian rose wave their graceful blossoms. the fiercest droughts of summer may diminish the volume and power of these romantic streams, but it never leaves their rocky channels bare, nor checks the mournful music of their dancing waves. through the openings in the forest, we now and then caught the silver gleam of the river tumbling on in moonlight splendour, while the hoarse chiding of the wind in the lofty pines above us gave a fitting response to the melancholy cadence of the waters. the children had fallen asleep. a deep silence pervaded the party. night was above us with her mysterious stars. the ancient forest stretched around us on every side, and a foreboding sadness sunk upon my heart. memory was busy with the events of many years. i retraced step by step the pilgrimage of my past life, until arriving at that passage in its sombre history, i gazed through tears upon the singularly savage scene around me, and secretly marvelled, “what brought me here?” “providence,” was the answer which the soul gave. “not for your own welfare, perhaps, but for the welfare of your children, the unerring hand of the great father has led you here. you form a connecting link in the destinies of many. it is impossible for any human creature to live for himself alone. it may be your lot to suffer, but others will reap a benefit from your trials. look up with confidence to heaven, and the sun of hope will yet shed a cheering beam through the forbidding depths of this tangled wilderness.” the road now became so bad that mr. d---- was obliged to dismount, and lead his horses through the more intricate passages. the animals themselves, weary with their long journey and heavy load, proceeded at foot-fall. the moon, too, had deserted us, and the only light we had to guide us through the dim arches of the forest was from the snow and the stars, which now peered down upon us, through the leafless branches of the trees, with uncommon brilliancy. “it will be past midnight before we reach your brother's clearing” (where we expected to spend the night), said d----. “i wish, mr. moodie, we had followed your advice, and staid at peterborough. how fares it with you, mrs. moodie, and the young ones? it is growing very cold.” we were now in the heart of a dark cedar-swamp, and my mind was haunted with visions of wolves and bears; but beyond the long, wild howl of a solitary wolf, no other sound awoke the sepulchral silence of that dismal-looking wood. “what a gloomy spot!” said i to my husband. “in the old country, superstition would people it with ghosts.” “ghosts! there are no ghosts in canada!” said mr. d----. “the country is too new for ghosts. no canadian is afear'd of ghosts. it is only in old countries, like your'n, that are full of sin and wickedness, that people believe in such nonsense. no human habitation has ever been erected in this wood through which you are passing. until a very few years ago, few white persons had ever passed through it; and the red man would not pitch his tent in such a place as this. now, ghosts, as i understand the word, are the spirits of bad men that are not allowed by providence to rest in their graves but, for a punishment, are made to haunt the spots where their worst deeds were committed. i don't believe in all this; but, supposing it to be true, bad men must have died here before their spirits could haunt the place. now, it is more than probable that no person ever ended his days in this forest, so that it would be folly to think of seeing his ghost.” this theory of mr. d----'s had the merit of originality, and it is not improbable that the utter disbelief in supernatural appearances which is common to most native-born canadians, is the result of the same very reasonable mode of arguing. the unpeopled wastes of canada must present the same aspect to the new settler that the world did to our first parents after their expulsion from the garden of eden; all the sin which could defile the spot, or haunt it with the association of departed evil, is concentrated in their own persons. bad spirits cannot be supposed to linger near a place where crime has never been committed. the belief in ghosts, so prevalent in old countries, must first have had its foundation in the consciousness of guilt. after clearing this low, swampy portion of the wood, with much difficulty, and the frequent application of the axe, to cut away the fallen timber that impeded our progress, our ears were assailed by a low, roaring, rushing sound, as of the falling of waters. “that is herriot's falls,” said our guide. “we are within two miles of our destination.” oh, welcome sound! but those two miles appeared more lengthy than the whole journey. thick clouds, that threatened a snow-storm, had blotted out the stars, and we continued to grope our way through a narrow, rocky path, upon the edge of the river, in almost total darkness. i now felt the chillness of the midnight hour, and the fatigue of the long journey, with double force, and envied the servant and children, who had been sleeping ever since we left peterborough. we now descended the steep bank, and prepared to cross the rapids. dark as it was, i looked with a feeling of dread upon the foaming waters as they tumbled over their bed of rocks, their white crests flashing, life-like, amid the darkness of the night. “this is an ugly bridge over such a dangerous place,” said d----, as he stood up in the sleigh and urged his tired team across the miserable, insecure log bridge, where darkness and death raged below, and one false step of his jaded horses would have plunged us into both. i must confess i drew a freer breath when the bridge was crossed, and d---- congratulated us on our safe arrival in douro. we now continued our journey along the left bank of the river, but when in sight of mr. s----'s clearing, a large pine-tree, which had newly fallen across the narrow path, brought the teams to a standstill. the mighty trunk which had lately formed one of the stately pillars in the sylvan temple of nature, was of too large dimensions to chop in two with axes; and after about half an hour's labour, which to me, poor, cold, weary wight! seemed an age, the males of the party abandoned the task in despair. to go round it was impossible; its roots were concealed in an impenetrable wall of cedar-jungle on the right-hand side of the road, and its huge branches hung over the precipitous bank of the river. “we must try and make the horses jump over it,” said d----. “we may get an upset, but there is no help for it; we must either make the experiment, or stay here all night, and i am too cold and hungry for that--so here goes.” he urged his horses to leap the log; restraining their ardour for a moment as the sleigh rested on the top of the formidable barrier, but so nicely balanced, that the difference of a straw would almost have overturned the heavily-laden vehicle and its helpless inmates. we, however, cleared it in safety. he now stopped, and gave directions to his brother to follow the same plan that he had adopted; but whether the young man had less coolness, or the horses in his team were more difficult to manage, i cannot tell: the sleigh, as it hung poised upon the top of the log, was overturned with a loud crash, and all my household goods and chattels were scattered over the road. alas, for my crockery and stone china! scarcely one article remained unbroken. “never fret about the china,” said moodie; “thank god the man and the horses are uninjured.” i should have felt more thankful had the crocks been spared too; for, like most of my sex, i had a tender regard for china, and i knew that no fresh supply could be obtained in this part of the world. leaving his brother to collect the scattered fragments, d---- proceeded on his journey. we left the road, and were winding our way over a steep hill, covered with heaps of brush and fallen timber, and as we reached the top, a light gleamed cheerily from the windows of a log house, and the next moment we were at my brother-in-law's door. i thought my journey was at an end; but here i was doomed to fresh disappointment. his wife was absent on a visit to her friends, and it had been arranged that we were to stay with my sister, mrs. t----, and her husband. with all this i was unacquainted; and i was about to quit the sleigh and seek the warmth of the fire when i was told that i had yet further to go. its cheerful glow was to shed no warmth on me, and, tired as i was, i actually buried my face and wept upon the neck of a hound which moodie had given to mr. s----, and which sprang up upon the sleigh to lick my face and hands. this was my first halt in that weary wilderness, where i endured so many bitter years of toil and sorrow. my brother-in-law and his family had retired to rest, but they instantly rose to receive the way-worn travellers; and i never enjoyed more heartily a warm welcome after a long day of intense fatigue, than i did that night of my first sojourn in the backwoods. the otonabee dark, rushing, foaming river! i love the solemn sound that shakes thy shores around, and hoarsely murmurs, ever, as thy waters onward bound, like a rash, unbridled steed flying madly on its course; that shakes with thundering force the vale and trembling mead. so thy billows downward sweep, nor rock nor tree can stay their fierce, impetuous way; now in eddies whirling deep, now in rapids white with spray. i love thee, lonely river! thy hollow restless roar, thy cedar-girded shore; the rocky isles that sever, the waves that round them pour. katchawanook[ ] basks in light, but thy currents woo the shade by the lofty pine-trees made, that cast a gloom like night, ere day's last glories fade. thy solitary voice the same bold anthem sung when nature's frame was young. no longer shall rejoice the woods where erst it rung! lament, lament, wild river! a hand is on thy mane[ ] that will bind thee in a chain no force of thine can sever. thy furious headlong tide, in murmurs soft and low, is destined yet to glide to meet the lake below; and many a bark shall ride securely on thy breast, to waft across the main rich stores of golden grain from the valleys of the west. [ ] the indian name for one of the many expansions of this beautiful river. [ ] alluding to the projected improvements on the trent, of which the otonabee is a continuation. fifteen years have passed away since this little poem was written; but the otonabee still rushes on in its own wild strength. some idea of the rapidity of this river may be formed from the fact that heavy rafts of timber are floated down from herriot's falls, a distance of nine miles from peterborough, in less than an hour. the shores are bold and rocky, and abound in beautiful and picturesque views. chapter xv the wilderness, and our indian friends man of strange race! stern dweller of the wild! nature's free-born, untamed, and daring child! the clouds of the preceding night, instead of dissolving in snow, brought on a rapid thaw. a thaw in the middle of winter is the most disagreeable change that can be imagined. after several weeks of clear, bright, bracing, frosty weather, with a serene atmosphere and cloudless sky, you awake one morning surprised at the change in the temperature; and, upon looking out of the window, behold the woods obscured by a murky haze--not so dense as an english november fog, but more black and lowering--and the heavens shrouded in a uniform covering of leaden-coloured clouds, deepening into a livid indigo at the edge of the horizon. the snow, no longer hard and glittering, has become soft and spongy, and the foot slips into a wet and insidiously-yielding mass at every step. from the roof pours down a continuous stream of water, and the branches of the trees collecting the moisture of the reeking atmosphere, shower it upon the earth from every dripping twig. the cheerless and uncomfortable aspect of things without never fails to produce a corresponding effect upon the minds of those within, and casts such a damp upon the spirits that it appears to destroy for a time all sense of enjoyment. many persons (and myself among the number) are made aware of the approach of a thunder-storm by an intense pain and weight about the head; and i have heard numbers of canadians complain that a thaw always made them feel bilious and heavy, and greatly depressed their animal spirits. i had a great desire to visit our new location, but when i looked out upon the cheerless waste, i gave up the idea, and contented myself with hoping for a better day on the morrow; but many morrows came and went before a frost again hardened the road sufficiently for me to make the attempt. the prospect from the windows of my sister's log hut was not very prepossessing. the small lake in front, which formed such a pretty object in summer, now looked like an extensive field covered with snow, hemmed in from the rest of the world by a dark belt of sombre pine-woods. the clearing round the house was very small, and only just reclaimed from the wilderness, and the greater part of it covered with piles of brushwood, to be burnt the first dry days of spring. the charred and blackened stumps on the few acres that had been cleared during the preceding year were everything but picturesque; and i concluded, as i turned, disgusted, from the prospect before me, that there was very little beauty to be found in the backwoods. but i came to this decision during a canadian thaw, be it remembered, when one is wont to view every object with jaundiced eyes. moodie had only been able to secure sixty-six acres of his government grant upon the upper katchawanook lake, which, being interpreted, means in english, the “lake of the waterfalls,” a very poetical meaning, which most indian names have. he had, however, secured a clergy reserve of two hundred acres adjoining; and he afterwards purchased a fine lot, which likewise formed part of the same block, one hundred acres, for pounds.[ ] this was an enormously high price for wild land; but the prospect of opening the trent and otonabee for the navigation of steamboats and other small craft, was at that period a favourite speculation, and its practicability, and the great advantages to be derived from it, were so widely believed as to raise the value of the wild lands along these remote waters to an enormous price; and settlers in the vicinity were eager to secure lots, at any sacrifice, along their shores. [ ] after a lapse of fifteen years, we have been glad to sell these lots of land, after considerable clearings had been made upon them, for less than they originally cost us. our government grant was upon the lake shore, and moodie had chosen for the site of his log house a bank that sloped gradually from the edge of the water, until it attained to the dignity of a hill. along the top of this ridge, the forest road ran, and midway down the hill, our humble home, already nearly completed, stood, surrounded by the eternal forest. a few trees had been cleared in its immediate vicinity, just sufficient to allow the workmen to proceed, and to prevent the fall of any tree injuring the building, or the danger of its taking fire during the process of burning the fallow. a neighbour had undertaken to build this rude dwelling by contract, and was to have it ready for us by the first week in the new year. the want of boards to make the divisions in the apartments alone hindered him from fulfilling his contract. these had lately been procured, and the house was to be ready for our reception in the course of a week. our trunks and baggage had already been conveyed thither by mr. d----; and, in spite of my sister's kindness and hospitality, i longed to find myself once more settled in a home of my own. the day after our arrival, i was agreeably surprised by a visit from monaghan, whom moodie had once more taken into his service. the poor fellow was delighted that his nurse-child, as he always called little katie, had not forgotten him, but evinced the most lively satisfaction at the sight of her dark friend. early every morning, moodie went off to the house; and the first fine day, my sister undertook to escort me through the wood, to inspect it. the proposal was joyfully accepted; and although i felt rather timid when i found myself with only my female companion in the vast forest, i kept my fears to myself, lest i should be laughed at. this foolish dread of encountering wild beasts in the woods, i never could wholly shake off, even after becoming a constant resident in their gloomy depths, and accustomed to follow the forest-path, alone, or attended with little children, daily. the cracking of an old bough, or the hooting of the owl, was enough to fill me with alarm, and try my strength in a precipitate flight. often have i stopped and reproached myself for want of faith in the goodness of providence, and repeated the text, “the wicked are afraid when no man pursueth: but the righteous are as bold as a lion,” as if to shame myself into courage. but it would not do; i could not overcome the weakness of the flesh. if i had one of my infants with me, the wish to protect the child from any danger which might beset my path gave me for a time a fictitious courage; but it was like love fighting with despair. it was in vain that my husband assured me that no person had ever been attacked by wild animals in the woods, that a child might traverse them even at night in safety; whilst i knew that wild animals existed in those woods, i could not believe him, and my fears on this head rather increased than diminished. the snow had been so greatly decreased by the late thaw, that it had been converted into a coating of ice, which afforded a dangerous and slippery footing. my sister, who had resided for nearly twelve months in the woods, was provided for her walk with indian moccasins, which rendered her quite independent; but i stumbled at every step. the sun shone brightly, the air was clear and invigorating, and, in spite of the treacherous ground and my foolish fears, i greatly enjoyed my first walk in the woods. naturally of a cheerful, hopeful disposition, my sister was enthusiastic in her admiration of the woods. she drew such a lively picture of the charms of a summer residence in the forest that i began to feel greatly interested in her descriptions, and to rejoice that we, too, were to be her near neighbours and dwellers in the woods; and this circumstance not a little reconciled me to the change. hoping that my husband would derive an income equal to the one he had parted with from the investment of the price of his commission in the steam-boat stock, i felt no dread of want. our legacy of pounds had afforded us means to purchase land, build our house, and give out a large portion of land to be cleared, and, with a considerable sum of money still in hand, our prospects for the future were in no way discouraging. when we reached the top of the ridge that overlooked our cot, my sister stopped, and pointed out a log-house among the trees. “there, s----,” she said, “is your home. when that black cedar-swamp is cleared away, that now hides the lake from us, you will have a very pretty view.” my conversation with her had quite altered the aspect of the country, and predisposed me to view things in the most favourable light. i found moodie and monaghan employed in piling up heaps of bush near the house, which they intended to burn off by hand previous to firing the rest of the fallow, to prevent any risk to the building from fire. the house was made of cedar logs, and presented a superior air of comfort to most dwellings of the same kind. the dimensions were thirty-six feet in length, and thirty-two in breadth, which gave us a nice parlour, a kitchen, and two small bed-rooms, which were divided by plank partitions. pantry or store-room there was none; some rough shelves in the kitchen, and a deal cupboard in a corner of the parlour, being the extent of our accommodations in that way. our servant, mary tate, was busy scrubbing out the parlour and bed-room; but the kitchen, and the sleeping-room off it, were still knee-deep in chips, and filled with the carpenter's bench and tools, and all our luggage. such as it was, it was a palace when compared to old satan's log hut, or the miserable cabin we had wintered in during the severe winter of , and i regarded it with complacency as my future home. while we were standing outside the building, conversing with my husband, a young gentleman, of the name of morgan, who had lately purchased land in that vicinity, went into the kitchen to light his pipe at the stove, and, with true backwood carelessness, let the hot cinder fall among the dry chips that strewed the floor. a few minutes after, the whole mass was in a blaze, and it was not without great difficulty that moodie and mr. r---- succeeded in putting out the fire. thus were we nearly deprived of our home before we had taken up our abode in it. the indifference to the danger of fire in a country where most of the dwellings are composed of inflammable materials, is truly astonishing. accustomed to see enormous fires blazing on every hearth-stone, and to sleep in front of these fires, his bedding often riddled with holes made by hot particles of wood flying out during the night, and igniting beneath his very nose, the sturdy backwoodsman never dreads an enemy in the element that he is used to regard as his best friend. yet what awful accidents, what ruinous calamities arise, out of this criminal negligence, both to himself and others! a few days after this adventure, we bade adieu to my sister, and took possession of our new dwelling, and commenced “a life in the woods.” the first spring we spent in comparative ease and idleness. our cows had been left upon our old place during the winter. the ground had to be cleared before it could receive a crop of any kind, and i had little to do but to wander by the lake shore, or among the woods, and amuse myself. these were the halcyon days of the bush. my husband had purchased a very light cedar canoe, to which he attached a keel and a sail; and most of our leisure hours, directly the snows melted, were spent upon the water. these fishing and shooting excursions were delightful. the pure beauty of the canadian water, the sombre but august grandeur of the vast forest that hemmed us in on every side and shut us out from the rest of the world, soon cast a magic spell upon our spirits, and we began to feel charmed with the freedom and solitude around us. every object was new to us. we felt as if we were the first discoverers of every beautiful flower and stately tree that attracted our attention, and we gave names to fantastic rocks and fairy isles, and raised imaginary houses and bridges on every picturesque spot which we floated past during our aquatic excursions. i learned the use of the paddle, and became quite a proficient in the gentle craft. it was not long before we received visits from the indians, a people whose beauty, talents, and good qualities have been somewhat overrated, and invested with a poetical interest which they scarcely deserve. their honesty and love of truth are the finest traits in characters otherwise dark and unlovely. but these are two god-like attributes, and from them spring all that is generous and ennobling about them. there never was a people more sensible of kindness, or more grateful for any little act of benevolence exercised towards them. we met them with confidence; our dealings with them were conducted with the strictest integrity; and they became attached to our persons, and in no single instance ever destroyed the good opinion we entertained of them. the tribes that occupy the shores of all these inland waters, back of the great lakes, belong to the chippewa or missasagua indians, perhaps the least attractive of all these wild people, both with regard to their physical and mental endowments. the men of this tribe are generally small of stature, with very coarse and repulsive features. the forehead is low and retreating, the observing faculties large, the intellectual ones scarcely developed; the ears large, and standing off from the face; the eyes looking towards the temples, keen, snake-like, and far apart; the cheek-bones prominent; the nose long and flat, the nostrils very round; the jaw-bone projecting, massy, and brutal; the mouth expressing ferocity and sullen determination; the teeth large, even, and dazzlingly white. the mouth of the female differs widely in expression from that of the male; the lips are fuller, the jaw less projecting, and the smile is simple and agreeable. the women are a merry, light-hearted set, and their constant laugh and incessant prattle form a strange contrast to the iron taciturnity of their grim lords. now i am upon the subject, i will recapitulate a few traits and sketches of these people, as they came under my own immediate observation. a dry cedar-swamp, not far from the house, by the lake shore, had been their usual place of encampment for many years. the whole block of land was almost entirely covered with maple trees, and had originally been an indian sugar-bush. although the favourite spot had now passed into the hands of strangers, they still frequented the place, to make canoes and baskets, to fish and shoot, and occasionally to follow their old occupation. scarcely a week passed away without my being visited by the dark strangers; and as my husband never allowed them to eat with the servants (who viewed them with the same horror that mrs. d---- did black mollineux), but brought them to his own table, they soon grew friendly and communicative, and would point to every object that attracted their attention, asking a thousand questions as to its use, the material of which it was made, and if we were inclined to exchange it for their commodities? with a large map of canada, they were infinitely delighted. in a moment they recognised every bay and headland in ontario, and almost screamed with delight when, following the course of the trent with their fingers, they came to their own lake. how eagerly each pointed out the spot to his fellows; how intently their black heads were bent down, and their dark eyes fixed upon the map. what strange, uncouth exclamations of surprise burst from their lips as they rapidly repeated the indian names for every lake and river on this wonderful piece of paper. the old chief, peter nogan, begged hard for the coveted treasure. he would give “canoe, venison, duck, fish, for it; and more by and by.” i felt sorry that i was unable to gratify his wishes; but the map had cost upwards of six dollars, and was daily consulted by my husband, in reference to the names and situations of localities in the neighbourhood. i had in my possession a curious japanese sword, which had been given to me by an uncle of tom wilson's--a strange gift to a young lady; but it was on account of its curiosity, and had no reference to my warlike propensities. this sword was broad, and three-sided in the blade, and in shape resembled a moving snake. the hilt was formed of a hideous carved image of one of their war-gods; and a more villanous-looking wretch was never conceived by the most distorted imagination. he was represented in a sitting attitude, the eagle's claws, that formed his hands, resting upon his knees; his legs terminated in lion's paws; and his face was a strange compound of beast and bird--the upper part of his person being covered with feathers, the lower with long, shaggy hair. the case of this awful weapon was made of wood, and, in spite of its serpentine form, fitted it exactly. no trace of a join could be found in this scabbard, which was of hard wood, and highly polished. one of my indian friends found this sword lying upon the bookshelf, and he hurried to communicate the important discovery to his companions. moodie was absent, and they brought it to me to demand an explanation of the figure that formed the hilt. i told them that it was a weapon that belonged to a very fierce people who lived in the east, far over the great salt lake; that they were not christians as we were, but said their prayers to images made of silver, and gold, and ivory, and wood, and that this was one of them; that before they went into battle they said their prayers to that hideous thing, which they had made with their own hands. the indians were highly amused by this relation, and passed the sword from one to the other, exclaiming, “a god!--owgh!--a god!” but, in spite of these outward demonstrations of contempt, i was sorry to perceive that this circumstance gave the weapon a great value, in their eyes, and they regarded it with a sort of mysterious awe. for several days they continued to visit the house, bringing along with them some fresh companion to look at mrs. moodie's god!--until, vexed and annoyed by the delight they manifested at the sight of the eagle-beaked monster, i refused to gratify their curiosity by not producing him again. the manufacture of the sheath, which had caused me much perplexity, was explained by old peter in a minute. “'tis burnt out,” he said. “instrument made like sword--heat red-hot--burnt through--polished outside.” had i demanded a whole fleet of canoes for my japanese sword, i am certain they would have agreed to the bargain. the indian possesses great taste, which is displayed in the carving of his paddles, in the shape of his canoes, in the elegance and symmetry of his bows, in the cut of his leggings and moccasins, the sheath of his hunting-knife, and in all the little ornaments in which he delights. it is almost impossible for a settler to imitate to perfection an indian's cherry-wood paddle. my husband made very creditable attempts, but still there was something wanting--the elegance of the indian finish was not there. if you show them a good print, they invariably point out the most natural, and the best-executed figure in the group. they are particularly delighted with pictures, examine them long, and carefully, and seem to feel an artist-like pleasure in observing the effect produced by light and shade. i had been showing john nogan, the eldest son of old peter, some beautiful coloured engravings of celebrated females; to my astonishment he pounced upon the best, and grunted out his admiration in the most approved indian fashion. after having looked for a long time at all the pictures very attentively, he took his dog sancho upon his knee, and showed him the pictures, with as much gravity as if the animal really could have shared in his pleasure. the vanity of these grave men is highly amusing. they seem perfectly unconscious of it themselves and it is exhibited in the most child-like manner. peter and his son john were taking tea with us, when we were joined by my brother, mr. s----. the latter was giving us an account of the marriage of peter jones, the celebrated indian preacher. “i cannot think,” he said, “how any lady of property and education could marry such a man as jones. why, he's as ugly as peter here.” this was said, not with any idea of insulting the red-skin on the score of his beauty, of which he possessed not the smallest particle, but in total forgetfulness that our guest understood english. never shall i forget the red flash of that fierce dark eye as it glared upon my unconscious brother. i would not have received such a fiery glance for all the wealth that peter jones obtained with his saxon bride. john nogan was highly amused by his father's indignation. he hid his face behind the chief; and though he kept perfectly still, his whole frame was convulsed with suppressed laughter. a plainer human being than poor peter could scarcely be imagined; yet he certainly deemed himself handsome. i am inclined to think that their ideas of personal beauty differ very widely from ours. tom nogan, the chief's brother, had a very large, fat, ugly squaw for his wife. she was a mountain of tawny flesh; and, but for the innocent, good-natured expression which, like a bright sunbeam penetrating a swarthy cloud, spread all around a kindly glow, she might have been termed hideous. this woman they considered very handsome, calling her “a fine squaw--clever squaw--a much good woman;” though in what her superiority consisted, i never could discover, often as i visited the wigwam. she was very dirty, and appeared quite indifferent to the claims of common decency (in the disposal of the few filthy rags that covered her). she was, however, very expert in all indian craft. no jew could drive a better bargain than mrs. tom; and her urchins, of whom she was the happy mother of five or six, were as cunning and avaricious as herself. one day she visited me, bringing along with her a very pretty covered basket for sale. i asked her what she wanted for it, but could obtain from her no satisfactory answer. i showed her a small piece of silver. she shook her head. i tempted her with pork and flour, but she required neither. i had just given up the idea of dealing with her, in despair, when she suddenly seized upon me, and, lifting up my gown, pointed exultingly to my quilted petticoat, clapping her hands, and laughing immoderately. another time she led me all over the house, to show me what she wanted in exchange for _basket_. my patience was well nigh exhausted in following her from place to place, in her attempt to discover the coveted article, when, hanging upon a peg in my chamber, she espied a pair of trousers belonging to my husband's logging-suit. the riddle was solved. with a joyful cry she pointed to them, exclaiming “take basket. give them!” it was with no small difficulty that i rescued the indispensables from her grasp. from this woman i learned a story of indian coolness and courage which made a deep impression on my mind. one of their squaws, a near relation of her own, had accompanied her husband on a hunting expedition into the forest. he had been very successful, and having killed more deer than they could well carry home, he went to the house of a white man to dispose of some of it, leaving the squaw to take care of the rest until his return. she sat carelessly upon the log with his hunting-knife in her hand, when she heard the breaking of branches near her, and turning round, beheld a great bear only a few paces from her. it was too late to retreat; and seeing that the animal was very hungry, and determined to come to close quarters, she rose, and placed her back against a small tree, holding her knife close to her breast, and in a straight line with the bear. the shaggy monster came on. she remained motionless, her eyes steadily fixed upon her enemy, and as his huge arms closed around her, she slowly drove the knife into his heart. the bear uttered a hideous cry, and sank dead at her feet. when the indian returned, he found the courageous woman taking the skin from the carcass of the formidable brute. what iron nerves these people must possess, when even a woman could dare and do a deed like this! the wolf they hold in great contempt, and scarcely deign to consider him as an enemy. peter nogan assured me that he never was near enough to one in his life to shoot it; that, except in large companies, and when greatly pressed by hunger, they rarely attack men. they hold the lynx, or wolverine, in much dread, as they often spring from trees upon their prey, fastening upon the throat with their sharp teeth and claws, from which a person in the dark could scarcely free himself without first receiving a dangerous wound. the cry of this animal is very terrifying, resembling the shrieks of a human creature in mortal agony. my husband was anxious to collect some of the native indian airs, as they all sing well, and have a fine ear for music, but all his efforts proved abortive. “john,” he said to young nogan (who played very creditably on the flute, and had just concluded the popular air of “sweet home”), “cannot you play me one of your own songs?” “yes,--but no good.” “leave me to be the judge of that. cannot you give me a war-song?” “yes,--but no good,” with an ominous shake of the head. “a hunting-song?” “no fit for white man,”--with an air of contempt. “no good, no good!” “do, john, sing us a love-song,” said i, laughing, “if you have such a thing in your language.” “oh! much love-song--very much--bad--bad--no good for christian man. indian song no good for white ears.” this was very tantalising, as their songs sounded very sweetly from the lips of their squaws, and i had a great desire and curiosity to get some of them rendered into english. to my husband they gave the name of “the musician,” but i have forgotten the indian word. it signified the maker of sweet sounds. they listened with intense delight to the notes of his flute, maintaining a breathless silence during the performance; their dark eyes flashing into fierce light at a martial strain, or softening with the plaintive and tender. the cunning which they display in their contests with their enemies, in their hunting, and in making bargains with the whites (who are too apt to impose on their ignorance), seems to spring more from a law of necessity, forced upon them by their isolated position and precarious mode of life, than from any innate wish to betray. the indian's face, after all, is a perfect index of his mind. the eye changes its expression with every impulse and passion, and shows what is passing within as clearly as the lightning in a dark night betrays the course of the stream. i cannot think that deceit forms any prominent trait in the indian's character. they invariably act with the strictest honour towards those who never attempt to impose upon them. it is natural for a deceitful person to take advantage of the credulity of others. the genuine indian never utters a falsehood, and never employs flattery (that powerful weapon in the hands of the insidious), in his communications with the whites. his worst traits are those which he has in common with the wild animals of the forest, and which his intercourse with the lowest order of civilised men (who, in point of moral worth, are greatly his inferiors), and the pernicious effects of strong drink, have greatly tended to inflame and debate. it is a melancholy truth, and deeply to be lamented, that the vicinity of european settlers has always produced a very demoralising effect upon the indians. as a proof of this, i will relate a simple anecdote. john, of rice lake, a very sensible, middle-aged indian, was conversing with me about their language, and the difficulty he found in understanding the books written in indian for their use. among other things, i asked him if his people ever swore, or used profane language towards the deity. the man regarded me with a sort of stern horror, as he replied, “indian, till after he knew your people, never swore--no bad word in indian. indian must learn your words to swear and take god's name in vain.” oh, what a reproof to christian men! i felt abashed, and degraded in the eyes of this poor savage--who, ignorant as he was in many respects, yet possessed that first great attribute of the soul, a deep reverence for the supreme being. how inferior were thousands of my countrymen to him in this important point. the affection of indian parents to their children, and the deference which they pay to the aged, is another beautiful and touching trait in their character. one extremely cold, wintry day, as i was huddled with my little ones over the stove, the door softly unclosed, and the moccasined foot of an indian crossed the floor. i raised my head, for i was too much accustomed to their sudden appearance at any hour to feel alarmed, and perceived a tall woman standing silently and respectfully before me, wrapped in a large blanket. the moment she caught my eye she dropped the folds of her covering from around her, and laid at my feet the attenuated figure of a boy, about twelve years of age, who was in the last stage of consumption. “papouse die,” she said, mournfully clasping her hands against her breast, and looking down upon the suffering lad with the most heartfelt expression of maternal love, while large tears trickled down her dark face. “moodie's squaw save papouse--poor indian woman much glad.” her child was beyond all human aid. i looked anxiously upon him, and knew, by the pinched-up features and purple hue of his wasted cheek, that he had not many hours to live. i could only answer with tears her agonising appeal to my skill. “try and save him! all die but him.” (she held up five of her fingers.) “brought him all the way from mutta lake[ ] upon my back, for white squaw to cure.” [ ] mud lake, or lake shemong, in indian. “i cannot cure him, my poor friend. he is in god's care; in a few hours he will be with him.” the child was seized with a dreadful fit of coughing, which i expected every moment would terminate his frail existence. i gave him a teaspoonful of currant jelly, which he took with avidity, but could not retain a moment on his stomach. “papouse die,” murmured the poor woman; “alone--alone! no papouse; the mother all alone.” she began re-adjusting the poor sufferer in her blanket. i got her some food, and begged her to stay and rest herself; but she was too much distressed to eat, and too restless to remain. she said little, but her face expressed the keenest anguish; she took up her mournful load, pressed for a moment his wasted, burning hand in hers, and left the room. my heart followed her a long way on her melancholy journey. think what this woman's love must have been for that dying son, when she had carried a lad of his age six miles, through the deep snow, upon her back, on such a day, in the hope of my being able to do him some good. poor heart-broken mother! i learned from joe muskrat's squaw some days after that the boy died a few minutes after elizabeth iron, his mother, got home. they never forget any little act of kindness. one cold night, late in the fall, my hospitality was demanded by six squaws, and puzzled i was how to accommodate them all. i at last determined to give them the use of the parlour floor during the night. among these women there was one very old, whose hair was as white as snow. she was the only gray-haired indian i ever saw, and on that account i regarded her with peculiar interest. i knew that she was the wife of a chief, by the scarlet embroidered leggings, which only the wives and daughters of chiefs are allowed to wear. the old squaw had a very pleasing countenance, but i tried in vain to draw her into conversation. she evidently did not understand me; and the muskrat squaw, and betty cow, were laughing at my attempts to draw her out. i administered supper to them with my own hands, and after i had satisfied their wants (which is no very easy task, for they have great appetites), i told our servant to bring in several spare mattresses and blankets for their use. “now mind, jenny, and give the old squaw the best bed,” i said; “the others are young, and can put up with a little inconvenience.” the old indian glanced at me with her keen, bright eye; but i had no idea that she comprehended what i said. some weeks after this, as i was sweeping over my parlour floor, a slight tap drew me to the door. on opening it i perceived the old squaw, who immediately slipped into my hand a set of beautifully-embroidered bark trays, fitting one within the other, and exhibiting the very best sample of the porcupine quill-work. while i stood wondering what this might mean, the good old creature fell upon my neck, and kissing me, exclaimed, “you remember old squaw--make her comfortable! old squaw no forget you. keep them for her sake,” and before i could detain her she ran down the hill with a swiftness which seemed to bid defiance to years. i never saw this interesting indian again, and i concluded that she died during the winter, for she must have been of a great age. my dear reader, i am afraid i shall tire you with my indian stories; but you must bear with me patiently whilst i give you a few more. the real character of a people can be more truly gathered from such seemingly trifling incidents than from any ideas we may form of them from the great facts in their history, and this is my reason for detailing events which might otherwise appear insignificant and unimportant. a friend was staying with us, who wished much to obtain a likeness of old peter. i promised to try and make a sketch of the old man the next time he paid us a visit. that very afternoon he brought us some ducks in exchange for pork, and moodie asked him to stay and take a glass of whiskey with him and his friend mr. k----. the old man had arrayed himself in a new blanket-coat, bound with red, and the seams all decorated with the same gay material. his leggings and moccasins were new, and elaborately fringed; and, to cap the climax of the whole, he had a blue cloth conical cap upon his head, ornamented with a deer's tail dyed blue, and several cock's feathers. he was evidently very much taken up with the magnificence of his own appearance, for he often glanced at himself in a small shaving-glass that hung opposite, with a look of grave satisfaction. sitting apart, that i might not attract his observation, i got a tolerably faithful likeness of the old man, which after slightly colouring, to show more plainly his indian finery, i quietly handed over to mr. k----. sly as i thought myself, my occupation and the object of it had not escaped the keen eye of the old man. he rose, came behind mr. k----'s chair, and regarded the picture with a most affectionate eye. i was afraid that he would be angry at the liberty i had taken. no such thing! he was as pleased as punch. “that peter?” he grunted. “give me--put up in wigwam--make dog too! owgh! owgh!” and he rubbed his hands together, and chuckled with delight. mr. k---- had some difficulty in coaxing the picture from the old chief; so pleased was he with this rude representation of himself. he pointed to every particular article of his dress, and dwelt with peculiar glee on the cap and blue deer's tail. a few days after this, i was painting a beautiful little snow-bird, that our man had shot out of a large flock that alighted near the door. i was so intent upon my task, to which i was putting the finishing strokes, that i did not observe the stealthy entrance (for they all walk like cats) of a stern-looking red man, till a slender, dark hand was extended over my paper to grasp the dead bird from which i was copying, and which as rapidly transferred it to the side of the painted one, accompanying the act with the deep guttural note of approbation, the unmusical, savage “owgh.” my guest then seated himself with the utmost gravity in a rocking-chair, directly fronting me, and made the modest demand that i should paint a likeness of him, after the following quaint fashion:-- “moodie's squaw know much--make peter nogan toder day on papare--make jacob to-day--jacob young--great hunter--give much duck--venison--to squaw.” although i felt rather afraid of my fierce-looking visitor, i could scarcely keep my gravity; there was such an air of pompous self-approbation about the indian, such a sublime look of conceit in his grave vanity. “moodie's squaw cannot do everything; she cannot paint young men,” said i, rising, and putting away my drawing-materials, upon which he kept his eye intently fixed, with a hungry, avaricious expression. i thought it best to place the coveted objects beyond his reach. after sitting for some time, and watching all my movements, he withdrew, with a sullen, disappointed air. this man was handsome, but his expression was vile. though he often came to the house, i never could reconcile myself to his countenance. late one very dark, stormy night, three indians begged to be allowed to sleep by the kitchen stove. the maid was frightened out of her wits at the sight of these strangers, who were mohawks from the indian woods upon the bay of quinte, and they brought along with them a horse and cutter. the night was so stormy, that, after consulting our man--jacob faithful, as we usually called him--i consented to grant their petition, although they were quite strangers, and taller and fiercer-looking than our friends the missasaguas. i was putting my children to bed, when the girl came rushing in, out of breath. “the lord preserve us, madam, if one of these wild men has not pulled off his trousers, and is a-sitting, mending them behind the stove! and what shall i do?” “do?--why, stay with me, and leave the poor fellow to finish his work.” the simple girl had never once thought of this plan of pacifying her outraged sense of propriety. their sense of hearing is so acute that they can distinguish sounds at an incredible distance, which cannot be detected by a european at all. i myself witnessed a singular exemplification of this fact. it was mid-winter; the indians had pitched their tent, or wigwam, as usual, in our swamp. all the males were absent on a hunting expedition up the country, and had left two women behind to take care of the camp and its contents, mrs. tom nogan and her children, and susan moore, a young girl of fifteen, and the only truly beautiful squaw i ever saw. there was something interesting about this girl's history, as well as her appearance. her father had been drowned during a sudden hurricane, which swamped his canoe on stony lake; and the mother, who witnessed the accident from the shore, and was near her confinement with this child, boldly swam out to his assistance. she reached the spot where he sank, and even succeeded in recovering the body; but it was too late; the man was dead. the soul of an indian that has been drowned is reckoned accursed, and he is never permitted to join his tribe on the happy hunting-grounds, but his spirit haunts the lake or river in which he lost his life. his body is buried on some lonely island, which the indians never pass without leaving a small portion of food, tobacco, ammunition, to supply his wants; but he is never interred with the rest of his people. his children are considered unlucky, and few willingly unite themselves to the females of the family, lest a portion of the father's curse should be visited on them. the orphan indian girl generally kept aloof from the rest, and seemed so lonely and companionless, that she soon attracted my attention and sympathy, and a hearty feeling of good-will sprang up between us. her features were small and regular, her face oval, and her large, dark, loving eyes were full of tenderness and sensibility, but as bright and shy as those of the deer. a rich vermilion glow burnt upon her olive cheek and lips, and set off the dazzling whiteness of her even and pearly teeth. she was small of stature, with delicate little hands and feet, and her figure was elastic and graceful. she was a beautiful child of nature, and her indian name signified “the voice of angry waters.” poor girl, she had been a child of grief and tears from her birth! her mother was a mohawk, from whom she, in all probability, derived her superior personal attractions; for they are very far before the missasaguas in this respect. my friend and neighbour, emilia s----, the wife of a naval officer, who lived about a mile distant from me, through the bush, had come to spend the day with me; and hearing that the indians were in the swamp, and the men away, we determined to take a few trifles to the camp, in the way of presents, and spend an hour in chatting with the squaws. what a beautiful moonlight night it was, as light as day!--the great forest sleeping tranquilly beneath the cloudless heavens--not a sound to disturb the deep repose of nature but the whispering of the breeze, which, during the most profound calm, creeps through the lofty pine tops. we bounded down the steep bank to the lake shore. life is a blessing, a precious boon indeed, in such an hour, and we felt happy in the mere consciousness of existence--the glorious privilege of pouring out the silent adoration of the heart to the great father in his universal temple. on entering the wigwam, which stood within a few yards of the clearing, in the middle of a thick group of cedars, we found mrs. tom alone with her elvish children, seated before the great fire that burned in the centre of the camp; she was busy boiling some bark in an iron spider. the little boys, in red flannel shirts which were their only covering, were tormenting a puppy, which seemed to take their pinching and pummelling in good part, for it neither attempted to bark nor to bite, but, like the eels in the story, submitted to the infliction because it was used to it. mrs. tom greeted us with a grin of pleasure, and motioned to us to sit down upon a buffalo-skin, which, with a courtesy so natural to the indians, she had placed near her for our accommodation. “you are all alone,” said i, glancing round the camp. “ye'es; indian away hunting--upper lakes. come home with much deer.” “and susan, where is she?” “by and by. (meaning that she was coming.) gone to fetch water--ice thick--chop with axe--take long time.” as she ceased speaking, the old blanket that formed the door of the tent was withdrawn, and the girl, bearing two pails of water, stood in the open space, in the white moonlight. the glow of the fire streamed upon her dark, floating locks, danced in the black, glistening eye, and gave a deeper blush to the olive cheek! she would have made a beautiful picture; sir joshua reynolds would have rejoiced in such a model--so simply graceful and unaffected, the very beau ideal of savage life and unadorned nature. a smile of recognition passed between us. she put down her burden beside mrs. tom, and noiselessly glided to her seat. we had scarcely exchanged a few words with our favourite, when the old squaw, placing her hand against her ear, exclaimed, “whist! whist!” “what is it?” cried emilia and i, starting to our feet. “is there any danger?” “a deer--a deer--in bush!” whispered the squaw, seizing a rifle that stood in a corner. “i hear sticks crack--a great way off. stay here!” a great way off the animal must have been, for though emilia and i listened at the open door, an advantage which the squaw did not enjoy, we could not hear the least sound: all seemed still as death. the squaw whistled to an old hound, and went out. “did you hear anything, susan?” she smiled, and nodded. “listen; the dog has found the track.” the next moment the discharge of a rifle, and the deep baying of the dog, woke up the sleeping echoes of the woods; and the girl started off to help the old squaw to bring in the game that she had shot. the indians are great imitators, and possess a nice tact in adopting the customs and manners of those with whom they associate. an indian is nature's gentleman--never familiar, coarse, or vulgar. if he take a meal with you, he waits to see how you make use of the implements on the table, and the manner in which you eat, which he imitates with a grave decorum, as if he had been accustomed to the same usages from childhood. he never attempts to help himself, or demand more food, but waits patiently until you perceive what he requires. i was perfectly astonished at this innate politeness, for it seems natural to all the indians with whom i have had any dealings. there was one old indian, who belonged to a distant settlement, and only visited our lakes occasionally on hunting parties. he was a strange, eccentric, merry old fellow, with a skin like red mahogany, and a wiry, sinewy frame, that looked as if it could bid defiance to every change of temperature. old snow-storm, for such was his significant name, was rather too fond of the whiskey-bottle, and when he had taken a drop too much, he became an unmanageable wild beast. he had a great fancy for my husband, and never visited the other indians without extending the same favour to us. once upon a time, he broke the nipple of his gun; and moodie repaired the injury for him by fixing a new one in its place, which little kindness quite won the heart of the old man, and he never came to see us without bringing an offering of fish, ducks, partridges, or venison, to show his gratitude. one warm september day, he made his appearance bare-headed, as usual, and carrying in his hand a great checked bundle. “fond of grapes?” said he, putting the said bundle into my hands. “fine grapes--brought them from island, for my friend's squaw and papouse.” glad of the donation, which i considered quite a prize, i hastened into the kitchen to untie the grapes and put them into a dish. but imagine my disappointment, when i found them wrapped up in a soiled shirt, only recently taken from the back of the owner. i called moodie, and begged him to return snow-storm his garment, and to thank him for the grapes. the mischievous creature was highly diverted with the circumstance, and laughed immoderately. “snow-storm,” said he, “mrs. moodie and the children are obliged to you for your kindness in bringing them the grapes; but how came you to tie them up in a dirty shirt?” “dirty!” cried the old man, astonished that we should object to the fruit on that score. “it ought to be clean; it has been washed often enough. owgh! you see, moodie,” he continued, “i have no hat--never wear hat--want no shade to my eyes--love the sun--see all around me--up and down--much better widout hat. could not put grapes in hat--blanket-coat too large, crush fruit, juice run out. i had noting but my shirt, so i takes off shirt, and brings grape safe over the water on my back. papouse no care for dirty shirt; their lee-tel bellies have no eyes.” in spite of this eloquent harangue, i could not bring myself to use the grapes, ripe and tempting as they looked, or give them to the children. mr. w---- and his wife happening to step in at that moment, fell into such an ecstasy at the sight of the grapes, that, as they were perfectly unacquainted with the circumstance of the shirt, i very generously gratified their wishes by presenting them with the contents of the large dish; and they never ate a bit less sweet for the novel mode in which they were conveyed to me! the indians, under their quiet exterior, possess a deal of humour. they have significant names for everything, and a nickname for every one, and some of the latter are laughably appropriate. a fat, pompous, ostentatious settler in our neighbourhood they called muckakee, “the bull frog.” another, rather a fine young man, but with a very red face, they named segoskee, “the rising sun.” mr. wood, who had a farm above ours, was a remarkably slender young man, and to him they gave the appellation of metiz, “thin stick.” a woman, that occasionally worked for me, had a disagreeable squint; she was known in indian by the name of sachabo, “cross eye.” a gentleman with a very large nose was choojas, “big, or ugly nose.” my little addie, who was a fair, lovely creature, they viewed with great approbation, and called anoonk, “a star;” while the rosy katie was nogesigook, “the northern lights.” as to me, i was nonocosiqui, a “humming-bird;” a ridiculous name for a tall woman, but it had reference to the delight i took in painting birds. my friend, emilia, was “blue cloud;” my little donald, “frozen face;” young c----, “the red-headed woodpecker,” from the colour of his hair; my brother, chippewa, and “the bald-headed eagle.” he was an especial favourite among them. the indians are often made a prey of and cheated by the unprincipled settlers, who think it no crime to overreach a red-skin. one anecdote will fully illustrate this fact. a young squaw, who was near becoming a mother, stopped at a smith-town settler's house to rest herself. the woman of the house, who was irish, was peeling for dinner some large white turnips, which her husband had grown in their garden. the indian had never seen a turnip before, and the appearance of the firm, white, juicy root gave her such a keen craving to taste it that she very earnestly begged for a small piece to eat. she had purchased at peterborough a large stone-china bowl, of a very handsome pattern (or, perhaps, got it at the store in exchange for _basket_), the worth of which might be half-a-dollar. if the poor squaw longed for the turnip, the value of which could scarcely reach a copper, the covetous european had fixed as longing a glance upon the china bowl, and she was determined to gratify her avaricious desire and obtain it on the most easy terms. she told the squaw, with some disdain, that her man did not grow turnips to give away to “injuns,” but she would sell her one. the squaw offered her four coppers, all the change she had about her. this the woman refused with contempt. she then proffered a basket; but that was not sufficient; nothing would satisfy her but the bowl. the indian demurred; but opposition had only increased her craving for the turnip in a tenfold degree; and, after a short mental struggle, in which the animal propensity overcame the warnings of prudence, the squaw gave up the bowl, and received in return one turnip! the daughter of this woman told me this anecdote of her mother as a very clever thing. what ideas some people have of moral justice! i have said before that the indian never forgets a kindness. we had a thousand proofs of this, when overtaken by misfortune, and withering beneath the iron grasp of poverty, we could scarcely obtain bread for ourselves and our little ones; then it was that the truth of the eastern proverb was brought home to our hearts, and the goodness of god fully manifested towards us, “cast thy bread upon the waters, and thou shalt find it after many days.” during better times we had treated these poor savages with kindness and liberality, and when dearer friends looked coldly upon us they never forsook us. for many a good meal i have been indebted to them, when i had nothing to give in return, when the pantry was empty, and “the hearthstone growing cold,” as they term the want of provisions to cook at it. and their delicacy in conferring these favours was not the least admirable part of their conduct. john nogan, who was much attached to us, would bring a fine bunch of ducks, and drop them at my feet “for the papouse,” or leave a large muskinonge on the sill of the door, or place a quarter of venison just within it, and slip away without saying a word, thinking that receiving a present from a poor indian might hurt our feelings, and he would spare us the mortification of returning thanks. often have i grieved that people with such generous impulses should be degraded and corrupted by civilised men; that a mysterious destiny involves and hangs over them, pressing them back into the wilderness, and slowly and surely sweeping them from the earth. their ideas of christianity appeared to me vague and unsatisfactory. they will tell you that christ died for men, and that he is the saviour of the world, but they do not seem to comprehend the spiritual character of christianity, nor the full extent of the requirements and application of the law of christian love. these imperfect views may not be entertained by all christian indians, but they were very common amongst those with whom i conversed. their ignorance upon theological, as well as upon other subjects, is, of course, extreme. one indian asked me very innocently if i came from the land where christ was born, and if i had ever seen jesus. they always mention the name of the persons in the trinity with great reverence. they are a highly imaginative people. the practical meaning of their names, and their intense admiration for the beauties of nature, are proof of this. nothing escapes their observing eyes. there is not a flower that blooms in the wilderness, a bird that cuts the air with its wings, a beast that roams the wood, a fish that stems the water, or the most minute insect that sports in the sunbeams, but it has an indian name to illustrate its peculiar habits and qualities. some of their words convey the direct meaning of the thing implied--thus, che-charm, “to sneeze,” is the very sound of that act; too-me-duh, “to churn,” gives the noise made by the dashing of the cream from side to side; and many others. they believe in supernatural appearances--in spirits of the earth, the air, the waters. the latter they consider evil, and propitiate before undertaking a long voyage, by throwing small portions of bread, meat, tobacco, and gunpowder into the water. when an indian loses one of his children, he must keep a strict fast for three days, abstaining from food of any kind. a hunter, of the name of young, told me a curious story of their rigid observance of this strange rite. “they had a chief,” he said, “a few years ago, whom they called 'handsome jack'--whether in derision, i cannot tell, for he was one of the ugliest indians i ever saw. the scarlet fever got into the camp--a terrible disease in this country, and doubly terrible to those poor creatures who don't know how to treat it. his eldest daughter died. the chief had fasted two days when i met him in the bush. i did not know what had happened, but i opened my wallet, for i was on a hunting expedition, and offered him some bread and dried venison. he looked at me reproachfully. “'do white men eat bread the first night their papouse is laid in the earth?' “i then knew the cause of his depression, and left him.” on the night of the second day of his fast another child died of the fever. he had now to accomplish three more days without tasting food. it was too much even for an indian. on the evening of the fourth, he was so pressed by ravenous hunger, that he stole into the woods, caught a bull-frog, and devoured it alive. he imagined himself alone; but one of his people, suspecting his intention, had followed him, unperceived, to the bush. the act he had just committed was a hideous crime in their eyes, and in a few minutes the camp was in an uproar. the chief fled for protection to young's house. when the hunter demanded the cause of his alarm, he gave for answer, “there are plenty of flies at my house. to avoid their stings i came to you.” it required all the eloquence of mr. young, who enjoyed much popularity among them, to reconcile the rebellious tribe to their chief. they are very skilful in their treatment of wounds, and many diseases. their knowledge of the medicinal qualities of their plants and herbs is very great. they make excellent poultices from the bark of the bass and the slippery elm. they use several native plants in their dyeing of baskets and porcupine quills. the inner bark of the swamp-alder, simply boiled in water, makes a beautiful red. from the root of the black briony they obtain a fine salve for sores, and extract a rich yellow dye. the inner bark of the root of the sumach, roasted, and reduced to powder, is a good remedy for the ague; a teaspoonful given between the hot and cold fit. they scrape the fine white powder from the large fungus that grows upon the bark of the pine into whiskey, and take it for violent pains in the stomach. the taste of this powder strongly reminded me of quinine. i have read much of the excellence of indian cookery, but i never could bring myself to taste anything prepared in their dirty wigwams. i remember being highly amused in watching the preparation of a mess, which might have been called the indian hotch-potch. it consisted of a strange mixture of fish, flesh, and fowl, all boiled together in the same vessel. ducks, partridges, muskinonge, venison, and muskrats, formed a part of this delectable compound. these were literally smothered in onions, potatoes, and turnips, which they had procured from me. they very hospitably offered me a dishful of the odious mixture, which the odour of the muskrats rendered everything but savoury; but i declined, simply stating that i was not hungry. my little boy tasted it, but quickly left the camp to conceal the effect it produced upon him. their method of broiling fish, however, is excellent. they take a fish, just fresh out of the water, cut out the entrails, and, without removing the scales, wash it clean, dry it in a cloth, or in grass, and cover it all over with clear hot ashes. when the flesh will part from the bone, they draw it out of the ashes, strip off the skin, and it is fit for the table of the most fastidious epicure. the deplorable want of chastity that exists among the indian women of this tribe seems to have been more the result of their intercourse with the settlers in the country than from any previous disposition to this vice. the jealousy of their husbands has often been exercised in a terrible manner against the offending squaws; but this has not happened of late years. the men wink at these derelictions in their wives, and share with them the price of their shame. the mixture of european blood adds greatly to the physical beauty of the half-race, but produces a sad falling-off from the original integrity of the indian character. the half-caste is generally a lying, vicious rogue, possessing the worst qualities of both parents in an eminent degree. we have many of these half-indians in the penitentiary, for crimes of the blackest dye. the skill of the indian in procuring his game, either by land or water, has been too well described by better writers than i could ever hope to be to need any illustration from my pen, and i will close this long chapter with a droll anecdote which is told of a gentleman in this neighbourhood. the early loss of his hair obliged mr. ---- to procure the substitute of a wig. this was such a good imitation of nature, that none but his intimate friends and neighbours were aware of the fact. it happened that he had had some quarrel with an indian, which had to be settled in one of the petty courts. the case was decided in favour of mr. ----, which so aggrieved the savage, who considered himself the injured party, that he sprang upon him with a furious yell, tomahawk in hand, with the intention of depriving him of his scalp. he twisted his hand in the looks which adorned the cranium of his adversary, when--horror of horrors!--the treacherous wig came off in his hand, “owgh! owgh!” exclaimed the affrighted savage, flinging it from him, and rushing from the court as if he had been bitten by a rattlesnake. his sudden exit was followed by peals of laughter from the crowd, while mr. ---- coolly picked up his wig, and drily remarked that it had saved his head. the indian fisherman's light the air is still, the night is dark, no ripple breaks the dusky tide; from isle to isle the fisher's bark like fairy meteor seems to glide; now lost in shade--now flashing bright on sleeping wave and forest tree; we hail with joy the ruddy light, which far into the darksome night shines red and cheerily! with spear high poised, and steady hand, the centre of that fiery ray, behold the indian fisher stand prepared to strike the finny prey; hurrah! the shaft has sped below-- transfix'd the shining prize i see; on swiftly darts the birch canoe; yon black rock shrouding from my view its red light gleaming cheerily! around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides the noisy rapids from our sight, another bark--another glides-- red meteors of the murky night. the bosom of the silent stream with mimic stars is dotted free; the waves reflect the double gleam, the tall woods lighten in the beam, through darkness shining cheerily! chapter xvi burning the fallow there is a hollow roaring in the air-- the hideous hissing of ten thousand flames, that from the centre of yon sable cloud leap madly up, like serpents in the dark, shaking their arrowy tongues at nature's heart. it is not my intention to give a regular history of our residence in the bush, but merely to present to my readers such events as may serve to illustrate a life in the woods. the winter and spring of had passed away. the latter was uncommonly cold and backward; so much so that we had a very heavy fall of snow upon the th and th of may, and several gentlemen drove down to cobourg in a sleigh, the snow lying upon the ground to the depth of several inches. a late, cold spring in canada is generally succeeded by a burning hot summer; and the summer of ' was the hottest i ever remember. no rain fell upon the earth for many weeks, till nature drooped and withered beneath one bright blaze of sunlight; and the ague and fever in the woods, and the cholera in the large towns and cities, spread death and sickness through the country. moodie had made during the winter a large clearing of twenty acres around the house. the progress of the workmen had been watched by me with the keenest interest. every tree that reached the ground opened a wider gap in the dark wood, giving us a broader ray of light and a clearer glimpse of the blue sky. but when the dark cedar-swamp fronting the house fell beneath the strokes of the axe, and we got a first view of the lake, my joy was complete; a new and beautiful object was now constantly before me, which gave me the greatest pleasure. by night and day, in sunshine or in storm, water is always the most sublime feature in a landscape, and no view can be truly grand in which it is wanting. from a child, it always had the most powerful effect upon my mind, from the great ocean rolling in majesty, to the tinkling forest rill, hidden by the flowers and rushes along its banks. half the solitude of my forest home vanished when the lake unveiled its bright face to the blue heavens, and i saw sun and moon, and stars and waving trees reflected there. i would sit for hours at the window as the shades of evening deepened round me, watching the massy foliage of the forests pictured in the waters, till fancy transported me back to england, and the songs of birds and the lowing of cattle were sounding in my ears. it was long, very long, before i could discipline my mind to learn and practice all the menial employments which are necessary in a good settler's wife. the total absence of trees about the doors in all new settlements had always puzzled me, in a country where the intense heat of summer seems to demand all the shade that can be procured. my husband had left several beautiful rock-elms (the most picturesque tree in the country) near our dwelling, but alas! the first high gale prostrated all my fine trees, and left our log cottage entirely exposed to the fierce rays of the sun. the confusion of an uncleared fallow spread around us on every side. huge trunks of trees and piles of brush gave a littered and uncomfortable appearance to the locality, and as the weather had been very dry for some weeks, i heard my husband daily talking with his choppers as to the expediency of firing the fallow. they still urged him to wait a little longer, until he could get a good breeze to carry the fire well through the brush. business called him suddenly to toronto, but he left a strict charge with old thomas and his sons, who were engaged in the job, by no means to attempt to burn it off until he returned, as he wished to be upon the premises himself, in case of any danger. he had previously burnt all the heaps immediately about the doors. while he was absent, old thomas and his second son fell sick with the ague, and went home to their own township, leaving john, a surly, obstinate young man, in charge of the shanty, where they slept, and kept their tools and provisions. monaghan i had sent to fetch up my three cows, as the children were languishing for milk, and mary and i remained alone in the house with the little ones. the day was sultry, and towards noon a strong wind sprang up that roared in the pine tops like the dashing of distant billows, but without in the least degree abating the heat. the children were lying listlessly upon the floor for coolness, and the girl and i were finishing sun-bonnets, when mary suddenly exclaimed, “bless us, mistress, what a smoke!” i ran immediately to the door, but was not able to distinguish ten yards before me. the swamp immediately below us was on fire, and the heavy wind was driving a dense black cloud of smoke directly towards us. “what can this mean?” i cried, “who can have set fire to the fallow?” as i ceased speaking, john thomas stood pale and trembling before me. “john, what is the meaning of this fire?” “oh, ma'am, i hope you will forgive me; it was i set fire to it, and i would give all i have in the world if i had not done it.” “what is the danger?” “oh, i'm terribly afear'd that we shall all be burnt up,” said the fellow, beginning to whimper. “why did you run such a risk, and your master from home, and no one on the place to render the least assistance?” “i did it for the best,” blubbered the lad. “what shall we do?” “why, we must get out of it as fast as we can, and leave the house to its fate.” “we can't get out,” said the man, in a low, hollow tone, which seemed the concentration of fear; “i would have got out of it if i could; but just step to the back door, ma'am, and see.” i had not felt the least alarm up to this minute; i had never seen a fallow burnt, but i had heard of it as a thing of such common occurrence that i had never connected with it any idea of danger. judge then, my surprise, my horror, when, on going to the back door, i saw that the fellow, to make sure of his work, had fired the field in fifty different places. behind, before, on every side, we were surrounded by a wall of fire, burning furiously within a hundred yards of us, and cutting off all possibility of retreat; for could we have found an opening through the burning heaps, we could not have seen our way through the dense canopy of smoke; and, buried as we were in the heart of the forest, no one could discover our situation till we were beyond the reach of help. i closed the door, and went back to the parlour. fear was knocking loudly at my heart, for our utter helplessness annihilated all hope of being able to effect our escape--i felt stupefied. the girl sat upon the floor by the children, who, unconscious of the peril that hung over them, had both fallen asleep. she was silently weeping; while the fool who had caused the mischief was crying aloud. a strange calm succeeded my first alarm; tears and lamentations were useless; a horrible death was impending over us, and yet i could not believe that we were to die. i sat down upon the step of the door, and watched the awful scene in silence. the fire was raging in the cedar-swamp immediately below the ridge on which the house stood, and it presented a spectacle truly appalling. from out the dense folds of a canopy of black smoke, the blackest i ever saw, leaped up continually red forks of lurid flame as high as the tree tops, igniting the branches of a group of tall pines that had been left standing for saw-logs. a deep gloom blotted out the heavens from our sight. the air was filled with fiery particles, which floated even to the door-step--while the crackling and roaring of the flames might have been heard at a great distance. could we have reached the lake shore, where several canoes were moored at the landing, by launching out into the water we should have been in perfect safety; but, to attain this object, it was necessary to pass through this mimic hell; and not a bird could have flown over it with unscorched wings. there was no hope in that quarter, for, could we have escaped the flames, we should have been blinded and choked by the thick, black, resinous smoke. the fierce wind drove the flames at the sides and back of the house up the clearing; and our passage to the road, or to the forest, on the right and left, was entirely obstructed by a sea of flames. our only ark of safety was the house, so long as it remained untouched by the consuming element. i turned to young thomas, and asked him, how long he thought that would be. “when the fire clears this little ridge in front, ma'am. the lord have mercy upon us, then, or we must all go!” “cannot you, john, try and make your escape, and see what can be done for us and the poor children?” my eye fell upon the sleeping angels, locked peacefully in each other's arms, and my tears flowed for the first time. mary, the servant-girl, looked piteously up in my face. the good, faithful creature had not uttered one word of complaint, but now she faltered forth-- “the dear, precious lambs!--oh! such a death!” i threw myself down upon the floor beside them, and pressed them alternately to my heart, while inwardly i thanked god that they were asleep, unconscious of danger, and unable by their childish cries to distract our attention from adopting any plan which might offer to effect their escape. the heat soon became suffocating. we were parched with thirst, and there was not a drop of water in the house, and none to be procured nearer than the lake. i turned once more to the door, hoping that a passage might have been burnt through to the water. i saw nothing but a dense cloud of fire and smoke--could hear nothing but the crackling and roaring of the flames, which were gaining so fast upon us that i felt their scorching breath in my face. “ah,” thought i--and it was a most bitter thought--“what will my beloved husband say when he returns and finds that his poor susy and his dear girls have perished in this miserable manner? but god can save us yet.” the thought had scarcely found a voice in my heart before the wind rose to a hurricane, scattering the flames on all sides into a tempest of burning billows. i buried my head in my apron, for i thought that our time was come, and that all was lost, when a most terrific crash of thunder burst over our heads, and, like the breaking of a water-spout, down came the rushing torrent of rain which had been pent up for so many weeks. in a few minutes the chip-yard was all afloat, and the fire effectually checked. the storm which, unnoticed by us, had been gathering all day, and which was the only one of any note we had that summer, continued to rage all night, and before morning had quite subdued the cruel enemy, whose approach we had viewed with such dread. the imminent danger in which we had been placed struck me more forcibly after it was past than at the time, and both the girl and myself sank upon our knees, and lifted up our hearts in humble thanksgiving to that god who had saved us by an act of his providence from an awful and sudden death. when all hope from human assistance was lost, his hand was mercifully stretched forth, making his strength more perfectly manifested in our weakness:-- “he is their stay when earthly help is lost, the light and anchor of the tempest-toss'd.” there was one person unknown to us, who had watched the progress of that rash blaze, and had even brought his canoe to the landing, in the hope of us getting off. this was an irish pensioner named dunn, who had cleared a few acres on his government grant, and had built a shanty on the opposite shore of the lake. “faith, madam! an' i thought the captain was stark, staring mad to fire his fallow on such a windy day, and that blowing right from the lake to the house. when old wittals came in and towld us that the masther was not to the fore, but only one lad, an' the wife an' the chilther at home,--thinks i, there's no time to be lost, or the crathurs will be burnt up intirely. we started instanther, but, by jove! we were too late. the swamp was all in a blaze when we got to the landing, and you might as well have thried to get to heaven by passing through the other place.” this was the eloquent harangue with which the honest creature informed me the next morning of the efforts he had made to save us, and the interest he had felt in our critical situation. i felt comforted for my past anxiety, by knowing that one human being, however humble, had sympathised in our probable fate, while the providential manner in which we had been rescued will ever remain a theme of wonder and gratitude. the next evening brought the return of my husband, who listened to the tale of our escape with a pale and disturbed countenance; not a little thankful to find his wife and children still in the land of the living. for a long time after the burning of that fallow, it haunted me in my dreams. i would awake with a start, imagining myself fighting with the flames, and endeavouring to carry my little children through them to the top of the clearing, when invariably their garments and my own took fire just as i was within reach of a place of safety. the forgotten dream ere one ruddy streak of light glimmer'd o'er the distant height, kindling with its living beam frowning wood and cold grey stream, i awoke with sudden start, clammy brow and beating heart, trembling limbs, convulsed and chill, conscious of some mighty ill; yet unable to recall sights that did my sense appal; sounds that thrill'd my sleeping ear with unutterable fear; forms that to my sleeping eye presented some strange phantasy-- shadowy, spectral, and sublime, that glance upon the sons of time at moments when the mind, o'erwrought, yields reason to mysterious thought, and night and solitude in vain bind the free spirit in their chain. such the vision wild that press'd on tortur'd brain and heaving chest; but sight and sound alike are gone, i woke, and found myself alone; with choking sob and stifled scream to bless my god 'twas but a dream! to smooth my damp and stiffen'd hair, and murmur out the saviour's prayer-- the first to grateful memory brought, the first a gentle mother taught, when, bending o'er her children's bed, she bade good angels guard my head; then paused, with tearful eyes, and smiled on the calm slumbers of her child-- as god himself had heard her prayer, and holy angels worshipped there. chapter xvii our logging-bee there was a man in our town, in our town, in our town-- there was a man in our town, he made a logging-bee; and he bought lots of whiskey, to make the loggers frisky-- to make the loggers frisky at his logging-bee. the devil sat on a log heap, a log heap, a log heap-- a red hot burning log heap-- a-grinning at the bee; and there was lots of swearing, of boasting and of daring, of fighting and of tearing, at that logging bee. j.w.d.m. a logging-bee followed the burning of the fallow, as a matter of course. in the bush, where hands are few, and labour commands an enormous rate of wages, these gatherings are considered indispensable, and much has been written in their praise; but to me, they present the most disgusting picture of a bush life. they are noisy, riotous, drunken meetings, often terminating in violent quarrels, sometimes even in bloodshed. accidents of the most serious nature often occur, and very little work is done when we consider the number of hands employed, and the great consumption of food and liquor. i am certain, in our case, had we hired with the money expended in providing for the bee, two or three industrious, hard-working men, we should have got through twice as much work, and have had it done well, and have been the gainers in the end. people in the woods have a craze for giving and going to bees, and run to them with as much eagerness as a peasant runs to a race-course or a fair; plenty of strong drink and excitement making the chief attraction of a bee. in raising a house or barn, a bee may be looked upon as a necessary evil, but these gatherings are generally conducted in a more orderly manner than those for logging. fewer hands are required; and they are generally under the control of the carpenter who puts up the frame, and if they get drunk during the raising they are liable to meet with very serious accidents. thirty-two men, gentle and simple, were invited to our bee, and the maid and i were engaged for two days preceding the important one, in baking and cooking for the entertainment of our guests. when i looked at the quantity of food we had prepared, i thought it could never be all eaten, even by thirty-two men. it was a burning hot day towards the end of july, when our loggers began to come in, and the “gee!” and “ha!” to encourage the oxen resounded on every side. there was my brother s----, with his frank english face, a host in himself; lieutenant ---- in his blouse, wide white trousers, and red sash, his broad straw hat shading a dark manly face that would have been a splendid property for a bandit chief; the four gay, reckless, idle sons of ----, famous at any spree, but incapable of the least mental or physical exertion, who considered hunting and fishing as the sole aim and object of life. these young men rendered very little assistance themselves, and their example deterred others who were inclined to work. there were the two r----s, who came to work and to make others work; my good brother-in-law, who had volunteered to be the grog boss, and a host of other settlers, among whom i recognised moodie's old acquaintance, dan simpson, with his lank red hair and freckled face; the youngs, the hunters, with their round, black, curly heads and rich irish brogue; poor c---- with his long, spare, consumptive figure, and thin sickly face. poor fellow, he has long since been gathered to his rest! there was the ruffian squatter p----, from clear lake,--the dread of all honest men; the brutal m----, who treated oxen as if they had been logs, by beating them with handspikes; and there was old wittals, with his low forehead and long nose, a living witness of the truth of phrenology, if his large organ of acquisitiveness and his want of consciousness could be taken in evidence. yet in spite of his derelictions from honesty, he was a hard-working, good-natured man, who, if he cheated you in a bargain, or took away some useful article in mistake from your homestead, never wronged his employer in his day's work. he was a curious sample of cunning and simplicity--quite a character in his way--and the largest eater i ever chanced to know. from this ravenous propensity, for he eat his food like a famished wolf, he had obtained his singular name of “wittals.” during the first year of his settlement in the bush, with a very large family to provide for, he had been often in want of food. one day he came to my brother, with a very long face. “mr. s---- i'm no beggar, but i'd be obliged to you for a loaf of bread. i declare to you on my honour that i have not had a bit of wittals to dewour for two whole days.” he came to the right person with his petition. mr. s---- with a liberal hand relieved his wants, but he entailed upon him the name of “old wittals,” as part payment. his daughter, who was a very pretty girl, had stolen a march upon him into the wood, with a lad whom he by no means regarded with a favourable eye. when she returned, the old man confronted her and her lover with this threat, which i suppose he considered “the most awful” punishment that he could devise. “march into the house, madam 'ria (maria); and if ever i catch you with that scamp again, i'll tie you up to a stump all day, and give you no wittals.” i was greatly amused by overhearing a dialogue between old wittals and one of his youngest sons, a sharp, yankeefied-looking boy, who had lost one of his eyes, but the remaining orb looked as if it could see all ways at once. “i say, sol, how came you to tell that tarnation tearing lie to mr. s---- yesterday? didn't you expect that you'd catch a good wallopping for the like of that? lying may be excusable in a man, but 'tis a terrible bad habit for a boy.” “lor', father, that worn't a lie. i told mr. s---- our cow worn't in his peas. nor more she wor; she was in his wheat.” “but she was in the peas all night, boy.” “that wor nothing to me; she worn't in just then. sure i won't get a licking for that?” “no, no, you are a good boy; but mind what i tell you, and don't bring me into a scrape with any of your real lies.” prevarication, the worst of falsehoods, was a virtue in his eyes. so much for the old man's morality. monaghan was in his glory, prepared to work or fight, whichever should come uppermost; and there was old thomas and his sons, the contractors for the clearing, to expedite whose movements the bee was called. old thomas was a very ambitious man in his way. though he did not know a from b, he took into his head that he had received a call from heaven to convert the heathen in the wilderness; and every sunday he held a meeting in our loggers' shanty, for the purpose of awakening sinners, and bringing over “injun pagans” to the true faith. his method of accomplishing this object was very ingenious. he got his wife, peggy--or “my paggy,” as he called her--to read aloud to him a text from the bible, until he knew it by heart; and he had, as he said truly, “a good remembrancer,” and never heard a striking sermon but he retained the most important passages, and retailed them secondhand to his bush audience. i must say that i was not a little surprised at the old man's eloquence when i went one sunday over to the shanty to hear him preach. several wild young fellows had come on purpose to make fun of him; but his discourse, which was upon the text “we shall all meet before the judgment-seat of christ,” was rather too serious a subject to turn into a jest, with even old thomas for the preacher. all went on very well until the old man gave out a hymn, and led off in such a loud, discordant voice, that my little katie, who was standing between her father's knees, looked suddenly up, and said, “mamma, what a noise old thomas makes.” this remark led to a much greater noise, and the young men, unable to restrain their long-suppressed laughter, ran tumultuously from the shanty. i could have whipped the little elf; but small blame could be attached to a child of two years old, who had never heard a preacher, especially such a preacher as the old backwoodsman, in her life. poor man! he was perfectly unconscious of the cause of the disturbance, and remarked to us, after the service was over, “well, ma'am, did we not get on famously? now, worn't that a _bootiful_ discourse?” “it was, indeed; much better than i expected.” “yes, yes; i knew it would please you. it had quite an effect on those wild fellows. a few more such sermons will teach them good behaviour. ah, the bush is a bad place for young men. the farther in the bush, say i, the farther from god, and the nearer to hell. i told that wicked captain l---- of dummer so the other sunday; 'an',' says he, 'if you don't hold your confounded jaw, you old fool, i'll kick you there.' now ma'am--now, sir, was not that bad manners in a gentleman, to use such appropriate epitaphs to a humble servant of god, like i?” and thus the old man ran on for an hour, dilating upon his own merits and the sins of his neighbors. there was john r----, from smith-town, the most notorious swearer in the district; a man who esteemed himself clever, nor did he want for natural talent, but he had converted his mouth into such a sink of iniquity that it corrupted the whole man, and all the weak and thoughtless of his own sex who admitted him into their company. i had tried to convince john r---- (for he often frequented the house under the pretence of borrowing books) of the great crime that he was constantly committing, and of the injurious effect it must produce upon his own family, but the mental disease had taken too deep a root to be so easily cured. like a person labouring under some foul disease, he contaminated all he touched. such men seem to make an ambitious display of their bad habits in such scenes, and if they afford a little help, they are sure to get intoxicated and make a row. there was my friend, old ned dunn, who had been so anxious to get us out of the burning fallow. there was a whole group of dummer pines: levi, the little wiry, witty poacher; cornish bill, the honest-hearted old peasant, with his stalwart figure and uncouth dialect; and david, and nedall good men and true; and malachi chroak, a queer, withered-up, monkey-man, that seemed like some mischievous elf, flitting from heap to heap to make work and fun for the rest; and many others were at that bee who have since found a rest in the wilderness: adam t----, h----, j. m----, h. n----. these, at different times, lost their lives in those bright waters in which, on such occasions as these, they used to sport and frolic to refresh themselves during the noonday heat. alas! how many, who were then young and in their prime, that river and its lakes have swept away! our men worked well until dinner-time, when, after washing in the lake, they all sat down to the rude board which i had prepared for them, loaded with the best fare that could be procured in the bush. pea-soup, legs of pork, venison, eel, and raspberry pies, garnished with plenty of potatoes, and whiskey to wash them down, besides a large iron kettle of tea. to pour out the latter, and dispense it round, devolved upon me. my brother and his friends, who were all temperance men, and consequently the best workers in the field, kept me and the maid actively employed in replenishing their cups. the dinner passed off tolerably well; some of the lower order of the irish settlers were pretty far gone, but they committed no outrage upon our feelings by either swearing or bad language, a few harmless jokes alone circulating among them. some one was funning old wittalls for having eaten seven large cabbages at mr. t----'s bee, a few days previous. his son, sol, thought himself, as in duty bound, to take up the cudgel for his father. “now, i guess that's a lie, anyhow. fayther was sick that day, and i tell you he only ate five.” this announcement was followed by such an explosion of mirth that the boy looked fiercely round him, as if he could scarcely believe the fact that the whole party were laughing at him. malachi chroak, who was good-naturedly drunk, had discovered an old pair of cracked bellows in a corner, which he placed under his arm, and applying his mouth to the pipe, and working his elbows to and fro, pretended that he was playing upon the bagpipes, every now and then letting the wind escape in a shrill squeak from this novel instrument. “arrah, ladies and jintlemen, do jist turn your swate little eyes upon me whilst i play for your iddifications the last illigant tune which my owld grandmother taught me. och hone! 'tis a thousand pities that such musical owld crathers should be suffered to die, at all at all, to be poked away into a dirthy, dark hole, when their canthles shud be burnin' a-top of a bushel, givin' light to the house. an' then it is she that was the illigant dancer, stepping out so lively and frisky, just so.” and here he minced to and fro, affecting the airs of a fine lady. the suppositious bagpipe gave an uncertain, ominous howl, and he flung it down, and started back with a ludicrous expression of alarm. “alive, is it ye are? ye croaking owld divil, is that the tune you taught your son? “och! my old granny taught me, but now she is dead, that a dhrop of nate whiskey is good for the head; it would make a man spake when jist ready to dhie, if you doubt it--my boys!--i'd advise you to thry. “och! my owld granny sleeps with her head on a stone,-- 'now, malach, don't throuble the galls when i'm gone!' i thried to obey her; but, och, i am shure, there's no sorrow on earth that the angels can't cure. “och! i took her advice--i'm a bachelor still; and i dance, and i play, with such excellent skill, (taking up the bellows, and beginning to dance.) that the dear little crathurs are striving in vain which furst shall my hand or my fortin' obtain.” “malach!” shouted a laughing group. “how was it that the old lady taught you to go a-courting?” “arrah, that's a sacret! i don't let out owld granny's sacrets,” said malachi, gracefully waving his head to and fro to the squeaking of the bellows; then, suddenly tossing back the long, dangling black elf-locks that curled down the sides of his lank, yellow cheeks, and winking knowingly with his comical little deep-seated black eyes, he burst out again-- “wid the blarney i'd win the most dainty proud dame, no gall can resist the soft sound of that same; wid the blarney, my boys--if you doubt it, go thry-- but hand here the bottle, my whistle is dhry.” the men went back to the field, leaving malachi to amuse those who remained in the house; and we certainly did laugh our fill at his odd capers and conceits. then he would insist upon marrying our maid. there could be no refusal--have her he would. the girl, to keep him quiet, laughingly promised that she would take him for her husband. this did not satisfy him. she must take her oath upon the bible to that effect. mary pretended that there was no bible in the house, but he found an old spelling-book upon a shelf in the kitchen, and upon it he made her swear, and called upon me to bear witness to her oath, and that she was now his betrothed, and he would go next day with her to the “praist.” poor mary had reason to repent her frolic, for he stuck close to her the whole evening, tormenting her to fulfill her contract. after the sun went down, the logging-band came in to supper, which was all ready for them. those who remained sober ate the meal in peace, and quietly returned to their own homes; while the vicious and the drunken stayed to brawl and fight. after having placed the supper on the table, i was so tired with the noise, and heat, and fatigue of the day, that i went to bed, leaving to mary and my husband the care of the guests. the little bed-chamber was only separated from the kitchen by a few thin boards; and unfortunately for me and the girl, who was soon forced to retreat thither, we could hear all the wickedness and profanity going on in the next room. my husband, disgusted with the scene, soon left it, and retired into the parlour, with the few of the loggers who at that hour remained sober. the house rang with the sound of unhallowed revelry, profane songs and blasphemous swearing. it would have been no hard task to have imagined these miserable, degraded beings fiends instead of men. how glad i was when they at last broke up; and we were once more left in peace to collect the broken glasses and cups, and the scattered fragments of that hateful feast. we were obliged to endure a second and a third repetition of this odious scene, before sixteen acres of land were rendered fit for the reception of our fall crop of wheat. my hatred to these tumultuous, disorderly meetings was not in the least decreased by my husband being twice seriously hurt while attending them. after the second injury he received, he seldom went to them himself, but sent his oxen and servant in his place. in these odious gatherings, the sober, moral, and industrious man is more likely to suffer than the drunken and profane, as during the delirium of drink these men expose others to danger as well as themselves. the conduct of many of the settlers, who considered themselves gentlemen, and would have been very much affronted to have been called otherwise, was often more reprehensible than that of the poor irish emigrants, to whom they should have set an example of order and sobriety. the behaviour of these young men drew upon them the severe but just censures of the poorer class, whom they regarded in every way as their inferiors. “that blackguard calls himself a gentleman. in what respect is he better than us?” was an observation too frequently made use of at these gatherings. to see a bad man in the very worst point of view, follow him to a bee: be he profane, licentious, quarrelsome, or a rogue, all his native wickedness will be fully developed there. just after the last of these logging-bees, we had to part with our good servant mary, and just at a time when it was the heaviest loss to me. her father, who had been a dairyman in the north of ireland, an honest, industrious man, had brought out upwards of one hundred pounds to this country. with more wisdom than is generally exercised by irish emigrants, instead of sinking all his means in buying a bush farm, he hired a very good farm in cavan, with cattle, and returned to his old avocation. the services of his daughter, who was an excellent dairymaid, were required to take the management of the cows; and her brother brought a wagon and horses all the way from the front to take her home. this event was perfectly unexpected, and left me without a moment's notice to provide myself with another servant, at a time when servants were not to be had, and i was perfectly unable to do the least thing. my little addie was sick almost to death with the summer complaint, and the eldest still too young to take care of herself. this was but the beginning of trouble. ague and lake fever had attacked our new settlement. the men in the shanty were all down with it; and my husband was confined to his bed on each alternate day, unable to raise hand or foot, and raving in the delirium of the fever. in my sister and brother's families, scarcely a healthy person remained to attend upon the sick; and at herriot's falls, nine persons were stretched upon the floor of one log cabin, unable to help themselves or one another. after much difficulty, and only by offering enormous wages, i succeeded in procuring a nurse to attend upon me during my confinement. the woman had not been a day in the house before she was attacked by the same fever. in the midst of this confusion, and with my precious little addie lying insensible on a pillow at the foot of my bed--expected at every moment to breathe her last--on the night of the th of august the boy i had so ardently coveted was born. the next day, old pine carried his wife (my nurse) away upon his back, and i was left to struggle through, in the best manner i could, with a sick husband, a sick child, and a newborn babe. it was a melancholy season, one of severe mental and bodily suffering. those who have drawn such agreeable pictures of a residence in the backwoods never dwell upon the periods of sickness, when, far from medical advice, and often, as in my case, deprived of the assistance of friends by adverse circumstances, you are left to languish, unattended, upon the couch of pain. the day that my husband was free of the fit, he did what he could for me and his poor sick babes, but, ill as he was, he was obliged to sow the wheat to enable the man to proceed with the drag, and was therefore necessarily absent in the field the greater part of the day. i was very ill, yet for hours at a time i had no friendly voice to cheer me, to proffer me a drink of cold water, or to attend to the poor babe; and worse, still worse, there was no one to help that pale, marble child, who lay so cold and still, with “half-closed violet eyes,” as if death had already chilled her young heart in his iron grasp. there was not a breath of air in our close, burning bed-closet; and the weather was sultry beyond all that i have since experienced. how i wished that i could be transported to a hospital at home, to enjoy the common care that in such places is bestowed upon the sick. bitter tears flowed continually from my eyes over those young children. i had asked of heaven a son, and there he lay helpless by the side of his almost equally helpless mother, who could not lift him up in her arms, or still his cries; while the pale, fair angel, with her golden curls, who had lately been the admiration of all who saw her, no longer recognized my voice, or was conscious of my presence. i felt that i could almost resign the long and eagerly hoped-for son, to win one more smile from that sweet suffering creature. often did i weep myself to sleep, and wake to weep again with renewed anguish. and my poor little katie, herself under three years of age, how patiently she bore the loss of my care, and every comfort. how earnestly the dear thing strove to help me. she would sit on my sick-bed, and hold my hand, and ask me to look at her and speak to her; would inquire why addie slept so long, and when she would awake again. those innocent questions went like arrows to my heart. lieutenant ----, the husband of my dear emilia, at length heard of my situation. his inestimable wife was from home, nursing her sick mother; but he sent his maid-servant up every day for a couple of hours, and the kind girl despatched a messenger nine miles through the woods to dummer, to fetch her younger sister, a child of twelve years old. oh, how grateful i felt for these signal mercies; for my situation for nearly a week was one of the most pitiable that could be imagined. the sickness was so prevalent that help was not to be obtained for money; and without the assistance of that little girl, young as she was, it is more than probable that neither myself nor my children would ever have risen from that bed of sickness. the conduct of our man jacob, during this trying period, was marked with the greatest kindness and consideration. on the days that his master was confined to his bed with the fever, he used to place a vessel of cold water and a cup by his bedside, and put his honest english face in at my door to know if he could make a cup of tea, or toast a bit of bread for the mistress, before he went into the field. katie was indebted to him for all meals. he baked, and cooked, and churned, milked the cows, and made up the butter, as well and as carefully as the best female servant could have done. as to poor john monanghan, he was down with fever in the shanty, where four other men were all ill with the same terrible complaint. i was obliged to leave my bed and endeavour to attend to the wants of my young family long before i was really able. when i made my first attempt to reach the parlour i was so weak, that, at every step, i felt as if i should pitch forward to the ground, which seemed to undulate beneath my feet like the floor of a cabin in a storm at sea. my husband continued to suffer for many weeks with the ague; and when he was convalescent, all the children, even the poor babe, were seized with it, nor did it leave us until late in the spring of . the emigrant's farewell rise, mary! meet me on the shore, and tell our tale of sorrow o'er; there must we meet to part no more-- rise, mary, rise! come, dearest, come! tho' all in vain; once more beside yon summer main we'll plight our hopeless vows again-- unclose thine eyes. my bark amidst the surge is toss'd, i go, by evil fortunes cross'd, my earthly hopes for ever lost-- love's dearest prize. but when thy hand is clasp'd in mine, i'll laugh at fortune, nor repine; in life, in death, for ever thine-- then check these sighs. they move a bosom steel'd to bear its own unwonted load of care, that will not bend beneath despair-- rise, dearest, rise. life's but a troubled dream at best; there comes a time when grief shall rest, kind, faithful hearts shall yet be bless'd 'neath brighter skies! chapter xviii a trip to stony lake oh nature! in thy ever-varying face, by rocky shore, or 'neath the forest tree, what love divine, what matchless skill, i trace! my full warm heart responsive thrills to thee. yea, in my throbbing bosom's inmost core, thou reign'st supreme; and, in thy sternest mood, thy votary bends in rapture to adore the mighty maker, who pronounced thee good. thy broad, majestic brow still bears his seal; and when i cease to love, oh, may i cease to feel. my husband had long promised me a trip to stony lake, and in the summer of , before the harvest commenced, he gave mr. y----, who kept the mill at the rapids below clear lake, notice of our intention, and the worthy old man and his family made due preparation for our reception. the little girls were to accompany us. we were to start at sunrise, to avoid the heat of the day, to go up as far as mr. y----'s in our canoe, re-embark with his sons above the rapids in birch-bark canoes, go as far up the lake as we could accomplish by daylight, and return at night; the weather being very warm, and the moon at full. before six o'clock we were all seated in the little craft, which spread her white sail to a foaming breeze, and sped merrily over the blue waters. the lake on which our clearing stood was about a mile and a half in length, and about three quarters of a mile in breadth; a mere pond, when compared with the bay of quinte, ontario, and the inland seas of canada. but it was _our_ lake, and, consequently, it had ten thousand beauties in our eyes, which would scarcely have attracted the observation of a stranger. at the head of the katchawanook, the lake is divided by a long neck of land, that forms a small bay on the right-hand side, and a very brisk rapid on the left. the banks are formed of large masses of limestone; and the cardinal-flower and the tiger-lily seem to have taken an especial fancy to this spot, and to vie with each other in the display of their gorgeous colours. it is an excellent place for fishing; the water is very deep close to the rocky pavement that forms the bank, and it has a pebbly bottom. many a magic hour, at rosy dawn, or evening grey, have i spent with my husband on this romantic spot; our canoe fastened to a bush, and ourselves intent upon ensnaring the black bass, a fish of excellent flavour that abounds in this place. our paddles soon carried us past the narrows, and through the rapid water, the children sitting quietly at the bottom of the boat, enchanted with all they heard and saw, begging papa to stop and gather water-lilies, or to catch one of the splendid butterflies that hovered over us; and often the little addie darted her white hand into the water to grasp at the shadow of the gorgeous insects as they skimmed along the waves. after passing the rapids, the river widened into another small lake, perfectly round in form, and having in its centre a tiny green island, in the midst of which stood, like a shattered monument of bygone storms, one blasted, black ash-tree. the indians call this lake bessikakoon, but i do not know the exact meaning of the word. some say that it means “the indian's grave,” others “the lake of the one island.” it is certain that an indian girl is buried beneath that blighted tree; but i never could learn the particulars of her story, and perhaps there was no tale connected with it. she might have fallen a victim to disease during the wanderings of her tribe, and been buried on that spot; or she might have been drowned, which would account for her having been buried away from the rest of her people. this little lake lies in the heart of the wilderness. there is but one clearing upon its shores, and that had been made by lumberers many years before; the place abounded with red cedar. a second growth of young timber had grown up in this spot, which was covered also with raspberry-bushes--several hundred acres being entirely overgrown with this delicious berry. it was here annually that we used to come in large picnic parties, to collect this valuable fruit for our winter preserves, in defiance of black-flies, mosquitoes, snakes, and even bears, all which have been encountered by berry-pickers upon this spot, as busy and as active as themselves, gathering an ample repast from nature's bounteous lap. and, oh! what beautiful wild shrubs and flowers grew up in that neglected spot! some of the happiest hours i spent in the bush are connected with reminiscences of “irving's shanty,” for so the raspberry-grounds were called. the clearing could not be seen from the shore. you had to scramble through a cedar-swamp to reach the sloping ground which produced the berries. the mill at the clear lake rapids was about three miles distant from our own clearing; and after stemming another rapid, and passing between two beautiful wooded islands, the canoe rounded a point, and the rude structure was before us. a wilder and more romantic spot than that which the old hunter had chosen for his homestead in the wilderness could scarcely be imagined. the waters of clear lake here empty themselves through a narrow, deep, rocky channel, not exceeding a quarter of a mile in length, and tumble over a limestone ridge of ten or twelve feet in height, which extends from one bank of the river to the other. the shores on either side are very steep, and the large oak-trees which have anchored their roots in every crevice of the rock, throw their fantastic arms far over the foaming waterfall, the deep green of their massy foliage forming a beautiful contrast with the white, flashing waters that foam over the shoot at least fifty feet below the brow of the limestone rock. by a flight of steps cut in the banks we ascended to the platform above the river on which mr. y----'s house stood. it was a large, rough-looking, log building, surrounded by barns and sheds of the same primitive material. the porch before the door was covered with hops, and the room of general resort, into which it immediately opened, was of large dimensions, the huge fire-place forming the most striking feature. on the hearth-stone, hot as was the weather, blazed a great fire, encumbered with all sorts of culinary apparatus, which, i am inclined to think, had been called into requisition for our sole benefit and accommodation. the good folks had breakfasted long before we started from home, but they would not hear of our proceeding to stony lake until after we had dined. it was only eight o'clock a.m., and we had still four hours to dinner, which gave us ample leisure to listen to the old man's stories, ramble round the premises, and observe all the striking features of the place. mr. y---- was a catholic, and the son of a respectable farmer from the south of ireland. some few years before, he had emigrated with a large family of seven sons and two daughters, and being fond of field sports, and greatly taken with the beauty of the locality in which he had pitched his tent in the wilderness, he determined to raise a mill upon the dam which nature had provided to his hands, and wait patiently until the increasing immigration should settle the townships of smith and douro, render the property valuable, and bring plenty of grist to the mill. he was not far wrong in his calculations; and though, for the first few years, he subsisted entirely by hunting, fishing, and raising what potatoes and wheat he required for his own family, on the most fertile spots he could find on his barren lot, very little corn passed through the mill. at the time we visited his place, he was driving a thriving trade, and all the wheat that was grown in the neighbourhood was brought by water to be ground at y----'s mill. he had lost his wife a few years after coming to the country; but his two daughters, betty and norah, were excellent housewives, and amply supplied her loss. from these amiable women we received a most kind and hearty welcome, and every comfort and luxury within their reach. they appeared a most happy and contented family. the sons--a fine, hardy, independent set of fellows--were regarded by the old man with pride and affection. many were his anecdotes of their prowess in hunting and fishing. his method of giving them an aversion to strong drink while very young amused me greatly, but it is not every child that could have stood the test of his experiment. “when they were little chaps, from five to six years of age, i made them very drunk,” he said; “so drunk that it brought on severe headache and sickness, and this so disgusted them with liquor, that they never could abide the sight of it again. i have only one drunkard among the seven; and he was such a weak, puling crathur, that i dared not try the same game with him, lest it should kill him. 'tis his nature, i suppose, and he can't help it; but the truth is, that to make up for the sobriety of all the rest, he is killing himself with drink.” norah gave us an account of her catching a deer that had got into the enclosure the day before. “i went out,” she said, “early in the morning, to milk the cows, and i saw a fine young buck struggling to get through a pale of the fence, in which having entangled his head and horns, i knew, by the desperate efforts he was making to push aside the rails, that if i was not quick in getting hold of him, he would soon be gone.” “and did you dare to touch him?” “if i had had mat's gun i would have shot him, but he would have made his escape long before i could run to the house for that, so i went boldly up to him and got him by the hind legs; and though he kicked and struggled dreadfully, i held on till mat heard me call, and ran to my help, and cut his throat with his hunting-knife. so you see,” she continued, with a good-natured laugh, “i can beat our hunters hollow--they hunt the deer, but i can catch a buck with my hands.” while we were chatting away, great were the preparations making by miss betty and a very handsome american woman, who had recently come thither as a help. one little barefooted garsoon was shelling peas in an indian basket, another was stringing currants into a yellow pie-dish, and a third was sent to the rapids with his rod and line, to procure a dish of fresh fish to add to the long list of bush dainties that were preparing for our dinner. it was in vain that i begged our kind entertainers not to put themselves to the least trouble on our account, telling them that we were now used to the woods, and contented with anything; they were determined to exhaust all their stores to furnish forth the entertainment. nor can it be wondered at, that, with so many dishes to cook, and pies and custards to bake, instead of dining at twelve, it was past two o'clock before we were conducted to the dinner-table. i was vexed and disappointed at the delay, as i wanted to see all i could of the spot we were about to visit before night and darkness compelled us to return. the feast was spread in a large outhouse, the table being formed of two broad deal boards laid together, and supported by rude carpenter's stools. a white linen cloth, a relic of better days, concealed these arrangements. the board was covered with an indescribable variety of roast and boiled, of fish, flesh, and fowl. my readers should see a table laid out in a wealthy canadian farmer's house before they can have any idea of the profusion displayed in the entertainment of two visitors and their young children. besides venison, pork, chickens, ducks, and fish of several kinds, cooked in a variety of ways, there was a number of pumpkin, raspberry, cherry, and currant pies, with fresh butter and green cheese (as the new cream-cheese is called), molasses, preserves, and pickled cucumbers, besides tea and coffee--the latter, be it known, i had watched the american woman boiling in the frying-pan. it was a black-looking compound, and i did not attempt to discuss its merits. the vessel in which it had been prepared had prejudiced me, and rendered me very sceptical on that score. we were all very hungry, having tasted nothing since five o'clock in the morning, and contrived, out of the variety of good things before us, to make an excellent dinner. i was glad, however, when we rose to prosecute our intended trip up the lake. the old man, whose heart was now thoroughly warmed with whiskey, declared that he meant to make one of the party, and betty, too, was to accompany us; her sister norah kindly staying behind to take care of the children. we followed a path along the top of the high ridge of limestone rock, until we had passed the falls and the rapids above, when we found pat and mat y---- waiting for us on the shore below, in two beautiful new birch-bark canoes, which they had purchased the day before from the indians. miss betty, mat, and myself, were safely stowed into one, while the old miller, and his son pat, and my husband, embarked in the other, and our steersmen pushed off into the middle of the deep and silent stream; the shadow of the tall woods, towering so many feet above us, casting an inky hue upon the waters. the scene was very imposing, and after paddling for a few minutes in shade and silence, we suddenly emerged into light and sunshine, and clear lake, which gets its name from the unrivalled brightness of its waters, spread out its azure mirror before us. the indians regard this sheet of water with peculiar reverence. it abounds in the finest sorts of fish, the salmon-trout, the delicious white fish, maskinonge, and black and white bass. there is no island in this lake, no rice beds, nor stick nor stone to break its tranquil beauty, and, at the time we visited it, there was but one clearing upon its shores. the log hut of the squatter p----, commanding a beautiful prospect up and down the lake, stood upon a bold slope fronting the water; all the rest was unbroken forest. we had proceeded about a mile on our pleasant voyage, when our attention was attracted by a singular natural phenomenon, which mat y---- called the battery. on the right-hand side of the shore rose a steep, perpendicular wall of limestone, that had the appearance of having been laid by the hand of man, so smooth and even was its surface. after attaining a height of about fifty feet, a natural platform of eight or ten yards broke the perpendicular line of the rock, when another wall, like the first, rose to a considerable height, terminating in a second and third platform of the same description. fire, at some distant period, had run over these singularly beautiful terraces, and a second growth of poplars and balm-of-gileads, relieved, by their tender green and light, airy foilage, the sombre indigo tint of the heavy pines that nodded like the plumes of a funeral-hearse over the fair young dwellers on the rock. the water is forty feet deep at the base of this precipice, which is washed by the waves. after we had passed the battery, mat y---- turned to me and said, “that is a famous place for bears; many a bear have i shot among those rocks.” this led to a long discussion on the wild beasts of the country. “i do not think that there is much danger to be apprehended from them,” said he; “but i once had an ugly adventure with a wolf two winters ago, on this lake.” i was all curiosity to hear the story, which sounded doubly interesting told on the very spot, and while gliding over those lovely waters. “we were lumbering at the head of stony lake, about eight miles from here, my four brothers, myself, and several other hands. the winter was long and severe; although it was the first week in march, there was not the least appearance of a thaw, and the ice on these lakes was as firm as ever. i had been sent home to fetch a yoke of oxen to draw the saw-logs down to the water, our chopping being all completed, and the logs ready for rafting. “i did not think it necessary to encumber myself with my rifle, and was, therefore, provided with no weapon of defence but the long gad i used to urge on the cattle. it was about four o'clock in the afternoon when i rounded sandy point, that long point which is about a mile a-head of us on the left shore, when i first discovered that i was followed, but at a great distance, by a large wolf. at first, i thought little of the circumstance, beyond a passing wish that i had brought my gun. i knew that he would not attack me before dark, and it was still two long hours to sundown; so i whistled, and urged on my oxen, and soon forgot the wolf--when, on stopping to repair a little damage to the peg of the yoke, i was surprised to find him close at my heels. i turned, and ran towards him, shouting as loud as i could, when he slunk back, but showed no inclination to make off. knowing that he must have companions near, by his boldness, i shouted as loud as i could, hoping that my cries might be heard by my brothers, who would imagine that the oxen had got into the ice, and would come to my assistance. i was now winding my way through the islands in stony lake; the sun was setting red before me, and i had still three miles of my journey to accomplish. the wolf had become so impudent that i kept him off by pelting him with snowballs; and once he came so near that i struck him with the gad. i now began to be seriously alarmed, and from time to time, shouted with all my strength; and you may imagine my joy when these cries were answered by the report of a gun. my brothers had heard me, and the discharge of a gun, for a moment, seemed to daunt the wolf. he uttered a long howl, which was answered by the cries of a large pack of the dirty brutes from the wood. it was only just light enough to distinguish objects, and i had to stop and face my enemy, to keep him at bay. “i saw the skeleton forms of half-a-dozen more of them slinking among the bushes that skirted a low island; and tired and cold, i gave myself and the oxen up for lost, when i felt the ice tremble on which i stood, and heard men running at a little distance. 'fire your guns!' i cried out, as loud as i could. my order was obeyed, and such a yelling and howling immediately filled the whole forest as would have chilled your very heart. the thievish varmints instantly fled away into the bush. “i never felt the least fear of wolves until that night; but when they meet in large bands, like cowardly dogs, they trust to their numbers, and grow fierce. if you meet with one wolf, you may be certain that the whole pack are at no great distance.” we were fast approaching sandy point, a long white ridge of sand, running half across the lake, and though only covered with scattered groups of scrubby trees and brush, it effectually screened stony lake from our view. there were so many beautiful flowers peeping through the dwarf, green bushes, that, wishing to inspect them nearer, mat kindly ran the canoe ashore, and told me that he would show me a pretty spot, where an indian, who had been drowned during a storm off that point, was buried. i immediately recalled the story of susan moore's father, but mat thought that he was interred upon one of the islands farther up. “it is strange,” he said, “that they are such bad swimmers. the indian, though unrivalled by us whites in the use of the paddle, is an animal that does not take readily to the water, and those among them who can swim seldom use it as a recreation.” pushing our way through the bushes, we came to a small opening in the underwood, so thickly grown over with wild canadian roses in full blossom, that the air was impregnated with a delightful odour. in the centre of this bed of sweets rose the humble mound that protected the bones of the red man from the ravenous jaws of the wolf and the wild cat. it was completely covered with stones, and from among the crevices had sprung a tuft of blue harebells, waving as wild and free as if they grew among the bonny red heather on the glorious hills of the north, or shook their tiny bells to the breeze on the broom-encircled commons of england. the harebell had always from a child been with me a favourite flower; and the first sight of it in canada, growing upon that lonely grave, so flooded my soul with remembrances of the past, that, in spite of myself, the tears poured freely from my eyes. there are moments when it is impossible to repress those outgushings of the heart-- “those flood-gates of the soul that sever, in passion's tide to part for ever.” if mat and his sister wondered at my tears, they must have suspected the cause, for they walked to a little distance, and left me to the indulgence of my feelings. i gathered those flowers, and placed them in my bosom, and kept them for many a day; they had become holy, when connected with sacred home recollections, and the never-dying affections of the heart which the sight of them recalled. a shout from our companions in the other canoe made us retrace our steps to the shore. they had already rounded the point, and were wondering at our absence. oh, what a magnificent scene of wild and lonely grandeur burst upon us as we swept round the little peninsula, and the whole majesty of stony lake broke upon us at once; another lake of the thousand isles, in miniature, and in the heart of the wilderness! imagine a large sheet of water, some fifteen miles in breadth and twenty-five in length, taken up by islands of every size and shape, from the lofty naked rock of red granite to the rounded hill, covered with oak-trees to its summit; while others were level with the waters, and of a rich emerald green, only fringed with a growth of aquatic shrubs and flowers. never did my eyes rest on a more lovely or beautiful scene. not a vestige of man, or of his works, was there. the setting sun that cast such a gorgeous flood of light upon this exquisite panorama, bringing out some of these lofty islands in strong relief, and casting others into intense shade, shed no cheery beam upon church spire or cottage pane. we beheld the landscape, savage and grand in its primeval beauty. as we floated among the channels between these rocky picturesque isles, i asked mat how many of them there were. “i never could succeed,” he said, “in counting them all. one sunday pat and i spent a whole day in going from one to the other, to try and make out how many there were, but we could only count up to one hundred and forty before we gave up the task in despair. there are a great many of them; more than any one would think--and, what is very singular, the channel between them is very deep, sometimes above forty feet, which accounts for the few rapids to be found in this lake. it is a glorious place for hunting; and the waters, undisturbed by steam-boats, abound in all sorts of fish. “most of these islands are covered with huckleberries; while grapes, high and low-bush cranberries, blackberries, wild cherries, gooseberries, and several sorts of wild currants grow here in profusion. there is one island among these groups (but i never could light upon the identical one) where the indians yearly gather their wampum-grass. they come here to collect the best birch-bark for their canoes, and to gather wild onions. in short, from the game, fish, and fruit which they collect among the islands of this lake, they chiefly depend for their subsistence. they are very jealous of the settlers in the country coming to hunt and fish here, and tell many stories of wild beasts and rattlesnakes that abound along its shores, but i, who have frequented the lake for years, was never disturbed by anything, beyond the adventure with the wolf, which i have already told you. the banks of this lake are all steep and rocky, and the land along the shore is barren, and totally unfit for cultivation. “had we time to run up a few miles further, i could have showed you some places well worth a journey to look at; but the sun is already down, and it will be dark before we get back to the mill.” the other canoe now floated alongside, and pat agreed with his brother that it was high time to return. with reluctance i turned from this strangely fascinating scene. as we passed under one bold rocky island, mat said, laughingly, “that is mount rascal.” “how did it obtain that name?” “oh, we were out here berrying, with our good priest, mr. b----. this island promised so fair, that we landed upon it, and, after searching for an hour, we returned to the boat without a single berry, upon which mr. b---- named it 'mount rascal.'” the island was so beautiful, it did not deserve the name, and i christened it “oak hill,” from the abundance of oak-trees which clothed its steep sides. the wood of this oak is so heavy and hard that it will not float in the water, and it is in great request for the runners of lumber-sleighs, which have to pass over very bad roads. the breeze, which had rendered our sail up the lakes so expeditious and refreshing, had stiffened into a pretty high wind, which was dead against us all the way down. betty now knelt in the bow and assisted her brother, squaw fashion, in paddling the canoe; but, in spite of all their united exertions, it was past ten o'clock before we reached the mill. the good norah was waiting tea for us. she had given the children their supper four hours ago, and the little creatures, tired with using their feet all day, were sound asleep upon her bed. after supper, several irish songs were sung, while pat played upon the fiddle, and betty and mat enlivened the company with an irish jig. it was midnight when the children were placed on my cloak at the bottom of the canoe, and we bade adieu to this hospitable family. the wind being dead against us, we were obliged to dispense with the sail, and take to our paddles. the moonlight was as bright as day, the air warm and balmy; and the aromatic, resinous smell exuded by the heat from the balm-of-gilead and the pine-trees in the forest, added greatly to our sense of enjoyment as we floated past scenes so wild and lonely--isles that assumed a mysterious look and character in that witching hour. in moments like these, i ceased to regret my separation from my native land; and, filled with the love of nature, my heart forgot for the time the love of home. the very spirit of peace seemed to brood over the waters, which were broken into a thousand ripples of light by every breeze that stirred the rice blossoms, or whispered through the shivering aspen-trees. the far-off roar of the rapids, softened by distance, and the long, mournful cry of the night-owl, alone broke the silence of the night. amid these lonely wilds the soul draws nearer to god, and is filled to overflowing by the overwhelming sense of his presence. it was two o'clock in the morning when we fastened the canoe to the landing, and moodie carried up the children to the house. i found the girl still up with my boy, who had been very restless during our absence. my heart reproached me, as i caught him to my breast, for leaving him so long; in a few minutes he was consoled for past sorrows, and sleeping sweetly in my arms. a canadian song come, launch the light canoe; the breeze is fresh and strong; the summer skies are blue, and 'tis joy to float along; away o'er the waters, the bright-glancing waters, the many-voiced waters, as they dance in light and song. when the great creator spoke, on the long unmeasured night the living day-spring broke, and the waters own'd his might; the voice of many waters, of glad, rejoicing waters, of living, leaping waters, first hailed the dawn of light. where foaming billows glide to earth's remotest bound; the rushing ocean tide rolls on the solemn sound; god's voice is in the waters; the deep, mysterious waters, the sleepless, dashing waters, still breathe its tones around. chapter xix the “ould dhragoon” [i am indebted to my husband for this sketch.] behold that man, with lanky locks, which hang in strange confusion o'er his brow; and nicely scan his garments, rent and patch'd, in colours varied, like a pictured map; and watch his restless glance--now grave, now gay-- as saddening thought, or merry humour's flash sweeps o'er the deep-mark'd lines which care hath left; as when the world is steep'd in blackest night, the forked lightning flashes through the sky, and all around leaps into life and light, to sink again in darkness blacker still. yes! look upon that face lugubrious, long, as thoughtfully he stands with folded arms amid his realm of charr'd and spectral stumps, which once were trees, but now, with sprawling roots, cling to the rocks which peep above the soil. ay! look again, and say if you discern the faintest trace of warrior bold;--the gait erect and proud, the steady glance that speaks the fearless soul, watchful and prompt to do what man can do when duty calls. all wreck'd and reckless now;-- but let the trumpet's soul-inspiring sound wake up the brattling echoes of the woods, then watch his kindling eye--his eagle glance-- while thoughts of glorious fields, and battles won, and visions bright of joyous, hopeful youth sweep o'er his soul. a soldier now once more-- touch'd by the magic sound, he rears his head, responsive to the well-known martial note, and stands again a hero 'mid his rags. it is delightful to observe a feeling of contentment under adverse circumstances. we may smile at the rude and clumsy attempts of the remote and isolated backwoodsman to attain something like comfort, but happy he who, with the buoyant spirits of the light-hearted irishman, contrives to make himself happy even when all others would be miserable. a certain degree of dissatisfaction with our present circumstances is necessary to stimulate us to exertion, and thus to enable us to secure future comfort; but where the delusive prospect of future happiness is too remote for any reasonable hope of ultimate attainment, then surely it is true wisdom to make the most of the present, and to cultivate a spirit of happy contentment with the lot assigned to us by providence. “ould simpson,” or the “ould dhragoon,” as he was generally called, was a good sample of this happy character; and i shall proceed to give the reader a sketch of his history, and a description of his establishment. he was one of that unfortunate class of discharged soldiers who are tempted to sell their pensions often far below their true value, for the sake of getting a lot of land in some remote settlement, where it is only rendered valuable by the labour of the settler, and where they will have the unenviable privilege of expending the last remains of their strength in clearing a patch of land for the benefit of some grasping storekeeper who has given them credit while engaged in the work. the old dragoon had fixed his abode on the verge of an extensive beaver-meadow, which was considered a sort of natural curiosity in the neighbourhood; and where he managed, by cutting the rank grass in the summer time, to support several cows, which afforded the chief subsistence of his family. he had also managed, with the assistance of his devoted partner, judy, to clear a few acres of poor rocky land on the sloping margin of the level meadow, which he planted year after year with potatoes. scattered over this small clearing, here and there might be seen the but-end of some half-burnt hemlock tree, which had escaped the general combustion of the log heaps, and now formed a striking contrast to the white limestone rocks which showed their rounded surfaces above the meagre soil. the “ould dhragoon” seemed, moreover, to have some taste for the picturesque, and by way of ornament, had left standing sundry tall pines and hemlocks neatly girdled to destroy their foliage, the shade of which would have been detrimental to the “blessed praties” which he designed to grow in his clearing, but which, in the meantime, like martyrs at the stake, stretched their naked branches imploringly towards the smiling heavens. as he was a kind of hermit, from choice, and far removed from other settlers, whose assistance is so necessary in new settlements, old simpson was compelled to resort to the most extraordinary contrivances while clearing his land. thus, after felling the trees, instead of chopping them into lengths, for the purpose of facilitating the operation of piling them preparatory to burning, which would have cost him too much labour, he resorted to the practice of “niggering,” as it is called; which is simply laying light pieces of round timber across the trunks of the trees, and setting fire to them at the point of contact, by which means the trees are slowly burned through. it was while busily engaged in this interesting operation that i first became acquainted with the subject of this sketch. some twenty or thirty little fires were burning briskly in different parts of the blackened field, and the old fellow was watching the slow progress of his silent “niggers,” and replacing them from time to time as they smouldered away. after threading my way among the uncouth logs, blazing and smoking in all directions, i encountered the old man, attired in an old hood, or bonnet, of his wife judy, with his patched canvas trousers rolled up to his knees; one foot bare, and the other furnished with an old boot, which from its appearance had once belonged to some more aristocratic foot. his person was long, straight, and sinewy, and there was a light springiness and elasticity in his step which would have suited a younger man, as he skipped along with a long handspike over his shoulder. he was singing a stave from the “enniskillen dragoon” when i came up with him. “with his silver-mounted pistols, and his long carbine, long life to the brave inniskillen dragoon.” his face would have been one of the most lugubrious imaginable, with his long, tangled hair hanging confusedly over it, in a manner which has been happily compared to a “bewitched haystack,” had it not been for a certain humorous twitch or convulsive movement, which affected one side of his countenance, whenever any droll idea passed through his mind. it was with a twitch of this kind, and a certain indescribable twinkle of his somewhat melancholy eye, as he seemed intuitively to form a hasty conception of the oddity of his appearance to a stranger unused to the bush, that he welcomed me to his clearing. he instantly threw down his handspike, and leaving his “niggers” to finish their work at their leisure, insisted on our going to his house to get something to drink. on the way, i explained to him the object of my visit, which was to mark out, or “blaze,” the sidelines of a lot of land i had received as part of a military grant, immediately adjoining the beaver-meadow, and i asked him to accompany me, as he was well acquainted with the different lots. “och! by all manner of manes, and welcome; the dhevil a foot of the way but i know as well as my own clearing; but come into the house, and get a dhrink of milk, an' a bite of bread an' butther, for sorrow a dhrop of the whiskey has crossed my teeth for the last month; an' it's but poor intertainment for man or baste i can offer you, but shure you're heartily welcome.” the precincts of the homestead were divided and subdivided into an infinity of enclosures, of all shapes and sizes. the outer enclosure was a bush fence, formed of trees felled on each other in a row, and the gaps filled up with brushwood. there was a large gate, swung with wooden hinges, and a wooden latch to fasten it; the smaller enclosures were made with round poles, tied together with bark. the house was of the rudest description of “shanty,” with hollowed basswood logs, fitting into each other somewhat in the manner of tiles for a roof, instead of shingles. no iron was to be seen, in the absence of which there was plenty of leathern hinges, wooden latches for locks, and bark-strings instead of nails. there was a large fireplace at one end of the shanty, with a chimney, constructed of split laths, plastered with a mixture of clay and cowdung. as for windows, these were luxuries which could well be dispensed with; the open door was an excellent substitute for them in the daytime, and at night none were required. when i ventured to object to this arrangement, that he would have to keep the door shut in the winter time, the old man replied, in the style so characteristic of his country, “shure it will be time enough to think of that when the could weather sets in.” everything about the house wore a robinson crusoe aspect, and though there was not any appearance of original plan or foresight, there was no lack of ingenious contrivance to meet every want as it arose. judy dropped us a low curtsey as we entered, which was followed by a similar compliment from a stout girl of twelve, and two or three more of the children, who all seemed to share the pleasure of their parents in receiving strangers in their unpretending tenement. many were the apologies that poor judy offered for the homely cheer she furnished us, and great was her delight at the notice we took of the “childher.” she set little biddy, who was the pride of her heart, to reading the bible; and she took down a curious machine from a shelf, which she had “conthrived out of her own head,” as she said, for teaching the children to read. this was a flat box, or frame, filled with sand, which saved paper, pens, and ink. poor judy had evidently seen better days, but, with a humble and contented spirit, she blessed god for the food and scanty raiment their labour afforded them. her only sorrow was the want of “idication” for the children. she would have told us a long story about her trials and sufferings, before they had attained their present comparative comfort and independence, but, as we had a tedious scramble before us, through cedar-swamps, beaver-meadows, and piny ridges, the “ould dhragoon” cut her short, and we straightway started on our toilsome journey. simpson, in spite of a certain dash of melancholy in his composition, was one of those happy fellows of the “light heart and thin pair of breeches” school, who, when they meet with difficulty or misfortune, never stop to measure its dimensions, but hold in their breath, and run lightly over, as in crossing a bog, where to stand still is to sink. off, then, we went, with the “ould dhragoon” skipping and bounding on before us, over fallen trees and mossy rocks; now ducking under the low, tangled branches of the white cedar, then carefully piloting us along rotten logs, covered with green moss, to save us from the discomfort of wet feet. all this time he still kept one of his feet safely ensconced in the boot, while the other seemed to luxuriate in the water, as if there was something amphibious in his nature. we soon reached the beaver-meadow, which extended two or three miles; sometimes contracting into a narrow gorge, between the wooded heights, then spreading out again into an ample field of verdure, and presenting everywhere the same unvarying level surface, surrounded with rising grounds, covered with the dense unbroken forest, as if its surface had formerly been covered by the waters of a lake; which in all probability has been the case at some not very remote period. in many places the meadow was so wet that it required a very large share of faith to support us in passing over its surface; but our friend, the dragoon, soon brought us safe through all dangers to a deep ditch, which he had dug to carry off the superfluous water from the part of the meadow which he owned. when we had obtained firm footing on the opposite side, we sat down to rest ourselves before commencing the operation of “blazing,” or marking the trees with our axes, along the side-line of my lot. here the mystery of the boot was explained. simpson very coolly took it off from the hitherto favoured foot, and drew it on the other. he was not a bit ashamed of his poverty, and candidly owned that this was the only boot he possessed, and he was desirous of giving each of his feet fair play. nearly the whole day was occupied in completing our job, in which the “dhragoon” assisted us, with the most hearty good-will, enlivening us with his inexhaustible fund of good-humour and drollery. it was nearly dark when we got back to his “shanty,” where the kind-hearted judy was preparing a huge pot of potatoes and other “combustibles,” as simpson called the other eatables, for our entertainment. previous to starting on our surveying expedition, we had observed judy very earnestly giving some important instructions to one of her little boys, on whom she seemed to be most seriously impressing the necessity of using the utmost diligence. the happy contentment which now beamed in poor judy's still comely countenance bespoke the success of the messenger. she could not “call up spirits from the vasty deep” of the cellar, but she had procured some whiskey from her next-door neighbour--some five or six miles off, and there it stood somewhat ostentatiously on the table in a “greybeard,” with a “corn cob,” or ear of indian corn, stripped of its grain, for a cork, smiling most benevolently on the family circle, and looking a hundred welcomes to the strangers. an indescribably enlivening influence seemed to exude from every pore of that homely earthen vessel, diffusing mirth and good-humour in all directions. the old man jumped and danced about on the rough floor of the “shanty”; and the children sat giggling and nudging each other in a corner, casting a timid look, from time to time, at their mother, for fear she might check them for being “over bould.” “is it crazy ye are intirely, ye ould omadhawn!” said judy, whose notions of propriety were somewhat shocked with the undignified levity of her partner; “the likes of you i never seed; ye are too foolidge intirely. have done now wid your diviltries, and set the stools for the gintlemens, while i get the supper for yes.” our plentiful though homely meal was soon discussed, for hunger, like a good conscience, can laugh at luxury; and the “greybeard” made its appearance, with the usual accompaniments of hot water and maple sugar, which judy had scraped from the cake, and placed in a saucer on the table before us. the “ould dhragoon,” despising his wife's admonitions, gave way freely to his feelings, and knew no bounds to his hilarity. he laughed and joked, and sang snatches of old songs picked up in the course of his service at home and abroad. at length judy, who looked on him as a “raal janius,” begged him to “sing the gintlemens the song he made when he first came to the counthry.” of course we ardently seconded the motion, and nothing loth, the old man, throwing himself back on his stool, and stretching out his long neck, poured forth the following ditty, with which i shall conclude my hasty sketch of the “ould dhragoon”:-- och! it's here i'm intirely continted, in the wild woods of swate 'mericay; god's blessing on him that invinted big ships for our crossing the say! here praties grow bigger nor turnips; and though cruel hard is our work, in ould ireland we'd nothing but praties, but here we have praties and pork. i live on the banks of a meadow, now see that my maning you take; it bates all the bogs of ould ireland-- six months in the year it's a lake. bad luck to the beavers that dammed it! i wish them all kilt for their pains; for shure though the craters are clever, tis sartin they've drown'd my domains. i've built a log hut of the timber that grows on my charmin' estate; and an illigant root-house erected, just facing the front of my gate. and i've made me an illigant pig-sty, well litter'd wid straw and wid hay; and it's there, free from noise of the chilther, i sleep in the heat of the day. it's there i'm intirely at aise, sir, and enjoy all the comforts of home; i stretch out my legs as i plase, sir, and dhrame of the pleasures to come. shure, it's pleasant to hear the frogs croakin', when the sun's going down in the sky, and my judy sits quietly smokin' while the praties are boil'd till they're dhry. och! thin, if you love indepindence, and have money your passage to pay, you must quit the ould counthry intirely, and start in the middle of may. j.w.d.m. chapter xx disappointed hopes stern disappointment, in thy iron grasp the soul lies stricken. so the timid deer, who feels the foul fangs of the felon wolf clench'd in his throat, grown desperate for life, turns on his foes, and battles with the fate that hems him in--and only yields in death. the summer of ' was very wet; a circumstance so unusual in canada that i have seen no season like it during my sojourn in the country. our wheat crop promised to be both excellent and abundant; and the clearing and seeding sixteen acres, one way or another, had cost us more than fifty pounds, still, we hoped to realise something handsome by the sale of the produce; and, as far as appearances went, all looked fair. the rain commenced about a week before the crop was fit for the sickle, and from that time until nearly the end of september was a mere succession of thunder showers; days of intense heat, succeeded by floods of rain. our fine crop shared the fate of all other fine crops in the country; it was totally spoiled; the wheat grew in the sheaf, and we could scarcely save enough to supply us with bad, sticky bread; the rest was exchanged at the distillery for whiskey, which was the only produce which could be obtained for it. the storekeepers would not look at it, or give either money or goods for such a damaged article. my husband and i had worked hard in the field; it was the first time i had ever tried my hand at field-labour, but our ready money was exhausted, and the steam-boat stock had not paid us one farthing; we could not hire, and there was no help for it. i had a hard struggle with my pride before i would consent to render the least assistance on the farm, but reflection convinced me that i was wrong--that providence had placed me in a situation where i was called upon to work--that it was not only my duty to obey that call, but to exert myself to the utmost to assist my husband, and help to maintain my family. ah, glorious poverty! thou art a hard taskmaster, but in thy soul-ennobling school, i have received more godlike lessons, have learned more sublime truths, than ever i acquired in the smooth highways of the world! the independent in soul can rise above the seeming disgrace of poverty, and hold fast their integrity, in defiance of the world and its selfish and unwise maxims. to them, no labour is too great, no trial too severe; they will unflinchingly exert every faculty of mind and body, before they will submit to become a burden to others. the misfortunes that now crowded upon us were the result of no misconduct or extravagance on our part, but arose out of circumstances which we could not avert nor control. finding too late the error into which we had fallen, in suffering ourselves to be cajoled and plundered out of our property by interested speculators, we braced our minds to bear the worst, and determined to meet our difficulties calmly and firmly, nor suffer our spirits to sink under calamities which energy and industry might eventually repair. having once come to this resolution, we cheerfully shared together the labours of the field. one in heart and purpose, we dared remain true to ourselves, true to our high destiny as immortal creatures, in our conflict with temporal and physical wants. we found that manual toil, however distasteful to those unaccustomed to it, was not after all such a dreadful hardship; that the wilderness was not without its rose, the hard face of poverty without its smile. if we occasionally suffered severe pain, we as often experienced great pleasure, and i have contemplated a well-hoed ridge of potatoes on that bush farm, with as much delight as in years long past i had experienced in examining a fine painting in some well-appointed drawing-room. i can now look back with calm thankfulness on that long period of trial and exertion--with thankfulness that the dark clouds that hung over us, threatening to blot us from existence, when they did burst upon us, were full of blessings. when our situation appeared perfectly desperate, then were we on the threshold of a new state of things, which was born out of that very distress. in order to more fully illustrate the necessity of a perfect and child-like reliance upon the mercies of god--who, i most firmly believe, never deserts those who have placed their trust in him--i will give a brief sketch of our lives during the years and . still confidently expecting to realise an income, however small, from the steam-boat stock, we had involved ourselves considerably in debt, in order to pay our servants and obtain the common necessaries of life; and we owed a large sum to two englishmen in dummer, for clearing ten more acres upon the farm. our utter inability to meet these demands weighed very heavily upon my husband's mind. all superfluities in the way of groceries were now given up, and we were compelled to rest satisfied upon the produce of the farm. milk, bread, and potatoes during the summer became our chief, and often for months, our only fare. as to tea and sugar, they were luxuries we could not think of, although i missed the tea very much; we rang the changes upon peppermint and sage, taking the one herb at our breakfast, the other at our tea, until i found an excellent substitute for both in the root of the dandelion. the first year we came to this country, i met with an account of dandelion coffee, published in the new york albion, given by a dr. harrison, of edinburgh, who earnestly recommended it as an article of general use. “it possesses,” he says, “all the fine flavour and exhilarating properties of coffee, without any of its deleterious effects. the plant being of a soporific nature, the coffee made from it when drunk at night produces a tendency to sleep, instead of exciting wakefulness, and may be safely used as a cheap and wholesome substitute for the arabian berry, being equal in substance and flavour to the best mocha coffee.” i was much struck with this paragraph at the time, and for several years felt a great inclination to try the doctor's coffee; but something or other always came in the way, and it was put off till another opportunity. during the fall of ' , i was assisting my husband in taking up a crop of potatoes in the field, and observing a vast number of fine dandelion roots among the potatoes, it brought the dandelion coffee back to my memory, and i determined to try some for our supper. without saying anything to my husband, i threw aside some of the roots, and when we left work, collecting a sufficient quantity for the experiment, i carefully washed the roots quite clean, without depriving them of the fine brown skin which covers them, and which contains the aromatic flavour, which so nearly resembles coffee that it is difficult to distinguish it from it while roasting. i cut my roots into small pieces, the size of a kidney-bean, and roasted them on an iron baking-pan in the stove-oven, until they were as brown and crisp as coffee. i then ground and transferred a small cupful of the powder to the coffee-pot, pouring upon it scalding water, and boiling it for a few minutes briskly over the fire. the result was beyond my expectations. the coffee proved excellent--far superior to the common coffee we procured at the stores. to persons residing in the bush, and to whom tea and coffee are very expensive articles of luxury, the knowledge of this valuable property of a plant scattered so abundantly through their fields, would prove highly beneficial. for years we used no other article; and my indian friends who frequented the house gladly adopted the root, and made me show them the whole process of manufacturing it into coffee. experience taught me that the root of the dandelion is not so good when applied to this purpose in the spring as it is in the fall. i tried it in the spring, but the juice of the plant, having contributed to the production of leaves and flowers, was weak, and destitute of the fine bitter flavour so peculiar to coffee. the time of gathering the potato crop is the best suited for collecting and drying the roots of the dandelion; and as they always abound in the same hills, both may be accomplished at the same time. those who want to keep a quantity for winter use may wash and cut up the roots, and dry them on boards in the sun. they will keep for years, and can be roasted when required. few of our colonists are acquainted with the many uses to which this neglected but most valuable plant may be applied. i will point out a few which have come under my own observation, convinced as i am that the time will come when this hardy weed, with its golden flowers and curious seed-vessels, which form a constant plaything to the little children rolling about and luxuriating among the grass, in the sunny month of may, will be transplanted into our gardens, and tended with due care. the dandelion planted in trenches, and blanched to a beautiful cream-colour with straw, makes an excellent salad, quite equal to endive, and is more hardy and requires less care. in many parts of the united states, particularly in new districts where vegetables are scarce, it is used early in the spring, and boiled with pork as a substitute for cabbage. during our residence in the bush we found it, in the early part of may, a great addition to the dinner-table. in the township of dummer, the settlers boil the tops, and add hops to the liquor, which they ferment, and from which they obtain excellent beer. i have never tasted this simple beverage, but i have been told by those who use it that it is equal to the table-beer used at home. necessity has truly been termed the mother of invention, for i contrived to manufacture a variety of dishes almost out of nothing, while living in her school. when entirely destitute of animal food, the different variety of squirrels supplied us with pies, stews, and roasts. our barn stood at the top of the hill near the bush, and in a trap set for such “small deer,” we often caught from ten to twelve a day. the flesh of the black squirrel is equal to that of the rabbit, and the red, and even the little chipmunk, is palatable when nicely cooked. but from the lake, during the summer, we derived the larger portion of our food. the children called this piece of water “mamma's pantry”; and many a good meal has the munificent father given to his poor dependent children from its well-stored depths. moodie and i used to rise at daybreak, and fish for an hour after sunrise, when we returned, he to the field, and i to dress the little ones, clean up the house, assist with the milk, and prepare the breakfast. oh, how i enjoyed these excursions on the lake; the very idea of our dinner depending upon our success added double zest to our sport! one morning we started as usual before sunrise; a thick mist still hung like a fine veil upon the water when we pushed off, and anchored at our accustomed place. just as the sun rose, and the haze parted and drew up like a golden sheet of transparent gauze, through which the dark woods loomed out like giants, a noble buck dashed into the water, followed by four indian hounds. we then discovered a canoe, full of indians, just below the rapids, and another not many yards from us, that had been concealed by the fog. it was a noble sight, that gallant deer exerting all his energy, and stemming the water with such matchless grace, his branching horns held proudly aloft, his broad nostrils distended, and his fine eye fixed intently upon the opposite shore. several rifle-balls whizzed past him, the dogs followed hard upon his track, but my very heart leaped for joy when, in spite of all his foes, his glossy hoofs spurned the opposite bank and he plunged headlong into the forest. my beloved partner was most skilful in trolling for bass and muskinonge. his line he generally fastened to the paddle, and the motion of the oar gave a life-like vibration to the queer-looking mice and dragon-flies i used to manufacture from squirrel fur, or scarlet and white cloth, to tempt the finny wanderers of the wave. when too busy himself to fish for our meals, little katie and i ventured out alone in the canoe, which we anchored in any promising fishing spot, by fastening a harrow tooth to a piece of rope, and letting it drop from the side of little vessel. by the time she was five years old, my little mermaid could both steer and paddle the light vessel, and catch small fish, which were useful for soup. during the winter of ' , we experienced many privations. the ruffian squatter p----, from clear lake, drove from the barn a fine young bull we were rearing, and for several weeks all trace of the animal was lost. we had almost forgotten the existence of poor whiskey, when a neighbor called and told moodie that his yearling was at p----'s, and that he would advise him to get it back as soon as possible. moodie had to take some wheat to y----'s mill, and as the squatter lived only a mile further, he called at his house; and there, sure enough, he found the lost animal. with the greatest difficulty he succeeded in regaining his property, but not without many threats of vengeance from the parties who had stolen it. to these he paid no regard; but a few days after, six fat hogs, on which we depended for all our winter store of animal food, were driven into the lake, and destroyed. the death of these animals deprived us of three barrels of pork, and half-starved us through the winter. that winter of ' , how heavily it wore away! the grown flour, frosted potatoes, and scant quantity of animal food rendered us all weak, and the children suffered much from the ague. one day, just before the snow fell, moodie had gone to peterborough for letters; our servant was sick in bed with the ague, and i was nursing my little boy, dunbar, who was shaking with the cold fit of his miserable fever, when jacob put his honest, round, rosy face in at the door. “give me the master's gun, ma'am; there's a big buck feeding on the rice-bed near the island.” i took down the gun, saying, “jacob, you have no chance; there is but one charge of buck-shot in the house.” “one chance is better nor none,” said jacob, as he commenced loading the gun. “who knows what may happen to oie? mayhap oie may chance to kill 'un; and you and the measter and the wee bairns may have zummut zavory for zupper yet.” away walked jacob with moodie's “manton” over his shoulder. a few minutes after, i heard the report of the gun, but never expected to see anything of the game; when jacob suddenly bounced into the room, half-wild with delight. “thae beast iz dead az a door-nail. zure, how the measter will laugh when he zees the fine buck that oie a'zhot.” “and have you really shot him?” “come and zee! 'tis worth your while to walk down to the landing to look at 'un.” jacob got a rope, and i followed him to the landing, where, sure enough, lay a fine buck, fastened in tow of the canoe. jacob soon secured him by the hind legs to the rope he had brought; and, with our united efforts, we at last succeeded in dragging our prize home. all the time he was engaged in taking off the skin, jacob was anticipating the feast that we were to have; and the good fellow chuckled with delight when he hung the carcass quite close to the kitchen door, that his “measter” might run against it when he came home at night. this event actually took place. when moodie opened the door, he struck his head against the dead deer. “what have you got here?” “a fine buck, zur,” said jacob, bringing forward the light, and holding it up in such a manner that all the merits of the prize could be seen at a glance. “a fine one, indeed! how did we come by it?” “it was zhot by oie,” said jacob, rubbing his hands in a sort of ecstacy. “thae beast iz the first oie ever zhot in my life. he! he! he!” “you shot that fine deer, jacob?--and there was only one charge in the gun! well done; you must have taken good aim.” “why, zur, oie took no aim at all. oie just pointed the gun at the deer, and zhut my oeys an let fly at 'un. 'twas providence kill'd 'un, not oie.” “i believe you,” said moodie; “providence has hitherto watched over us and kept us from actual starvation.” the flesh of the deer, and the good broth that i was able to obtain from it, greatly assisted in restoring our sick to health; but long before that severe winter terminated we were again out of food. mrs. ---- had given to katie, in the fall, a very pretty little pig, which she had named spot. the animal was a great favorite with jacob and the children, and he always received his food from their hands at the door, and followed them all over the place like a dog. we had a noble hound called hector, between whom and the pet pig there existed the most tender friendship. spot always shared with hector the hollow log which served him for a kennel, and we often laughed to see hector lead spot round the clearing by his ear. after bearing the want of animal food until our souls sickened at the bad potatoes and grown flour bread, we began--that is the elders of the family--to cast very hungry eyes upon spot; but no one liked to propose having him killed. at last jacob spoke his mind upon the subject. “oi've heard, zur, that the jews never eat pork; but we christians dooz, and are right glad ov the chance. now, zur, oi've been thinking that 'tis no manner ov use our keeping that beast spot. if he wor a zow, now, there might be zome zenze in the thing; and we all feel weak for a morzel of meat. s'poze i kill him? he won't make a bad piece of pork.” moodie seconded the move; and, in spite of the tears and prayers of katie, her uncouth pet was sacrificed to the general wants of the family; but there were two members of the house who disdained to eat a morsel of the victim; poor katie and the dog hector. at the self-denial of the first i did not at all wonder, for she was a child full of sensibility and warm affections, but the attachment of the brute creature to his old playmate filled us all with surprise. jacob first drew our attention to the strange fact. “that dog,” he said, as we were passing through the kitchen while he was at dinner, “do teach uz christians a lesson how to treat our friends. why, zur, he'll not eat a morzel of spot. oie have tried and tempted him in all manner ov ways, and he only do zneer and turn up his nose when oie hould him a bit to taste.” he offered the animal a rib of the fresh pork as he finished speaking, and the dog turned away with an expression of aversion, and on a repetition of the act, walked from the table. human affection could scarcely have surpassed the love felt by this poor animal for his playfellow. his attachment to spot, that could overcome the pangs of hunger--for, like the rest of us, he was half-starved--must have been strong indeed. jacob's attachment to us, in its simplicity and fidelity, greatly resembled that of the dog; and sometimes, like the dog, he would push himself in where he was not wanted, and gratuitously give his advice, and make remarks which were not required. mr. k----, from cork, was asking moodie many questions about the partidges of the country; and, among other things, he wanted to know by what token you were able to discover their favourite haunts. before moodie could answer this last query a voice responded, through a large crack in the boarded wall which separated us from the kitchen, “they always bides where they's drum.” this announcement was received with a burst of laughter that greatly disconcerted the natural philosopher in the kitchen. on the st of may of this year, my second son, donald, was born. the poor fellow came in hard times. the cows had not calved, and our bill of fare, now minus the deer and spot, only consisted of bad potatoes and still worse bread. i was rendered so weak by want of proper nourishment that my dear husband, for my sake, overcame his aversion to borrowing, and procured a quarter of mutton from a friend. this, with kindly presents from neighbours--often as badly off as ourselves--a loin of a young bear, and a basket, containing a loaf of bread, some tea, some fresh butter, and oatmeal, went far to save my life. shortly after my recovery, jacob--the faithful, good jacob--was obliged to leave us, for we could no longer afford to pay wages. what was owing to him had to be settled by sacrificing our best cow, and a great many valuable articles of clothing from my husband's wardrobe. nothing is more distressing than being obliged to part with articles of dress which you know that you cannot replace. almost all my clothes had been appropriated to the payment of wages, or to obtain garments for the children, excepting my wedding dress, and the beautiful baby-linen which had been made by the hands of dear and affectionate friends for my first-born. these were now exchanged for coarse, warm flannels, to shield her from the cold. moodie and jacob had chopped eight acres during the winter, but these had to be burnt off and logged-up before we could put in a crop of wheat for the ensuing fall. had we been able to retain this industrious, kindly english lad, this would have been soon accomplished; but his wages, at the rate of thirty pounds per annum, were now utterly beyond our means. jacob had formed an attachment to my pretty maid, mary pine, and before going to the southern states, to join an uncle who resided in louisville, an opulent tradesman, who had promised to teach him his business, jacob thought it as well to declare himself. the declaration took place on a log of wood near the back-door, and from my chamber window i could both hear and see the parties, without being myself observed. mary was seated very demurely at one end of the log, twisting the strings of her checked apron, and the loving jacob was busily whittling the other extremity of their rustic seat. there was a long silence. mary stole a look at jacob, and he heaved a tremendous sigh, something between a yawn and a groan. “meary,” he said, “i must go.” “i knew that afore,” returned the girl. “i had zummat to zay to you, meary. do you think you will miss oie?” (looking very affectionately, and twitching nearer.) “what put that into your head, jacob?” this was said very demurely. “oie thowt, may be, meary, that your feelings might be zummat loike my own. i feel zore about the heart, meary, and it's all com' of parting with you. don't you feel queerish, too?” “can't say that i do, jacob. i shall soon see you again.” (pulling violently at her apron-string.) “meary, oi'm afear'd you don't feel like oie.” “p'r'aps not--women can't feel like men. i'm sorry that you are going, jacob, for you have been very kind and obliging, and i wish you well.” “meary,” cried jacob, growing desperate at her coyness, and getting quite close up to her, “will you marry oie? say yeez or noa?” this was coming close to the point. mary drew farther from him, and turned her head away. “meary,” said jacob, seizing upon the hand that held the apron-string. “do you think you can better yoursel'? if not--why, oie'm your man. now, do just turn about your head and answer oie.” the girl turned round, and gave him a quick, shy glance, then burst out into a simpering laugh. “meary, will you take oie?” (jogging her elbow.) “i will,” cried the girl, jumping up from the log, and running into the house. “well, that bargain's made,” said the lover, rubbing his hands; “and now oie'll go and bid measter and missus good-buoy.” the poor fellow's eyes were full of tears, for the children, who loved him very much, clung, crying, about his knees. “god bless yees all,” sobbed the kind-hearted creature. “doan't forget jacob, for he'll neaver forget you. good-buoy!” then turning to mary, he threw his arms round her neck, and bestowed upon her fair cheek the most audible kiss i ever heard. “and doan't you forget me, meary. in two years oie will be back to marry you; and may be oie may come back a rich man.” mary, who was an exceedingly pretty girl, shed some tears at the parting; but in a few days she was as gay as ever, and listening with great attention to the praises bestowed upon her beauty by an old bachelor, who was her senior by five-and-twenty years. but then he had a good farm, a saddle mare, and plenty of stock, and was reputed to have saved money. the saddle mare seemed to have great weight in old ralph t----h's wooing, and i used laughingly to remind mary of her absent lover, and beg her not to marry ralph t----h's mare. the canadian hunter's song the northern lights are flashing, on the rapids' restless flow; and o'er the wild waves dashing, swift darts the light canoe. the merry hunters come. “what cheer?--what cheer?”-- “we've slain the deer!” “hurrah!--you're welcome home!” the blithesome horn is sounding, and the woodman's loud halloo; and joyous steps are bounding to meet the birch canoe. “hurrah!--the hunters come.” and the woods ring out to their merry shout as they drag the dun deer home! the hearth is brightly burning, the rustic board is spread; to greet the sire returning the children leave their bed. with laugh and shout they come-- that merry band-- to grasp his hand, and bid him welcome home! chapter xxi the little stumpy man there was a little man-- i'll sketch him if i can, for he clung to mine and me like the old man of the sea; and in spite of taunt and scoff we could not pitch him off, for the cross-grained, waspish elf cared for no one but himself. before i dismiss for ever the troubles and sorrows of , i would fain introduce to the notice of my readers some of the odd characters with whom we became acquainted during that period. the first that starts vividly to my recollection is the picture of a short, stumpy, thickset man--a british sailor, too--who came to stay one night under our roof, and took quiet possession of his quarters for nine months, and whom we were obliged to tolerate from the simple fact that we could not get rid of him. during the fall, moodie had met this individual (whom i will call mr. malcolm) in the mail-coach, going up to toronto. amused with his eccentric and blunt manners, and finding him a shrewd, clever fellow in conversation, moodie told him that if ever he came into his part of the world he should be glad to renew their acquaintance. and so they parted, with mutual good-will, as men often part who have travelled a long journey in good fellowship together, without thinking it probable they should ever meet again. the sugar season had just commenced with the spring thaw; jacob had tapped a few trees in order to obtain sap to make molasses for the children, when his plans were frustrated by the illness of my husband, who was again attacked with the ague. towards the close of a wet, sloppy day, while jacob was in the wood, chopping, and our servant gone to my sister, who was ill, to help to wash, as i was busy baking bread for tea, my attention was aroused by a violent knocking at the door, and the furious barking of our dog, hector. i ran to open it, when i found hector's teeth clenched in the trousers of a little, dark, thickset man, who said in a gruff voice-- “call off your dog. what the devil do you keep such an infernal brute about the house for? is it to bite people who come to see you?” hector was the best-behaved, best-tempered animal in the world; he might have been called a gentlemanly dog. so little was there of the unmannerly puppy in his behaviour, that i was perfectly astonished at his ungracious conduct. i caught him by the collar, and not without some difficulty, succeeded in dragging him off. “is captain moodie within?” said the stranger. “he is, sir. but he is ill in bed--too ill to be seen.” “tell him a friend” (he laid a strong stress upon the last word), “a particular friend must speak to him.” i now turned my eyes to the face of the speaker with some curiosity. i had taken him for a mechanic, from his dirty, slovenly appearance; and his physiognomy was so unpleasant that i did not credit his assertion that he was a friend of my husband, for i was certain that no man who possessed such a forbidding aspect could be regarded by moodie as a friend. i was about to deliver his message, but the moment i let go hector's collar, the dog was at him again. “don't strike him with your stick,” i cried, throwing my arms over the faithful creature. “he is a powerful animal, and if you provoke him, he will kill you.” i at last succeeded in coaxing hector into the girl's room, where i shut him up, while the stranger came into the kitchen, and walked to the fire to dry his wet clothes. i immediately went into the parlour, where moodie was lying upon a bed near the stove, to deliver the stranger's message; but before i could say a word, he dashed in after me, and going up to the bed, held out his broad, coarse hand, with “how are you, mr. moodie? you see i have accepted your kind invitation sooner than either you or i expected. if you will give me house-room for the night, i shall be obliged to you.” this was said in a low, mysterious voice; and moodie, who was still struggling with the hot fit of his disorder, and whose senses were not a little confused, stared at him with a look of vague bewilderment. the countenance of the stranger grew dark. “you cannot have forgotten me--my name is malcolm.” “yes, sir; i remember you now,” said the invalid holding out his burning, feverish hand. “to my home, such as it is, you are welcome.” i stood by in wondering astonishment, looking from one to the other, as i had no recollection of ever hearing my husband mention the name of the stranger; but as he had invited him to share our hospitality, i did my best to make him welcome though in what manner he was to be accommodated puzzled me not a little. i placed the arm-chair by the fire, and told him that i would prepare tea for him as soon as i could. “it may be as well to tell you, mrs. moodie,” said he sulkily, for he was evidently displeased by my husband's want of recognition on his first entrance, “that i have had no dinner.” i sighed to myself, for i well knew that our larder boasted of no dainties; and from the animal expression of our guest's face, i rightly judged that he was fond of good living. by the time i had fried a rasher of salt pork, and made a pot of dandelion coffee, the bread i had been preparing was baked; but grown flour will not make light bread, and it was unusually heavy. for the first time i felt heartily ashamed of our humble fare. i was sure that he for whom it was provided was not one to pass it over in benevolent silence. “he might be a gentleman,” i thought, “but he does not look like one;” and a confused idea of who he was, and where moodie had met him, began to float through my mind. i did not like the appearance of the man, but i consoled myself that he was only to stay for one night, and i could give up my bed for that one night, and sleep on a bed on the floor by my sick husband. when i re-entered the parlour to cover the table, i found moodie fallen asleep, and mr. malcolm reading. as i placed the tea-things on the table, he raised his head, and regarded me with a gloomy stare. he was a strange-looking creature; his features were tolerably regular, his complexion dark, with a good colour, his very broad and round head was covered with a perfect mass of close, black, curling hair, which, in growth, texture, and hue, resembled the wiry, curly hide of a water-dog. his eyes and mouth were both well-shaped, but gave, by their sinister expression, an odious and doubtful meaning to the whole of his physiognomy. the eyes were cold, insolent, and cruel, and as green as the eyes of a cat. the mouth bespoke a sullen, determined, and sneering disposition, as if it belonged to one brutally obstinate, one who could not by any gentle means be persuaded from his purpose. such a man in a passion would have been a terrible wild beast; but the current of his feelings seemed to flow in a deep, sluggish channel, rather than in a violent or impetuous one; and, like william penn, when he reconnoitred his unwelcome visitors through the keyhole of the door, i looked at my strange guest, and liked him not. perhaps my distant and constrained manner made him painfully aware of the fact, for i am certain that, from the first hour of our acquaintance, a deep-rooted antipathy existed between us, which time seemed rather to strengthen than diminish. he ate of his meal sparingly, and with evident disgust, the only remarks which dropped from him were-- “you make bad bread in the bush. strange, that you can't keep your potatoes from the frost! i should have thought that you could have had things more comfortable in the woods.” “we have been very unfortunate,” i said, “since we came to the woods. i am sorry that you should be obliged to share the poverty of the land. it would have given me much pleasure could i have set before you a more comfortable meal.” “oh, don't mention it. so that i get good pork and potatoes i shall be contented.” what did these words imply?--an extension of his visit? i hoped that i was mistaken; but before i could lose any time in conjecture my husband awoke. the fit had left him, and he rose and dressed himself, and was soon chatting cheerfully with his guest. mr. malcolm now informed him that he was hiding from the sheriff of the n---- district's officers, and that it would be conferring upon him a great favour if he would allow him to remain at his house for a few weeks. “to tell you the truth, malcolm,” said moodie, “we are so badly off that we can scarcely find food for ourselves and the children. it is out of our power to make you comfortable, or to keep an additional hand, without he is willing to render some little help on the farm. if you can do this, i will endeavour to get a few necessaries on credit, to make your stay more agreeable.” to this proposition malcolm readily assented, not only because it released him from all sense of obligation, but because it gave him a privilege to grumble. finding that his stay might extend to an indefinite period, i got jacob to construct a rude bedstead out of two large chests that had transported some of our goods across the atlantic, and which he put in a corner of the parlour. this i provided with a small hair-mattress, and furnished with what bedding i could spare. for the first fornight of his sojourn, our guest did nothing but lie upon that bed, and read, and smoke, and drink whiskey-and-water from morning until night. by degrees he let out part of his history; but there was a mystery about him which he took good care never to clear up. he was the son of an officer in the navy, who had not only attained a very high rank in the service, but, for his gallant conduct, had been made a knight-companion of the bath. he had himself served his time as a midshipman on board his father's flag-ship, but had left the navy and accepted a commission in the buenos-ayrean service during the political struggles in that province; he had commanded a sort of privateer under the government, to whom, by his own account, he had rendered many very signal services. why he left south america and came to canada he kept a profound secret. he had indulged in very vicious and dissipated courses since he came to the province, and by his own account had spent upwards of four thousand pounds, in a manner not over creditable to himself. finding that his friends would answer his bills no longer, he took possession of a grant of land obtained through his father's interest, up in harvey, a barren township on the shores of stony lake; and, after putting up his shanty, and expending all his remaining means, he found that he did not possess one acre out of the whole four hundred that would yield a crop of potatoes. he was now considerably in debt, and the lands, such as they were, had been seized, with all his effects, by the sheriff, and a warrant was out for his own apprehension, which he contrived to elude during his sojourn with us. money he had none; and, beyond the dirty fearnought blue seaman's jacket which he wore, a pair of trousers of the coarse cloth of the country, an old black vest that had seen better days, and two blue-checked shirts, clothes he had none. he shaved but once a week, never combed his hair, and never washed himself. a dirtier or more slovenly creature never before was dignified by the title of a gentleman. he was, however, a man of good education, of excellent abilities, and possessed a bitter, sarcastic knowledge of the world; but he was selfish and unprincipled in the highest degree. his shrewd observations and great conversational powers had first attracted my husband's attention, and, as men seldom show their bad qualities on a journey, he thought him a blunt, good fellow, who had travelled a great deal, and could render himself a very agreeable companion by a graphic relation of his adventures. he could be all this, when he chose to relax from his sullen, morose mood; and, much as i disliked him, i have listened with interest for hours to his droll descriptions of south american life and manners. naturally indolent, and a constitutional grumbler, it was with the greatest difficulty that moodie could get him to do anything beyond bringing a few pails of water from the swamp for the use of the house, and he often passed me carrying water up from the lake without offering to relieve me of the burden. mary, the betrothed of jacob, called him a perfect “beast”; but he, returning good for evil, considered _her_ a very pretty girl, and paid her so many uncouth attentions that he roused the jealousy of honest jake, who vowed that he would give him a good “loomping” if he only dared to lay a finger upon his sweetheart. with jacob to back her, mary treated the “zea-bear,” as jacob termed him, with vast disdain, and was so saucy to him that, forgetting his admiration, he declared he would like to serve her as the indians had done a scolding woman in south america. they attacked her house during the absence of her husband, cut out her tongue, and nailed it to the door, by way of knocker; and he thought that all women who could not keep a civil tongue in their head should be served in the same manner. “and what should be done to men who swear and use ondacent language?” quoth mary, indignantly. “their tongues should be slit, and given to the dogs. faugh! you are such a nasty fellow that i don't think hector would eat your tongue.” “i'll kill that beast,” muttered malcolm, as he walked away. i remonstrated with him on the impropriety of bandying words with our servants. “you see,” i said, “the disrespect with which they treat you; and if they presume upon your familiarity, to speak to our guest in this contemptuous manner, they will soon extend the same conduct to us.” “but, mrs. moodie, you should reprove them.” “i cannot, sir, while you continue, by taking liberties with the girl, and swearing at the man, to provoke them to retaliation.” “swearing! what harm is there in swearing? a sailor cannot live without oaths.” “but a gentleman might, mr. malcolm. i should be sorry to consider you in any other light.” “ah, you are such a prude--so methodistical--you make no allowance for circumstances! surely, in the woods we may dispense with the hypocritical, conventional forms of society, and speak and act as we please.” “so you seem to think; but you see the result.” “i have never been used to the society of ladies, and i cannot fashion my words to please them; and i won't, that's more!” he muttered to himself as he strode off to moodie in the field. i wished from my very heart that he was once more on the deck of his piratical south american craft. one night he insisted on going out in the canoe to spear maskinonge with moodie. the evening turned out very chill and foggy, and, before twelve, they returned, with only one fish, and half frozen with cold. malcolm had got twinges of rheumatism, and he fussed, and sulked, and swore, and quarrelled with everybody and everything, until moodie, who was highly amused by his petulance, advised him to go to his bed, and pray for the happy restoration of his temper. “temper!” he cried, “i don't believe there's a good-tempered person in the world. it's all hypocrisy! i never had a good-temper! my mother was an ill-tempered woman, and ruled my father, who was a confoundedly severe, domineering man. i was born in an ill-temper. i was an ill-tempered child; i grew up an ill-tempered man. i feel worse than ill-tempered now, and when i die it will be in an ill-temper.” “well,” quoth i, “moodie has made you a tumbler of hot punch, which may help to drive out the cold and the ill-temper, and cure the rheumatism.” “ay; your husband's a good fellow, and worth two of you, mrs. moodie. he makes some allowance for the weakness of human nature, and can excuse even my ill-temper.” i did not choose to bandy words with him, and the next day the unfortunate creature was shaking with the ague. a more intractable, outrageous, _im_-patient i never had the ill-fortune to nurse. during the cold fit, he did nothing but swear at the cold, and wished himself roasting; and during the fever, he swore at the heat, and wished that he was sitting, in no other garment than his shirt, on the north side of an iceberg. and when the fit at last left him, he got up, and ate such quantities of fat pork, and drank so much whiskey-punch, that you would have imagined he had just arrived from a long journey, and had not tasted food for a couple of days. he would not believe that fishing in the cold night-air upon the water had made him ill, but raved that it was all my fault for having laid my baby down on his bed while it was shaking with the ague. yet, if there were the least tenderness mixed up in his iron nature, it was the affection he displayed for that young child. dunbar was just twenty months old, with bright, dark eyes, dimpled cheeks, and soft, flowing, golden hair, which fell round his infant face in rich curls. the merry, confiding little creature formed such a contrast to his own surly, unyielding temper, that, perhaps, that very circumstance made the bond of union between them. when in the house, the little boy was seldom out of his arms, and whatever were malcolm's faults, he had none in the eyes of the child, who used to cling around his neck, and kiss his rough, unshaven cheeks with the greatest fondness. “if i could afford it, moodie,” he said one day to my husband, “i should like to marry. i want some one upon whom i could vent my affections.” and wanting that some one in the form of woman, he contented himself with venting them upon the child. as the spring advanced, and after jacob left us, he seemed ashamed of sitting in the house doing nothing, and therefore undertook to make us a garden, or “to make garden,” as the canadians term preparing a few vegetables for the season. i procured the necessary seeds, and watched with no small surprise the industry with which our strange visitor commenced operations. he repaired the broken fence, dug the ground with the greatest care, and laid it out with a skill and neatness of which i had believed him perfectly incapable. in less than three weeks, the whole plot presented a very pleasing prospect, and he was really elated by his success. “at any rate,” he said, “we shall no longer be starved on bad flour and potatoes. we shall have peas, and beans, and beets, and carrots, and cabbage in abundance; besides the plot i have reserved for cucumbers and melons.” “ah,” thought i; “does he, indeed, mean to stay with us until the melons are ripe?” and my heart died within me, for he not only was a great additional expense, but he gave a great deal of additional trouble, and entirely robbed us of all privacy, as our very parlour was converted into a bed-room for his accommodation; besides that, a man of his singularly dirty habits made a very disagreeable inmate. the only redeeming point in his character, in my eyes, was his love for dunbar. i could not entirely hate a man who was so fondly attached to my child. to the two little girls he was very cross, and often chased them from him with blows. he had, too, an odious way of finding fault with everything. i never could cook to please him; and he tried in the most malicious way to induce moodie to join in his complaints. all his schemes to make strife between us, however, failed, and were generally visited upon himself. in no way did he ever seek to render me the least assistance. shortly after jacob left us, mary pine was offered higher wages by a family at peterborough, and for some time i was left with four little children, and without a servant. moodie always milked the cows, because i never could overcome my fear of cattle; and though i had occasionally milked when there was no one else in the way, it was in fear and trembling. moodie had to go down to peterborough; but before he went, he begged malcolm to bring me what water and wood i required, and to stand by the cattle while i milked the cows, and he would himself be home before night. he started at six in the morning, and i got the pail to go and milk. malcolm was lying upon his bed, reading. “mr. malcolm, will you be so kind as to go with me to the fields for a few minutes while i milk?” “yes!” (then, with a sulky frown), “but i want to finish what i am reading.” “i will not detain you long.” “oh, no! i suppose about an hour. you are a shocking bad milker.” “true; i never went near a cow until i came to this country; and i have never been able to overcome my fear of them.” “more shame for you! a farmer's wife, and afraid of a cow! why, these little children would laugh at you.” i did not reply, nor would i ask him again. i walked slowly to the field, and my indignation made me forget my fear. i had just finished milking, and with a brimming pail was preparing to climb the fence and return to the house, when a very wild ox we had came running with headlong speed from the wood. all my fears were alive again in a moment. i snatched up the pail, and, instead of climbing the fence and getting to the house, i ran with all the speed i could command down the steep hill towards the lake shore; my feet caught in a root of the many stumps in the path, and i fell to the ground, my pail rolling many yards a-head of me. every drop of my milk was spilt upon the grass. the ox passed on. i gathered myself up and returned home. malcolm was very fond of new milk, and he came to meet me at the door. “hi! hi!--where's the milk?” “no milk for the poor children to-day,” said i, showing him the inside of the pail, with a sorrowful shake of the head, for it was no small loss to them and me. “how the devil's that? so you were afraid to milk the cows. come away, and i will keep off the buggaboos.” “i did milk them--no thanks to your kindness, mr. malcolm--but--” “but what?” “the ox frightened me, and i fell and spilt all the milk.” “whew! now don't go and tell your husband that it was all my fault; if you had had a little patience, i would have come when you asked me, but i don't choose to be dictated to, and i won't be made a slave by you or any one else.” “then why do you stay, sir, where you consider yourself so treated?” said i. “we are all obliged to work to obtain bread; we give you the best share--surely the return we ask for it is but small.” “you make me feel my obligations to you when you ask me to do anything; if you left it to my better feelings we should get on better.” “perhaps you are right. i will never ask you to do anything for me in future.” “oh, now, that's all mock-humility. in spite of the tears in your eyes, you are as angry with me as ever; but don't go to make mischief between me and moodie. if you'll say nothing about my refusing to go with you, i'll milk the cows for you myself to-night.” “and can you milk?” said i, with some curiosity. “milk! yes; and if i were not so confoundedly low-spirited and--lazy, i could do a thousand other things too. but now, don't say a word about it to moodie.” i made no promise; but my respect for him was not increased by his cowardly fear of reproof from moodie, who treated him with a kindness and consideration which he did not deserve. the afternoon turned out very wet, and i was sorry that i should be troubled with his company all day in the house. i was making a shirt for moodie from some cotton that had been sent me from home, and he placed himself by the side of the stove, just opposite, and continued to regard me for a long time with his usual sullen stare. i really felt half afraid of him. “don't you think me mad!” said he. “i have a brother deranged; he got a stroke of the sun in india, and lost his senses in consequence; but sometimes i think it runs in the family.” what answer could i give to this speech, but mere evasive common-place! “you won't say what you really think,” he continued; “i know you hate me, and that makes me dislike you. now what would you say if i told you i had committed a murder, and that it was the recollection of that circumstance that made me at times so restless and unhappy?” i looked up in his face, not knowing what to believe. “'tis fact,” said he, nodding his head; and i hoped that he would not go mad, like his brother, and kill me. “come, i'll tell you all about it; i know the world would laugh at me for calling such an act _murder_; and yet i have been such a miserable man ever since, that i _feel_ it was. “there was a noted leader among the rebel buenos-ayreans, whom the government wanted much to get hold of. he was a fine, dashing, handsome fellow; i had often seen him, but we never came to close quarters. one night, i was lying wrapped up in my poncho at the bottom of my boat, which was rocking in the surf, waiting for two of my men, who were gone on shore. there came to the shore, this man and one of his people, and they stood so near the boat, that i could distinctly hear their conversation. i suppose it was the devil who tempted me to put a bullet through the man's heart. he was an enemy to the flag under which i fought, but he was no enemy to me--i had no right to become his executioner; but still the desire to kill him, for the mere devilry of the thing, came so strongly upon me that i no longer tried to resist it. i rose slowly upon my knees; the moon was shining very bright at the time, both he and his companion were too earnestly engaged to see me, and i deliberately shot him through the body. he fell with a heavy groan back into the water; but i caught the last look he threw upon the moonlight skies before his eyes glazed in death. oh, that look!--so full of despair, of unutterable anguish; it haunts me yet--it will haunt me for ever. i would not have cared if i had killed him in strife--but in cold blood, and he so unsuspicious of his doom! yes, it was murder; i know by this constant tugging at my heart that it was murder. what do you say to it?” “i should think as you do, mr. malcolm. it is a terrible thing to take away the life of a fellow-creature without the least provocation.” “ah! i knew you would blame me; but he was an enemy after all; i had a right to kill him; i was hired by the government under whom i served to kill him; and who shall condemn me?” “no one more than your own heart.” “it is not the heart, but the brain, that must decide in questions of right and wrong,” said he. “i acted from impulse, and shot that man; had i reasoned upon it for five minutes, the man would be living now. but what's done cannot be undone. did i ever show you the work i wrote upon south america?” “are you an author,” said i, incredulously. “to be sure i am. murray offered me pounds for my manuscript, but i would not take it. shall i read to you some passages from it?” i am sorry to say that his behaviour in the morning was uppermost in my thoughts, and i had no repugnance in refusing. “no, don't trouble yourself. i have the dinner to cook, and the children to attend to, which will cause a constant interruption; you had better defer it to some other time.” “i shan't ask you to listen to me again,” said he, with a look of offended vanity; but he went to his trunk, and brought out a large ms., written on foolscap, which he commenced reading to himself with an air of great self-importance, glancing from time to time at me, and smiling disdainfully. oh, how glad i was when the door opened, and the return of moodie broke up this painful tete-a-tete. from the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step. the very next day, mr. malcolm made his appearance before me, wrapped in a great-coat belonging to my husband, which literally came down to his heels. at this strange apparition, i fell a-laughing. “for god's sake, mrs. moodie, lend me a pair of inexpressibles. i have met with an accident in crossing the fence, and mine are torn to shreds--gone to the devil entirely.” “well, don't swear. i'll see what can be done for you.” i brought him a new pair of fine, drab-colored kersey-mere trousers that had never been worn. although he was eloquent in his thanks, i had no idea that he meant to keep them for his sole individual use from that day thenceforth. but after all, what was the man to do? he had no trousers, and no money, and he could not take to the woods. certainly his loss was not our gain. it was the old proverb reversed. the season for putting in the potatoes had now arrived. malcolm volunteered to cut the sets, which was easy work that could be done in the house, and over which he could lounge and smoke; but moodie told him that he must take his share in the field, that i had already sets enough saved to plant half-an-acre, and would have more prepared by the time they were required. with many growls and shrugs, he felt obliged to comply; and he performed his part pretty well, the execrations bestowed upon the mosquitoes and black-flies forming a sort of safety-valve to let off the concentrated venom of his temper. when he came in to dinner, he held out his hands to me. “look at these hands.” “they are blistered with the hoe.” “look at my face.” “you are terribly disfigured by the black-flies. but moodie suffers just as much, and says nothing.” “bah!--the only consolation one feels for such annoyances is to complain. oh, the woods!--the cursed woods!--how i wish i were out of them.” the day was very warm, but in the afternoon i was surprised by a visit from an old maiden lady, a friend of mine from c----. she had walked up with a mr. crowe, from peterborough, a young, brisk-looking farmer, in breeches and top-boots, just out from the old country, who, naturally enough, thought he would like to roost among the woods. he was a little, lively, good-natured manny, with a real anglo-saxon face,--rosy, high cheek-boned, with full lips, and a turned-up nose; and, like most little men, was a great talker, and very full of himself. he had belonged to the secondary class of farmers, and was very vulgar, both in person and manners. i had just prepared tea for my visitors, when malcolm and moodie returned from the field. there was no affectation about the former. he was manly in his person, and blunt even to rudeness, and i saw by the quizzical look which he cast upon the spruce little crowe that he was quietly quizzing him from head to heel. a neighbour had sent me a present of maple molasses, and mr. crowe was so fearful of spilling some of the rich syrup upon his drab shorts that he spread a large pocket-hankerchief over his knees, and tucked another under his chin. i felt very much inclined to laugh, but restrained the inclination as well as i could--and if the little creature would have sat still, i could have quelled my rebellious propensity altogether; but up he would jump at every word i said to him, and make me a low, jerking bow, often with his mouth quite full, and the treacherous molasses running over his chin. malcolm sat directly opposite to me and my volatile next-door neighbour. he saw the intense difficulty i had to keep my gravity, and was determined to make me laugh out. so, coming slyly behind my chair, he whispered in my ear, with the gravity of a judge, “mrs. moodie, that must have been the very chap who first jumped jim crowe.” this appeal obliged me to run from the table. moodie was astonished at my rudeness; and malcolm, as he resumed his seat, made the matter worse by saying, “i wonder what is the matter with mrs. moodie; she is certainly very hysterical this afternoon.” the potatoes were planted, and the season of strawberries, green-peas, and young potatoes come, but still malcolm remained our constant guest. he had grown so indolent, and gave himself so many airs, that moodie was heartily sick of his company, and gave him many gentle hints to change his quarters; but our guest was determined to take no hint. for some reason best known to himself, perhaps out of sheer contradiction, which formed one great element in his character, he seemed obstinately bent upon remaining where he was. moodie was busy under-bushing for a fall fallow. malcolm spent much of his time in the garden, or lounging about the house. i had baked an eel-pie for dinner, which if prepared well is by no means an unsavoury dish. malcolm had cleaned some green-peas and washed the first young potatoes we had drawn that season, with his own hands, and he was reckoning upon the feast he should have on the potatoes with childish glee. the dinner at length was put upon the table. the vegetables were remarkably fine, and the pie looked very nice. moodie helped malcolm, as he always did, very largely, and the other covered his plate with a portion of peas and potatoes, when, lo and behold! my gentleman began making a very wry face at the pie. “what an infernal dish!” he cried, pushing away his plate with an air of great disgust. “these eels taste as if they had been stewed in oil. moodie, you should teach your wife to be a better cook.” the hot blood burnt upon moodie's cheek. i saw indignation blazing in his eye. “if you don't like what is prepared for you, sir, you may leave the table, and my house, if you please. i will put up with your ungentlemanly and ungrateful conduct to mrs. moodie no longer.” out stalked the offending party. i thought, to be sure, we had got rid of him; and though he deserved what was said to him, i was sorry for him. moodie took his dinner, quietly remarking, “i wonder he could find it in his heart to leave those fine peas and potatoes.” he then went back to his work in the bush, and i cleared away the dishes, and churned, for i wanted butter for tea. about four o'clock mr. malcolm entered the room. “mrs. moodie,” said he, in a more cheerful voice than usual, “where's the boss?” “in the wood, under-bushing.” i felt dreadfully afraid that there would be blows between them. “i hope, mr. malcolm, that you are not going to him with any intention of a fresh quarrel.” “don't you think i have been punished enough by losing my dinner?” said he, with a grin. “i don't think we shall murder one another.” he shouldered his axe, and went whistling away. after striving for a long while to stifle my foolish fears, i took the baby in my arms, and little dunbar by the hand, and ran up to the bush where moodie was at work. at first i only saw my husband, but the strokes of an axe at a little distance soon guided my eyes to the spot where malcolm was working away, as if for dear life. moodie smiled, and looked at me significantly. “how could the fellow stomach what i said to him? either great necessity or great meanness must be the cause of his knocking under. i don't know whether most to pity or despise him.” “put up with it, dearest, for this once. he is not happy, and must be greatly distressed.” malcolm kept aloof, ever and anon casting a furtive glance towards us; at last little dunbar ran to him, and held up his arms to be kissed. the strange man snatched him to his bosom, and covered him with caresses. it might be love to the child that had quelled his sullen spirit, or he might really have cherished an affection for us deeper than his ugly temper would allow him to show. at all events, he joined us at tea as if nothing had happened, and we might truly say that he had obtained a new lease of his long visit. but what could not be effected by words or hints of ours was brought about a few days after by the silly observation of a child. he asked katie to give him a kiss, and he would give her some raspberries he had gathered in the bush. “i don't want them. go away; i don't like you, you little stumpy man!” his rage knew no bounds. he pushed the child from him, and vowed that he would leave the house that moment--that she could not have thought of such an expression herself; she must have been taught it by us. this was an entire misconception on his part; but he would not be convinced that he was wrong. off he went, and moodie called after him, “malcolm, as i am sending to peterborough to-morrow, the man shall take in your trunk.” he was too angry even to turn and bid us good-bye; but we had not seen the last of him yet. two months after, we were taking tea with a neighbour, who lived a mile below us on the small lake. who should walk in but mr. malcolm? he greeted us with great warmth for him, and when we rose to take leave, he rose and walked home by our side. “surely the little stumpy man is not returning to his old quarters?” i am still a babe in the affairs of men. human nature has more strange varieties than any one menagerie can contain, and malcolm was one of the oddest of her odd species. that night he slept in his old bed below the parlour window, and for three months afterwards he stuck to us like a beaver. he seemed to have grown more kindly, or we had got more used to his eccentricities, and let him have his own way; certainly he behaved himself much better. he neither scolded the children nor interfered with the maid, nor quarrelled with me. he had greatly discontinued his bad habit of swearing, and he talked of himself and his future prospects with more hope and self-respect. his father had promised to send him a fresh supply of money, and he proposed to buy of moodie the clergy reserve, and that they should farm the two places on shares. this offer was received with great joy, as an unlooked-for means of paying our debts, and extricating ourselves from present and overwhelming difficulties, and we looked upon the little stumpy man in the light of a benefactor. so matters continued until christmas eve, when our visitor proposed walking into peterborough, in order to give the children a treat of raisins to make a christmas pudding. “we will be quite merry to-morrow,” he said. “i hope we shall eat many christmas dinners together, and continue good friends.” he started, after breakfast, with the promise of coming back at night; but night came, the christmas passed away, months and years fled away, but we never saw the little stumpy man again! he went away that day with a stranger in a waggon from peterborough, and never afterwards was seen in that part of canada. we afterwards learned that he went to texas, and it is thought that he was killed at st. antonio; but this is mere conjecture. whether dead or living, i feel convinced that-- “we ne'er shall look upon his like again.” oh, the days when i was young! oh, the days when i was young, a playful little boy, when my piping treble rung to the notes of early joy. oh, the sunny days of spring, when i sat beside the shore, and heard the small birds sing;-- shall i never hear them more? and the daisies scatter'd round, half hid amid the grass, lay like gems upon the ground, too gay for me to pass. how sweet the milkmaid sung, as she sat beside her cow, how clear her wild notes rung;-- there's no music like it now. as i watch'd the ship's white sail 'mid the sunbeams on the sea, spreading canvas to the gale-- how i long'd with her to be. i thought not of the storm, nor the wild cries on her deck, when writhed her graceful form 'mid the hurricane and wreck. and i launch'd my little ship, with her sails and hold beneath; deep laden on each trip, with berries from the heath. ah, little did i know, when i long'd to be a man, of the gloomy cares and woe, that meet in life's brief span. oh, the happy nights i lay with my brothers in their beds, where we soundly slept till day shone brightly o'er our heads. and the blessed dreams that came to fill my heart with joy. oh, that i now could dream, as i dreamt, a little boy. the sun shone brighter then, and the moon more soft and clear, for the wiles of crafty men i had not learn'd to fear; but all seemed fair and gay as the fleecy clouds above; i spent my hours in play, and my heart was full of love. i loved the heath-clad hill, and i loved the silent vale, with its dark and purling rill that murmur'd in the gale. of sighs i'd none to share, they were stored for riper years, when i drain'd the dregs of care with many bitter tears. my simple daily fare, in my little tiny mug, how fain was i to share with cato on the rug. yes, he gave his honest paw, and he lick'd my happy face, he was true to nature's law, and i thought it no disgrace. there's a voice so soft and clear, and a step so gay and light, that charms my listening ear in the visions of the night. and my father bids me haste, in the deep, fond tones of love, and leave this dreary waste, for brighter realms above. now i am old and grey, my bones are rack'd with pain, and time speeds fast away-- but why should i complain? there are joys in life's young morn that dwell not with the old. like the flowers the wind hath torn, from the strem, all bleak and cold. the weary heart may mourn o'er the wither'd hopes of youth, but the flowers so rudely shorn still leave the seeds of truth. and there's hope for hoary men when they're laid beneath the sod; for we'll all be young again when we meet around our god. j.w.d.m. chapter xxii the fire now, fortune, do thy worst! for many years, thou, with relentless and unsparing hand, hast sternly pour'd on our devoted heads the poison'd phials of thy fiercest wrath. the early part of the winter of , a year never to be forgotten in the annals of canadian history, was very severe. during the month of february, the thermometer often ranged from eighteen to twenty-seven degrees below zero. speaking of the coldness of one particular day, a genuine brother jonathan remarked, with charming simplicity, that it was thirty degrees below zero that morning, and it would have been much colder if the thermometer had been longer. the morning of the seventh was so intensely cold that everything liquid froze in the house. the wood that had been drawn for the fire was green, and it ignited too slowly to satisfy the shivering impatience of women and children; i vented mine in audibly grumbling over the wretched fire, at which i in vain endeavoured to thaw frozen bread, and to dress crying children. it so happened that an old friend, the maiden lady before alluded to, had been staying with us for a few days. she had left us for a visit to my sister, and as some relatives of hers were about to return to britain by the way of new york, and had offered to convey letters to friends at home, i had been busy all the day before preparing a packet for england. it was my intention to walk to my sister's with this packet, directly the important affair of breakfast had been discussed; but the extreme cold of the morning had occasioned such delay that it was late before the breakfast-things were cleared away. after dressing, i found the air so keen that i could not venture out without some risk to my nose, and my husband kindly volunteered to go in my stead. i had hired a young irish girl the day before. her friends were only just located in our vicinity, and she had never seen a stove until she came to our house. after moodie left, i suffered the fire to die away in the franklin stove in the parlour, and went into the kitchen to prepare bread for the oven. the girl, who was a good-natured creature, had heard me complain bitterly of the cold, and the impossibility of getting the green wood to burn, and she thought that she would see if she could not make a good fire for me and the children, against my work was done. without saying one word about her intention, she slipped out through a door that opened from the parlour into the garden, ran round to the wood-yard, filled her lap with cedar chips, and, not knowing the nature of the stove, filled it entirely with the light wood. before i had the least idea of my danger, i was aroused from the completion of my task by the crackling and roaring of a large fire, and a suffocating smell of burning soot. i looked up at the kitchen cooking-stove. all was right there. i knew i had left no fire in the parlour stove; but not being able to account for the smoke and the smell of buring, i opened the door, and to my dismay found the stove red hot, from the front plate to the topmost pipe that let out the smoke through the roof. my first impulse was to plunge a blanket, snatched from the servant's bed, which stood in the kitchen, into cold water. this i thrust into the stove, and upon it threw cold water, until all was cool below. i then ran up to the loft, and by exhausting all the water in the house, even to that contained in the boilers upon the fire, contrived to cool down the pipes which passed through the loft. i then sent the girl out of doors to look at the roof, which, as a very deep fall of snow had taken place the day before, i hoped would be completely covered, and safe from all danger of fire. she quickly returned, stamping and tearing her hair, and making a variety of uncouth outcries, from which i gathered that the roof was in flames. this was terrible news, with my husband absent, no man in the house, and a mile and a quarter from any other habitation. i ran out to ascertain the extent of the misfortune, and found a large fire burning in the roof between the two stove pipes. the heat of the fires had melted off all the snow, and a spark from the burning pipe had already ignited the shingles. a ladder, which for several months had stood against the house, had been moved two days before to the barn, which was at the top of the hill, near the road; there was no reaching the fire through that source. i got out the dining-table, and tried to throw water upon the roof by standing on a chair placed upon it, but i only expended the little water that remained in the boiler, without reaching the fire. the girl still continued weeping and lamenting. “you must go for help,” i said. “run as fast as you can to my sister's, and fetch your master.” “and lave you, ma'arm, and the childher alone wid the burnin' house?” “yes, yes! don't stay one moment.” “i have no shoes, ma'arm, and the snow is so deep.” “put on your master's boots; make haste, or we shall be lost before help comes.” the girl put on the boots and started, shrieking “fire!” the whole way. this was utterly useless, and only impeded her progress by exhausting her strength. after she had vanished from the head of the clearing into the wood, and i was left quite alone, with the house burning over my head, i paused one moment to reflect what had best be done. the house was built of cedar logs; in all probability it would be consumed before any help could arrive. there was a brisk breeze blowing up from the frozen lake, and the thermometer stood at eighteen degrees below zero. we were placed between the two extremes of heat and cold, and there was as much danger to be apprehended from the one as the other. in the bewilderment of the moment, the direful extent of the calamity never struck me; we wanted but this to put the finishing stroke to our misfortunes, to be thrown naked, houseless, and penniless, upon the world. “what shall i save first?” was the thought just then uppermost in my mind. bedding and clothing appeared the most essentially necessary, and without another moment's pause, i set to work with a right good will to drag all that i could from my burning home. while little agnes, dunbar, and baby donald filled the air with their cries, katie, as if fully conscious of the importance of exertion, assisted me in carrying out sheets and blankets, and dragging trunks and boxes some way up the hill, to be out of the way of the burning brands when the roof should fall in. how many anxious looks i gave to the head of the clearing as the fire increased, and the large pieces of burning pine began to fall through the boarded ceiling, about the lower rooms where we were at work. the children i had kept under a large dresser in the kitchen, but it now appeared absolutely necessary to remove them to a place of safety. to expose the young, tender things to the direful cold was almost as bad as leaving them to the mercy of the fire. at last i hit upon a plan to keep them from freezing. i emptied all the clothes out of a large, deep chest of drawers, and dragged the empty drawers up the hill; these i lined with blankets, and placed a child in each drawer, covering it well over with the bedding, giving to little agnes the charge of the baby to hold between her knees, and keep well covered until help should arrive. ah, how long it seemed coming! the roof was now burning like a brush-heap, and, unconsciously, the child and i were working under a shelf, upon which were deposited several pounds of gunpowder which had been procured for blasting a well, as all our water had to be brought up hill from the lake. this gunpowder was in a stone jar, secured by a paper stopper; the shelf upon which it stood was on fire, but it was utterly forgotten by me at the time; and even afterwards, when my husband was working on the burning loft over it. i found that i should not be able to take many more trips for goods. as i passed out of the parlour for the last time, katie looked up at her father's flute, which was suspended upon two brackets, and said-- “oh, dear mamma! do save papa's flute; he will be so sorry to lose it.” god bless the dear child for the thought! the flute was saved; and, as i succeeded in dragging out a heavy chest of cloths, and looked up once more despairingly to the road, i saw a man running at full speed. it was my husband. help was at hand, and my heart uttered a deep thanksgiving as another and another figure came upon the scene. i had not felt the intense cold, although without cap, or bonnet, or shawl; with my hands bare and exposed to the bitter, biting air. the intense excitement, the anxiety to save all i could, had so totally diverted my thoughts from myself, that i had felt nothing of the danger to which i had been exposed; but now that help was near, my knees trembled under me, i felt giddy and faint, and dark shadows seemed dancing before my eyes. the moment my husband and brother-in-law entered the house, the latter exclaimed, “moodie, the house is gone; save what you can of your winter stores and furniture.” moodie thought differently. prompt and energetic in danger, and possessing admirable presence of mind and coolness when others yield to agitation and despair, he sprang upon the burning loft and called for water. alas, there was none! “snow, snow; hand me up pailsful of snow!” oh! it was bitter work filling those pails with frozen snow; but mr. t---- and i worked at it as fast as we were able. the violence of the fire was greatly checked by covering the boards of the loft with this snow. more help had now arrived. young b---- and s---- had brought the ladder down with them from the barn, and were already cutting away the burning roof, and flinging the flaming brands into the deep snow. “mrs. moodie, have you any pickled meat?” “we have just killed one of our cows, and salted it for winter stores.” “well, then, fling the beef into the snow, and let us have the brine.” this was an admirable plan. wherever the brine wetted the shingles, the fire turned from it, and concentrated into one spot. but i had not time to watch the brave workers on the roof. i was fast yielding to the effects of over-excitement and fatigue, when my brother's team dashed down the clearing, bringing my excellent old friend, miss b----, and the servant-girl. my brother sprang out, carried me back into the house, and wrapped me up in one of the large blankets scattered about. in a few minutes i was seated with the dear children in the sleigh, and on the way to a place of warmth and safety. katie alone suffered from the intense cold. the dear little creature's feet were severely frozen, but were fortunately restored by her uncle discovering the fact before she approached the fire, and rubbing them well with snow. in the meanwhile, the friends we had left so actively employed at the house succeeded in getting the fire under before it had destroyed the walls. the only accident that occurred was to a poor dog, that moodie had called snarleyowe. he was struck by a burning brand thrown from the house, and crept under the barn and died. beyond the damage done to the building, the loss of our potatoes and two sacks of flour, we had escaped in a manner almost miraculous. this fact shows how much can be done by persons working in union, without bustle and confusion, or running in each other's way. here were six men, who, without the aid of water, succeeded in saving a building, which, at first sight, almost all of them had deemed past hope. in after years, when entirely burnt out in a disastrous fire that consumed almost all we were worth in the world, some four hundred persons were present, with a fire-engine to second their endeavours, yet all was lost. every person seemed in the way; and though the fire was discovered immediately after it took place, nothing was done beyond saving some of the furniture. our party was too large to be billetted upon one family. mrs. t---- took compassion upon moodie, myself, and the baby, while their uncle received the three children to his hospitable home. it was some weeks before moodie succeeded in repairing the roof, the intense cold preventing any one from working in such an exposed situation. the news of our fire travelled far and wide. i was reported to have done prodigies, and to have saved the greater part of our household goods before help arrived. reduced to plain prose, these prodigies shrink into the simple, and by no means marvellous fact, that during the excitement i dragged out chests which, under ordinary circumstances, i could not have moved; and that i was unconscious, both of the cold and the danger to which i was exposed while working under a burning roof, which, had it fallen, would have buried both the children and myself under its ruins. these circumstances appeared far more alarming, as all real danger does, after they were past. the fright and over-exertion gave my health a shock from which i did not recover for several months, and made me so fearful of fire, that from that hour it haunts me like a nightmare. let the night be ever so serene, all stoves must be shut up, and the hot embers covered with ashes, before i dare retire to rest; and the sight of a burning edifice, so common a spectacle in large towns in this country, makes me really ill. this feeling was greatly increased after a second fire, when, for some torturing minutes, a lovely boy, since drowned, was supposed to have perished in the burning house. our present fire led to a new train of circumstances, for it was the means of introducing to moodie a young irish gentleman, who was staying at my brother's house. john e---- was one of the best and gentlest of human beings. his father, a captain in the army, had died while his family were quite young, and had left his widow with scarcely any means beyond the pension she received at her husband's death, to bring up and educate a family of five children. a handsome, showy woman, mrs. e---- soon married again; and the poor lads were thrown upon the world. the eldest, who had been educated for the church, first came to canada in the hope of getting some professorship in the college, or of opening a classical school. he was a handsome, gentlemanly, well-educated young man, but constitutionally indolent--a natural defect which seemed common to all the males of the family, and which was sufficiently indicated by their soft, silky, fair hair and milky complexions. r---- had the good sense to perceive that canada was not the country for him. he spent a week under our roof, and we were much pleased with his elegant tastes and pursuits; but my husband strongly advised him to try and get a situation as a tutor in some family at home. this he afterwards obtained. he became tutor and travelling companion to the young lord m----, and has since got an excellent living. john, who had followed his brother to canada without the means of transporting himself back again, was forced to remain, and was working with mr. s---- for his board. he proposed to moodie working his farm upon shares; and as we were unable to hire a man, moodie gladly closed with his offer; and, during the time he remained with us, we had every reason to be pleased with the arrangement. it was always a humiliating feeling to our proud minds, that hirelings should witness our dreadful struggle with poverty, and the strange shifts we were forced to make in order to obtain even food. but john e---- had known and experienced all that we had suffered, in his own person, and was willing to share our home with all its privations. warm-hearted, sincere, and truly affectionate--a gentleman in word, thought, and deed--we found his society and cheerful help a great comfort. our odd meals became a subject of merriment, and the peppermint and sage tea drank with a better flavour when we had one who sympathised in all our trials, and shared all our toils, to partake of it with us. the whole family soon became attached to our young friend; and after the work of the day was over, greatly we enjoyed an hour's fishing on the lake. john e---- said that we had no right to murmur, as long as we had health, a happy home, and plenty of fresh fish, milk, and potatoes. early in may, we received an old irishwoman into our service, who for four years proved a most faithful and industrious creature. and what with john e---- to assist my husband on the farm, and old jenny to help me to nurse the children, and manage the house, our affairs, if they were no better in a pecuniary point of view, at least presented a more pleasing aspect at home. we were always cheerful, and sometimes contented and even happy. how great was the contrast between the character of our new inmate and that of mr. malcolm! the sufferings of the past year had been greatly increased by the intolerable nuisance of his company, while many additional debts had been contracted in order to obtain luxuries for him which we never dreamed of purchasing for ourselves. instead of increasing my domestic toils, john did all in his power to lessen them; and it always grieved him to see me iron a shirt, or wash the least article of clothing for him. “you have too much to do already; i cannot bear to give you the least additional work,” he would say. and he generally expressed the greatest satisfaction at my method of managing the house, and preparing our simple fare. the little ones he treated with the most affectionate kindness, and gathered the whole flock about his knees the moment he came in to his meals. on a wet day, when no work could be done abroad, moodie took up his flute, or read aloud to us, while john and i sat down to work. the young emigrant, early cast upon the world and his own resources, was an excellent hand at the needle. he would make or mend a shirt with the greatest precision and neatness, and cut out and manufacture his canvas trousers and loose summer-coats with as much adroitness as the most experienced tailor; darn his socks, and mend his boots and shoes, and often volunteered to assist me in knitting the coarse yarn of the country into socks for the children, while he made them moccasins from the dressed deer-skins that we obtained from the indians. scrupulously neat and clean in his person, the only thing which seemed to ruffle his calm temper was the dirty work of logging; he hated to come in from the field with his person and clothes begrimed with charcoal and smoke. old jenny used to laugh at him for not being able to eat his meals without first washing his hands and face. “och! my dear heart, yer too particular intirely; we've no time in the woods to be clane.” she would say to him, in answer to his request for soap and a towel, “an' is it soap yer a-wantin'? i tell yer that that same is not to the fore; bating the throuble of makin', it's little soap that the misthress can get to wash the clothes for us and the childher, widout yer wastin' it in makin' yer purty skin as white as a leddy's. do, darlint, go down to the lake and wash there; that basin is big enough, any how.” and john would laugh, and go down to the lake to wash, in order to appease the wrath of the old woman. john had a great dislike to cats, and even regarded with an evil eye our old pet cat, peppermint, who had taken a great fancy to share his bed and board. “if i tolerate our own cat,” he would say, “i will not put up with such a nuisance as your friend emilia sends us in the shape of her ugly tom. why, where in the world do you think i found that beast sleeping last night?” i expressed my ignorance. “in our potato-pot. now, you will agree with me that potatoes dressed with cat's hair is not a very nice dish. the next time i catch master tom in the potato-pot, i will kill him.” “john, you are not in earnest. mrs. ---- would never forgive any injury done to tom, who is a great favourite.” “let her keep him at home, then. think of the brute coming a mile through the woods to steal from us all he can find, and then sleeping off the effects of his depredations in the potato-pot.” i could not help laughing, but i begged john by no means to annoy emilia by hurting her cat. the next day, while sitting in the parlour at work, i heard a dreadful squall, and rushed to the rescue. john was standing, with a flushed cheek, grasping a large stick in his hand, and tom was lying dead at his feet. “oh, the poor cat!” “yes, i have killed him; but i am sorry for it now. what will mrs. ---- say?” “she must not know it. i have told you the story of the pig that jacob killed. you had better bury it with the pig.” john was really sorry for having yielded, in a fit of passion, to do so cruel a thing; yet a few days after he got into a fresh scrape with mrs. ----'s animals. the hens were laying, up at the barn. john was very fond of fresh eggs, but some strange dog came daily and sucked the eggs. john had vowed to kill the first dog he found in the act. mr. ---- had a very fine bull-dog, which he valued very highly; but with emilia, chowder was an especial favourite. bitterly had she bemoaned the fate of tom, and many were the inquiries she made of us as to his sudden disappearance. one afternoon john ran into the room. “my dear mrs. moodie, what is mrs. ----'s dog like?” “a large bull-dog, brindled black and white.” “then, by jove, i've shot him!” “john, john! you mean me to quarrel in earnest with my friend. how could you do it?” “why, how the deuce should i know her dog from another? i caught the big thief in the very act of devouring the eggs from under your sitting hen, and i shot him dead without another thought. but i will bury him, and she will never find it out a bit more than she did who killed the cat.” some time after this, emilia returned from a visit at p----. the first thing she told me was the loss of the dog. she was so vexed at it, she had had him advertised, offering a reward for his recovery. i, of course, was called upon to sympathise with her, which i did with a very bad grace. “i did not like the beast,” i said; “he was cross and fierce, and i was afraid to go up to her house while he was there.” “yes; but to lose him so. it is so provoking; and him such a valuable animal. i could not tell how deeply she felt the loss. she would give four dollars to find out who had stolen him.” how near she came to making the grand discovery the sequel will show. instead of burying him with the murdered pig and cat, john had scratched a shallow grave in the garden, and concealed the dead brute. after tea, emilia requested to look at the garden; and i, perfectly unconscious that it contained the remains of the murdered chowder, led the way. mrs. ---- whilst gathering a handful of fine green-peas, suddenly stooped, and looking earnestly at the ground, called to me-- “come here, susanna, and tell me what has been buried here. it looks like the tail of a dog.” she might have added, “of my dog.” murder, it seems, will out. by some strange chance, the grave that covered the mortal remains of chowder had been disturbed, and the black tail of the dog was sticking out. “what can it be?” said i, with an air of perfect innocence. “shall i call jenny, and dig it up?” “oh, no, my dear; it has a shocking smell, but it does look very much like chowder's tail.” “impossible! how could it come among my peas?” “true. besides, i saw chowder, with my own eyes, yesterday, following a team; and george c---- hopes to recover him for me.” “indeed! i am glad to hear it. how these mosquitoes sting. shall we go back to the house?” while we returned to the house, john, who had overheard the whole conversation, hastily disinterred the body of chowder, and placed him in the same mysterious grave with tom and the pig. moodie and his friend finished logging-up the eight acres which the former had cleared the previous winter; besides putting in a crop of peas and potatoes, and an acre of indian corn, reserving the fallow for fall wheat, while we had the promise of a splendid crop of hay off the sixteen acres that had been cleared in . we were all in high spirits and everything promised fair, until a very trifling circumstance again occasioned us much anxiety and trouble, and was the cause of our losing most of our crop. moodie was asked to attend a bee, which was called to construct a corduroy-bridge over a very bad piece of road. he and j. e---- were obliged to go that morning with wheat to the mill, but moodie lent his yoke of oxen for the work. the driver selected for them at the bee was the brutal m----y, a man noted for his ill-treatment of cattle, especially if the animals did not belong to him. he gave one of the oxen such a severe blow over the loins with a handspike that the creature came home perfectly disabled, just as we wanted his services in the hay-field and harvest. moodie had no money to purchase, or even to hire a mate for the other ox; but he and john hoped that by careful attendance upon the injured animal he might be restored to health in a few days. they conveyed him to a deserted clearing, a short distance from the farm, where he would be safe from injury from the rest of the cattle; and early every morning we went in the canoe to carry poor duke a warm mash, and to watch the progress of his recovery. ah, ye who revel in this world's wealth, how little can you realise the importance which we, in our poverty, attached to the life of this valuable animal! yes, it even became the subject of prayer, for the bread for ourselves and our little ones depended greatly upon his recovery. we were doomed to disappointment. after nursing him with the greatest attention and care for some weeks, the animal grew daily worse, and suffered such intense agony, as he lay groaning upon the ground, unable to rise, that john shot him to put him out of pain. here, then, were we left without oxen to draw in our hay, or secure our other crops. a neighbour, who had an odd ox, kindly lent us the use of him, when he was not employed on his own farm; and john and moodie gave their own work for the occasional loan of a yoke of oxen for a day. but with all these drawbacks, and in spite of the assistance of old jenny and myself in the field, a great deal of the produce was damaged before it could be secured. the whole summer we had to labour under this disadvantage. our neighbours were all too busy to give us any help, and their own teams were employed in saving their crops. fortunately, the few acres of wheat we had to reap were close to the barn, and we carried the sheaves thither by hand; old jenny proving an invaluable help, both in the harvest and hay-field. still, with all these misfortunes, providence watched over us in a signal manner. we were never left entirely without food. like the widow's cruise of oil, our means, though small, were never suffered to cease entirely. we had been for some days without meat, when moodie came running in for his gun. a great she-bear was in the wheat-field at the edge of the wood, very busily employed in helping to harvest the crop. there was but one bullet, and a charge or two of buckshot, in the house; but moodie started to the wood with the single bullet in his gun, followed by a little terrier dog that belonged to john e----. old jenny was busy at the wash-tub, but the moment she saw her master running up the clearing, and knew the cause, she left her work, and snatching up the carving-knife, ran after him, that in case the bear should have the best of the fight, she would be there to help “the masther.” finding her shoes incommode her, she flung them off, in order to run faster. a few minutes after, came the report of the gun, and i heard moodie halloo to e----, who was cutting stakes for a fence in the wood. i hardly thought it possible that he could have killed the bear, but i ran to the door to listen. the children were all excitement, which the sight of the black monster, borne down the clearing upon two poles, increased to the wildest demonstrations of joy. moodie and john were carrying the prize, and old jenny, brandishing her carving-knife, followed in the rear. the rest of the evening was spent in skinning, and cutting up, and salting the ugly creature, whose flesh filled a barrel with excellent meat, in flavour resembling beef, while the short grain and juicy nature of the flesh gave to it the tenderness of mutton. this was quite a godsend, and lasted us until we were able to kill two large, fat hogs, in the fall. a few nights after, moodie and i encountered the mate of mrs. bruin, while returning from a visit to emilia, in the very depth of the wood. we had been invited to meet our friend's father and mother, who had come up on a short visit to the woods; and the evening passed away so pleasantly that it was near midnight before the little party of friends separated. the moon was down. the wood, through which we had to return, was very dark; the ground being low and swampy, and the trees thick and tall. there was, in particular, one very ugly spot, where a small creek crossed the road. this creek could only be passed by foot-passengers scrambling over a fallen tree, which, in a dark night, was not very easy to find. i begged a torch of mr. ----; but no torch could be found. emilia laughed at my fears; still, knowing what a coward i was in the bush of a night, she found up about an inch of candle, which was all that remained from the evening's entertainment. this she put into an old lanthorn. “it will not last you long; but it will carry you over the creek.” this was something gained, and off we set. it was so dark in the bush, that our dim candle looked like a solitary red spark in the intense surrounding darkness, and scarcely served to show us the path. we went chatting along, talking over the news of the evening, hector running on before us, when i saw a pair of eyes glare upon us from the edge of the swamp, with the green, bright light emitted by the eyes of a cat. “did you see those terrible eyes, moodie?” and i clung, trembling, to his arm. “what eyes?” said he, feigning ignorance. “it's too dark to see anything. the light is nearly gone, and, if you don't quicken your pace, and cross the tree before it goes out, you will, perhaps, get your feet wet by falling into the creek.” “good heavens! i saw them again; and do just look at the dog.” hector stopped suddenly, and, stretching himself along the ground, his nose resting between his forepaws, began to whine and tremble. presently he ran back to us, and crept under our feet. the cracking of branches, and the heavy tread of some large animal, sounded close beside us. moodie turned the open lanthorn in the direction from whence the sounds came, and shouted as loud as he could, at the same time endeavouring to urge forward the fear-stricken dog, whose cowardice was only equalled by my own. just at that critical moment the wick of the candle flickered a moment in the socket, and expired. we were left, in perfect darkness, alone with the bear--for such we supposed the animal to be. my heart beat audibly; a cold perspiration was streaming down my face, but i neither shrieked nor attempted to run. i don't know how moodie got me over the creek. one of my feet slipped into the water, but, expecting, as i did every moment, to be devoured by master bruin, that was a thing of no consequence. my husband was laughing at my fears, and every now and then he turned towards our companion, who continued following us at no great distance, and gave him an encouraging shout. glad enough was i when i saw the gleam of the light from our little cabin window shine out among the trees; and, the moment i got within the clearing i ran, without stopping until i was safely within the house. john was sitting up for us, nursing donald. he listened with great interest to our adventure with the bear, and thought that bruin was very good to let us escape without one affectionate hug. “perhaps it would have been otherwise had he known, moodie, that you had not only killed his good lady, but were dining sumptuously off her carcass every day.” the bear was determined to have something in return for the loss of his wife. several nights after this, our slumbers were disturbed, about midnight, by an awful yell, and old jenny shook violently at our chamber door. “masther, masther, dear! get up wid you this moment, or the bear will desthroy the cattle intirely.” half asleep, moodie sprang from his bed, seized his gun, and ran out. i threw my large cloak round me, struck a light, and followed him to the door. the moment the latter was unclosed, some calves that we were rearing rushed into the kitchen, closely followed by the larger beasts, who came bellowing headlong down the hill, pursued by the bear. it was a laughable scene, as shown by that paltry tallow-candle. moodie, in his night-shirt, taking aim at something in the darkness, surrounded by the terrified animals; old jenny, with a large knife in her hand, holding on to the white skirts of her master's garment, making outcry loud enough to frighten away all the wild beasts in the bush--herself almost in a state of nudity. “och, masther, dear! don't timpt the ill-conditioned crathur wid charging too near; think of the wife and the childher. let me come at the rampaging baste, an' i'll stick the knife into the heart of him.” moodie fired. the bear retreated up the clearing, with a low growl. moodie and jenny pursued him some way, but it was too dark to discern any object at a distance. i, for my part, stood at the open door, laughing until the tears ran down my cheeks, at the glaring eyes of the oxen, their ears erect, and their tails carried gracefully on a level with their backs, as they stared at me and the light, in blank astonishment. the noise of the gun had just roused john e---- from his slumbers. he was no less amused than myself, until he saw that a fine yearling heifer was bleeding, and found, upon examination, that the poor animal, having been in the claws of the bear, was dangerously, if not mortally hurt. “i hope,” he cried, “that the brute has not touched my foal!” i pointed to the black face of the filly peeping over the back of an elderly cow. “you see, john, that bruin preferred veal; there's your 'horsey,' as dunbar calls her, safe, and laughing at you.” moodie and jenny now returned from the pursuit of the bear. e---- fastened all the cattle into the back yard, close to the house. by daylight he and moodie had started in chase of bruin, whom they tracked by his blood some way into the bush; but here he entirely escaped their search. the bears of canada oh! _bear_ me from this savage land of _bears_, for 'tis indeed _unbearable_ to me: i'd rather cope with vilest worldly cares, or writhe with cruel sickness of the sea. oh! _bear_ me to my own _bear_ land of hills,[ ] where i'd be sure brave _bear_-legg'd lads to see-- _bear_ cakes, _bear_ rocks, and whiskey stills, and _bear_-legg'd nymphs, to smile once more on me. i'd _bear_ the heat, i'd _bear_ the freezing air of equatorial realm or arctic sea, i'd sit all _bear_ at night, and watch the northern _bear_, and bless my soul that he was far from me. i'd _bear_ the poor-rates, tithes, and all the ills john bull must _bear_, (who takes them all, poor sinner! as patients do, when forced to gulp down pills, and water-gruel drink in lieu of dinner). i'd _bear_ the _bareness_ of all barren lands before i'd _bear_ the _bearishness_ of this; _bear_ head, _bear_ feet, _bear_ legs, _bear_ hands, _bear_ everything, but want of social bliss. but should i die in this drear land of _bears_, oh! ship me off, my friends, discharge the sable wearers, for if you don't, in spite of priests and prayers, the _bear_ will come, and eat up corpse and _bearers_. j.w.d.m. [ ] the orkney isles. chapter xxiii the outbreak can a corrupted stream pour through the land health-giving waters? can the slave, who lures his wretched followers with the hope of gain, feel in his bosom the immortal fire that bound a wallace to his country's cause, and bade the thracian shepherd cast away rome's galling yoke; while the astonish'd world-- rapt into admiration at the deed-- paus'd, ere she crush'd, with overwhelming force, the man who fought to win a glorious grave? the long-protracted harvest was at length brought to a close. moodie had procured another ox from dummer, by giving a note at six months date for the payment; and he and john e---- were in the middle of sowing their fall crop of wheat, when the latter received a letter from the old country, which conveyed to him intelligence of the death of his mother, and of a legacy of two hundred pounds. it was necessary for him to return to claim the property, and though we felt his loss severely, we could not, without great selfishness, urge him to stay. john had formed an attachment to a young lady in the country, who, like himself, possessed no property. their engagement, which had existed several years, had been dropped, from its utter hopelessness, by mutual consent. still the young people continued to love each other, and to look forward to better days, when their prospects might improve so far that e---- would be able to purchase a bush farm, and raise a house, however lowly, to shelter his mary. he, like our friend malcolm, had taken a fancy to buy a part of our block of land, which he could cultivate in partnership with moodie, without being obliged to hire, when the same barn, cattle, and implements would serve for both. anxious to free himself from the thraldom of debts which pressed him sore, moodie offered to part with two hundred acres at less than they cost us, and the bargain was to be considered as concluded directly the money was forthcoming. it was a sorrowful day when our young friend left us; he had been a constant inmate in the house for nine months, and not one unpleasant word had ever passed between us. he had rendered our sojourn in the woods more tolerable by his society, and sweetened our bitter lot by his friendship and sympathy. we both regarded him as a brother, and parted with him with sincere regret. as to old jenny, she lifted up her voice and wept, consigning him to the care and protection of all the saints in the irish calendar. for several days after john left us, a deep gloom pervaded the house. our daily toil was performed with less cheerfulness and alacrity; we missed him at the evening board, and at the evening fire; and the children asked each day, with increasing earnestness, when dear e---- would return. moodie continued sowing his fall wheat. the task was nearly completed, and the chill october days were fast verging upon winter, when towards the evening of one of them he contrived--i know not how--to crawl down from the field at the head of the hill, faint and pale, and in great pain. he had broken the small bone of his leg. in dragging, among the stumps, the heavy machine (which is made in the form of the letter v, and is supplied with large iron teeth), had hitched upon a stump, and being swung off again by the motion of the oxen, had come with great force against his leg. at first he was struck down, and for some time was unable to rise; but at length he contrived to unyoke the team, and crawled partly on his hands and knees down the clearing. what a sad, melancholy evening that was! fortune seemed never tired of playing us some ugly trick. the hope which had so long sustained me seemed about to desert me altogether; when i saw him on whom we all depended for subsistence, and whose kindly voice ever cheered us under the pressure of calamity, smitten down helpless, all my courage and faith in the goodness of the divine father seemed to forsake me, and i wept long and bitterly. the next morning i went in search of a messenger to send to peterborough for the doctor; but though i found and sent the messenger, the doctor never came. perhaps he did not like to incur the expense of a fatiguing journey with small chance of obtaining a sufficient remuneration. our dear sufferer contrived, with assistance, to bandage his leg; and after the first week of rest had expired, he amused himself with making a pair of crutches, and in manufacturing indian paddles for the canoe, axe-handles, and yokes for the oxen. it was wonderful with what serenity he bore this unexpected affliction. buried in the obscurity of those woods, we knew nothing, heard nothing of the political state of the country, and were little aware of the revolution which was about to work a great change for us and for canada. the weather continued remarkably mild. the first great snow, which for years had ordinarily fallen between the th and th of november, still kept off. november passed on, and as all our firewood had to be chopped by old jenny during the lameness of my husband, i was truly grateful to god for the continued mildness of the weather. on the th of december--that great day of the outbreak--moodie was determined to take advantage of the open state of the lake to carry a large grist up to y----'s mill. i urged upon him the danger of a man attempting to manage a canoe in rapid water, who was unable to stand without crutches; but moodie saw that the children would need bread, and he was anxious to make the experiment. finding that i could not induce him to give up the journey, i determined to go with him. old wittals, who happened to come down that morning, assisted in placing the bags of wheat in the little vessel, and helped to place moodie at the stern. with a sad, foreboding spirit i assisted to push off from the shore. the air was raw and cold, but our sail was not without its pleasure. the lake was very full from the heavy rains, and the canoe bounded over the waves with a free, springy motion. a slight frost had hung every little bush and spray along the shores with sparkling crystals. the red pigeon-berries, shining through their coating of ice, looked like cornelian beads set in silver, and strung from bush to bush. we found the rapids at the entrance of bessikakoon lake very hard to stem, and were so often carried back by the force of the water, that, cold as the air was, the great exertion which moodie had to make use of to obtain the desired object brought the perspiration out in big drops upon his forehead. his long confinement to the house and low diet had rendered him very weak. the old miller received us in the most hearty and hospitable manner; and complimented me upon my courage in venturing upon the water in such cold, rough weather. norah was married, but the kind betty provided us an excellent dinner, while we waited for the grist to be ground. it was near four o'clock when we started on our return. if there had been danger in going up the stream, there was more in coming down. the wind had changed, the air was frosty, keen, and biting, and moodie's paddle came up from every dip into the water loaded with ice. for my part, i had only to sit still at the bottom of the canoe, as we floated rapidly down with wind and tide. at the landing we were met by old jenny, who had a long story to tell us, of which we could make neither head nor tail--how some gentleman had called during our absence, and left a large paper, all about the queen and the yankees; that there was war between canada and the states; that toronto had been burnt, and the governor killed, and i know not what other strange and monstrous statements. after much fatigue, moodie climbed the hill, and we were once more safe by our own fireside. here we found the elucidation of jenny's marvelous tales: a copy of the queen's proclamation, calling upon all loyal gentlemen to join in putting down the unnatural rebellion. a letter from my sister explained the nature of the outbreak, and the astonishment with which the news had been received by all the settlers in the bush. my brother and my sister's husband had already gone off to join some of the numerous bands of gentlemen who were collecting from all quarters to march to the aid of toronto, which it was said was besieged by the rebel force. she advised me not to suffer moodie to leave home in his present weak state; but the spirit of my husband was aroused, he instantly obeyed what he considered the imperative call of duty, and told me to prepare him a few necessaries, that he might be ready to start early in the morning. little sleep visited our eyes that night. we talked over the strange news for hours; our coming separation, and the probability that if things were as bad as they appeared to be, we might never meet again. our affairs were in such a desperate condition that moodie anticipated that any change must be for the better; it was impossible for them to be worse. but the poor, anxious wife thought only of a parting which to her put a finishing stroke to all her misfortunes. before the cold, snowy morning broke, we were all stirring. the children, who had learned that their father was preparing to leave them, were crying and clinging round his knees. his heart was too deeply affected to eat; the meal passed over in silence, and he rose to go. i put on my hat and shawl to accompany him through the wood as far as my sister mrs. t----'s. the day was like our destiny, cold, dark, and lowering. i gave the dear invalid his crutches, and we commenced our sorrowful walk. then old jenny's lamentations burst forth, as, flinging her arms round my husband's neck, she kissed and blessed him after the fashion of her country. “och hone! och hone!” she cried, wringing her hands, “masther dear, why will you lave the wife and the childher? the poor crathur is breakin' her heart intirely at partin' wid you. shure an' the war is nothin' to you, that you must be goin' into danger; an' you wid a broken leg. och hone! och hone! come back to your home--you will be kilt, and thin what will become of the wife and the wee bairns?” her cries and lamentations followed us into the wood. at my sister's, moodie and i parted; and with a heavy heart i retraced my steps through the wood. for once, i forgot all my fears. i never felt the cold. sad tears were flowing over my cheeks; when i entered the house, hope seemed to have deserted me, and for upwards of an hour i lay upon the bed and wept. poor jenny did her best to comfort me, but all joy had vanished with him who was my light of life. left in the most absolute uncertainty as to the real state of public affairs, i could only conjecture what might be the result of this sudden outbreak. several poor settlers called at the house during the day, on their way down to peterborough, but they brought with them the most exaggerated accounts. there had been a battle, they said, with the rebels, and the loyalists had been defeated; toronto was besieged by sixty thousand men, and all the men in the backwoods were ordered to march instantly to the relief of the city. in the evening, i received a note from emilia, who was at peterborough, in which she informed me that my husband had borrowed a horse of mr. s----, and had joined a large party of two hundred volunteers, who had left that morning for toronto; that there had been a battle with the insurgents; that colonel moodie had been killed, and the rebels had retreated; and that she hoped my husband would return in a few days. the honest backwoodsman, perfectly ignorant of the abuses that had led to the present position of things, regarded the rebels as a set of monsters, for whom no punishment was too severe, and obeyed the call to arms with enthusiasm. the leader of the insurgents must have been astonished at the rapidity with which a large force was collected, as if by magic, to repel his designs. a great number of these volunteers were half-pay officers, many of whom had fought in the continental wars with the armies of napoleon, and would have been found a host in themselves. i must own that my british spirit was fairly aroused, and as i could not aid in subduing the enemies of my beloved country with my arm, i did what little i could to serve the good cause with my pen. it may probably amuse my readers, to give them a few specimens of these loyal staves, which were widely circulated through the colony at the time. an address to the freemen of canada canadians! will you join the band-- the factious band--who dare oppose the regal power of that bless'd land from whence your boasted freedom flows? brave children of a noble race, guard well the altar and the hearth; and never by your deeds disgrace the british sires who gave you birth. what though your bones may never lie beneath dear albion's hallow'd sod, spurn the base wretch who dare defy, in arms, his country and his god! whose callous bosom cannot feel that he who acts a traitor's part, remorselessly uplifts the steel to plunge it in a parent's heart. canadians! will you see the flag, beneath whose folds your fathers bled, supplanted by the vilest rag[ ] that ever host to rapine led? thou emblem of a tyrant's sway, thy triple hues are dyed in gore; like his, thy power has pass'd away-- like his, thy short-lived triumph's o'er. ay! let the trampled despot's fate forewarn the rash, misguided band to sue for mercy, ere too late, nor scatter ruin o'er the land. the baffled traitor, doomed to bear a people's hate, his colleagues' scorn, defeated by his own despair, will curse the hour that he was born! by all the blood for britain shed on many a glorious battle-field, to the free winds her standard spread, nor to these base insurgents yield. with loyal bosoms beating high, in your good cause securely trust; “god and victoria!” be your cry, and crush the traitors to the dust. [ ] the tri-coloured flag assumed by the rebels. this outpouring of a national enthusiasm, which i found it impossible to restrain, was followed by the oath of the canadian volunteers huzza for england!--may she claim our fond devotion ever; and, by the glory of her name, our brave forefathers' honest fame, we swear--no foe shall sever her children from their parent's side; though parted by the wave, in weal or woe, whate'er betide, we swear to die, or save her honour from the rebel band whose crimes pollute our injured land! let the foe come--we will not shrink to meet them if they dare; well must they fight, ere rashly think to rend apart one sacred link that binds our country fair to that dear isle, from whence we sprung; which gave our fathers birth; whose glorious deeds her bards have sung; the unrivall'd of the earth. the highest privilege we claim, to own her sway--to bear her name. then, courage, loyal volunteers! god will defend the right; that thought will banish slavish fears, that blessed consciousness still cheers the soldier in the fight. the stars for us shall never burn, the stripes may frighten slaves, the briton's eye will proudly turn where britain's standard waves. beneath its folds, if heaven requires, we'll die, as died of old our sires! in a week, moodie returned. so many volunteers had poured into toronto that the number of friends was likely to prove as disastrous as that of enemies, on account of the want of supplies to maintain them all. the companies from the back townships had been remanded, and i received with delight my own again. but this re-union did not last long. several regiments of militia were formed to defend the colony, and to my husband was given the rank of captain in one of those then stationed in toronto. on the th of january, , he bade us a long adieu. i was left with old jenny and the children to take care of the farm. it was a sad, dull time. i could bear up against all trials with him to comfort and cheer me, but his long-continued absence cast a gloom upon my spirit not easily to be shaken off. still his very appointment to this situation was a signal act of mercy. from his full pay, he was enabled to liquidate many pressing debts, and to send home from time to time sums of money to procure necessaries for me and the little ones. these remittances were greatly wanted; but i demurred before laying them out for comforts which we had been so long used to dispense with. it seemed almost criminal to purchase any article of luxury, such as tea or sugar, while a debt remained unpaid. the y----y's were very pressing for the thirty pounds that we owed them for the clearing; but they had such a firm reliance upon the honour of my husband, that, poor and pressed for money as they were, they never sued us. i thought it would be a pleasing surprise to moodie, if, with the sums of money which i occasionally received from him, i could diminish this debt, which had always given him the greatest uneasiness; and, my resolution once formed, i would not allow any temptation to shake it. the money was always transmitted to dummer. i only reserved the sum of two dollars a month, to pay a little lad to chop wood for us. after a time, i began to think the y----y's were gifted with secondsight; for i never received a money-letter, but the very next day i was sure to see some of the family. just at this period i received a letter from a gentleman, requesting me to write for a magazine (the literary garland) just started in montreal, with promise to remunerate me for my labours. such an application was like a gleam of light springing up in the darkness; it seemed to promise the dawning of a brighter day. i had never been able to turn my thoughts towards literature during my sojourn in the bush. when the body is fatigued with labour, unwonted and beyond its strength, the mind is in no condition for mental occupation. the year before, i had been requested by an american author, of great merit, to contribute to the north american review, published for several years in philadelphia; and he promised to remunerate me in proportion to the success of the work. i had contrived to write several articles after the children were asleep, though the expense even of the stationery and the postage of the manuscripts was severely felt by one so destitute of means; but the hope of being of the least service to those dear to me cheered me to the task. i never realised anything from that source; but i believe it was not the fault of the editor. several other american editors had written to me to furnish them with articles; but i was unable to pay the postage of heavy packets to the states, and they could not reach their destination without being paid to the frontier. thus, all chance of making anything in that way had been abandoned. i wrote to mr. l----, and frankly informed him how i was situated. in the most liberal manner, he offered to pay the postage on all manuscripts to his office, and left me to name my own terms of remuneration. this opened up a new era in my existence; and for many years i have found in this generous man, to whom i am still personally unknown, a steady friend. i actually shed tears of joy over the first twenty-dollar bill i received from montreal. it was my own; i had earned it with my own hand; and it seemed to my delighted fancy to form the nucleus out of which a future independence for my family might arise. i no longer retired to bed when the labours of the day were over. i sat up, and wrote by the light of a strange sort of candles, that jenny called “sluts,” and which the old woman manufactured out of pieces of old rags, twisted together and dipped in pork lard, and stuck in a bottle. they did not give a bad light, but it took a great many of them to last me for a few hours. the faithful old creature regarded my writings with a jealous eye. “an', shure, it's killin' yerself that you are intirely. you were thin enough before you took to the pen; scribblin' an' scrabblin' when you should be in bed an' asleep. what good will it be to the childhren, dear heart! if you die afore your time, by wastin' your strength afther that fashion?” jenny never could conceive the use of books. “sure, we can live and die widout them. it's only a waste of time botherin' your brains wid the like of them; but, thanks goodness! the lard will soon be all done, an' thin we shall hear you spakin' again, instead of sittin' there doubled up all night, desthroying your eyes wid porin' over the dirthy writin'.” as the sugar-making season drew near, jenny conceived the bold thought of making a good lump of sugar, that the “childher” might have something to “ate” with their bread during the summer. we had no sugar-kettle, but a neighbour promised to lend us his, and to give us twenty-eight troughs, on condition that we gave him half the sugar we made. these terms were rather hard, but jenny was so anxious to fulfil the darling object that we consented. little sol. and the old woman made some fifty troughs more, the trees were duly tapped, a shanty in the bush was erected of small logs and brush and covered in at the top with straw; and the old woman and solomon, the hired boy, commenced operations. the very first day, a terrible accident happened to us; a large log fell upon the sugar-kettle--the borrowed sugar-kettle--and cracked it, spilling all the sap, and rendering the vessel, which had cost four dollars, useless. we were all in dismay. just at that time old wittals happened to pass, on his way to peterborough. he very good-naturedly offered to get the kettle repaired for us; which, he said, could be easily done by a rivet and an iron hoop. but where was the money to come from? i thought awhile. katie had a magnificent coral and bells, the gift of her godfather; i asked the dear child if she would give it to buy another kettle for mr. t----. she said, “i would give ten times as much to help mamma.” i wrote a little note to emilia, who was still at her father's; and mr. w----, the storekeeper, sent us a fine sugar-kettle back by wittals, and also the other mended, in exchange for the useless piece of finery. we had now two kettles at work, to the joy of jenny, who declared that it was a lucky fairy who had broken the old kettle. while jenny was engaged in boiling and gathering the sap in the bush, i sugared off the syrup in the house; an operation watched by the children with intense interest. after standing all day over the hot stove-fire, it was quite a refreshment to breathe the pure air at night. every evening i ran up to see jenny in the bush, singing and boiling down the sap in the front of her little shanty. the old woman was in her element, and afraid of nothing under the stars; she slept beside her kettles at night, and snapped her fingers at the idea of the least danger. she was sometimes rather despotic in her treatment of her attendant, sol. one morning, in particular, she bestowed upon the lad a severe cuffing. i ran up the clearing to the rescue, when my ears were assailed by the “boo-hooing” of the boy. “what has happened? why do you beat the child, jenny?” “it's jist, thin, i that will bate him--the unlucky omadhawn! has not he spilt and spiled two buckets of syrup, that i have been the live-long night bilin'. sorra wid him; i'd like to strip the skin off him, i would! musha! but 'tis enough to vex a saint.” “ah, jenny!” blubbered the poor boy, “but you have no mercy. you forget that i have but one eye, and that i could not see the root which caught my foot and threw me down.” “faix! an' 'tis a pity that you have the one eye, when you don't know how to make a betther use of it,” muttered the angry dame, as she picked up the pails, and, pushing him on before her, beat a retreat into the bush. i was heartily sick of the sugar-making, long before the season was over; however, we were well paid for our trouble. besides one hundred and twelve pounds of fine soft sugar, as good as muscovado, we had six gallons of molasses, and a keg containing six gallons of excellent vinegar. fifty pounds went to mr. t----, for the use of his kettle; and the rest (with the exception of a cake for emilia, which i had drained in a wet flannel bag until it was almost as white as loaf sugar), we kept for our own use. there was no lack, this year, of nice preserves and pickled cucumbers, dainties found in every native canadian establishment. besides gaining a little money with my pen, i practised a method of painting birds and butterflies upon the white, velvety surface of the large fungi that grow plentifully upon the bark of the sugar-maple. these had an attractive appearance; and my brother, who was a captain in one of the provisional regiments, sold a great many of them among the officers, without saying by whom they were painted. one rich lady in peterborough, long since dead, ordered two dozen to send as curiosities to england. these, at one shilling each, enabled me to buy shoes for the children, who, during our bad times, had been forced to dispense with these necessary coverings. how often, during the winter season, have i wept over their little chapped feet, literally washing them with my tears! but these days were to end; providence was doing great things for us; and hope raised at last her drooping head to regard with a brighter glance the far-off future. slowly the winter rolled away; but he to whom every thought turned was still distant from his humble home. the receipt of an occasional letter from him was my only solace during his long absence, and we were still too poor to indulge often in this luxury. my poor katie was as anxious as her mother to hear from her father; and when i did get the long-looked-for prize, she would kneel down before me, her little elbows resting on my knees, her head thrown back, and tears trickling down her innocent cheeks, eagerly drinking in every word. the spring brought us plenty of work; we had potatoes and corn to plant, and the garden to cultivate. by lending my oxen for two days' work, i got wittals, who had no oxen, to drag me in a few acres of oats, and to prepare the land for potatoes and corn. the former i dropped into the earth, while jenny covered them up with the hoe. our garden was well dug and plentifully manured, the old woman bringing the manure, which had lain for several years at the barn door, down to the plot, in a large indian basket placed upon a hand-sleigh. we had soon every sort of vegetable sown, with plenty of melons and cucumbers, and all our beds promised a good return. there were large flights of ducks upon the lake every night and morning; but though we had guns, we did not know how to use them. however, i thought of a plan, which i flattered myself might prove successful; i got sol to plant two stakes in the shallow water, near the rice beds, and to these i attached a slender rope made by braiding long strips of the inner bark of the basswood together; to these again i fastened, at regular intervals, about a quarter of a yard of whipcord, headed by a strong perch-hook. these hooks i baited with fish offal, leaving them to float just under the water. early next morning, i saw a fine black duck fluttering upon the line. the boy ran down with the paddles, but before he could reach the spot, the captive got away by carrying the hook and line with him. at the next stake he found upon the hooks a large eel and a cat-fish. i had never before seen one of those whiskered, toad-like natives of the canadian waters (so common to the bay of quinte, where they grow to a great size), that i was really terrified at the sight of the hideous beast, and told sol to throw it away. in this i was very foolish, for they are esteemed good eating in many parts of canada; but to me, the sight of the reptile-like thing is enough--it is uglier, and far more disgusting-looking than a toad. when the trees came into leaf, and the meadows were green and flushed with flowers, the poor children used to talk constantly to me of their father's return; their innocent prattle made me very sad. every evening we walked into the wood, along the path that he must come whenever he did return home, to meet him, and though it was a vain hope, and the walk was taken just to amuse the little ones, i used to be silly enough to feel deeply disappointed when we returned alone. donald, who was a mere baby when his father left us, could just begin to put words together. “who is papa?” “when will he come?” “will he come by the road?” “will he come in a canoe?” the little creature's curiosity to see this unknown father was really amusing; and oh! how i longed to present the little fellow, with his rosy cheeks and curling hair, to his father; he was so fair, so altogether charming in my eyes. emilia had called him cedric the saxon; and he well suited the name, with his frank, honest disposition, and large, loving blue eyes. june had commenced; the weather was very warm, and mr. t---- had sent for the loan of old jenny to help him for a day with his potatoes. i had just prepared dinner when the old woman came shrieking like a mad thing down the clearing, and waving her hands towards me. i could not imagine what had happened. “ninny's mad!” whispered dunbar; “she's the old girl for making a noise.” “joy! joy!” bawled out the old woman, now running breathlessly toward us. “the masther's come--the masther's come!” “where?--where?” “jist above in the wood. goodness gracious! i have run to let you know--so fast--that my heart--is like to--break.” without stopping to comfort poor jenny, off started the children and myself, at the very top of our speed; but i soon found that i could not run--i was too much agitated. i got to the head of the bush, and sat down upon a fallen tree. the children sprang forward like wild kids, all but donald, who remained with his old nurse. i covered my face with my hands; my heart, too, was beating audibly; and now that he was come, and was so near me, i scarcely could command strength to meet him. the sound of happy young voices roused me up; the children were leading him along in triumph; and he was bending down to them, all smiles, but hot and tired with his long journey. it was almost worth our separation, that blissful meeting. in a few minutes he was at home, and the children upon his knees. katie stood silently holding his hand, but addie and dunbar had a thousand things to tell him. donald was frightened at his military dress, but he peeped at him from behind my gown, until i caught and placed him in his father's arms. his leave of absence only extended to a fortnight. it had taken him three days to come all the way from lake erie, where his regiment was stationed, at point abino; and the same time would be consumed in his return. he could only remain with us eight days. how soon they fled away! how bitter was the thought of parting with him again! he had brought money to pay the y----y's. how surprised he was to find their large debt more than half liquidated. how gently did he chide me for depriving myself and the children of the little comforts he had designed for us, in order to make this sacrifice. but never was self-denial more fully rewarded; i felt happy in having contributed in the least to pay a just debt to kind and worthy people. you must become poor yourself before you can fully appreciate the good qualities of the poor--before you can sympathise with them, and fully recognise them as your brethren in the flesh. their benevolence to each other, exercised amidst want and privation, as far surpasses the munificence of the rich towards them, as the exalted philanthropy of christ and his disciples does the christianity of the present day. the rich man gives from his abundance; the poor man shares with a distressed comrade his all. one short, happy week too soon fled away, and we were once more alone. in the fall, my husband expected the regiment in which he held his commission would be reduced, which would again plunge us into the same distressing poverty. often of a night i revolved these things in my mind, and perplexed myself with conjectures as to what in future was to become of us. although he had saved all he could from his pay, it was impossible to pay several hundreds of pounds of debt; and the steam-boat stock still continued a dead letter. to remain much longer in the woods was impossible, for the returns from the farm scarcely fed us; and but for the clothing sent us by friends from home, who were not aware of our real difficulties, we should have been badly off indeed. i pondered over every plan that thought could devise; at last, i prayed to the almighty to direct me as to what would be the best course for us to pursue. a sweet assurance stole over me, and soothed my spirit, that god would provide for us, as he had hitherto done--that a great deal of our distress arose from want of faith. i was just sinking into a calm sleep when the thought seemed whispered into my soul, “write to the governor; tell him candidly all you have suffered during your sojourn in this country; and trust to god for the rest.” at first i paid little heed to this suggestion; but it became so importunate that at last i determined to act upon it as if it were a message sent from heaven. i rose from my bed, struck a light, sat down, and wrote a letter to the lieutenant-governor, sir george arthur, a simple statement of facts, leaving it to his benevolence to pardon the liberty i had taken in addressing him. i asked of him to continue my husband in the militia service, in the same regiment in which he now held the rank of captain, which, by enabling him to pay our debts, would rescue us from our present misery. of the political character of sir george arthur i knew nothing. i addressed him as a man and a christian, and i acknowledge, with the deepest and most heartfelt gratitude, the generous kindness of his conduct towards us. before the day dawned, my letter was ready for the post. the first secret i ever had from my husband was the writing of that letter; and, proud and sensitive as he was, and averse to asking the least favour of the great, i was dreadfully afraid that the act i had just done would be displeasing to him; still, i felt resolutely determined to send it. after giving the children their breakfast, i walked down and read it to my brother-in-law, who was not only much pleased with its contents, but took it down himself to the post-office. shortly after, i received a letter from my husband, informing me that the regiment had been reduced, and that he should be home in time to get in the harvest. most anxiously i awaited a reply to my application to the governor; but no reply came. the first week in august our dear moodie came home, and brought with him, to our no small joy, j. e----, who had just returned from ireland. e---- had been disappointed about the money, which was subject to litigation; and, tired of waiting at home until the tedious process of the law should terminate, he had come back to the woods, and, before night, was reinstated in his old quarters. his presence made jenny all alive; she dared him at once to a trial of skill with her in the wheat-field, which e---- prudently declined. he did not expect to stay longer in canada than the fall, but, whilst he did stay, he was to consider our house his home. that harvest was the happiest we ever spent in the bush. we had enough of the common necessaries of life. a spirit of peace and harmony pervaded our little dwelling, for the most affectionate attachment existed among its members. we were not troubled with servants, for the good old jenny we regarded as an humble friend, and were freed, by that circumstance, from many of the cares and vexations of a bush life. our evening excursions on the lake were doubly enjoyed after the labours of the day, and night brought us calm and healthful repose. the political struggles that convulsed the country were scarcely echoed in the depths of those old primeval forests, though the expulsion of mackenzie from navy island, and the burning of the caroline by captain drew, had been discussed on the farthest borders of civilisation. with a tribute to the gallant conduct of that brave officer, i will close this chapter:-- the burning of the caroline a sound is on the midnight deep-- the voice of waters vast; and onward, with resistless sweep, the torrent rushes past, in frantic chase, wave after wave, the crowding surges press, and rave their mingled might to cast adown niagara's giant steep; the fretted billows foaming leap with wild tumultuous roar; the clashing din ascends on high, in deaf'ning thunders to the sky, and shakes the rocky shore. hark! what strange sounds arise-- 'tis not stern nature's voice-- in mingled chorus to the skies! the waters in their depths rejoice. hark! on the midnight air a frantic cry uprose; the yell of fierce despair, the shout of mortal foes; and mark yon sudden glare, whose red, portentous gleam flashes on rock and stream with strange, unearthly light; what passing meteor's beam lays bare the brow of night? from yonder murky shore what demon vessel glides, stemming the unstemm'd tides, where maddening breakers roar in hostile surges round her path, or hiss, recoiling from her prow, that reeling, staggers to their wrath; while distant shores return the glow that brightens from her burning frame, and all above--around--below-- is wrapt in ruddy flame? sail on!--sail on!--no mortal hand directs that vessel's blazing course; the vengeance of an injured land impels her with resistless force 'midst breaking wave and fiery gleam, o'er-canopied with clouds of smoke; midway she stems the raging stream, and feels the rapids' thundering stroke; now buried deep, now whirl'd on high, she struggles with her awful doom,-- with frantic speed now hurries by to find a watery tomb. lo, poised upon the topmost surge, she shudders o'er the dark abyss; the foaming waters round her hiss and hoarse waves ring her funeral dirge; the chafing billows round her close; but ere her burning planks are riven, shoots up one ruddy spout of fire,-- her last farewell to earth and heaven. down, down to endless night she goes! so may the traitor's hope expire, so perish all our country's foes! destruction's blazing star has vanish'd from our sight; the thunderbolt of war is quench'd in endless night; nor sight, nor sound of fear startles the listening ear; naught but the torrent's roar, the dull, deep, heavy sound, from out the dark profound, echoes from shore to shore. where late the cry of blood rang on the midnight air, the mournful lapsing of the flood, the wild winds in the lonely wood, claim sole dominion there. to thee, high-hearted drew! and thy victorious band of heroes tried and true a nation's thanks are due. defender of an injured land! well hast thou taught the dastard foe that british honour never yields to democratic influence, low, the glory of a thousand fields. justice to traitors, long delay'd, this night was boldly dealt by thee; the debt of vengeance thou hast paid, and may the deed immortal be. thy outraged country shall bestow a lasting monument of fame, the highest meed of praise below-- a british patriot's deathless name! chapter xxiv the whirlwind [for the poem that heads this chapter, i am indebted to my brother, mr. strickland, of douro, c.w.] dark, heavy clouds were gathering in the west, wrapping the forest in funereal gloom; onward they roll'd, and rear'd each livid crest, like death's murk shadows frowning o'er earth's tomb. from out the inky womb of that deep night burst livid flashes of electric flame. whirling and circling with terrific might, in wild confusion on the tempest came. nature, awakening from her still repose, shudders responsive to the whirlwind's shock, feels at her mighty heart convulsive throes, and all her groaning forests to earth's bosom rock. but hark!--what means that hollow, rushing sound, that breaks the death-like stillness of the morn? red forked lightnings fiercely glare around, sharp, crashing thunders on the winds are borne, and see yon spiral column, black as night, rearing triumphantly its wreathing form; ruin's abroad, and through the murky light-- drear desolation marks the spirit of the storm. s.s. the th of august came, and our little harvest was all safely housed. business called moodie away for a few days to cobourg. jenny had gone to dummer, to visit her friends, and j. e---- had taken a grist of the new wheat, which he and moodie had threshed the day before, to the mill. i was consequently left alone with the children, and had a double portion of work to do. during their absence it was my lot to witness the most awful storm i ever beheld, and a vivid recollection of its terrors was permanently fixed upon my memory. the weather had been intensely hot during the three preceding days, although the sun was entirely obscured by a blueish haze, which seemed to render the unusual heat of the atmosphere more oppressive. not a breath of air stirred the vast forest, and the waters of the lake assumed a leaden hue. after passing a sleepless night, i arose, a little after day-break, to superintend my domestic affairs. e---- took his breakfast, and went off to the mill, hoping that the rain would keep off until after his return. “it is no joke,” he said, “being upon these lakes in a small canoe, heavily laden, in a storm.” before the sun rose, the heavens were covered with hard-looking clouds, of a deep blue and black cast, fading away to white at their edges, and in the form resembling the long, rolling waves of a heavy sea--but with this difference, that the clouds were perfectly motionless, piled in long curved lines, one above the other, and so remained until four o'clock in the afternoon. the appearance of these clouds, as the sun rose above the horizon, was the most splendid that can be imagined, tinged up to the zenith with every shade of saffron, gold, rose-colour, scarlet, and crimson, fading away into the deepest violet. never did the storm-fiend shake in the face of a day a more gorgeous banner; and, pressed as i was for time, i stood gazing like one entranced upon the magnificent pageant. as the day advanced, the same blue haze obscured the sun, which frowned redly through his misty veil. at ten o'clock the heat was suffocating, and i extinguished the fire in the cooking-stove, determined to make our meals upon bread and milk, rather than add to the oppressive heat. the thermometer in the shade ranged from ninety-six to ninety-eight degrees, and i gave over my work and retired with the little ones to the coolest part of the house. the young creatures stretched themselves upon the floor, unable to jump about or play; the dog lay panting in the shade; the fowls half-buried themselves in the dust, with open beaks and outstretched wings; all nature seemed to droop beneath the scorching heat. unfortunately for me, a gentlemen arrived about one o'clock from kingston, to transact some business with my husband. he had not tasted food since six o'clock, and i was obliged to kindle the fire to prepare his dinner. it was one of the hardest tasks i ever performed; i almost fainted with the heat, and most inhospitably rejoiced when his dinner was over, and i saw him depart. shortly after, my friend mrs. c---- and her brother called in, on their way from peterborough. “how do you bear the heat?” asked mrs. c----. “this is one of the hottest days i ever remember to have experienced in this part of the province. i am afraid that it will end in a hurricane, or what the lower canadians term 'l'orage.'” about four o'clock they rose to go. i urged them to stay longer. “no,” said mrs. c----, “the sooner we get home the better. i think we can reach it before the storm breaks.” i took donald in my arms, and my eldest boy by the hand, and walked with them to the brow of the hill, thinking that the air would be cooler in the shade. in this i was mistaken. the clouds over our heads hung so low, and the heat was so great, that i was soon glad to retrace my steps. the moment i turned round to face the lake, i was surprised at the change that had taken place in the appearance of the heavens. the clouds, that had before lain so motionless, were now in rapid motion, hurrying and chasing each other round the horizon. it was a strangely awful sight. before i felt a breath of the mighty blast that had already burst on the other side of the lake, branches of trees, leaves, and clouds of dust were whirled across the lake, whose waters rose in long sharp furrows, fringed with foam, as if moved in their depths by some unseen but powerful agent. panting with terror, i just reached the door of the house as the hurricane swept up the hill, crushing and overturning everything in its course. spell-bound, i stood at the open door, with clasped hands, unable to speak, rendered dumb and motionless by the terrible grandeur of the scene; while little donald, who could not utter many intelligible words, crept to my feet, appealing to me for protection, while his rosy cheeks paled even to marble whiteness. the hurrying clouds gave to the heavens the appearance of a pointed dome, round which the lightning played in broad ribbons of fire. the roaring of the thunder, the rushing of the blast, the impetuous down-pouring of the rain, and the crash of falling trees were perfectly deafening; and in the midst of this uproar of the elements, old jenny burst in, drenched with wet, and half-dead with fear. “the lord preserve us!” she cried, “this surely is the day of judgment. fifty trees fell across my very path, between this an' the creek. mrs. c---- just reached her brother's clearing a few minutes before a great oak fell on her very path. what thunther!--what lightning! misthress, dear!--it's turn'd so dark, i can only jist see yer face.” glad enough was i of her presence; for to be alone in the heart of a great forest, in a log hut, on such a night, was not a pleasing prospect. people gain courage by companionship, and in order to re-assure each other, struggle to conceal their fears. “and where is mr. e----?” “i hope not on the lake. he went early this morning to get the wheat ground at the mill.” “och, the crathur! he's surely drowned. what boat could stan' such a scrimmage as this?” i had my fears for poor john; but as the chance that he had to wait at the mill till others were served was more than probable, i tried to still my apprehensions for his safety. the storm soon passed over, after having levelled several acres of wood near the house and smitten down in its progress two gigantic pines in the clearing, which must have withstood the force of a thousand winters. talking over the effects of this whirlwind with my brother, he kindly sent me the following very graphic description of a whirlwind which passed the town of guelph in the summer of . [written by mr. strickland, of douro.] “in my hunting excursions and rambles through the upper canadian forests, i had frequently met with extensive wind-falls; and observed with some surprise that the fallen trees lay strewn in a succession of circles, and evidently appeared to have been twisted off the stumps. i also remarked that these wind-falls were generally narrow, and had the appearance of a road, slashed through the forest. from observations made at the time, and since confirmed, i have no doubt that colonel reid's theory of storms is the correct one, viz., that all wind-storms move in a circular direction, and the nearer the centre the more violent the force of the wind. having seen the effects of several similar hurricanes since my residence in canada west, i shall proceed to describe one which happened in the township of guelph during the early part of the summer of . “the weather, for the season of the year (may), had been hot and sultry, with scarcely a breath of wind stirring. i had heard distant thunder from an early hour in the morning, which, from the eastward, is rather an unusual occurrence. about a.m., the sky had a most singular, and i must add a most awful appearance, presenting to the view a vast arch of rolling blackness, which seemed to gather strength and density as it approached the zenith. all at once the clouds began to work round in circles, as if chasing one another through the air. suddenly the dark arch of clouds appeared to break up into detached masses, whirling and mixing through each other in dreadful commotion. the forked lightning was incessant, accompanied by heavy thunder. in a short time, the clouds seemed to converge to a point, which approached very near the earth, still whirling with great rapidity directly under this point; and apparently from the midst of the woods arose a black column, in the shape of a cone, which instantly joined itself to the depending cloud. the sight was now grand, and awful in the extreme. picture to your imagination a vast column of smoke, of inky blackness, reaching from the earth to heaven, gyrating with fearful velocity--bright lightnings issuing from the vortex--the roar of the thunder--the rushing of the blast--the crash of timber--the limbs of trees, leaves and rubbish, mingled with clouds of dust, whirling through the air;--you then have a faint idea of the scene. “i had ample time for observation, as the hurricane commenced its devastating course about two miles from the town, through the centre of which it took its way, passing within fifty yards of where a number of persons, myself among the rest, were standing, watching its fearful progress. “as the tornado approached, the trees seemed to fall like a pack of cards before its irresistible current. after passing through the clearing made around the village, the force of the wind gradually abated, and in a few minutes died away entirely. “as soon as the storm was over, i went to see the damage it had done. from the point where i first observed the black column to rise from the woods and join the cloud, the trees were twisted in every direction. a belt of timber had been levelled to the ground about two miles in length, and about one hundred yards in breadth. at the entrance of the town it crossed the river speed, and uprooted about six acres of wood, which had been thinned out, and left by mr. galt (late superintendent of the canada company), as an ornament to his house. “the eremosa road was completely blocked up for nearly half-a-mile, in the wildest confusion possible. in its progress through the town the storm unroofed several houses, levelled many fences to the ground, and entirely demolished a frame barn. windows were dashed in; and, in one instance, the floor of a log house was carried through the roof. some hair-breadth escapes occurred; but, luckily, no lives were lost. “about twelve years since a similar storm occurred in the north part of the township of douro, but was of much less magnitude. i heard an intelligent settler, who resided some years in the township of madoc, state that, during his residence in that township, a similar hurricane to the one i have described, though of a much more awful character, passed through a part of marmora and madoc, and had been traced, in a north-easterly direction, upwards of forty miles into the unsurveyed lands; the uniform width of which appeared to be three quarters of a mile. “it is very evident, from the traces which they have left behind them, that storms of this description have not been unfrequent in the wooded districts of canada; and it becomes a matter of interesting consideration whether the clearing of our immense forests will not, in a great measure, remove the cause of these phenomena.” a few minutes after our household had retired to rest, my first sleep was broken by the voice of j. e----, speaking to old jenny in the kitchen. he had been overtaken by the storm, but had run his canoe ashore upon an island before its full fury burst, and turned it over the flour; while he had to brave the terrors of the pitiless tempest--buffeted by the wind, and drenched with torrents of rain. i got up and made him a cup of tea, while jenny prepared a rasher of bacon and eggs for his supper. shortly after this, j. e---- bade a final adieu to canada, with his cousin c. w----. he volunteered into the scotch greys, and we never saw him more; but i have been told that he was so highly respected by the officers of the regiment that they have subscribed for his commission; that he rose to the rank of lieutenant; accompanied the regiment to india, and was at the taking of cabul; but from himself we never heard again. the th of october, my third son was born; and a few days after, my husband was appointed pay-master to the militia regiments in the v. district, with the rank and full pay of captain. this was sir george arthur's doing. he returned no answer to my application, but he did not forget us. as the time that moodie might retain this situation was very doubtful, he thought it advisable not to remove me and the family until he could secure some permanent situation; by so doing, he would have a better opportunity of saving the greater part of his income to pay off his old debts. this winter of was one of severe trial to me. hitherto i had enjoyed the blessing of health; but both the children and myself were now doomed to suffer from dangerous attacks of illness. all the little things had malignant scarlet fever, and for several days i thought it would please the almighty to take from me my two girls. this fever is so fatal to children in canada that none of my neighbors dared approach the house. for three weeks jenny and i were never undressed; our whole time was taken up nursing the five little helpless creatures through the successive states of their alarming disease. i sent for dr. taylor; but he did not come, and i was obliged to trust to the mercy of god, and my own judgment and good nursing. though i escaped the fever, mental anxiety and fatigue brought on other illness, which for nearly ten weeks rendered me perfectly helpless. when i was again able to creep from my sick bed, the baby was seized with an illness, which dr. b---- pronounced mortal. against all hope, he recovered, but these severe mental trials rendered me weak and nervous, and more anxious than ever to be re-united to my husband. to add to these troubles, my sister and her husband sold their farm, and removed from our neighbourhood. mr. ---- had returned to england, and had obtained a situation in the customs; and his wife, my friend emilia, was keeping a school in the village; so that i felt more solitary than ever, thus deprived of so many kind, sympathising friends. a song of praise to the creator oh, thou great god! from whose eternal throne unbounded blessings in rich bounty flow, like thy bright sun in glorious state alone, thou reign'st supreme, while round thee as they go, unnumber'd worlds, submissive to thy sway, with solemn pace pursue their silent way. benignant god! o'er every smiling land, thy handmaid, nature, meekly walks abroad, scattering thy bounties with unsparing hand, while flowers and fruits spring up along her road. how can thy creatures their weak voices raise to tell thy deeds in their faint songs of praise? when, darkling o'er the mountain's summit hoar, portentous hangs the black and sulph'rous cloud, when lightnings flash, and awful thunders roar, great nature sings to thee her anthem loud. the rocks reverberate her mighty song, and crushing woods the pealing notes prolong. the storm is pass'd; o'er fields and woodlands gay, gemm'd with bright dew-drops from the eastern sky, the morning sun now darts his golden ray, the lark on fluttering wing is poised on high; too pure for earth, he wings his way above, to pour his grateful song of joy and love. hark! from the bowels of the earth, a sound of awful import! from the central deep the struggling lava rends the heaving ground, the ocean-surges roar--the mountains leap-- they shoot aloft,--oh, god! the fiery tide has burst its bounds, and rolls down etna's side. thy will is done, great god! the conflict's o'er, the silvery moonbeams glance along the sea; the whispering waves half ripple on the shore, and lull'd creation breathes a prayer to thee! the night-flower's incense to their god is given, and grateful mortals raise their thoughts to heaven. j.w.d.m. chapter xxv the walk to dummer we trod a weary path through silent woods, tangled and dark, unbroken by a sound of cheerful life. the melancholy shriek of hollow winds careering o'er the snow, or tossing into waves the green pine tops, making the ancient forest groan and sigh beneath their mocking voice, awoke alone the solitary echoes of the place. reader! have you ever heard of a place situated in the forest-depths of this far western wilderness, called dummer? ten years ago, it might not inaptly have been termed “the last clearing in the world.” nor to this day do i know of any in that direction which extends beyond it. our bush-farm was situated on the border-line of a neighbouring township, only one degree less wild, less out of the world, or nearer to the habitations of civilisation than the far-famed “english line,” the boast and glory of this terra incognita. this place, so named by the emigrants who had pitched their tents in that solitary wilderness, was a long line of cleared land, extending upon either side for some miles through the darkest and most interminable forest. the english line was inhabited chiefly by cornish miners, who, tired of burrowing like moles underground, had determined to emigrate to canada, where they could breathe the fresh air of heaven, and obtain the necessaries of life upon the bosom of their mother earth. strange as it may appear, these men made good farmers, and steady, industrious colonists, working as well above ground as they had toiled in their early days beneath it. all our best servants came from dummer; and although they spoke a language difficult to be understood, and were uncouth in their manners and appearance, they were faithful and obedient, performing the tasks assigned to them with patient perseverance; good food and kind treatment rendering them always cheerful and contented. my dear old jenny, that most faithful and attached of all humble domestic friends, came from dummer, and i was wont to regard it with complacency for her sake. but jenny was not english; she was a generous, warm-hearted daughter of the green isle--the emerald gem set in the silver of ocean. yes, jenny was one of the poorest children of that impoverished but glorious country where wit and talent seem indigenous, springing up spontaneously in the rudest and most uncultivated minds; showing what the land could bring forth in its own strength, unaided by education, and unfettered by the conventional rules of society. jenny was a striking instance of the worth, noble self-denial, and devotion which are often met withand, alas! but too often disregarded--in the poor and ignorant natives of that deeply-injured, and much abused land. a few words about my old favourite may not prove uninteresting to my readers. jenny buchanan, or as she called it, bohanon, was the daughter of a petty exciseman, of scotch extraction (hence her industry) who, at the time of her birth, resided near the old town of inniskillen. her mother died a few months after she was born; and her father, within the twelve months, married again. in the meanwhile, the poor orphan babe had been adopted by a kind neighbour, the wife of a small farmer in the vicinity. in return for coarse food and scanty clothing, the little jenny became a servant-of-all-work. she fed the pigs, herded the cattle, assisted in planting potatoes and digging peat from the bog, and was undisputed mistress of the poultry-yard. as she grew up to womanhood, the importance of her labours increased. a better reaper in the harvest-field, or footer of turf in the bog, could not be found in the district, or a woman more thoroughly acquainted with the management of cows and the rearing of young cattle; but here poor jenny's accomplishments terminated. her usefulness was all abroad. within the house she made more dirt than she had the inclination or the ability to clear away. she could neither read, nor knit, nor sew; and although she called herself a protestant, and a church of england woman, she knew no more of religion, as revealed to man through the word of god, than the savage who sinks to the grave in ignorance of a redeemer. hence she stoutly resisted all ideas of being a sinner, or of standing the least chance of receiving hereafter the condemnation of one. “och, sure thin,” she would say, with simple earnestness of look and manner, almost irresistible. “god will never throuble himsel' about a poor, hard-working crathur like me, who never did any harm to the manest of his makin'.” one thing was certain, that a benevolent providence had “throubled himsel'” about poor jenny in times past, for the warm heart of this neglected child of nature contained a stream of the richest benevolence, which, situated as she had been, could not have been derived from any other source. honest, faithful, and industrious, jenny became a law unto herself, and practically illustrated the golden rule of her blessed lord, “to do unto others as we would they should do unto us.” she thought it was impossible that her poor services could ever repay the debt of gratitude that she owed to the family who had brought her up, although the obligation must have been entirely on their side. to them she was greatly attached--for them she toiled unceasingly; and when evil days came, and they were not able to meet the rent-day, or to occupy the farm, she determined to accompany them in their emigration to canada, and formed one of the stout-hearted band that fixed its location in the lonely and unexplored wilds now known as the township of dummer. during the first year of their settlement, the means of obtaining the common necessaries of life became so precarious, that, in order to assist her friends with a little ready money, jenny determined to hire out into some wealthy house as a servant. when i use the term wealth as applied to any bush-settler, it is of course only comparatively; but jenny was anxious to obtain a place with settlers who enjoyed a small income independent of their forest means. her first speculation was a complete failure. for five long, hopeless years she served a master from whom she never received a farthing of her stipulated wages. still her attachment to the family was so strong, and had become so much the necessity of her life, that the poor creature could not make up her mind to leave them. the children whom she had received into her arms at their birth, and whom she had nursed with maternal tenderness, were as dear to her as if they had been her own; she continued to work for them although her clothes were worn to tatters, and her own friends were too poor to replace them. her master, captain n----, a handsome, dashing officer, who had served many years in india, still maintained the carriage and appearance of a gentleman, in spite of his mental and moral degradation arising from a constant state of intoxication; he still promised to remunerate at some future day her faithful services; and although all his neighbours well knew that his means were exhausted, and that that day would never come, yet jenny, in the simplicity of her faith, still toiled on, in the hope that the better day he spoke of would soon arrive. and now a few words respecting this master, which i trust may serve as a warning to others. allured by the bait that has been the ruin of so many of his class, the offer of a large grant of land, captain n---- had been induced to form a settlement in this remote and untried township; laying out much, if not all, of his available means in building a log house, and clearing a large extent of barren and stony land. to this uninviting home he conveyed a beautiful young wife, and a small and increasing family. the result may be easily anticipated. the want of society--a dreadful want to a man of his previous habits--the absence of all the comforts and decencies of life, produced inaction, apathy, and at last, despondency, which was only alleviated by a constant and immoderate use of ardent spirits. as long as captain n---- retained his half-pay, he contrived to exist. in an evil hour he parted with this, and quickly trod the downhill path to ruin. and here i would remark that it is always a rash and hazardous step for any officer to part with his half-pay; although it is almost every day done, and generally followed by the same disastrous results. a certain income, however small, in a country where money is so hard to be procured, and where labour cannot be obtained but at a very high pecuniary remuneration, is invaluable to a gentleman unaccustomed to agricultural employment; who, without this reserve to pay his people, during the brief but expensive seasons of seed-time and harvest, must either work himself or starve. i have known no instance in which such sale has been attended with ultimate advantage; but, alas! too many in which it has terminated in the most distressing destitution. these government grants of land, to half-pay officers, have induced numbers of this class to emigrate to the backwoods of canada, who are totally unfit for pioneers; but, tempted by the offer of finding themselves landholders of what, on paper, appear to them fine estates, they resign a certainty, to waste their energies, and die half-starved and broken-hearted in the depths of the pitiless wild. if a gentleman so situated would give up all idea of settling on his grant, but hire a good farm in a favourable situation--that is, not too far from a market--and with his half-pay hire efficient labourers, of which plenty are now to be had, to cultivate the land, with common prudence and economy, he would soon obtain a comfortable subsistence for his family. and if the males were brought up to share the burthen and heat of the day, the expense of hired labour, as it yearly diminished, would add to the general means and well-being of the whole, until the hired farm became the real property of the industrious tenants. but the love of show, the vain boast of appearing richer and better-dressed than our neighbours, too often involves the emigrant's family in debt, from which they are seldom able to extricate themselves without sacrificing the means which would have secured their independence. this, although a long digression, will not, i hope, be without its use; and if this book is regarded not as a work of amusement but one of practical experience, written for the benefit of others, it will not fail to convey some useful hints to those who have contemplated emigration to canada: the best country in the world for the industrious and well-principled man, who really comes out to work, and to better his condition by the labour of his hands; but a gulf of ruin to the vain and idle, who only set foot upon these shores to accelerate their ruin. but to return to captain n----. it was at this disastrous period that jenny entered his service. had her master adapted his habits and expenditure to his altered circumstances, much misery might have been spared, both to himself and his family. but he was a proud man--too proud to work, or to receive with kindness the offers of service tendered to him by his half-civilised, but well-meaning neighbours. “hang him!” cried an indignant english settler (captain n---- was an irishman), whose offer of drawing wood had been rejected with unmerited contempt. “wait a few years, and we shall see what his pride will do for him. i _am_ sorry for his poor wife and children; but for himself, i have no pity for him.” this man had been uselessly insulted, at the very moment when he was anxious to perform a kind and benevolent action; when, like a true englishman, his heart was softened by witnessing the sufferings of a young, delicate female and her infant family. deeply affronted by the captain's foolish conduct, he now took a malignant pleasure in watching his arrogant neighbour's progress to ruin. the year after the sale of his commission, captain n---- found himself considerably in debt, “never mind, ella,” he said to his anxious wife; “the crops will pay all.” the crops were a failure that year. creditors pressed hard; the captain had no money to pay his workmen, and he would not work himself. disgusted with his location, but unable to change it for a better; without friends in his own class (for he was the only gentleman then resident in the new township), to relieve the monotony of his existence with their society, or to afford him advice or assistance in his difficulties, the fatal whiskey-bottle became his refuge from gloomy thoughts. his wife, an amiable and devoted creature, well-born, well-educated, and deserving of a better lot, did all in her power to wean him from the growing vice. but, alas! the pleadings of an angel, in such circumstances, would have had little effect upon the mind of such a man. he loved her as well as he could love anything, and he fancied that he loved his children, while he was daily reducing them, by his favourite vice, to beggary. for awhile, he confined his excesses to his own fireside, but this was only for as long a period as the sale of his stock and land would supply him with the means of criminal indulgence. after a time, all these resources failed, and his large grant of eight hundred acres of land had been converted into whiskey, except the one hundred acres on which his house and barn stood, embracing the small clearing from which the family derived their scanty supply of wheat and potatoes. for the sake of peace, his wife gave up all her ornaments and household plate, and the best articles of a once handsome and ample wardrobe, in the hope of hiding her sorrows from the world, and keeping her husband at home. the pride, that had rendered him so obnoxious to his humbler neighbours, yielded at length to the inordinate craving for drink; the man who had held himself so high above his honest and industrious fellow-settlers, could now unblushingly enter their cabins and beg for a drop of whiskey. the feeling of shame once subdued, there was no end to his audacious mendacity. his whole time was spent in wandering about the country, calling upon every new settler, in the hope of being asked to partake of the coveted poison. he was even known to enter by the window of an emigrant's cabin, during the absence of the owner, and remain drinking in the house while a drop of spirits could be found in the cupboard. when driven forth by the angry owner of the hut, he wandered on to the distant town of p----, and lived there in a low tavern, while his wife and children were starving at home. “he is the filthiest beast in the township,” said the afore-mentioned neighbour to me; “it would be a good thing for his wife and children if his worthless neck were broken in one of his drunken sprees.” this might be the melancholy fact, but it was not the less dreadful on that account. the husband of an affectionate wife--the father of a lovely family--and his death to be a matter of rejoicing!--a blessing, instead of being an affliction!--an agony not to be thought upon without the deepest sorrow. it was at this melancholy period of her sad history that mrs. n---- found, in jenny buchanan, a help in her hour of need. the heart of the faithful creature bled for the misery which involved the wife of her degraded master, and the children she so dearly loved. their want and destitution called all the sympathies of her ardent nature into active operation; they were long indebted to her labour for every morsel of food which they consumed. for them, she sowed, she planted, she reaped. every block of wood which shed a cheering warmth around their desolate home was cut from the forest by her own hands, and brought up a steep hill to the house upon her back. for them, she coaxed the neighbours, with whom she was a general favourite, out of many a mess of eggs for their especial benefit; while with her cheerful songs, and hearty, hopeful disposition, she dispelled much of the cramping despair which chilled the heart of the unhappy mother in her deserted home. for several years did this great, poor woman keep the wolf from the door of her beloved mistress, toiling for her with the strength and energy of a man. when was man ever so devoted, so devoid of all selfishness, so attached to employers, yet poorer than herself, as this uneducated irishwoman? a period was at length put to her unrequited services. in a fit of intoxication her master beat her severely with the iron ramrod of his gun, and turned her, with abusive language, from his doors. oh, hard return for all her unpaid labours of love! she forgave this outrage for the sake of the helpless beings who depended upon her care. he repeated the injury, and the poor creature returned almost heart-broken to her former home. thinking that his spite would subside in a few days, jenny made a third effort to enter his house in her usual capacity; but mrs. n---- told her, with many tears, that her presence would only enrage her husband, who had threatened herself with the most cruel treatment if she allowed the faithful servant again to enter the house. thus ended her five years' service to this ungrateful master. such was her reward! i heard of jenny's worth and kindness from the englishman who had been so grievously affronted by captain n----, and sent for her to come to me. she instantly accepted my offer, and returned with my messenger. she had scarcely a garment to cover her. i was obliged to find her a suit of clothes before i could set her to work. the smiles and dimples of my curly-headed, rosy little donald, then a baby-boy of fifteen months, consoled the old woman for her separation from ellie n----; and the good-will with which all the children (now four in number) regarded the kind old body, soon endeared to her the new home which providence had assigned to her. her accounts of mrs. n----, and her family, soon deeply interested me in her fate; and jenny never went to visit her friends in dummer without an interchange of good wishes passing between us. the year of the canadian rebellion came, and brought with it sorrow into many a bush dwelling. old jenny and i were left alone with the little children, in the depths of the dark forest, to help ourselves in the best way we could. men could not be procured in that thinly-settled spot for love nor money, and i now fully realised the extent of jenny's usefulness. daily she yoked the oxen, and brought down from the bush fuel to maintain our fires, which she felled and chopped up with her own hands. she fed the cattle, and kept all things snug about the doors; not forgetting to load her master's two guns, “in case,” as she said, “the ribels should attack us in our retrate.” the months of november and december of had been unnaturally mild for this iron climate; but the opening of the ensuing january brought a short but severe spell of frost and snow. we felt very lonely in our solitary dwelling, crouching round the blazing fire, that scarcely chased the cold from our miserable log-tenement, until this dreary period was suddenly cheered by the unexpected presence of my beloved friend, emilia, who came to spend a week with me in my forest home. she brought her own baby-boy with her, and an ample supply of buffalo robes, not forgetting a treat of baker's bread, and “sweeties” for the children. oh, dear emilia! best and kindest of women, though absent in your native land, long, long shall my heart cherish with affectionate gratitude all your visits of love, and turn to you as to a sister, tried, and found most faithful, in the dark hour of adversity, and, amidst the almost total neglect of those from whom nature claimed a tenderer and holier sympathy. great was the joy of jenny at this accession to our family party; and after mrs. s---- was well warmed, and had partaken of tea--the only refreshment we could offer her--we began to talk over the news of the place. “by-the-bye, jenny,” said she, turning to the old servant, who was undressing the little boy by the fire, “have you heard lately from poor mrs. n----? we have been told that she and the family are in a dreadful state of destitution. that worthless man has left them for the states, and it is supposed that he has joined mackenzie's band of ruffians on navy island; but whether this be true or false, he has deserted his wife and children, taking his eldest son along with him (who might have been of some service at home), and leaving them without money or food.” “the good lord! what will become of the crathurs?” responded jenny, wiping her wrinkled cheek with the back of her hard, brown hand. “an' thin they have not a sowl to chop and draw them firewood; an' the weather so oncommon savare. och, hone! what has not that _baste_ of a man to answer for?” “i heard,” continued mrs. s----, “that they have tasted no food but potatoes for the last nine months, and scarcely enough of them to keep soul and body together; that they have sold their last cow; and the poor young lady and her second brother, a lad of only twelve years old, bring all the wood for the fire from the bush on a hand sleigh.” “oh, dear!--oh, dear!” sobbed jenny; “an' i not there to hilp them! an' poor miss mary, the tinder thing! oh, 'tis hard, terribly hard upon the crathurs, an' they not used to the like.” “can nothing be done for them?” said i. “that is what we want to know,” returned emilia, “and that was one of my reasons for coming up to d----. i wanted to consult you and jenny upon the subject. you, who are an officer's wife, and i, who am both an officer's wife and daughter, ought to devise some plan of rescuing this poor, unfortunate lady and her family from her present forlorn situation.” the tears sprang to my eyes, and i thought, in the bitterness of my heart, upon my own galling poverty, that my pockets did not contain even a single copper, and that i had scarcely garments enough to shield me from the inclemency of the weather. by unflinching industry, and taking my part in the toil of the field, i had bread for myself and family, and this was more than poor mrs. n---- possessed; but it appeared impossible for me to be of any assistance to the unhappy sufferer, and the thought of my incapacity gave me severe pain. it was only in moments like the present that i felt the curse of poverty. “well,” continued my friend, “you see, mrs. moodie, that the ladies of p---- are all anxious to do what they can for her; but they first want to learn if the miserable circumstances in which she is said to be placed are true. in short, my dear friend, they want you and me to make a pilgrimage to dummer, to see the poor lady herself; and then they will be guided by our report.” “then let us lose no time in going upon our own mission of mercy.” “och, my dear heart, you will be lost in the woods!” said old jenny. “it is nine long miles to the first clearing, and that through a lonely, blazed path. after you are through the beaver-meadow, there is not a single hut for you to rest or warm yourselves. it is too much for the both of yees; you will be frozen to death on the road.” “no fear,” said my benevolent friend; “god will take care of us, jenny. it is on his errand we go; to carry a message of hope to one about to perish.” “the lord bless you for a darlint,” cried the old woman, devoutly kissing the velvet cheek of the little fellow sleeping upon her lap. “may your own purty child never know the want and sorrow that is around her.” emilia and i talked over the dummer scheme until we fell asleep. many were the plans we proposed for the immediate relief of the unfortunate family. early the next morning, my brother-in-law, mr. t----, called upon my friend. the subject next to our heart was immediately introduced, and he was called into the general council. his feelings, like our own, were deeply interested; and he proposed that we should each provide something from our own small stores to satisfy the pressing wants of the distressed family; while he promised to bring his cutter the next morning, and take us through the beaver-meadow, and to the edge of the great swamp, which would shorten four miles, at least, of our long and hazardous journey. we joyfully acceded to his proposal, and set cheerfully to work to provide for the morrow. jenny baked a batch of her very best bread, and boiled a large piece of beef; and mr. t---- brought with him, the next day, a fine cooked ham, in a sack, into the bottom of which he stowed the beef and loaves, besides some sugar and tea, which his own kind wife, the author of “the backwoods of canada,” had sent. i had some misgivings as to the manner in which these good things could be introduced to the poor lady, who, i had heard, was reserved and proud. “oh, jenny,” i said, “how shall i be able to ask her to accept provisions from strangers? i am afraid of wounding her feelings.” “oh, darlint, never fear that! she is proud, i know; but 'tis not a stiff pride, but jist enough to consale her disthress from her ignorant english neighbours, who think so manely of poor folk like her who were once rich. she will be very thankful to you for your kindness, for she has not experienced much of it from the dummer people in her throuble, though she may have no words to tell you so. say that old jenny sent the bread to dear wee ellie, 'cause she knew she would like a loaf of jenny's bakin'.” “but the meat.” “och, the mate, is it? may be, you'll think of some excuse for the mate when you get there.” “i hope so; but i'm a sad coward with strangers, and i have lived so long out of the world that i am at a great loss what to do. i will try and put a good face on the matter. your name, jenny, will be no small help to me.” all was now ready. kissing our little bairns, who crowded around us with eager and inquiring looks, and charging jenny for the hundredth time to take especial care of them during our absence, we mounted the cutter, and set off, under the care and protection of mr. t----, who determined to accompany us on the journey. it was a black, cold day; no sun visible in the grey, dark sky; a keen wind, and hard frost. we crouched close to each other. “good heavens, how cold it is!” whispered emilia. “what a day for such a journey!” she had scarcely ceased speaking, when the cutter went upon a stump which lay concealed under the drifted snow; and we, together with the ruins of our conveyance, were scattered around. “a bad beginning,” said my brother-in-law, with a rueful aspect, as he surveyed the wreck of the cutter from which we had promised ourselves so much benefit. “there is no help for it but to return home.” “oh, no,” said mrs. s----; “bad beginnings make good endings, you know. let us go on; it will be far better walking than riding such a dreadful day. my feet are half-frozen already with sitting still.” “but, my dear madam,” expostulated mr. t----, “consider the distance, the road, the dark, dull day, and our imperfect knowledge of the path. i will get the cutter mended to-morrow; and the day after we may be able to proceed.” “delays are dangerous,” said the pertinacious emilia, who, woman-like, was determined to have her own way. “now, or never. while we wait for the broken cutter, the broken-hearted mrs. n---- may starve. we can stop at colonel c----'s and warm ourselves, and you can leave the cutter at his house until our return.” “it was upon your account that i proposed the delay,” said the good mr. t----, taking the sack, which was no inconsiderable weight, upon his shoulder, and driving his horse before him into neighbour w----'s stable. “where you go, i am ready to follow.” when we arrived, colonel c----'s family were at breakfast, of which they made us partake; and after vainly endeavouring to dissuade us from what appeared to them our quixotic expedition, mrs. c---- added a dozen fine white fish to the contents of the sack, and sent her youngest son to help mr. t---- along with his burthen, and to bear us company on our desolate road. leaving the colonel's hospitable house on our left, we again plunged into the woods, and after a few minutes' brisk walking, found ourselves upon the brow of a steep bank that overlooked the beaver-meadow, containing within its area several hundred acres. there is no scenery in the bush that presents such a novel appearance as those meadows, or openings, surrounded as they invariably are, by dark, intricate forests; their high, rugged banks covered with the light, airy tamarack and silver birch. in summer they look like a lake of soft, rich verdure, hidden in the bosom of the barren and howling waste. lakes they certainly have been, from which the waters have receded, “ages, ages long ago”; and still the whole length of these curious level valleys is traversed by a stream, of no inconsiderable dimensions. the waters of the narrow, rapid creek, which flowed through the meadow we were about to cross, were of sparkling brightness, and icy cold. the frost-king had no power to check their swift, dancing movements, or stop their perpetual song. on they leaped, sparkling and flashing beneath their ice-crowned banks, rejoicing as they revelled on in their lonely course. in the prime of the year, this is a wild and lovely spot, the grass is of the richest green, and the flowers of the most gorgeous dyes. the gayest butterflies float above them upon painted wings; and the whip-poor-will pours forth from the neighbouring woods, at close of dewy eve, his strange but sadly plaintive cry. winter was now upon the earth, and the once green meadow looked like a small forest lake covered with snow. the first step we made into it plunged us up to the knees in the snow, which was drifted to a great height in the open space. mr. t---- and our young friend c---- walked on ahead of us, in order to break a track through the untrodden snow. we soon reached the cold creek; but here a new difficulty presented itself. it was too wide to jump across, and we could see no other way of passing to the other side. “there must be some sort of a bridge here about,” said young c----, “or how can the people from dummer pass constantly during the winter to and fro. i will go along the bank, and halloo to you if i find one.” in a few minutes he gave the desired signal, and on reaching the spot, we found a round, slippery log flung across the stream by way of bridge. with some trouble, and after various slips, we got safely on the other side. to wet our feet would have been to ensure their being frozen; and as it was, we were not without serious apprehension on that score. after crossing the bleak, snowy plain, we scrambled over another brook, and entered the great swamp, which occupied two miles of our dreary road. it would be vain to attempt giving any description of this tangled maze of closely-interwoven cedars, fallen trees, and loose-scattered masses of rock. it seemed the fitting abode of wolves and bears, and every other unclean beast. the fire had run through it during the summer, making the confusion doubly confused. now we stooped, half-doubled, to crawl under fallen branches that hung over our path, then again we had to clamber over prostrate trees of great bulk, descending from which we plumped down into holes in the snow, sinking mid-leg into the rotten trunk of some treacherous, decayed pine-tree. before we were half through the great swamp, we began to think ourselves sad fools, and to wish that we were safe again by our own firesides. but, then, a great object was in view,--the relief of a distressed fellow-creature, and like the “full of hope, misnamed forlorn,” we determined to overcome every difficulty, and toil on. it took us an hour at least to clear the great swamp, from which we emerged into a fine wood, composed chiefly of maple-trees. the sun had, during our immersion in the dark shades of the swamp, burst through his leaden shroud, and cast a cheery gleam along the rugged boles of the lofty trees. the squirrel and chipmunk occasionally bounded across our path; the dazzling snow which covered it reflected the branches above us in an endless variety of dancing shadows. our spirits rose in proportion. young c---- burst out singing, and emilia and i laughed and chatted as we bounded along our narrow road. on, on for hours, the same interminable forest stretched away to the right and left, before and behind us. “it is past twelve,” said my brother t---- thoughtfully; “if we do not soon come to a clearing, we may chance to spend the night in the forest.” “oh, i am dying with hunger,” cried emilia. “do c----, give us one or two of the cakes your mother put into the bag for us to eat upon the road.” the ginger-cakes were instantly produced. but where were the teeth to be found that could masticate them? the cakes were frozen as hard as stones; this was a great disappointment to us tired and hungry wights; but it only produced a hearty laugh. over the logs we went again; for it was a perpetual stepping up and down, crossing the fallen trees that obstructed our path. at last we came to a spot where two distinct blazed roads diverged. “what are we to do now?” said mr. t----. we stopped, and a general consultation was held, and without one dissenting voice we took the branch to the right, which, after pursuing for about half a mile, led us to a log hut of the rudest description. “is this the road to dummer?” we asked a man, who was chopping wood outside the fence. “i guess you are in dummer,” was the answer. my heart leaped for joy, for i was dreadfully fatigued. “does this road lead through the english line?” “that's another thing,” returned the woodman. “no, you turned off from the right path when you came up here.” we all looked very blank at each other. “you will have to go back, and keep the other road, and that will lead you straight to the english line.” “how many miles is it to mrs. n----'s?” “some four, or thereabouts,” was the cheering rejoinder. “'tis one of the last clearings on the line. if you are going back to douro to-night, you must look sharp.” sadly and dejectedly we retraced our steps. there are few trifling failures more bitter in our journey through life than that of a tired traveller mistaking his road. what effect must that tremendous failure produce upon the human mind, when at the end of life's unretraceable journey, the traveller finds that he has fallen upon the wrong track through every stage, and instead of arriving at a land of blissful promise, sinks for ever into the gulf of despair! the distance we had trodden in the wrong path, while led on by hope and anticipation, now seemed to double in length, as with painful steps we toiled on to reach the right road. this object once attained, soon led us to the dwellings of men. neat, comfortable log houses, surrounded by well-fenced patches of clearing, arose on either side of the forest road; dogs flew out and barked at us, and children ran shouting indoors to tell their respective owners that strangers were passing their gates; a most unusual circumstance, i should think, in that location. a servant who had hired two years with my brother-in-law, we knew must live somewhere in this neighbourhood, at whose fireside we hoped not only to rest and warm ourselves, but to obtain something to eat. on going up to one of the cabins to inquire for hannah j----, we fortunately happened to light upon the very person we sought. with many exclamations of surprise, she ushered us into her neat and comfortable log dwelling. a blazing fire, composed of two huge logs, was roaring up the wide chimney, and the savoury smell that issued from a large pot of pea-soup was very agreeable to our cold and hungry stomachs. but, alas, the refreshment went no further! hannah most politely begged us to take seats by the fire, and warm and rest ourselves; she even knelt down and assisted in rubbing our half-frozen hands; but she never once made mention of the hot soup, or of the tea, which was drawing in a tin teapot upon the hearth-stone, or of a glass of whiskey, which would have been thankfully accepted by our male pilgrims. hannah was not an irishwoman, no, nor a scotch lassie, or her very first request would have been for us to take “a pickle of soup,” or “a sup of thae warm broths.” the soup was no doubt cooking for hannah's husband and two neighbours, who were chopping for him in the bush; and whose want of punctuality she feelingly lamented. as we left her cottage, and jogged on, emilia whispered, laughing, “i hope you are satisfied with your good dinner? was not the pea-soup excellent?--and that cup of nice hot tea!--i never relished anything more in my life. i think we should never pass that house without giving hannah a call, and testifying our gratitude for her good cheer.” many times did we stop to inquire the way to mrs. n----'s, before we ascended the steep, bleak hill upon which her house stood. at the door, mr. t---- deposited the sack of provisions, and he and young c---- went across the road to the house of an english settler (who, fortunately for them, proved more hospitable than hannah j----), to wait until our errand was executed. the house before which emilia and i were standing had once been a tolerably comfortable log dwelling. it was larger than such buildings generally are, and was surrounded by dilapidated barns and stables, which were not cheered by a solitary head of cattle. a black pine-forest stretched away to the north of the house, and terminated in a dismal, tangled cedar-swamp, the entrance to the house not having been constructed to face the road. the spirit that had borne me up during the journey died within me. i was fearful that my visit would be deemed an impertinent intrusion. i knew not in what manner to introduce myself, and my embarrassment had been greatly increased by mrs. s---- declaring that i must break the ice, for she had not courage to go in. i remonstrated, but she was firm. to hold any longer parley was impossible. we were standing on the top of a bleak hill, with the thermometer many degrees below zero, and exposed to the fiercest biting of the bitter, cutting blast. with a heavy sigh, i knocked slowly but decidedly at the crazy door. i saw the curly head of a boy glance for a moment against the broken window. there was a stir within, but no one answered our summons. emilia was rubbing her hands together, and beating a rapid tattoo with her feet upon the hard and glittering snow, to keep them from freezing. again i appealed to the inhospitable door, with a vehemence which seemed to say, “we are freezing, good people; in mercy let us in!” again there was a stir, and a whispered sound of voices, as if in consultation, from within; and after waiting a few minutes longer--which, cold as we were, seemed an age--the door was cautiously opened by a handsome, dark-eyed lad of twelve years of age, who was evidently the owner of the curly head that had been sent to reconnoitre us through the window. carefully closing the door after him, he stepped out upon the snow, and asked us coldly but respectfully what we wanted. i told him that we were two ladies, who had walked all the way from douro to see his mamma, and that we wished very much to speak to her. the lad answered us, with the ease and courtesy of a gentleman, that he did not know whether his mamma could be seen by strangers, but he would go in and see. so saying he abruptly left us, leaving behind him an ugly skeleton of a dog, who, after expressing his disapprobation at our presence in the most disagreeable and unequivocal manner, pounced like a famished wolf upon the sack of good things which lay at emilia's feet; and our united efforts could scarcely keep him off. “a cold, doubtful reception this!” said my friend, turning her back to the wind, and hiding her face in her muff. “this is worse than hannah's liberality, and the long, weary walk.” i thought so too, and began to apprehend that our walk had been in vain, when the lad again appeared, and said that we might walk in, for his mother was dressed. emilia, true to her determination, went no farther than the passage. in vain were all my entreating looks and mute appeals to her benevolence and friendship; i was forced to enter alone the apartment that contained the distressed family. i felt that i was treading upon sacred ground, for a pitying angel hovers over the abode of suffering virtue, and hallows all its woes. on a rude bench, before the fire, sat a lady, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a thin, coloured muslin gown, the most inappropriate garment for the rigour of the season, but, in all probability, the only decent one that she retained. a subdued melancholy looked forth from her large, dark, pensive eyes. she appeared like one who, having discovered the full extent of her misery, had proudly steeled her heart to bear it. her countenance was very pleasing, and, in early life (but she was still young), she must have been eminently handsome. near her, with her head bent down, and shaded by her thin, slender hand, her slight figure scarcely covered by her scanty clothing, sat her eldest daughter, a gentle, sweet-looking girl, who held in her arms a baby brother, whose destitution she endeavoured to conceal. it was a touching sight; that suffering girl, just stepping into womanhood, hiding against her young bosom the nakedness of the little creature she loved. another fine boy, whose neatly-patched clothes had not one piece of the original stuff apparently left in them, stood behind his mother, with dark, glistening eyes fastened upon me, as if amused, and wondering who i was, and what business i could have there. a pale and attenuated, but very pretty, delicately-featured little girl was seated on a low stool before the fire. this was old jenny's darling, ellie, or eloise. a rude bedstead, of home manufacture, in a corner of the room, covered with a coarse woollen quilt, contained two little boys, who had crept into it to conceal their wants from the eyes of the stranger. on the table lay a dozen peeled potatoes, and a small pot was boiling on the fire, to receive their scanty and only daily meal. there was such an air of patient and enduring suffering to the whole group, that, as i gazed heart-stricken upon it, my fortitude quite gave way, and i burst into tears. mrs. n---- first broke the painful silence, and, rather proudly, asked me to whom she had the pleasure of speaking. i made a desperate effort to regain my composure, and told her, but with much embarrassment, my name; adding that i was so well acquainted with her and her children, through jenny, that i could not consider her as a stranger; that i hoped that, as i was the wife of an officer, and like her, a resident in the bush, and well acquainted with all its trials and privations, she would look upon me as a friend. she seemed surprised and annoyed, and i found no small difficulty in introducing the object of my visit; but the day was rapidly declining, and i knew that not a moment was to be lost. at first she coldly rejected all offers of service, and said that she was contented, and wanted for nothing. i appealed to the situation in which i beheld herself and her children, and implored her, for their sakes, not to refuse help from friends who felt for her distress. her maternal feelings triumphed over her assumed indifference, and when she saw me weeping, for i could no longer restrain my tears, her pride yielded, and for some minutes not a word was spoken. i heard the large tears, as they slowly fell from her daughter's eyes, drop one by one upon her garments. at last the poor girl sobbed out, “dear mamma, why conceal the truth? you know that we are nearly naked, and starving.” then came the sad tale of domestic woes:--the absence of the husband and eldest son; the uncertainty as to where they were, or in what engaged; the utter want of means to procure the common necessaries of life; the sale of the only remaining cow that used to provide the children with food. it had been sold for twelve dollars, part to be paid in cash, part in potatoes; the potatoes were nearly exhausted, and they were allowanced to so many a day. but the six dollars she had retained as their last resource. alas! she had sent the eldest boy the day before to p----, to get a letter out of the post-office, which she hoped contained some tidings of her husband and son. she was all anxiety and expectation, but the child returned late at night without the letter which they had longed for with such feverish impatience. the six dollars upon which they had depended for a supply of food were in notes of the farmer's bank, which at that time would not pass for money, and which the roguish purchaser of the cow had passed off upon this distressed family. oh! imagine, ye who revel in riches--who can daily throw away a large sum upon the merest toy--the cruel disappointment, the bitter agony of this poor mother's heart, when she received this calamitous news, in the midst of her starving children. for the last nine weeks they had lived upon a scanty supply of potatoes; they had not tasted raised bread or animal food for eighteen months. “ellie,” said i, anxious to introduce the sack, which had lain like a nightmare upon my mind, “i have something for you; jenny baked some loaves last night, and sent them to you with her best love.” the eyes of all the children grew bright. “you will find the sack with the bread in the passage,” said i to one of the boys. he rushed joyfully out, and returned with mrs. ---- and the sack. her bland and affectionate greeting restored us all to tranquillity. the delighted boy opened the sack. the first thing he produced was the ham. “oh,” said i, “that is a ham that my sister sent to mrs. n----; 'tis of her own curing, and she thought that it might be acceptable.” then came the white fish, nicely packed in a clean cloth. “mrs. c---- thought fish might be a treat to mrs. n----, as she lived so far from the great lakes.” then came jenny's bread, which had already been introduced. the beef, and tea, and sugar, fell upon the floor without any comment. the first scruples had been overcome, and the day was ours. “and now, ladies,” said mrs. n----, with true hospitality, “since you have brought refreshments with you, permit me to cook something for your dinner.” the scene i had just witnessed had produced such a choking sensation that all my hunger had vanished. before we could accept or refuse mrs. n----'s kind offer, mr. t---- arrived, to hurry us off. it was two o'clock when we descended the hill in front of the house, that led by a side-path round to the road, and commenced our homeward route. i thought the four miles of clearings would never be passed; and the english line appeared to have no end. at length we entered once more the dark forest. the setting sun gleamed along the ground; the necessity of exerting our utmost speed, and getting through the great swamp before darkness surrounded us, was apparent to all. the men strode vigorously forward, for they had been refreshed with a substantial dinner of potatoes and pork, washed down with a glass of whiskey, at the cottage in which they had waited for us; but poor emilia and i, faint, hungry, and foot-sore, it was with the greatest difficulty we could keep up. i thought of rosalind, as our march up and down the fallen logs recommenced, and often exclaimed with her, “oh, jupiter! how weary are my legs!” night closed in just as we reached the beaver-meadow. here our ears were greeted with the sound of well-known voices. james and henry c---- had brought the ox-sleigh to meet us at the edge of the bush. never was splendid equipage greeted with such delight. emilia and i, now fairly exhausted with fatigue, scrambled into it, and lying down on the straw which covered the bottom of the rude vehicle, we drew the buffalo robes over our faces, and actually slept soundly until we reached colonel c----'s hospitable door. an excellent supper of hot fish and fried venison was smoking on the table, with other good cheer, to which we did ample justice. i, for one, never was so hungry in my life. we had fasted for twelve hours, and that on an intensely cold day, and had walked during that period upwards of twenty miles. never, never shall i forget that weary walk to dummer; but a blessing followed it. it was midnight when emilia and i reached my humble home; our good friends the oxen being again put in requisition to carry us there. emilia went immediately to bed, from which she was unable to rise for several days. in the meanwhile i wrote to moodie an account of the scene i had witnessed, and he raised a subscription among the officers of the regiment for the poor lady and her children, which amounted to forty dollars. emilia lost no time in making a full report to her friends at p----; and before a week passed away, mrs. n---- and her family were removed thither by several benevolent individuals in the place. a neat cottage was hired for her; and, to the honour of canada be it spoken, all who could afford a donation gave cheerfully. farmers left at her door, pork, beef, flour, and potatoes; the storekeepers sent groceries and goods to make clothes for the children; the shoemakers contributed boots for the boys; while the ladies did all in their power to assist and comfort the gentle creature thus thrown by providence upon their bounty. while mrs. n---- remained at p---- she did not want for any comfort. her children were clothed and her rent paid by her benevolent friends, and her house supplied with food and many comforts from the same source. respected and beloved by all who knew her, it would have been well had she never left the quiet asylum where for several years she enjoyed tranquillity and a respectable competence from her school; but in an evil hour she followed her worthless husband to the southern states, and again suffered all the woes which drunkenness inflicts upon the wives and children of its degraded victims. the convict's wife pale matron! i see thee in agony steep the pillow on which thy young innocents sleep; their slumbers are tranquil, unbroken their rest, they know not the grief that convulses thy breast; they mark not the glance of that red, swollen eye, that must weep till the fountain of sorrow is dry; they guess not thy thoughts in this moment of dread, thou desolate widow, but not of the dead! ah, what are thy feelings, whilst gazing on those, who unconsciously smile in their balmy repose,-- the pangs which thy grief-stricken bosom must prove whilst gazing through tears on those pledges of love, who murmur in slumber the dear, cherish'd name of that sire who has cover'd his offspring with shame,-- of that husband whom justice has wrench'd from thy side of the wretch, who the laws of his country defied? poor, heart-broken mourner! thy tears faster flow, time can bring no oblivion to banish thy woe; the sorrows of others are soften'd by years. ah, what now remains for thy portion but tears? anxieties ceaseless, renew'd day by day, while thy heart yearns for one who is ever away. no hope speeds thy thoughts as they traverse the wave to the far-distant land of the exile and slave. and those children, whose birth with such rapture was hail'd, when the holiest feelings of nature prevail'd, and the bright drops that moisten'd the father's glad cheek could alone the deep transport of happiness speak; when he turn'd from his first-born with glances of pride, in grateful devotion to gaze on his bride, the loved and the loving, who, silent with joy, alternately gazed from the sire to his boy. ah! what could induce the young husband to fling love's garland away in life's beautiful spring, to scatter the roses hope wreath'd for her brow in the dust, and abandon his partner to woe? the wine-cup can answer. the bacchanal's bowl corrupted life's chalice, and poison'd his soul. it chill'd the warm heart, added fire to the brain, gave to pleasure and passion unbridled the rein; till the gentle endearments of children and wife only roused the fell demon to anger and strife. by conscience deserted, by law unrestrain'd, a felon, convicted, unblushing, and chain'd; too late from the dark dream of ruin he woke to remember the wife whose fond heart he had broke; the children abandon'd to sorrow and shame, their deepest misfortune the brand of his name. oh, dire was the curse he invoked on his soul, then gave his last mite for a draught of the bowl! chapter xxvi a change in our prospects the future flower lies folded in the bud,-- its beauty, colour, fragrance, graceful form, carefully shrouded in that tiny cell; till time and circumstance, and sun and shower, expand the embryo blossom--and it bursts its narrow cerements, lifts its blushing head, rejoicing in the light and dew of heaven. but if the canker-worm lies coil'd around the heart o' the bud, the summer sun and dew visit in vain the sear'd and blighted flower. during my illness, a kind neighbour, who had not only frequently come to see me, but had brought me many nourishing things, made by her own fair hands, took a great fancy to my second daughter, who, lively and volatile, could not be induced to remain quiet in the sick chamber. the noise she made greatly retarded my recovery, and mrs. h---- took her home with her, as the only means of obtaining for me necessary rest. during that winter and through the ensuing summer, i only received occasional visits from my little girl, who, fairly established with her new friends, looked upon their house as her home. this separation, which was felt as a great benefit at the time, greatly estranged the affections of the child from her own people. she saw us so seldom that she almost regarded us, when she did meet, as strangers; and i often deeply lamented the hour when i had unwittingly suffered the threefold cord of domestic love to be unravelled by absence, and the flattering attentions which fed the vanity of a beautiful child, without strengthening her moral character. mrs. h----, whose husband was wealthy, was a generous, warm-hearted girl of eighteen. lovely in person, and fascinating in manners, and still too young to have any idea of forming the character of a child, she dressed the little creature expensively; and, by constantly praising her personal appearance, gave her an idea of her own importance which it took many years to eradicate. it is a great error to suffer a child, who has been trained in the hard school of poverty and self-denial, to be transplanted suddenly into the hot-bed of wealth and luxury. the idea of the child being so much happier and better off blinds her fond parents to the dangers of her new situation, where she is sure to contract a dislike to all useful occupation, and to look upon scanty means and plain clothing as a disgrace. if the re-action is bad for a grown-up person, it is almost destructive to a child who is incapable of moral reflection. whenever i saw little addie, and remarked the growing coldness of her manner towards us, my heart reproached me for having exposed her to temptation. still, in the eye of the world, she was much better situated than she could possibly be with us. the heart of the parent could alone understand the change. so sensible was her father of this alteration, that the first time he paid us a visit he went and brought home his child. “if she remain so long away from us, at her tender years,” he said, “she will cease to love us. all the wealth in the world would not compensate me for the love of my child.” the removal of my sister rendered my separation from my husband doubly lonely and irksome. sometimes the desire to see and converse with him would press so painfully on my heart that i would get up in the night, strike a light, and sit down and write him a long letter, and tell him all that was in my mind; and when i had thus unburdened my spirit, the letter was committed to the flames, and after fervently commending him to the care of the great father of mankind, i would lay down my throbbing head on my pillow beside our first-born son, and sleep tranquilly. it is a strange fact that many of my husband's letters to me were written at the very time when i felt those irresistible impulses to hold communion with him. why should we be ashamed to admit openly our belief in this mysterious intercourse between the spirits of those who are bound to each other by the tender ties of friendship and affection, when the experience of every day proves its truth? proverbs, which are the wisdom of ages collected into a few brief words, tell us in one pithy sentence that “if we talk of the devil he is sure to appear.” while the name of a long-absent friend is in our mouth, the next moment brings him into our presence. how can this be, if mind did not meet mind, and the spirit had not a prophetic consciousness of the vicinity of another spirit, kindred with its own? this is an occurrence so common that i never met with any person to whom it had not happened; few will admit it to be a spiritual agency, but in no other way can they satisfactorily explain its cause. if it were a mere coincidence, or combination of ordinary circumstances, it would not happen so often, and people would not be led to speak of the long-absent always at the moment when they are just about to present themselves before them. my husband was no believer in what he termed my fanciful, speculative theories; yet at the time when his youngest boy and myself lay dangerously ill, and hardly expected to live, i received from him a letter, written in great haste, which commenced with this sentence: “do write to me, dear s----, when you receive this. i have felt very uneasy about you for some days past, and am afraid that all is not right at home.” whence came this sudden fear? why at that particular time did his thoughts turn so despondingly towards those so dear to him? why did the dark cloud in his mind hang so heavily above his home? the burden of my weary and distressed spirit had reached him; and without knowing of our sufferings and danger, his own responded to the call. the holy and mysterious nature of man is yet hidden from himself; he is still a stranger to the movements of that inner life, and knows little of its capabilities and powers. a purer religion, a higher standard of moral and intellectual training may in time reveal all this. man still remains a half-reclaimed savage; the leaven of christianity is surely working its way, but it has not yet changed the whole lump, or transformed the deformed into the beauteous child of god. oh, for that glorious day! it is coming. the dark clouds of humanity are already tinged with the golden radiance of the dawn, but the sun of righteousness has not yet arisen upon the world with healing on his wings; the light of truth still struggles in the womb of darkness, and man stumbles on to the fulfilment of his sublime and mysterious destiny. this spring i was not a little puzzled how to get in the crops. i still continued so weak that i was quite unable to assist in the field, and my good old jenny was sorely troubled with inflamed feet, which required constant care. at this juncture, a neighbouring settler, who had recently come among us, offered to put in my small crop of peas, potatoes, and oats, in all not comprising more than eight acres, if i would lend him my oxen to log-up a large fallow of ten acres, and put in his own crops. trusting to his fair dealing, i consented to this arrangement; but he took advantage of my isolated position, and not only logged-up his fallow, but put in all his spring crops before he sowed an acre of mine. the oxen were worked down so low that they were almost unfit for use, and my crops were put in so late, and with such little care, that they all proved a failure. i should have felt this loss more severely had it happened in any previous year; but i had ceased to feel that deep interest in the affairs of the farm, from a sort of conviction in my own mind that it would not long remain my home. jenny and i did our best in the way of hoeing and weeding; but no industry on our part could repair the injury done to the seed by being sown out of season. we therefore confined our attention to the garden, which, as usual, was very productive, and with milk, fresh butter, and eggs, supplied the simple wants of our family. emilia enlivened our solitude by her company, for several weeks during the summer, and we had many pleasant excursions on the water together. my knowledge of the use of the paddle, however, was not entirely without its danger. one very windy sunday afternoon, a servant-girl, who lived with my friend mrs. c----, came crying to the house, and implored the use of my canoe and paddles, to cross the lake to see her dying father. the request was instantly granted; but there was no man upon the place to ferry her across, and she could not manage the boat herself--in short, had never been in a canoe in her life. the girl was deeply distressed. she said that she had got word that her father could scarcely live till she could reach smith-town; that if she went round by the bridge, she must walk five miles, while if she crossed the lake she could be home in half an hour. i did not much like the angry swell upon the water, but the poor creature was in such grief that i told her, if she was not afraid of venturing with me, i would try and put her over. she expressed her thanks in the warmest terms, accompanied by a shower of blessings; and i took the paddles and went down to the landing. jenny was very averse to my “tempting providence,” as she termed it, and wished that i might get back as safe as i went. however, the old woman launched the canoe for me, pushed us from the shore, and away we went. the wind was in my favour, and i found so little trouble in getting across that i began to laugh at my own timidity. i put the girl on shore, and endeavoured to shape my passage home. but this i found was no easy task. the water was rough, and the wind high, and the strong current, which runs through that part of the lake to the smith rapids, was dead against me. in vain i laboured to cross this current; it resisted all my efforts, and at each repulse i was carried farther down towards the rapids, which were full of sunken rocks, and hard for the strong arm of a man to stem--to the weak hand of a woman their safe passage was impossible. i began to feel rather uneasy at the awkward situation in which i found myself placed, and for some time i made desperate efforts to extricate myself, by paddling with all my might. i soon gave this up, and contented myself by steering the canoe in the path that it thought fit to pursue. after drifting down with the current for some little space, until i came opposite a small island, i put out all my strength to gain the land. in this i fortunately succeeded, and getting on shore, i contrived to drag the canoe so far round the headland that i got her out of the current. all now was smooth sailing, and i joyfully answered old jenny's yells from the landing, that i was safe, and would join her in a few minutes. this fortunate manoeuvre stood me in good stead upon another occasion, when crossing the lake, some weeks after this, in company with a young female friend, during a sudden storm. two indian women, heavily laden with their packs of dried venison, called at the house to borrow the canoe, to join their encampment upon the other side. it so happened that i wanted to send to the mill that afternoon, and the boat could not be returned in time without i went over with the indian women and brought it back. my young friend was delighted at the idea of the frolic, and as she could both steer and paddle, and the day was calm and bright, though excessively warm, we both agreed to accompany the squaws to the other side, and bring back the canoe. mrs. muskrat has fallen in love with a fine fat kitten, whom the children had called “buttermilk,” and she begged so hard for the little puss, that i presented it to her, rather marvelling how she would contrive to carry it so many miles through the woods, and she loaded with such an enormous pack; when, lo! the squaw took down the bundle, and, in the heart of the piles of dried venison, she deposited the cat in a small basket, giving it a thin slice of the meat to console it for its close confinement. puss received the donation with piteous mews; it was evident that mice and freedom were preferred by her to venison and the honour of riding on a squaw's back. the squaws paddled us quickly across, and we laughed and chatted as we bounded over the blue waves, until we were landed in a dark cedar-swamp, in the heart of which we found the indian encampment. a large party were lounging around the fire, superintending the drying of a quantity of venison which was suspended on forked sticks. besides the flesh of the deer, a number of musk-rats were skinned, and extended as if standing bolt upright before the fire, warming their paws. the appearance they cut was most ludicrous. my young friend pointed to the musk-rats, as she sank down, laughing, upon one of the skins. old snow-storm, who was present, imagined that she wanted one of them to eat, and very gravely handed her the unsavoury beast, stick and all. “does the old man take me for a cannibal?” she said. “i would as soon eat a child.” among the many odd things cooking at that fire there was something that had the appearance of a bull-frog. “what can that be?” she said, directing my eyes to the strange monster. “surely they don't eat bull-frogs!” this sally was received by a grunt of approbation from snow-storm; and, though indians seldom forget their dignity so far as to laugh, he for once laid aside his stoical gravity, and, twirling the thing round with a stick, burst into a hearty peal. “muckakee! indian eat muckakee?--ha! ha! indian no eat muckakee! frenchmans eat his hind legs; they say the speckled beast much good. this no muckakee!--the liver of deer, dried--very nice--indian eat him.” “i wish him much joy of the delicate morsel,” said the saucy girl, who was intent upon quizzing and examining everything in the camp. we had remained the best part of an hour, when mrs. muskrat laid hold of my hand, and leading me through the bush to the shore, pointed up significantly to a cloud, as dark as night, that hung loweringly over the bush. “thunder in that cloud--get over the lake--quick, quick, before it breaks.” then motioning for us to jump into the canoe, she threw in the paddles, and pushed us from shore. we saw the necessity of haste, and both plied the paddle with diligence to gain the opposite bank, or at least the shelter of the island, before the cloud poured down its fury upon us. we were just in the middle of the current when the first peal of thunder broke with startling nearness over our heads. the storm frowned darkly upon the woods; the rain came down in torrents; and there were we exposed to its utmost fury in the middle of a current too strong for us to stem. “what shall we do? we shall be drowned!” said my young friend, turning her pale, tearful face towards me. “let the canoe float down the current till we get close to the island; then run her into the land. i saved myself once before by this plan.” we did so, and were safe; but there we had to remain, wet to our skins, until the wind and the rain abated sufficiently for us to manage our little craft. “how do you like being upon the lake in a storm like this?” i whispered to my shivering, dripping companion. “very well in romance, but terribly dull in reality. we cannot, however, call it a dry joke,” continued she, wringing the rain from her dress. “i wish we were suspended over old snow-storm's fire with the bull-frog, for i hate a shower-bath with my clothes on.” i took warning by this adventure, never to cross the lake again without a stronger arm than mine in the canoe to steer me safely through the current. i received much kind attention from my new neighbour, the rev. w. w----, a truly excellent and pious clergyman of the english church. the good, white-haired old man expressed the kindest sympathy in all my trials, and strengthened me greatly with his benevolent counsels and gentle charity. mr. w---- was a true follower of christ. his christianity was not confined to his own denomination; and every sabbath his log cottage was filled with attentive auditors, of all persuasions, who met together to listen to the word of life delivered to them by a christian minister in the wilderness. he had been a very fine preacher, and though considerably turned of seventy, his voice was still excellent, and his manner solemn and impressive. his only son, a young man of twenty-eight years of age, had received a serious injury in the brain by falling upon a turf-spade from a loft window when a child, and his intellect had remained stationary from that time. poor harry was an innocent child; he loved his parents with the simplicity of a child, and all who spoke kindly to him he regarded as friends. like most persons of his caste of mind, his predilection for pet animals was a prominent instinct. he was always followed by two dogs, whom he regarded with especial favour. the moment he caught your eye, he looked down admiringly upon his four-footed attendants, patting their sleek necks, and murmuring, “nice dogs--nice dogs.” harry had singled out myself and my little ones as great favourites. he would gather flowers for the girls, and catch butterflies for the boys; while to me he always gave the title of “dear aunt.” it so happened that one fine morning i wanted to walk a couple of miles through the bush, to spend the day with mrs. c----; but the woods were full of the cattle belonging to the neighbouring settlers, and of these i was terribly afraid. whilst i was dressing the little girls to accompany me, harry w---- came in with a message from his mother. “oh, thought i, here is harry w----. he will walk with us through the bush, and defend us from the cattle.” the proposition was made, and harry was not a little proud of being invited to join our party. we had accomplished half the distance without seeing a single hoof; and i was beginning to congratulate myself upon our unusual luck, when a large red ox, maddened by the stings of the gad-flies, came headlong through the brush, tossing up the withered leaves and dried moss with his horns, and making directly towards us. i screamed to my champion for help; but where was he?--running like a frightened chipmunk along the fallen timber, shouting to my eldest girl, at the top of his voice-- “run katty, run!--the bull, the bull! run, katty!--the bull, the bull!”--leaving us poor creatures far behind in the chase. the bull, who cared not one fig for us, did not even stop to give us a passing stare, and was soon lost among the trees; while our valiant knight never stopped to see what had become of us, but made the best of his way home. so much for taking an innocent for a guard. the next month most of the militia regiments were disbanded. my husband's services were no longer required at b----, and he once more returned to help to gather in our scanty harvest. many of the old debts were paid off by his hard-saved pay; and though all hope of continuing in the militia service was at an end, our condition was so much improved that we looked less to the dark than to the sunny side of the landscape. the potato crop was gathered in, and i had collected my store of dandelion-roots for our winter supply of coffee, when one day brought a letter to my husband from the governor's secretary, offering him the situation of sheriff of the v---- district. though perfectly unacquainted with the difficulties and responsibilities of such an important office, my husband looked upon it as a gift sent from heaven to remove us from the sorrows and poverty with which we were surrounded in the woods. once more he bade us farewell; but it was to go and make ready a home for us, that we should no more be separated from each other. heartily did i return thanks to god that night for all his mercies to us; and sir george arthur was not forgotten in those prayers. from b----, my husband wrote to me to make what haste i could in disposing of our crops, household furniture, stock, and farming implements; and to prepare myself and the children to join him on the first fall of snow that would make the roads practicable for sleighing. to facilitate this object, he sent me a box of clothing, to make up for myself and the children. for seven years i had lived out of the world entirely; my person had been rendered coarse by hard work and exposure to the weather. i looked double the age i really was, and my hair was already thickly sprinkled with grey. i clung to my solitude. i did not like to be dragged from it to mingle in gay scenes, in a busy town, and with gaily-dressed people. i was no longer fit for the world; i had lost all relish for the pursuits and pleasures which are so essential to its votaries; i was contented to live and die in obscurity. my dear emilia rejoiced, like a true friend, in my changed prospects, and came up to help me to cut clothes for the children, and to assist me in preparing them for the journey. i succeeded in selling off our goods and chattels much better than i expected. my old friend, mr. w----, who was a new comer, became the principal purchaser, and when christmas arrived i had not one article left upon my hands save the bedding, which it was necessary to take with us. the magic spell the magic spell, the dream is fled, the dream of joy sent from above; the idol of my soul is dead, and naught remains but hopeless love. the song of birds, the scent of flowers, the tender light of parting day-- unheeded now the tardy hours steal sadly, silently away. but welcome now the solemn night, when watchful stars are gleaming high, for though thy form eludes my sight, i know thy gentle spirit's nigh. o! dear one, now i feel thy power, 'tis sweet to rest when toil is o'er, but sweeter far that blessed hour when fond hearts meet to part no more. j.w.d.m. chapter xxvii adieu to the woods adieu!--adieu!--when quivering lips refuse the bitter pangs of parting to declare; and the full bosom feels that it must lose friends who were wont its inmost thoughts to share; when hands are tightly clasp'd, 'mid struggling sighs and streaming tears, those whisper'd accents rise, leaving to god the objects of our care in that short, simple, comprehensive prayer-- _adieu!_ never did eager british children look for the first violets and primroses of spring with more impatience than my baby boys and girls watched, day after day, for the first snow-flakes that were to form the road to convey them to their absent father. “winter never means to come this year. it will never snow again?” exclaimed my eldest boy, turning from the window on christmas day, with the most rueful aspect that ever greeted the broad, gay beams of the glorious sun. it was like a spring day. the little lake in front of the window glittered like a mirror of silver, set in its dark frame of pine woods. i, too, was wearying for the snow, and was tempted to think that it did not come as early as usual, in order to disappoint us. but i kept this to myself, and comforted the expecting child with the oft-repeated assertion that it would certainly snow upon the morrow. but the morrow came and passed away, and many other morrows, and the same mild, open weather prevailed. the last night of the old year was ushered in with furious storms of wind and snow; the rafters of our log cabin shook beneath the violence of the gale, which swept up from the lake like a lion roaring for its prey, driving the snow-flakes through every open crevice, of which there were not a few, and powdering the floor until it rivalled in whiteness the ground without. “oh, what a dreadful night!” we cried, as we huddled, shivering, around the old broken stove. “a person abroad in the woods to-night would be frozen. flesh and blood could not long stand this cutting wind.” “it reminds me of the commencement of a laughable extempore ditty,” said i to my young friend, a. c----, who was staying with me, “composed by my husband, during the first very cold night we spent in canada”-- oh, the cold of canada nobody knows, the fire burns our shoes without warming our toes; oh, dear, what shall we do? our blankets are thin, and our noses are blue-- our noses are blue, and our blankets are thin, it's at zero without, and we're freezing within! (chorus)--oh, dear, what shall we do? “but, joking apart, my dear a----, we ought to be very thankful that we are not travelling this night to b----.” “but to-morrow,” said my eldest boy, lifting up his curly head from my lap. “it will be fine to-morrow, and we shall see dear papa again.” in this hope he lay down on his little bed upon the floor, and was soon fast asleep; perhaps dreaming of that eagerly-anticipated journey, and of meeting his beloved father. sleep was a stranger to my eyes. the tempest raged so furiously without that i was fearful the roof would be carried off the house, or that the chimney would take fire. the night was far advanced when old jenny and myself retired to bed. my boy's words were prophetic; that was the last night i ever spent in the bush--in the dear forest home which i had loved in spite of all the hardships which we had endured since we pitched our tent in the backwoods. it was the birthplace of my three boys, the school of high resolve and energetic action in which we had learned to meet calmly, and successfully to battle with the ills of life. nor did i leave it without many regretful tears, to mingle once more with a world to whose usages, during my long solitude, i had become almost a stranger, and to whose praise or blame i felt alike indifferent. when the day dawned, the whole forest scenery lay glittering in a mantle of dazzling white; the sun shone brightly, the heavens were intensely blue, but the cold was so severe that every article of food had to be thawed before we could get our breakfast. the very blankets that covered us during the night were stiff with our frozen breath. “i hope the sleighs won't come to-day,” i cried; “we should be frozen on the long journey.” about noon two sleighs turned into our clearing. old jenny ran screaming into the room, “the masther has sent for us at last! the sleighs are come! fine large sleighs, and illigant teams of horses! och, and its a cowld day for the wee things to lave the bush.” the snow had been a week in advance of us at b----, and my husband had sent up the teams to remove us. the children jumped about, and laughed aloud for joy. old jenny did not know whether to laugh or cry, but she set about helping me to pack up trunks and bedding as fast as our cold hands would permit. in the midst of the confusion, my brother arrived, like a good genius, to our assistance, declaring his determination to take us down to b---- himself in his large lumber-sleigh. this was indeed joyful news. in less than three hours he despatched the hired sleighs with their loads, and we all stood together in the empty house, striving to warm our hands over the embers of the expiring fire. how cold and desolate every object appeared! the small windows, half blocked up with snow, scarcely allowed a glimpse of the declining sun to cheer us with his serene aspect. in spite of the cold, several kind friends had waded through the deep snow to say, “god bless you!--good-bye;” while a group of silent indians stood together, gazing upon our proceedings with an earnestness which showed that they were not uninterested in the scene. as we passed out to the sleigh, they pressed forward, and silently held out their hands, while the squaws kissed me and the little ones with tearful eyes. they had been true friends to us in our dire necessity, and i returned their mute farewell from my very heart. mr. s---- sprang into the sleigh. one of our party was missing. “jenny!” shouted my brother, at the top of his voice, “it is too cold to keep your mistress and the little children waiting.” “och, shure thin, it is i that am comin'!” returned the old body, as she issued from the house. shouts of laughter greeted her appearance. the figure she cut upon that memorable day i shall never forget. my brother dropped the reins upon the horses' necks, and fairly roared. jenny was about to commence her journey to the front in three hats. was it to protect her from the cold? oh, no; jenny was not afraid of the cold! she could have eaten her breakfast on the north side of an iceberg, and always dispensed with shoes, during the most severe of our canadian winters. it was to protect these precious articles from injury. our good neighbour, mrs. w----, had presented her with an old sky-blue drawn-silk bonnet, as a parting benediction. this, by way of distinction, for she never had possessed such an article of luxury as a silk bonnet in her life, jenny had placed over the coarse calico cap, with its full furbelow of the same yellow, ill-washed, homely material, next to her head; over this, as second in degree, a sun-burnt straw hat, with faded pink ribbons, just showed its broken rim and tawdry trimmings; and, to crown all, and serve as a guard to the rest, a really serviceable grey-beaver bonnet, once mine, towered up as high as the celebrated crown in which brother peter figures in swift's “tale of a tub.” “mercy, jenny! why, old woman, you don't mean to go with us that figure?” “och, my dear heart! i've no band-box to kape the cowld from desthroying my illigant bonnets,” returned jenny, laying her hand upon the side of the sleigh. “go back, jenny; go back,” cried my brother. “for god's sake take all that tom-foolery from off your head. we shall be the laughing-stock of every village we pass through.” “och, shure now, mr. s----, who'd think of looking at an owld crathur like me! it's only yersel' that would notice the like.” “all the world, everybody would look at you, jenny. i believe that you put on those hats to draw the attention of all the young fellows that we shall happen to meet on the road. ha, jenny!” with an air of offended dignity, the old woman returned to the house to re-arrange her toilet, and provide for the safety of her “illigant bonnets,” one of which she suspended to the strings of her cloak, while she carried the third dangling in her hand; and no persuasion of mine would induce her to put them out of sight. many painful and conflicting emotions agitated my mind, but found no utterance in words, as we entered the forest path, and i looked my last upon that humble home consecrated by the memory of a thousand sorrows. every object had become endeared to me during my long exile from civilised life. i loved the lonely lake, with its magnificent belt of dark pines sighing in the breeze; the cedar-swamp, the summer home of my dark indian friends; my own dear little garden, with its rugged snake-fence which i had helped jenny to place with my own hands, and which i had assisted the faithful woman in cultivating for the last three years, where i had so often braved the tormenting mosquitoes, black flies, and intense heat, to provide vegetables for the use of the family. even the cows, that had given a breakfast for the last time to my children, were now regarded with mournful affection. a poor labourer stood in the doorway of the deserted house, holding my noble water-dog, rover, in a string. the poor fellow gave a joyous bark as my eyes fell upon him. “james j----, take care of my dog.” “never fear, ma'am, he shall bide with me as long as he lives.” “he and the indians at least feel grieved for our departure,” i thought. love is so scarce in this world that we ought to prize it, however lowly the source from whence it flows. we accomplished only twelve miles of our journey that night. the road lay through the bush, and along the banks of the grand, rushing, foaming otonabee river, the wildest and most beautiful of forest streams. we slept at the house of kind friends, and early in the morning resumed our long journey, but minus one of our party. our old favourite cat, peppermint, had made her escape from the basket in which she had been confined, and had scampered off, to the great grief of the children. as we passed mrs. h----'s house, we called for dear addie. mr. h---- brought her in his arms to the gate, well wrapped up in a large fur cape and a warm woollen shawl. “you are robbing me of my dear little girl,” he said. “mrs. h---- is absent; she told me not to part with her if you should call; but i could not detain her without your consent. now that you have seen her, allow me to keep her for a few months longer?” addie was in the sleigh. i put my arm about her. i felt i had my child again, and i secretly rejoiced in the possession of my own. i sincerely thanked him for his kindness, and mr. s---- drove on. at mr. r----'s, we found a parcel from dear emilia, containing a plum-cake and other good things for the children. her kindness never flagged. we crossed the bridge over the otonabee, in the rising town of peterborough, at eight o'clock in the morning. winter had now set in fairly. the children were glad to huddle together in the bottom of the sleigh, under the buffalo skins and blankets; all but my eldest boy, who, just turned of five years old, was enchanted with all he heard and saw, and continued to stand up and gaze around him. born in the forest, which he had never quitted before, the sight of a town was such a novelty that he could find no words wherewith to express his astonishment. “are the houses come to see one another?” he asked. “how did they all meet here?” the question greatly amused his uncle, who took some pains to explain to him the difference between town and country. during the day, we got rid of old jenny and her bonnets, whom we found a very refractory travelling companion; as wilful, and far more difficult to manage than a young child. fortunately, we overtook the sleighs with the furniture, and mr. s---- transferred jenny to the care of one of the drivers; an arrangement that proved satisfactory to all parties. we had been most fortunate in obtaining comfortable lodgings for the night. the evening had closed in so intensely cold that although we were only two miles from c----, addie was so much affected by it that the child lay sick and pale in my arms, and, when spoken to, seemed scarcely conscious of our presence. my brother jumped from the front seat, and came round to look at her. “that child is ill with the cold; we must stop somewhere to warm her, or she will hardly hold out till we get to the inn at c----.” we were just entering the little village of a----, in the vicinity of the court-house, and we stopped at a pretty green cottage, and asked permission to warm the children. a stout, middle-aged woman came to the sleigh, and in the kindest manner requested us to alight. “i think i know that voice,” i said. “surely it cannot be mrs. s----, who once kept the ---- hotel at c----?” “mrs. moodie, you are welcome,” said the excellent woman, bestowing upon me a most friendly embrace; “you and your children. i am heartily glad to see you again after so many years. god bless you all!” nothing could exceed the kindness and hospitality of this generous woman; she would not hear of our leaving her that night, and, directing my brother to put up his horses in her stable, she made up an excellent fire in a large bedroom, and helped me to undress the little ones who were already asleep, and to warm and feed the rest before we put them to bed. this meeting gave me real pleasure. in their station of life, i seldom have found a more worthy couple than this american and his wife; and, having witnessed so many of their acts of kindness, both to ourselves and others, i entertained for them a sincere respect and affection, and truly rejoiced that providence had once more led me to the shelter of their roof. mr. s---- was absent, but i found little mary--the sweet child who used to listen with such delight to moodie's flute--grown up into a beautiful girl; and the baby that was, a fine child of eight years old. the next morning was so intensely cold that my brother would not resume the journey until past ten o'clock, and even then it was a hazardous experiment. we had not proceeded four miles before the horses were covered with icicles. our hair was frozen as white as old time's solitary forelock, our eyelids stiff, and every limb aching with cold. “this will never do,” said my brother, turning to me; “the children will freeze. i never felt the cold more severe than this.” “where can we stop?” said i; “we are miles from c----, and i see no prospect of the weather becoming milder.” “yes, yes; i know, by the very intensity of the cold, that a change is at hand. we seldom have more than three very severe days running, and this is the third. at all events, it is much warmer at night in this country than during the day; the wind drops, and the frost is more bearable. i know a worthy farmer who lives about a mile ahead; he will give us house-room for a few hours; and we will resume our journey in the evening. the moon is at full; and it will be easier to wrap the children up, and keep them warm when they are asleep. shall we stop at old woodruff's?” “with all my heart.” my teeth were chattering with the cold, and the children were crying over their aching fingers at the bottom of the sleigh. a few minutes' ride brought us to a large farm-house, surrounded by commodious sheds and barns. a fine orchard opposite, and a yard well-stocked with fat cattle and sheep, sleek geese, and plethoric-looking swine, gave promise of a land of abundance and comfort. my brother ran into the house to see if the owner was at home, and presently returned, accompanied by the staunch canadian yeoman and his daughter, who gave us a truly hearty welcome, and assisted in removing the children from the sleigh to the cheerful fire, that made all bright and cozy within. our host was a shrewd, humorous-looking yorkshireman. his red, weather-beaten face, and tall, athletic figure, bent as it was with hard labour, gave indications of great personal strength; and a certain knowing twinkle in his small, clear grey eyes, which had been acquired by long dealing with the world, with a quiet, sarcastic smile that lurked round the corners of his large mouth, gave you the idea of a man who could not easily be deceived by his fellows; one who, though no rogue himself, was quick in detecting the roguery of others. his manners were frank and easy, and he was such a hospitable entertainer that you felt at home with him in a minute. “well, how are you, mr. s----?” cried the farmer, shaking my brother heartily by the hand. “toiling in the bush still, eh?” “just in the same place.” “and the wife and children?” “hearty. some half-dozen have been added to the flock since you were our way.” “so much the better--so much the better. the more the merrier, mr. s----; children are riches in this country.” “i know not how that may be; i find it hard to clothe and feed mine.” “wait till they grow up; they will be brave helps to you then. the price of labour--the price of labour, mr. s----, is the destruction of the farmer.” “it does not seem to trouble you much, woodruff,” said my brother, glancing round the well-furnished apartment. “my son and s---- do it all,” cried the old man. “of course the girls help in busy times, and take care of the dairy, and we hire occasionally; but small as the sum is which is expended in wages during seed-time and harvest, i feel it, i can tell you.” “you are married again, woodruff?” “no, sir,” said the farmer, with a peculiar smile; “not yet;” which seemed to imply the probability of such an event. “that tall gal is my eldest daughter; she manages the house, and an excellent housekeeper she is. but i cannot keep her for ever.” with a knowing wink, “gals will think of getting married, and seldom consult the wishes of their parents upon the subject when once they have taken the notion into their heads. but 'tis natural, mr. s----, it is natural; we did just the same when we were young.” my brother looked laughingly towards the fine, handsome young woman, as she placed upon the table hot water, whiskey, and a huge plate of plum-cake, which did not lack a companion, stored with the finest apples which the orchard could produce. the young girl looked down, and blushed. “oh, i see how it is, woodruff! you will soon lose your daughter. i wonder that you have kept her so long. but who are these young ladies?” he continued, as three girls very demurely entered the room. “the two youngest are my darters, by my last wife, who, i fear, mean soon to follow the bad example of their sister. the other _lady_,” said the old man, with a reverential air, “is a _particular_ friend of my eldest darter's.” my brother laughed slily, and the old man's cheek took a deeper glow as he stooped forward to mix the punch. “you said that these two young ladies, woodruff, were by your last wife. pray how many wives have you had?” “only three. it is impossible, they say in my country, to have too much of a good thing.” “so i suppose you think,” said my brother, glancing first at the old man and then towards miss smith. “three wives! you have been a fortunate man, woodruff, to survive them all.” “ay, have i not, mr. s----? but to tell you the truth, i have been both lucky and unlucky in the wife way,” and then he told us the history of his several ventures in matrimony, with which i shall not trouble my readers. when he had concluded, the weather was somewhat milder, the sleigh was ordered to the door, and we proceeded on our journey, resting for the night at a small village about twenty miles from b----, rejoicing that the long distance which separated us from the husband and father was diminished to a few miles, and that, with the blessing of providence, we should meet on the morrow. about noon we reached the distant town, and were met at the inn by him whom one and all so ardently longed to see. he conducted us to a pretty, neat cottage, which he had prepared for our reception, and where we found old jenny already arrived. with great pride the old woman conducted me over the premises, and showed me the furniture “the masther” had bought; especially recommending to my notice a china tea-service, which she considered the most wonderful acquisition of the whole. “och! who would have thought, a year ago, misthress dear, that we should be living in a mansion like this, and ating off raal chaney? it is but yestherday that we were hoeing praties in the field.” “yes, jenny, god has been very good to us, and i hope that we shall never learn to regard with indifference the many benefits which we have received at his hands.” reader! it is not my intention to trouble you with the sequel of our history. i have given you a faithful picture of a life in the backwoods of canada, and i leave you to draw from it your own conclusions. to the poor, industrious working man it presents many advantages; to the poor gentleman, none! the former works hard, puts up with coarse, scanty fare, and submits, with a good grace, to hardships that would kill a domesticated animal at home. thus he becomes independent, inasmuch as the land that he has cleared finds him in the common necessaries of life; but it seldom, if ever, in remote situations, accomplishes more than this. the gentleman can neither work so hard, live so coarsely, nor endure so many privations as his poorer but more fortunate neighbour. unaccustomed to manual labour, his services in the field are not of a nature to secure for him a profitable return. the task is new to him, he knows not how to perform it well; and, conscious of his deficiency, he expends his little means in hiring labour, which his bush-farm can never repay. difficulties increase, debts grow upon him, he struggles in vain to extricate himself, and finally sees his family sink into hopeless ruin. if these sketches should prove the means of deterring one family from sinking their property, and shipwrecking all their hopes, by going to reside in the backwoods of canada, i shall consider myself amply repaid for revealing the secrets of the prison-house, and feel that i have not toiled and suffered in the wilderness in vain. the maple-tree a canadian song hail to the pride of the forest--hail to the maple, tall and green; it yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail while leaves on its boughs are seen. when the moon shines bright, on the wintry night, and silvers the frozen snow; and echo dwells on the jingling bells as the sleighs dart to and fro; then it brightens the mirth of the social hearth with its red and cheery glow. afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades, it lifts its tall head on high; when the crimson-tinted evening fades from the glowing saffron sky; when the sun's last beams light up woods and streams, and brighten the gloom below; and the deer springs by with his flashing eye, and the shy, swift-footed doe; and the sad winds chide in the branches wide, with a tender plaint of woe. the indian leans on its rugged trunk, with the bow in his red right-hand, and mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk from the glorious forest land. but, blythe and free, the maple-tree still tosses to sun and air its thousand arms, while in countless swarms the wild bee revels there; but soon not a trace of the red man's race shall be found in the landscape fair. when the snows of winter are melting fast, and the sap begins to rise, and the biting breath of the frozen blast yields to the spring's soft sighs, then away to the wood, for the maple, good, shall unlock its honied store; and boys and girls, with their sunny curls, bring their vessels brimming o'er with the luscious flood of the brave tree's blood, into cauldrons deep to pour. the blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red; far down in the forest dark, a ruddy glow on the trees is shed, that lights up their rugged bark; and with merry shout, the busy rout watch the sap as it bubbles high; and they talk of the cheer of the coming year, and the jest and the song pass by; and brave tales of old round the fire are told, that kindle youth's beaming eye. hurrah! for the sturdy maple-tree! long may its green branch wave; in native strength sublime and free, meet emblem for the brave. may the nation's peace with its growth increase, and its worth be widely spread; for it lifts not in vain to the sun and rain its tall, majestic head. may it grace our soil, and reward our toil, till the nation's heart is dead. chapter xxviii canadian sketches the preceding sketches of canadian life, as the reader may well suppose, are necessarily tinctured with somewhat somber hues, imparted by the difficulties and privations with which, for so many years the writer had to struggle; but we should be sorry should these truthful pictures of scenes and characters, observed fifteen or twenty years ago, have the effect of conveying erroneous impressions of the present state of a country, which is manifestly destined, at no remote period, to be one of the most prosperous in the world. had we merely desired to please the imagination of our readers, it would have been easy to have painted the country and the people rather as we could have wished them to be, than as they actually were, at the period to which our description refers; and, probably, what is thus lost in truthfulness, it would have gained in popularity with that class of readers who peruse books more for amusement than instruction. when i say that canada is destined to be one of the most prosperous countries in the world, let it not be supposed that i am influenced by any unreasonable partiality for the land of my adoption. canada may not possess mines of gold or silver, but she possesses all those advantages of climate, geological structure, and position, which are essential to greatness and prosperity. her long and severe winter, so disheartening to her first settlers, lays up, amidst the forests of the west, inexhaustible supplies of fertilising moisture for the summer, while it affords the farmer the very best of natural roads to enable him to carry his wheat and other produce to market. it is a remarkable fact, that hardly a lot of land containing two hundred acres, in british america, can be found without an abundant supply of water at all seasons of the year; and a very small proportion of the land itself is naturally unfit for cultivation. to crown the whole, where can a country be pointed out which possesses such an extent of internal navigation? a chain of river navigation and navigable inland seas, which, with the canals recently constructed, gives to the countries bordering on them all the advantages of an extended sea-coast, with a greatly diminished risk of loss from shipwreck! little did the modern discoverers of america dream, when they called this country “canada,” from the exclamation of one of the exploring party, “aca nada,”--“there is nothing here,” as the story goes, that canada would far outstrip those lands of gold and silver, in which their imaginations revelled, in that real wealth of which gold and silver are but the portable representatives. the interminable forests--that most gloomy and forbidding feature in its scenery to the european stranger, should have been regarded as the most certain proof of its fertility. the severity of the climate, and the incessant toil of clearing the land to enable the first settlers to procure the mere necessaries of life, have formed in its present inhabitants an indomitable energy of character, which, whatever may be their faults, must be regarded as a distinguishing attribute of the canadians, in common with our neighbours of the united states. when we consider the progress of the northern races of mankind, it cannot be denied, that while the struggles of the hardy races of the north with their severe climate, and their forests, have gradually endowed them with an unconquerable energy of character, which has enabled them to become the masters of the world; the inhabitants of more favoured climates, where the earth almost spontaneously yields all the necessaries of life, have remained comparatively feeble and inactive, or have sunk into sloth and luxury. it is unnecessary to quote any other instances in proof of this obvious fact, than the progress of great britain and the united states of america, which have conquered as much by their industry as by their swords. our neighbours of the united states are in the habit of attributing their wonderful progress in improvements of all kinds to their republican institutions. this is no doubt quite natural in a people who have done so much for themselves in so short a time; but when we consider the subject in all its bearings, it may be more truly asserted that, with any form of government not absolutely despotic, the progress of north america, peopled by a civilised and energetic race, with every motive to industry and enterprise in the nature of the country itself, must necessarily have been rapid. an unbounded extent of fertile soil, with an increasing population, were circumstances which of themselves were sufficient to create a strong desire for the improvement of internal communications; as, without common roads, rail-roads, or canals, the interior of the country would have been unfit to be inhabited by any but absolute barbarians. all the first settlers of america wanted was to be left to themselves. when we compare the progress of great britain with that of north america, the contrast is sufficiently striking to attract our attention. while the progress of the former has been the work of ages, north america has sprung into wealth and power almost within a period which we can remember. but the colonists of north america should recollect, when they indulge in such comparisons, that their british ancestors took many centuries to civilise themselves, before they could send free and intelligent settlers to america. the necessity for improvements in the internal communications is vastly more urgent in a widely extended continent than in an island, no part of which is far removed from the sea-coast; and patriotism, as well as self-interest, would readily suggest such improvements to the minds of a people who inherited the knowledge of their ancestors, and were besides stimulated to extraordinary exertions by their recently-acquired independence. as the political existence of the united states commenced at a period when civilisation had made great progress in the mother-country, their subsequent improvement would, for various reasons, be much more rapid than that of the country from which they originally emigrated. to show the influence of external circumstances on the characters of men, let us just suppose two individuals, equal in knowledge and natural capacity, to be placed, the one on an improved farm in england, with the necessary capital and farm-stock, and the other in the wilds of america, with no capital but his labour, and the implements required to clear the land for his future farm. in which of these individuals might we reasonably expect to find the most energy, ingenuity, and general intelligence on subjects connected with their immediate interests? no one who has lived for a few years in the united states or canada can hesitate for a reply. the farmer in the more improved country generally follows the beaten track, the example of his ancestors, or the successful one of his more intelligent contemporaries; he is rarely compelled to draw upon his individual mental resources. not so with the colonist. he treads in tracks but little known; he has to struggle with difficulties on all sides. nature looks sternly on him, and in order to preserve his own existence, he must conquer nature, as it were, by his perseverance and ingenuity. each fresh conquest tends to increase his vigour and intelligence, until he becomes a new man, with faculties of mind which, but for his severe lessons in the school of adversity, might have lain for ever dormant. while america presents the most forbidden aspect to the new settler, it at the same time offers the richest rewards to stimulate his industry. on the one hand, there is want and misery; on the other, abundance and prosperity. there is no middle course for the settler; he must work or starve. in north america there is another strong incentive to improvement, to be found in the scarcity of labour; and still more, therefore, than in europe must every mechanical contrivance which supersedes manual labour tend to increase the prosperity of the inhabitants. when these circumstances are duly considered, we need no longer wonder at the rapid improvements in labour-saving machinery, and in the means of internal communication throughout the united states. but for the steam-engine, canals, and railroads, north america would have remained for ages a howling wilderness of endless forests, and instead of the busy hum of men, and the sound of the mill and steam-engine, we should now have heard nothing but “the melancholy roar of unfrequented floods.” the scenes and characters presented to the reader in the preceding pages, belong, in some measure, rather to the past than the present state of canada. in the last twenty years great changes have taken place, as well in the external appearance of the country, as in the general character of its inhabitants. in many localities where the land was already under the plough, the original occupants of the soil have departed to renew their endless wars with the giants of the forest, in order to procure more land for their increasing families where it could be obtained at a cheaper price. in the back-woods, forests have been felled, the blackened stumps have disappeared, and regular furrows are formed by the ploughman, where formerly he had not time or inclination to whistle at his work. a superior class of farmers has sprung up, whose minds are as much improved by cultivation as their lands, and who are comfortably settled on farms supposed to be exhausted of their fertility by their predecessors. as the breadth of land recovered from the forest is increased, villages, towns, and cities have grown up and increased in population and wealth in proportion to the productiveness of the surrounding country. in canada, it is particularly to be noted, that there is hardly any intermediate stage between the rude toil and privation of the back-woods, and the civilisation, comfort, and luxury of the towns and cities, many of which are to outward appearance entirely european, with the encouraging prospect of a continual increase in the value of fixed property. when a colony, capable, from the fertility of the soil and abundance of moisture, of supporting a dense population, has been settled by a civilised race, they are never long in establishing a communication with the sea-coast and with other countries. when such improvements have been effected, the inhabitants may be said at once to take their proper place among civilised nations. the elements of wealth and power are already there, and time and population only are required fully to develope the resources of the country. unhappily the natural progress of civilised communities in our colonies is too often obstructed by the ignorance of governments, and unwise or short-sighted legislation; and abundance of selfish men are always to be found in the colonies themselves, who, destitute of patriotism, greedily avail themselves of this ignorance, in order to promote their private interests at the expense of the community. canada has been greatly retarded in its progress by such causes, and this will in a great measure account for its backwardness when compared with the united states, without attributing the difference to the different forms of government. it was manifestly the intention of the british government, in conferring representative institutions on canada, that the people should enjoy all the privileges of their fellow-subjects in the mother-country. the more to assimilate our government to that of its great original, the idea was for some time entertained of creating a titled and hereditary aristocracy, but it was soon found that though “the king can make a belted knight, a marquis, duke, an' a' that,” it was not in his power to give permanency to an institution which, in its origin, was as independent as royalty itself, arising naturally out of the feudal system: but which was utterly inconsistent with the genius and circumstances of a modern colony. the sovereign might endow the members of such an aristocracy with grants of the lands of the crown to support their dignity, but what benefit could such grants be, even to the recipients, in a country covered with boundless forests and nearly destitute of inhabitants? it is obvious that no tenants could be found to pay rents for such lands, or indeed even to occupy them, while lands could be purchased on easy terms in the united states, or in canada itself. had this plan been carried out, canada would have been a doomed country for centuries. the strongest incitements to industry are required, those of proprietorship and ultimate independence, to induce settlers to encounter all the privations and toil of a new settlement in such a country. a genuine aristocracy can only exist in a country already peopled, and which has been conquered and divided among the conquerors. in such a state of things, aristocracy, though artificial in its origin, becomes naturalised, if i may use the expression, and even, as in great britain, when restrained within proper limits, highly beneficial in advancing civilization. be it for good or be it for evil, it is worse than useless to disguise the fact that the government of a modern colony, where every conquest is made from the forest by little at a time, must be essentially republican. any allusion to political parties is certainly foreign to the object of the preceding sketches; but it is impossible to make the british reader acquainted with the various circumstances which retarded the progress of this fine colony, without explaining how the patronage of the local government came formerly to be so exclusively bestowed on one class of the population,--thus creating a kind of spurious aristocracy which disgusted the colonists, and drove emigration from our shores to those of the united states. after the american revolution, considerable numbers of loyalists in the united states voluntarily relinquished their homesteads and property, and came to canada, which then, even on the shores of lake ontario, was a perfect wilderness. lands were of course granted to them by the government, and very naturally these settlers were peculiarly favoured by the local authorities. these loyalists were generally known by the name of “tories,” to distinguish them from the republicans, and forming the great mass of the population. any one who called himself a reformer was regarded with distrust and suspicion, as a concealed republican or rebel. it must not, however, be supposed that these loyalists were really tories in their political principles. their notions on such subjects were generally crude and undefined, and living in a country where the whole construction of society and habits of feeling were decidedly republican, the term tory, when adopted by them, was certainly a misnomer. however, hated by, and hating as cordially, the republican party in the united states, they by no means unreasonably considered that their losses and their attachment to british institutions, gave them an almost exclusive claim to the favour of the local government in canada. thus the name of u.e. (united empire) loyalist or tory came to be considered an indispensable qualification for every office in the colony. this was all well enough so long as there was no other party in the country. but gradually a number of other american settlers flowed into canada from the united states, who had no claim to the title of tories or loyalists, but who in their feelings and habits were probably not much more republican than their predecessors. these were of course regarded with peculiar jealousy by the older or loyalist settlers from the same country. it seemed to them as if a swarm of locusts had come to devour their patrimony. this will account for the violence of party feeling which lately prevailed in canada. there is nothing like a slight infusion of self-interest to give point and pungency to party feeling. the british immigrants, who afterwards flowed into this colony in greater numbers, of course brought with them their own particular political predilections. they found what was called toryism and high churchism in the ascendant, and self-interest or prejudice induced most of the more early settlers of this description to fall in with the more powerful and favoured party; while influenced by the representations of the old loyalist party they shunned the other american settlers as republicans. in the meantime, however, the descendants of the original loyalists were becoming numerous, while the government became unable to satisfy them all according to their own estimation of their merits; and as high churchism was, unfortunately for the peace of society, associated with toryism, every shade of religious dissent as well as political difference of opinion generally added to the numbers and power of the reform party, which was now beginning to be known in the colony. strange to say, the great bulk of the present reform party is composed of the descendants of these u.e. loyalists, while many of our most ultra tories are the descendants of republican settlers from the united states. as may be supposed, thirty years of increasing emigration from the mother-country has greatly strengthened the reform party, and they now considerably out-number the conservatives. while the mass of the people held tory, or, i should rather call them, _conservative_ principles, our government seemed to work as well as any representative government may be supposed to work without the necessary check of a constitutional opposition. favouritism was, of course, the order of the day; and the governor, for the time being, filled up all offices according to his will and pleasure, without many objections being made by the people as to the qualifications of the favourite parties, provided the selections for office were made from the powerful party. large grants of land were given to favoured individuals in the colony, or to immigrants who came with commendations from the home government. in such a state of matters the people certainly possessed the external form of a free government, but as an opposition party gradually acquired an ascendancy in the lower house of parliament, they were unable to carry the measures adopted by their majority into operation, in consequence of the systematic opposition of the legislative and executive councils, which were generally formed exclusively from the old conservative party. whenever the conservatives obtained the majority in the house of assembly, the reformers, in retaliation, as systematically opposed every measure. thus a constant bickering was kept up between the parties in parliament; while the people, amidst these attentions, lost sight of the true interests of the country, and improvements of all kinds came nearly to a stand-still. as matters were then conducted, it would have been much better had the colony been ruled by a governor and council; for, in that case, beneficial measures might have been carried into effect. such a state of things could not last long; and the discontent of a large portion of the people, terminating, through the indiscretion of an infatuated local government, in actual rebellion, soon produced the remedy. the party generally most powerful in the legislative assembly, and the members of which had been so long and so unconstitutionally excluded from holding offices under the government, at once obtained the position which they were entitled, and the people being thus given the power of governing by their majorities in parliament, improvements of all kinds are steadily advancing up the present moment, and their prosperity and contentment have increased in an equal proportion. had the first settlement of canada been conducted on sound and philosophical principles, much hardship and privation, as well as loss of capital in land speculations, would have been saved to its first settlers, and the country, improved and improving as it now is, would have presented a very different aspect at the present time. with the best intentions, the british government may be justly accused of gross ignorance of the true principles of colonisation, and the local governments are still more open to the accusation of squandering the resources of the colony--its lands--in building up the fortunes of a would-be aristocracy, who being non-resident proprietors of wild lands, necessarily obstructed the progress of improvement, while the people were tantalised with the empty semblance of a free government. no sooner did emigrants from great britain begin to pour into upper canada, so as to afford a prospect of the wild lands becoming saleable, than a system of land speculation was resorted to by many of the old colonists. this land speculation has no doubt enriched many individuals, but more than any other abuse has it retarded the natural progress of the country, and the interests of the many have thus been sacrificed to those of the few. almost all other speculations may be said, in one shape or another, to do good; but land speculation has been an unmitigated curse to canada, because it occasions a monopoly of the soil, and prevents it from being cleared and rendered productive, until the speculators can obtain their own price for it. the lands granted to soldiers and sailors who had served in canada, and those granted to the u.e. loyalists, were bought up, often at merely nominal prices, from the original grantees and their children, and sold again with an immense profit to new settlers from the old country, or retained for many years in an unproductive state. a portion of the lands granted to the u.e. loyalists was, of course, occupied by the heads of families; but the lands to which their children became entitled, under the same benevolent provision of the government, were generally drawn in remote situations. by far the larger portion of these grants, however, were not located or rendered available by the grantees, but remained in the shape of u.e. rights, which were purchased at very low prices by the speculators. these u.e. rights were bought at the rate of s. d., s. d., or s. d. per acre; and it was by no means uncommon for old soldiers to sell one hundred acres of land for two or three dollars, or even for a bottle of rum, so little value did they set on such grants in the then state of canada. these grants, though well meant, and with respect to the u.e. loyalists, perhaps, unavoidable, have been most injurious to the country. the great error in this matter, and which could have been avoided, was the opening of too great an extent of land _at once_ for settlement. a contrary system, steadily pursued, would have produced a concentrated population; and the resources of such a population would have enabled the colonists, by uniting their labour and capital, to make the means of communication, in some degree, keep pace with the settlement of the lands; and upper canada would now have been as well provided with canals and railroads as the united states. the same abuses, no doubt, existed formerly to as great an extent in that country, but, being longer settled, it has outgrown the evil. enough has been said on this subject to show some of the causes which have retarded improvements in canada. another chief cause of the long and helpless torpor in which the country lay, was the absence of municipal governments in the various rural localities. it indeed seems strange, that such a simple matter as providing the means of making roads and bridges by local assessment could not have been conceded to the people, who, if we suppose them to be gifted with common sense, are much more capable of understanding and managing their own parish business, than any government, however well disposed to promote their interests. formerly the government of upper canada was deluged with petitions for grants of money from parliament to be expended in improvements in this or that locality, of the reasonableness of which claims the majority of the legislators were, of course, profoundly ignorant. these money grants became subjects of a species of jobbing, or manoeuvering, among the members of the house of assembly; and he was considered the best member who could get the most money for his county. commissioners resident in the particular localities were appointed to superintend these public works; and as these commissioners were generally destitute of practical knowledge, these parliamentary grants were usually expended without producing equivalent results. nothing in the abstract is more reasonable than that any number of individuals should be allowed to associate themselves for the purpose of effecting some local improvement, which would be beneficial to others as well as to themselves; but nothing of this could be attempted without an act of parliament, which, of course, was attended with expense and delay, if not disappointment. the time and attention of the provincial parliament were thus occupied with a mass of parish business, which could have been much better managed by the people themselves on the spot. when the union of the two provinces was in contemplation, it became evident that the business of such an extended colony could not be carried on in the united parliament, were it to be encumbered and distracted with the contending claims of so many localities. this consideration led to the establishment of the district (now county) municipal councils. these municipal councils were denounced by the conservative party at the time as a step towards republicanism! were this true, it would only prove that the government of our republican neighbours is better than our own; for these municipal institutions have been eminently beneficial to canada. but municipal councils are necessarily no more republican in their nature, than the house of commons in england. however this may be, the true prosperity of upper canada may be mainly attributed to their influence on the minds of the people. possessing many of the external forms of a parliament, they are admirable political schools for a free people. the most intelligent men in the different townships are freely elected by the inhabitants, and assemble in the county town to deliberate and make by-laws, to levy taxes, and, in short, to do everything which in their judgment will promote the interest of their constituents. having previously been solely occupied in agricultural pursuits, it might naturally be expected that their first notions would be somewhat crude, and that they would have many long-cherished prejudices to overcome. their daily intercourse with the more educated inhabitants of the towns, however, tended to remove these prejudices, while new ideas were continually presented to their minds. the rapidity with which this species of practical education is acquired is remarkable, and also, how soon men with such limited opportunities of acquiring knowledge, learn to think and to express their views and opinions in appropriate language. these municipal councillors go home among their constituents, where they have to explain and defend their proceedings; while so engaged, they have occasion to communicate facts and opinions, which are fairly discussed, and thus enlightened views are diffused through the mass of people. the councillors, at first, were averse to the imposition or increase of taxation, however desirable the object might be; but pride and emulation very soon overcame this natural reluctance; and the example of some neighbouring county, with that natural desire to do good, which, more or less, influences the feelings and conduct of all public men, were not long in producing their beneficial results, even with the risk of offending their constituents. when the county municipal councils were first established, the warden or president of the council, and also the treasurer, were appointed by the governor; but both these offices were afterwards made elective, the warden being elected by the council from their own body, and the treasurer being selected by them, without previous election by the people. lately, councils have been also established in each township for municipal purposes affecting the interest of the township only, the reeves, or presidents, of which minor councils form the members of the county council. this general system of municipalities, and a late act of the provincial parliament, enabling the inhabitants to form themselves into road companies, have converted the formerly torpid and inactive townships into busy hives of industry and progressive improvement. our agricultural societies have also played no mean part in furthering the progress of the colony. in colonies fewer prejudices are entertained on the subject of agricultural matters than on any others, and the people are ever ready to try any experiment which offers any prospect of increased remuneration for labour. education, of late, has also made rapid advances in this province; and now, the yeomanry of the more improved townships, though they may be inferior to the yeomanry of england in the acquirements derived from common school education, are certainly far superior to them in general intelligence. their minds are better stocked with ideas, and they are infinitely more progressive. when we consider the relative periods at which the first settlements were formed in the united states and in upper canada, and the accumulation of capital in the former, it will not be difficult to show that the progress of canada has been much more rapid. the excavation of the erie canal, the parent of all the subsequent improvements of a similar nature in the united states, opened-up for settlement a vast country to the westward, which would otherwise for many years have remained a wilderness, unfit for the habitation of man. the boundless success of this experiment necessarily led to all the other similar undertakings. the superior advantages canada enjoyed in her river and lake navigation, imperfect as that navigation was, operated in a manner rather to retard than to accelerate improvements of this kind; while the construction of the erie canal was a matter of prospective necessity, in order to provide for a rapidly increasing population and immigration. in the same manner, the recent completion of the works on the st. lawrence, and the enlargement of the welland canal, connecting lakes erie and ontario, will just as necessarily be followed by similar results, with the additional advantage of the whole colony being greatly benefitted by the commerce of the united states, in addition to her own. we have now, thanks to responsible government, municipal councils, and common schools, no longer any reason to consider their institutions better calculated to develope the resources of the colony, than our own. our interests are almost identical, and with our canals and railroads on both sides mutually beneficial, our former hostility has merged into a friendly rivalry in the march of intellect, and we may now truly say that, without wishing for any change in political institutions, which are most congenial to the feelings of the people where they exist, each country now sincerely rejoices in the prosperity of its neighbour. before concluding this chapter, i shall endeavour to give the reader a short description of the county of hastings, in which i have held the office of sheriff for the last twelve years, and which, i believe, possesses many advantages as a place of settlement, over all the other places i have seen in the upper province. i should premise, however, lest my partiality for this part of the colony should be supposed to incline me to overrate its comparative advantages to the settler, that my statements are principally intended to show the progress of upper province generally; and that when i claim any superiority for this part of it, i shall give, what i trust the reader will consider, satisfactory reasons for my conclusion. the settlement of a thickly-wooded country, when it is left to chance, is a most uncertain and capricious matter. the narrow views and interests of a clique in the colony, or even of an influential individual, often direct emigration out of its natural course, involving unnecessary suffering to the settler, a waste or absolute loss of capital, and a retarding of the progress of the country. the circumstances and situation of the united states were less productive of these evils than those of upper canada, because settlement went on more uniformly from the seacoast towards the interior. the mighty rivers and lakes of canada, though productive of boundless prosperity, operated in the first period of its settlement, most unfavourably on the growth of the colony, by throwing open for settlement an extensive inland coast, at that time unconnected with the ocean by means of canals. hence numerous detached, feeble, and unprogressive settlements, came into existence, where the new settlers had to struggle for years with the most disheartening difficulties. european settlers know but little of the value of situation. in most cases they are only desirous of acquiring a large extent of land at a low price, and thus, unless restrained by the wise regulations of a provident government, they too often ruin themselves, and waste their capital in a wilderness, where it does good to no one. when emigration from the united kingdom began to set in to upper canada, the pernicious speculation in wild lands commenced in earnest. as most of the land speculators possessed shares in the steam-boats on lake ontario, the interests of both speculations were combined. it was, of course, the interest of the steam-boat proprietors to direct emigration as far to the westward as possible; and influenced by their interested representations and those of the land speculators settled in toronto, cobourg, and hamilton, the greater portion of the emigrants possessing capital were thrown into these towns, near which they were led to expect desirable locations. in the same manner the agents of the canada land company, who were to be found on every steamer, were actively employed in directing the emigrants to the huron tract. by a simple inspection of the map of upper canada, it will be seen, that as the bay of quinte was out of the general route of the steamers, and too near the lower end of the lake navigation, it did not suit the views of the parties most interested to direct emigration to its shores. thus the beautiful bay of quinte, with the most fertile land on its shores, and scenery which exceeds in variety and picturesque beauty that of any part of upper canada, hamilton and niagara alone excepted, has been passed by for years for situations much less desirable or attractive to european settlers. the forbidding aspect of the country near kingston, which is situated at the entrance of the bay from the st. lawrence, where the soil has a rocky and barren appearance, has no doubt deterred emigrants from proceeding in this direction. the shores of the bay of quinte were originally occupied principally by u.e. loyalists and retired officers, who had served during the late war with the united states, but the emigration from europe has chiefly consisted of the poorer class of irish catholics, and of protestants from the north of ireland, settled in two very thriving townships in the county of hastings. there is also a sprinkling of scotch and english in different parts of the county. comparatively few possessing any considerable amount of capital have found their way here, as the county town, belleville, is not in the line of the summer travel on the lakes. the scenery along the shores of the bay is exceedingly beautiful all the way from kingston to the head, where a large river, the trent, discharges itself into it at a thriving village, of about a thousand inhabitants, called trent port. a summer ride along the lower portion of this river presents scenery of a bolder and grander character than is often met with in upper canada, and it is enlivened by spectacles of immense rafts of timber descending the rapids, and by the merry chorus of the light-hearted lumbermen, as they pursue their toilsome and perilous voyage to quebec. belleville was originally a spot reserved for the mississagua indians, and was laid out in for a village, when there were only two or three white men settled among them as traders in the place. it was only during the last year that the two frame farm-houses, situated about a quarter of a mile apart, were removed to make room for more substantial buildings. belleville remained nearly stationary for several years, during which a few persons realised handsome fortunes, by means of large profits, not withstanding the limited extent of their business. it at length began to grow in importance as the fine country in its neighbourhood was cleared and rendered productive. in , when the county of hastings was set apart from the midland district, under the name of the district of victoria, and belleville became the district town, the population of the county, including belleville, was about , , and that of belleville about . in the population of the county had reached , , of which that of belleville was . by the census just taken, on a much more correct principle than formerly, the population of belleville in appears to be , showing an increase of in two years. during the same period, from to , the population of cobourg on lake ontario, which town formerly enjoyed the full benefit of a large emigration, has risen from to , showing an increase of only . the town of dundas in the same time has increased its population from in to in , showing an increase of . the population of the city of hamilton in was , , and now, in , it is said to exceed , . in the then _town_ of hamilton contained a population of only . when i first visited that place in it was a dull insignificant village, which might, i suppose, contain a population of or . i can hardly describe my surprise on revisiting it in , to behold a city grown up suddenly, as if by enchantment, with several handsome churches and public and private buildings of cut stone, brought from the fine freestone quarries in the precipitous mountains or tableland behind the city. little need be said of the capital of the province, the city of toronto, the progress of which has been less remarkable in the same period, for the obvious reason that its merits were sooner appreciated or known by the emigrants from europe. the population of toronto, then called little york, in was , while that of the now city of kingston was . in the population of toronto was , , and that of kingston . in the population of toronto was , , and that of kingston , . these few facts will enable the reader to form some idea of the comparative progress of different towns in upper canada, under circumstances similar in some cases and different in others. when it is considered that all of these last-mentioned towns have for many years reaped the full benefit of the influx of emigration and capital from the mother country, while the shores of the bay of quinte were little known or appreciated, it will appear that the progress of belleville has been at least equal to that of any of them. the prosperity of belleville may in fact be almost entirely attributed to the gradual development of its own internal resources, the fertility of the lands in its vicinity, and a large exportation, of late years, of lumber of all kinds to the united states. having no desire unnecessarily to trouble the reader with dry statistical tables, i shall merely quote the following facts and figures, kindly furnished me by g. benjamin, esq., the present warden of the county of hastings, to whose business talents and public spirit the county is largely indebted for its progress in internal improvement. the increase of business at the port of belleville has been most extraordinary. in , the total amount of duties paid at this port amounted to l; and in the year ( ) the amount reached l. s. d. the total arrivals at this port from the united states are as follows: no. of tons hands vessels employed british propellers ........... , british sailing vessels ...... , foreign do. do. .............. , --------- ---------- --------- total ........................ , this in addition to our daily steamers. our exports to the united states are ............ l , and british ports below belleville .............. , ---------------------- l , l s d total imports from united states , total acceptances from united states , total importations from lower ports, including drafts and other resources , , ----------------- --------------------- showing the balance of trade in favour of this port to be ........................ l , our exports to the lower ports are made up as follows: , barrels of potash .................... l , , “ flour ..................... , bushels of grass seed ................ , “ barley .................... , “ peas ...................... , “ rye ....................... , “ wheat ..................... , barrels of pork ...................... “ beef ...................... , sheep-skins .......................... , , feet square timber ................... , kegs of butter ....................... furs ................................. fatted cattle ........................ , high wines ........................... , whiskey .............................. , ------------------------- l , our exports to the united states are made up as follows: , bushels of wheat ..................... l , , “ rye ....................... , “ peas ...................... “ barley .................... “ grass seed ................ , barrels of flour ..................... , “ potash .................... , , bushels of potatoes .................. m. shingles .................. m. laths ..................... , lbs. rags ...................... , lbs. wool ...................... sheep-skins .......................... kegs of butter ....................... , , feet sawed lumber .................... , cows ................................. , ------------------------ l , the river moira passing through belleville, where it discharges itself into the bay of quinte, is one principal source of its prosperity. the preceding statement will show the quantity of sawed lumber exported, most of which is furnished by the saw-mills of belleville, or its immediate vicinity. besides saw and flour-mills, there are cloth and paper manufactories, a manufactory of edge tools; pail manufactories, where great quantities of these useful articles are made at a low price by machinery; planing machines, several iron foundries, breweries, distilleries, &c., in almost all of which establishments steam-engines, or water-power from the river, are used. a remarkable feature in belleville, in common with other towns in canada, is the great number of tailoring and shoe-making establishments, when compared with towns of an equal population in great britain. this shows, more than anything i am aware of, the general prosperity of the people, who can afford to be large consumers of such articles. there is very little difference to be observed in the costliness of the clothing of the different classes of society in upper canadian towns and cities, and much less difference in the taste with which these articles are selected, than might be expected. with the exception of the lower class of labourers, all persons are well and suitably clad, and they can afford to be so. twelve years ago there were not more than five or six piano-fortes in belleville. now there are nearly one hundred of a superior description, costing from to pounds. another remarkable circumstance in upper canada is the number of lawyers in all the towns. in belleville there are about a dozen, which seems to be a large number for a town containing only inhabitants, when in an english town of the same size there is often not more than one. of course, i do not mention this as any particular advantage, but to show the great difference in the amount of transactions, and of subjects of contention, in an old and a new country. the same may be said of the number of newspapers, as indicative of commercial activity. two newspapers, representing the two political parties, are well-supported in belleville, both by their subscribers, and the number of advertisements. the mouth of the moira river, which widens out at its junction with the bay of quinte, is completely covered with saw-logs and square timber of various kinds during the summer months. this river, at belleville, is often dammed up by confused piles of timber. no sooner are these removed than its waters are covered over by vast quantities of oak staves, which are floated down separately to be rafted off like the squared lumber for the quebec market. the greater proportion of the saw-logs are, however, cut up for exportation to the united states by the various saw-mills on the river, or by a large steam saw-mill with twenty or thirty run of saws, erected on a little island in the mouth of the river. several large schooners are constantly loading with sawed lumber, and there are two or three steamboats always running between belleville and kingston, carrying passengers to and fro, and generally heavily laden with goods or produce. the bay of quinte offers more than common facilities in the summer months for rapid and safe communication with other places; and, in the winter time, being but slightly affected by the current of the river trent, it affords excellent sleighing. large quantities of wheat and other farm produce are transported over the ice to belleville from the neighbouring county of prince edward, which is an exceedingly prosperous agricultural settlement, yielding wheat of the finest quality, and particularly excellent cheese and butter. the scenery on the shores of prince edward is exceedingly picturesque, and there are numerous wharfs at short distances, from whence the farmers roll their barrels of flour and other articles on board the steamers on their way to market. i have seen no scenery in upper canada presenting the same variety and beauty as that of the shores of prince edward in particular. the peninsular situation of this county is its only disadvantage--being out of the line of the land travel and of the telegraphic communication which passes through belleville. the county of prince edward having nearly exhausted its exportation lumber--the people are thus freed from the evils of a trade that is always more or less demoralising in its tendency and can now give their undivided attention to the cultivation of their farms. certain it is, that more quiet, industrious, and prosperous settlers, are not to be found in the province. a few miles below belleville, on the south side of the bay, is a very remarkable natural curiosity, called “the stone mills.” on the summit of a table-land, rising abruptly several hundred feet above the shore of the bay, there is a lake of considerable size and very great depth, and which apparently receives a very inadequate supply from the elevated land on which it is situated. the lake has no natural outlet, and the common opinion is that it is unfathomable, and that it is supplied with water by means of a subterranean communication with lake huron, or some other lake at the same level. this is, of course, extremely improbable, but there can be no doubt of its great depth, and that it cannot be supplied from the bay of quinte, so far beneath its level. as a small rivulet runs into this lake from the flat ground in its vicinity, and as the soil of this remarkable excavation, however it may have been originally formed, is tenacious, i think we require no such improbable theory to account for its existence. availing himself of the convenient position of this lake, a farmer in the neighbourhood erected a mill, which gives its name to the lake, on the shore of the bay of quinte, and which he supplied with water by making a deep cutting from the lake to the edge of the precipice, from whence it is conveyed in troughs to the mill. there is a somewhat similar lake in the township of sidney in the county of hastings, covering some hundred acres. this lake is also of great depth, though situated on the summit of a range of high hills, from whence it gets the name of the “oak hill pond.” the bay of quinte abounds in excellent fish of various kinds, affording excellent sport to those who are fond of fishing. when the ice breaks up in the spring, immense shoals of pickerel commence running up the moira river, at belleville, to spawn in the interior. at that time a number of young men amuse themselves with spearing them, standing on the flat rocks at the end of the bridge which crosses the river. they dart their spears into the rushing waters at hap-hazard in the darkness, bringing up a large fish at every second or third stroke. my eldest son, a youth of fifteen, sometimes caught so many fish in this manner in two or three hours, that we had to send a large wheelbarrow to fetch them home. formerly, before so many mills were erected, the fish swarmed in incredible numbers in all our rivers and lakes. in the back-woods there is excellent deer-hunting, and parties are often formed for this purpose by the young men, who bring home whole waggon-loads of venison. while speaking of belleville, i may mention, as one of its chief advantages, the long period for which the sleighing continues in this part of the country, when compared with other places on the shore of lake ontario. nearly the whole winter there is excellent sleighing on the bay of quinte; and on the land we have weeks of good sleighing for days in most other places. this is owing to the influence of a large sheet of frozen water interposed between us and lake ontario, which is never frozen. the county of prince edward is a peninsula connected with the main land by a narrow isthmus of low swampy land about four miles wide. through this neck of land it has long been in contemplation to cut a canal to enable the lake steam-boats to take belleville in their route between kingston and toronto, thus affording a safe navigation in stormy weather. the effect of such a work on the prosperity of the counties of hastings and prince edward would be very great, as european emigrants would have an opportunity of seeing a country which has hitherto escaped their notice, from the causes already mentioned. besides the usual variety of churches, there is a grammar-school, and also four large common schools, which latter are free schools, being supported by assessments on the people of the town. every saturday, which is the great day for business from the country, the streets are crowded with farmers' waggons or sleighs, with their wives and pretty daughters, who come in to make their little purchases of silk gowns and ribbons, and to sell their butter and eggs, which are the peculiar perquisites for the females in this country. the counties of hastings and prince edward are celebrated for female beauty, and nowhere can you see people in the same class more becomingly attired. at the same time there is nothing rustic about them, except genuine good nature and unaffected simplicity of manners. to judge by their light elastic step and rosy smiling countenances, no people on earth seem to enjoy a greater share of health and contentment. since the establishment of the county municipal councils, plank and macadamised roads have branched out in all directions from the various central county towns, stretching their ramifications like the veins of the human body, conveying nourishment and prosperity throughout the country, increasing the trade and the travel, connecting man with man and promoting intelligence and civilisation; while the magnetic telegraph, now traversing the whole length of the country, like the nervous system, still further stimulates the inhabitants to increased activity. the people of this county have not been behind their neighbours in these improvements. the first plank-road which they constructed was from belleville to canniff's mills, a distance of three miles over a road which at the time was often knee-deep in mud, with a solid foundation of flat limestone rock, which prevented the escape of the water. so infamous was this road, that, on some parts of it, it was a matter of serious doubt whether a boat or waggon would be the better mode of conveyance. notwithstanding the badness of this road, it was the greatest thoroughfare in the county, as it was the only approach to a number of mills situated on the river, and to belleville, from the back country. it was, however, with the utmost difficulty that the warden could induce the other members of the county-council to sanction the construction of a plank-road at the expense of the county; so little was then known in canada of the effects of such works. the profits yielded by this road are unusually large, amounting, it is said, to seventy or eighty per cent. this extraordinary success encouraged the people to undertake other lines, by means of joint-stock companies formed among the farmers. all these plank-roads are highly remunerative, averaging, it is stated, fourteen per cent. over and above all expenses of repair. more than thirty miles of plank-road is already constructed in the county. in a few years plank or gravel roads will be extended through every part of the country, and they will be most available as feeders to the great line of railway which will very soon be constructed through the entire length of the province, and which has been already commenced at toronto and hamilton. a single track plank-road costs from to pounds per mile, according to the value of the land to be purchased, or other local causes. the cost of a gravel road, laid twelve feet wide and nine inches deep, and twenty-two feet from out to out, is from to pounds, and it is much more lasting, and more easily repaired than a plank-road. macadamised or gravel roads will no doubt entirely supersede the others. in the present circumstances of the colony, however, plank-roads will be preferred, because they are more quickly constructed, and with less immediate outlay of money in the payment of labourers' wages, as our numerous saw-mills enable the farmers to get their own logs sawed, and they thus pay the greater portion of their instalments on the stock taken in the roads. in fact, by making arrangements with the proprietors of saw-mills they can generally manage to get several months' credit, so that they will receive the first dividends from the road before they will be required to pay any money. the mode of making these roads is exceedingly simple. the space required for the road is first levelled, ditched, and drained, and then pieces of scantling, five or six inches square, are laid longitudinally on each side, at the proper distance for a road-way twelve feet wide, and with the ends of each piece sawn off diagonally, so as to rest on the end of the next piece, which is similarly prepared, to prevent the road from settling down unequally. the pieces of scantling thus connected are simply bedded firmly in the ground, which is levelled up to their upper edges. pine planks, three inches thick, are then laid across with their ends resting on the scantling. the planks are closely wedged together like the flooring of a house, and secured here and there by strong wooden pins, driven into auger-holes bored through the planks into the scantling. the common way is to lay the plank-flooring at right angles with the scantling, but a much better way has been adopted in the county of hastings. the planks are here laid diagonally, which of course requires that they should be cut several feet longer. this ensures greater durability, as the shoes of the horses cut up the planks much more when the grain of the wood corresponds in direction with their sharp edges. when a double track is required, three longitudinal courses of scantling are used, and the ends of the planks meet on the centre one. very few, if any, iron nails are generally used. the great advantage of a plank-road is the large load it enables the horses to draw. whilst on a common road a farmer can only carry twenty-five bushels of wheat in his waggon, a plank-road will enable him to carry forty or fifty bushels of the same grain with a pair of horses. the principal disadvantage of the plank-roads is, that they are found by experience to be injurious to horses, particularly when they are driven quickly on them. they are best adapted for a large load drawn at a slow pace. i shall not attempt to describe the country in the neighbourhood of belleville, or the more northern parts of the county. it will suffice to observe, that the country is generally much varied in its surface, and beautiful, and the soil is generally excellent. within the last ten or twelve years the whole country has been studded with good substantial stone or brick houses, or good white painted frame houses, even for thirty miles back, and the farms are well fenced and cultivated, showing undeniable signs of comfort and independence. streams and water are abundant, and there are several thriving villages and hamlets scattered through the county,--the village of canniff's mills, three miles from belleville, and soon destined to form a part of it, alone containing a population of about a thousand. in describing the progress of this county, i may be understood as describing that of most other counties in the upper province; the progress of all of them being rapid, though varying according to the advantages of situation or from causes already alluded to. from what has been said, the reader will perceive that the present condition of canada generally is exceedingly prosperous, and when the resources of the country are fully developed by the railroads now in progress of construction, and by the influx of capital and population from europe, no rational person can doubt that it will ultimately be as prosperous and opulent as any country in the world, ancient or modern. it may be said, “should we not then be hopeful and contented with our situation and prospects.” and so the people are in the main, and the shrewd capitalists of england think so, or they would not be so ready to invest their money in our public works. but some deduction from this general state of contentment and confidence must be made for those little discontents and grumblings created by the misrepresentations of certain disappointed politicians and ambitious men of all parties, who expect to gain popularity by becoming grievance-mongers. much has been done, and a great deal still remains to be done in the way of reform, here as elsewhere. but there never was any just cause or motive in that insane cry for “annexation” to the united states, which was raised some years ago, and by the tories, too, of all people in the world! the “annexation” mania can now only be regarded as indicative of the last expiring struggle of a domineering party--it would not be correct to call it a political party--which had so long obstructed the progress of canada by its selfish and monopolising spirit, when it found that its reign had ceased for ever. great sacrifices have been, and will be made, by men of loyalty and principle in support of institutions, which are justly dear to every briton and to every freeman; but this feeling necessarily has its limits among the mass of mankind; and the loyalty of a people must be supported by reason and justice. they should have good reason to believe that their institutions are more conducive to happiness and prosperity than those of all other countries. without this conviction, loyalty in a people who have by any means been deprived of the power of correcting the abuses of their government, would be hardly rational. canadians now have that power to its full extent. why, then, should we not be loyal to the constitution of our country which has stood the test of ages, purifying itself and developing its native energies as a vigorous constitution outgrows disease in the human frame. the government of canada is practically more republican than that of the mother country and nearly as republican as that of the united states. our government is also notoriously much less expensive. our public officers are also, practically, much more responsible to the people, though indirectly, because they are appointed by a colonial ministry who are elected by the people, and whose popularity depends in a great degree on the selections they make and upon their watchfulness over their conduct. the government of the united states is not a cheap government, because all officers being elective by the people, the responsibility of the selections to office is divided and weakened. moreover, the change or prospect of the electors being the elected inclines them to put up with abuses and defalcations which would be considered intolerable under another form of government. the british government now holds the best security for the continued loyalty of the people of canada, in their increasing prosperity. to great britain they are bound by the strongest ties of duty and interest; and nothing but the basest ingratitude or absolute infatuation can ever tempt them to transfer their allegiance to another country. i shall conclude this chapter with a few verses written two years ago, and which were suggested by an indignant feeling at the cold manner with which the national anthem was received by some persons who used to be loud in their professions of loyalty on former public occasions. happily, this wayward and pettish, i will not call it disloyal spirit, has passed away, and most of the “annexationists” are now heartily ashamed of their conduct. god save the queen god save the queen. the time has been when these charmed words, or said or sung, have through the welkin proudly rung; and, heads uncovered, every tongue has echoed back--“god save the queen!” god save the queen! it was not like the feeble cry that slaves might raise as tyrants pass'd, with trembling knees and hearts downcast, while dungeoned victims breathed their last in mingled groans of agony! god save the queen! nor were these shouts without the will, which servile crowds oft send on high, when gold and jewels meet the eye, when pride looks down on poverty, and makes the poor man poorer still! god save the queen! no!--it was like the thrilling shout-- the joyous sounds of price and praise that patriot hearts are wont to raise, 'mid cannon's roar and bonfires blaze, when britain's foes are put to rout-- god save the queen! for 'mid those sounds, to britons dear, no dastard selfish thoughts intrude to mar a nation's gratitude: but one soul moves that multitude-- to sing in accents loud and clear-- god save the queen! such sounds as these in days of yore, on war-ship's deck and battle plain, have rung o'er heaps of foemen slain-- and with god's help they'll ring again, when warriors' blood shall flow no more, god save the queen! god save the queen! let patriots cry; and palsied be the impious hand would guide the pen, or wield the brand, against our glorious fatherland. let shouts of freemen rend the sky, god save the queen!--and liberty! reader! my task is ended. appendix a advertisement to the third edition published by richard bentley in in justice to mrs. moodie, it is right to state that being still resident in the far-west of canada, she has not been able to superintend this work whilst passing through the press. from this circumstance some verbal mistakes and oversights may have occurred, but the greatest care has been taken to avoid them. although well known as an authoress in canada, and a member of a family which has enriched english literature with works of very high popularity, mrs. moodie is chiefly remembered in this country by a volume of poems published in , under her maiden name of susanna strickland. during the rebellion in canada, her loyal lyrics, prompted by strong affection for her native country, were circulated and sung throughout the colony, and produced a great effect in rousing an enthusiastic feeling in favour of law and order. another of her lyrical compositions, the charming sleigh song, printed in the present work [at the end of chapter vii], has been extremely popular in canada. the warmth of feeling which beams through every line, and the touching truthfulness of its details, won for it a reception there as universal as it was favourable. the glowing narrative of personal incident and suffering which she gives in the present work, will no doubt attract general attention. it would be difficult to point out delineations of fortitude under privation, more interesting or more pathetic than those contained in her second volume. london, january , appendix b canada: a contrast introductory chapter to the first canadian edition ( ) in the year i landed with my husband, j.w. dunbar moodie, in canada. mr. moodie was the youngest son of major moodie, of mellsetter, in the orkney islands; he was a lieutenant in the st regiment of fusileers, and had been severely wounded in the night-attack upon bergen-op-zoom, in holland. not being overgifted with the good things of this world--the younger sons of old british families seldom are--he had, after mature deliberation, determined to try his fortunes in canada, and settle upon the grant of acres of land ceded by the government to officers upon half-pay. emigration, in most cases--and ours was no exception to the general rule--is a matter of necessity, not of choice. it may, indeed, generally be regarded as an act of duty performed at the expense of personal enjoyment, and at the sacrifice of all those local attachments which stamp the scenes in which our childhood grew in imperishable characters upon the heart. nor is it, until adversity has pressed hard upon the wounded spirit of the sons and daughters of old, but impoverished, families, that they can subdue their proud and rebellious feelings, and submit to make the trial. this was our case, and our motive for emigrating to one of the british colonies can be summed up in a few words. the emigrant's hope of bettering his condition, and securing a sufficient competence to support his family, to free himself from the slighting remarks too often hurled at the poor gentleman by the practical people of the world, which is always galling to a proud man, but doubly so when he knows that the want of wealth constitues the sole difference between him and the more favoured offspring of the same parent stock. in the tide of emigration flowed westward, and canada became the great landmark for the rich in hope and poor in purse. public newspapers and private letters teemed with the almost fabulous advantages to be derived from a settlement in this highly favoured region. men, who had been doubtful of supporting their families in comfort at home, thought that they had only to land in canada to realize a fortune. the infection became general. thousands and tens of thousands from the middle ranks of british society, for the space of three or four years, landed upon these shores. a large majority of these emigrants were officers of the army and navy, with their families: a class perfectly unfitted, by their previous habits and standing in society, for contending with the stern realities of emigrant life in the backwoods. a class formed mainly from the younger scions of great families, naturally proud, and not only accustomed to command, but to recieve implicit obedience from the people under them, are not men adapted to the hard toil of the woodman's life. nor will such persons submit cheerfully to the saucy familiarity of servants, who, republicans at heart, think themselves quite as good as their employers. too many of these brave and honest men took up their grants of wild land in remote and unfavourable localities, far from churches, schools, and markets, and fell an easy prey to the land speculators that swarmed in every rising village on the borders of civilization. it was to warn such settlers as these last mentioned, not to take up grants and pitch their tents in the wilderness, and by so doing reduce themselves and their families to hopeless poverty, that my work “roughing it in the bush” was written. i gave the experience of the first seven years we passed in the woods, attempting to clear a bush farm, as a warning to others, and the number of persons who have since told me, that my book “told the history” of their own life in the woods, ought to be the best proof to every candid mind that i spoke the truth. it is not by such feeble instruments as the above that providence works when it seeks to reclaim the waste places of the earth, and make them subservient to the wants and happiness of its creatures. the great father of the souls and bodies of men knows the arm which wholesome labour from the infancy has made strong, the nerves that have become iron by patient endurance, and he chooses such to send forth into the forest to hew out the rough paths for the advance of civilization. these men became wealthy and prosperous, and are the bones and sinews of a great and rising country. their labour is wealth, not exhaustion; it produces content, not home-sickness and despair. what the backwoods of canada are to the industrious and ever-to-be-honoured sons of honest poverty, and what they are to the refined and polished gentleman, these sketches have endeavoured to show. the poor man is in his native element; the poor gentleman totally unfitted, by his previous habits and education, to be a hewer of the forest and a tiller of the soil. what money he brought out with him is lavishly expended during the first two years in paying for labour to clear and fence lands which, from his ignorance of agricultural pursuits, will never make him the least profitable return and barely find coarse food for his family. of clothing we say nothing. bare feet and rags are too common in the bush. now, had the same means and the same labour been employed in the cultivation of a leased farm, or one purchased for a few hundred dollars, near a village, how different would have been the results, not only to the settler, but it would have added greatly to the wealth and social improvement of the country. i am well aware that a great and, i must think, a most unjust prejudice has been felt against my book in canada because i dared to give my opinion freely on a subject which had engrossed a great deal of my attention; nor do i believe that the account of our failure in the bush ever deterred a single emigrant from coming to the country, as the only circulation it ever had in the colony was chiefly through the volumes that often formed a portion of their baggage. the many who have condemned the work without reading it will be surprised to find that not one word has been said to prejudice intending emigrants from making canada their home. unless, indeed, they ascribe the regret expressed at having to leave my native land, so natural in the painful home-sickness which, for several months, preys upon the health and spirits of the dejected exile, to a deep-rooted dislike to the country. so far from this being the case, my love for the country has steadily increased from year to year, and my attachment to canada is now so strong that i cannot imagine any inducement, short of absolute necessity, which could induce me to leave the colony where as a wife and mother, some of the happiest years of my life have been spent. contrasting the first years of my life in the bush with canada as she now is, my mind is filled with wonder and gratitude at the rapid strides she has made towards the fulfilment of a great and glorious destiny. what important events have been brought to pass within the narrow circle of less than forty years! what a difference since _now_ and _then_. the country is the same only in name. its aspect is wholly changed. the rough has become smooth, the crooked has been made straight, the forests have been converted into fruitful fields, the rude log cabin of the woodsman has been replaced by the handsome, well-appointed homestead, and large populous cities have pushed the small clap-boarded village into the shade. the solitary stroke of the axe that once broke the uniform silence of the vast woods is only heard in remote districts, and is superseded by the thundering tread of the iron horse and the ceaseless panting of the steam-engine in our sawmills and factories. canada is no longer a child, sleeping in the arms of nature, dependant for her very existence on the fostering care of her illustrious mother. she has outstepped infancy, and is in the full enjoyment of a strong and vigorous youth. what may not we hope for her maturity ere another forty summers have glided down the stream of time! already she holds in her hand the crown of one of the mightiest empires that the world has seen, or is yet to see. look at her vast resources--her fine healthy climate--her fruitful soil--the inexhaustible wealth of her pine forests--the untold treasures hidden in her unexplored mines. what other country possesses such an internal navigation for transporting its products from distant manitoba to the sea, and from thence to every port in the world! if an excellent government, defended by wise laws, a loyal people, and a free church, can make people happy and proud of their country, surely we have every reason to rejoice in our new dominion. when we first came to the country it was a mere struggle for bread to the many, while all the offices of emolument and power were held by a favoured few. the country was rent to pieces by political factions, and a fierce hostility existed between the native born canadians--the first pioneers of the forest--and the british emigrants, who looked upon each other as mutual enemies, who were seeking to appropriate the larger share of the new country. those who had settled down in the woods were happily unconscious that these quarrels threatened to destroy the peace of the colony. the insurrection of came upon them like a thunder clap; they could hardly believe such an incredible tale. intensely loyal, the emigrant officers rose to a man to defend the british flag and chastise the rebels and their rash leader. in their zeal to uphold british authority, they made no excuse for the wrongs that the dominant party had heaped upon a clever and high-spirited man. to them he was a traitor, and, as such, a public enemy. yet the blow struck by that injured man, weak as it was, without money, arms, or the necessary munitions of war, and defeated and broken in its first effort, gave freedom to canada, and laid the foundation of the excellent constitution that we now enjoy. it drew the attention of the home government to the many abuses then practised in the colony, and made them aware of its vast importance in a political point of view, and ultimately led to all our great national improvements. the settlement of the long-vexed clergy reserves question, and the establishment of common schools was a great boon to the colony. the opening up of new townships, the making of roads, the establishments of municipal councils in all the old districts, leaving to the citizens the free choice of their own members in the council for the management of their affairs, followed in rapid succession. these changes of course took some years to accomplish, and led to others equally important. the provincial exhibitions have done much to improve the agricultural interests, and have led to better and more productive methods of cultivation than were formerly practiced in the province. the farmer gradually became a wealthy and intelligent landowner, proud of his improved flocks and herds, of his fine horses and handsome homestead. he was able to send his sons to college and his daughters to boarding school, and not uncommonly became an honourable member of the legislative council. while the sons of poor gentlemen have generally lost caste and sunk into useless sots, the children of these honest tillers of the soil have steadily risen to the highest class, and have given to canada some of her best and wisest legislators. men who rest satisfied with the mere accident of birth for their claims to distinction, without energy and industry to maintain their position in society, are sadly at discount in a country which amply rewards the worker, but leaves the indolent loafer to die in indigence and obscurity. honest poverty is encouraged, not despised, in canada. few of her prosperous men have risen from obscurity to affluence without going through the mill, and therefore have a fellow-feeling for those who are struggling to gain the first rung on the ladder. men are allowed in this country a freedom enjoyed by few of the more polished countries in europe--freedom in religion, politics, and speech; freedom to select their own friends and to visit with whom they please without consulting the mrs. grundys of society--and they can lead a more independent social life than in the mother country, because less restricted by the conventional prejudices that govern older communities. few people who have lived many years in canada and return to england to spend the remainder of their days, accomplish the fact. they almost invariably come back, and why? they feel more independent and happier here; they have no idea what a blessed country it is to live in until they go back and realize the want of social freedom. i have heard this from so many educated people, persons of taste and refinement, that i cannot doubt the truth of their statements. forty years has accomplished as great a change in the habits and tastes of the canadian people as it has in the architecture of their fine cities and the appearance of the country. a young canadian gentleman is as well educated as any of his compeers across the big water, and contrasts very favourably with them. social and unaffected, he puts on no airs of offensive superiority, but meets a stranger with the courtesy and frankness best calculated to shorten the distance between them and to make his guest feel perfectly at home. few countries possess a more beautiful female population. the women are elegant in their tastes, graceful in their manners, and naturally kind and affectionate in their dispositions. good housekeepers, sociable neighbours, and lively and active in speech and movement, they are capital companions and make excellent wives and mothers. of course there must be exceptions to every rule; but cases of divorce, or desertion of their homes, are so rare an occurrence that it speaks volumes for their domestic worth. numbers of british officers have chosen their wives in canada, and i never heard that they had cause to repent of their choice. in common with our american neighbours, we find that the worst members of our community are not canadian born, but importations from other countries. the dominion and local governments are now doing much to open up the resources of canada by the intercolonial and projected pacific railways and other public works, which, in time, will make a vast tract of land available for cultivation, and furnish homes for multitudes of the starving populations of europe. and again, the government of the flourishing province of ontario--of which the hon. j. sandfield macdonald is premier--has done wonders during the last four years by means of its immigration policy, which has been most successfully carried out by the hon. john carling, the commissioner, and greatly tended to the development of the country. by this policy liberal provision is made for free grants of land to actual settlers, for general education, and for the encouragement of the industrial arts and agriculture; by the construction of public roads and the improvement of the internal navigable waters of the province; and by the assistance now given to an economical system of railways connecting these interior waters with the leading railroads and ports on the frontier; and not only are free grants of land given in the districts extending from the eastern to the western extremity of the province, but one of the best of the new townships has been selected in which the government is now making roads, and upon each lot is clearing five acres and erecting thereon a small house, which will be granted to heads of families, who, by six annual instalments, will be required to pay back to the government the cost of these improvements--not exceeding $ , or pounds sterling--when a free patent (or deed) of the land will be given, without any charge whatever, under a protective homestead act. this wise and liberal policy would have astonished the colonial legislature of , but will, no doubt, speedily give to the province a noble and progressive back country, and add much to its strength and prosperity. our busy factories and foundries--our copper, silver, and plumbago mines--our salt and petroleum--the increasing exports of native produce--speak volumes for the prosperity of the dominion and for the government of those who are at the head of affairs. it only requires the loyal co-operation of an intelligent and enlightened people to render this beautiful and free country the greatest and the happiest upon the face of the earth. when we contrast forest life in canada forty years ago with the present state of the country, my book will not be without interest and significance. we may truly say, old things have passed away, all things have become new. what an advance in the arts and sciences and in the literature of the country has been made during the last few years. canada can boast of many good and even distinguished authors, and the love of books and booklore is daily increasing. institues and literary associations for the encouragement of learning are now to be found in all the cities and large towns in the dominion. we are no longer dependent upon the states for the reproduction of the works of celebrated authors; our own publishers, both in toronto and montreal, are furnishing our handsome bookstores with volumes that rival, in cheapness and typographical excellence, the best issues from the large printing establishments in america. we have no lack of native talent or books, or of intelligent readers to appreciate them. our print shops are full of the well-educated designs of native artists. and the grand scenery of our lakes and forests, transferred to canvas, adorns the homes of our wealthy citizens. we must not omit in this slight sketch to refer to the number of fine public buildings which meet us at every turn, most of which have been designed and executed by native architects. montreal can point to her victoria bridge, and challenge the world to produce its equal. this prodigy of mechanical skill should be a sufficient inducement to strangers from other lands to visit our shores, and though designed by the son of the immortal george stephenson, it was canadian hands that helped him to execute his great project--to raise that glorious monument to his fame, which we hope, will outlast a thousand years. our new houses of parliment, our churches, banks, public halls, asylums for the insane, the blind, and the deaf and dumb are buildings which must attract the attention of every intelligent traveller; and when we consider the few brief years that have elapsed since the upper province was reclaimed from the wilderness, our progress in mechanical arts, and all the comforts which pertain to modern civilization, is unprecedented in the history of older nations. if the canadian people will honestly unite in carrying out measures proposed by the government for the good of the country, irrespective of self-interest and party prejudices, they must, before the close of the present century, become a great and prosperous nationality. may the blessing of god rest upon canada and the canadian people! susanna moodie belleville, appendix c jeanie burns [this chapter was originally intended by mrs. moodie for inclusion in the first edition of roughing it in the bush but was instead published in the periodical bentley's miscellany, in august . it was later revised and included in the book life in the clearings versus the bush by the same author.] “ah, human hearts are strangely cast, time softens grief and pain; like reeds that shiver in the blast, they bend to rise again. “but she in silence bowed her head, to none her sorrow would impart; earth's faithful arms enclose the dead, and hide for aye her broken heart!” our man james came to me to request the loan of one of the horses, to attend a funeral. m---- was absent on business, and the horses and the man's time were both greatly needed to prepare the land for the fall crops. i demurred; james looked anxious and disappointed; and the loan of the horse was at length granted, but not without a strict injunction that he should return to his work the moment the funeral was over. he did not come back until late that evening. i had just finished my tea, and was nursing my wrath at his staying out the whole day, when the door of the room (we had but one, and that was shared in common with the servants) opened, and the delinquent at last appeared. he hung up the new english saddle, and sat down by the blazing hearth without speaking a word. “what detained you so long, james? you ought to have had half an acre of land, at least, ploughed to-day.” “verra true, mistress. it was nae fau't o' mine. i had mista'en the hour. the funeral didna' come in afore sun-down, and i cam' awa' directly it was ower.” “was it any relation of yours?” “na, na, jist a freend, an auld acquaintance, but nane o' mine ain kin. i never felt sare sad in a' my life, as i ha' dune this day. i ha' seen the clods piled on mony a heid, and never felt the saut tear in my e'en. but, puir jeanie! puir lass. it was a sair sight to see them thrown doon upon her.” my curiosity was excited; i pushed the tea-things from me, and told bell to give james his supper. “naething for me the night, bell--i canna' eat--my thoughts will a' rin on that puir lass. sae young--sae bonnie, an' a few months ago as blythe as a lark, an' now a clod o' the earth. hout we maun all dee when our ain time comes; but, somehow, i canna' think that jeanie ought to ha' gane sae sune.” “who is jeanie burns? tell me, james, something about her.” in compliance with my request, the man gave me the following story. i wish i could convey it in his own words, but though i can perfectly understand the scotch dialect when spoken, i could not write it in its charming simplicity: that honest, truthful brevity, which is so characteristic of this noble people. the smooth tones of the blarney may flatter our vanity, and please us for the moment; but who places any confidence in those by whom it is employed. we know that it is only uttered to cajole and deceive, and when the novelty wears off, the repetition awakens indignation and disgust; but who mistrusts the blunt, straightforward speech of the land of burns--for good or ill, it strikes home to the heart. “jeanie burns was the daughter of a respectable shoemaker, who gained a comfortable living by his trade in a small town in ayrshire. her father, like herself, was an only child, and followed the same vocation, and wrought under the same roof that his father had done before him. the elder burns had met with many reverses, and now helpless and blind, was entirely dependent upon the charity of his son. honest jock had not married until late in life, that he might more comfortably provide for the wants of his aged parent. his mother had been dead for some years. she was a meek, pious woman, and jock quaintly affirmed, 'that it had pleased the lord to provide a better inheritance for his dear auld mither than his arm could win, proud and happy as he would have been to have supported her when she was no longer able to work for him.' “jock's paternal love was repaid at last; chance threw in his way a cannie young lass, baith guid and bonnie: they were united, and jeanie was the sole fruit of this marriage. but jeanie proved a host in herself, and grew up the best natured, the prettiest, and the most industrious lass in the village, and was a general favourite both with young and old. she helped her mother in the house, bound shoes for her father, and attended to all the wants of her dear old grandfather, saunders burns; who was so much attached to his little handmaid, that he was never happy when she was absent. “happiness is not a flower of long growth in this world; it requires the dew and sunlight of heaven to nourish it, and it soon withers, removed from its native skies. the cholera visited the remote village. it smote the strong man in the pride of his strength, and the matron in the beauty of her prime; while it spared the helpless and the aged, the infant of a few days, and the parent of many years. both jeanie's parents fell victims to the fatal disease, and the old blind saunders and the young jeanie were left to fight alone a hard battle with poverty and grief. the truly deserving are never entirely forsaken. god may afflict them with many trials, but he watches over them still, and often provides for their wants in a manner truly miraculous. sympathizing friends gathered round the orphan girl in her hour of need, and obtained for her sufficient employment to enable her to support her old grandfather and herself, and provide for them the common necessaries of life. “jeannie was an excellent sempstress, and what between making waistcoats and trousers for the tailors and binding shoes for the shoemakers, a business that she thoroughly understood, she soon had her little hired room neatly furnished, and her grandfather as clean and spruce as ever. when she led him into the kirk of a sabbath morning, all the neighbours greeted the dutiful daughter with an approving smile, and the old man looked so serene and happy that jeanie was fully repaid for her labours of love. “her industry and piety often formed the theme of conversation to the young lads of the village. 'what a guid wife jeanie burns will mak',' cried one. 'aye,' said another, 'he need na complain of ill-fortin, who has the luck to get the like o' her.' “'an' she's sae bonnie,' would willie robertson add with a sigh. 'i would na' covet the wealth o' the hale world an she were mine.' “willie was a fine active young man, who bore an excellent character, and his comrades thought it very likely that willie was to be the fortunate man. “robertson was the youngest son of a farmer in the neighbourhood. he had no land of his own, and he was one of a very large family. from a boy he had assisted his father in working the farm for their common maintenance; but after he took to looking at jeanie burns at kirk, instead of minding his prayers, he began to wish that he had a homestead of his own, which he could ask jeanie and her grandfather to share. he made his wishes known to his father. the old man was prudent. a marriage with jeanie burns offered no advantages in a pecuniary view. but the girl was a good honest girl, of whom any man might be proud. he had himself married for love, and had enjoyed great comfort in his wife. “'willie, my lad,' he said, 'i canna' gi'e ye a share o' the farm. it is ower sma' for the mony mouths it has to feed. i ha'e laid by a little siller for a rainy day, an' this i will gi'e ye to win a farm for yersel' in the woods o' canada. there is plenty o' room there, an' industry brings its ain reward. if jeanie burns lo'es you, as weel as yer dear mither did me, she will be fain to follow you there.' “willie grasped his father's hand, for he was too much elated to speak, and he ran away to tell his tale of love to the girl of his heart. jeanie had long loved robertson in secret, and they were not long in settling the matter. they forgot in their first moments of joy that old saunders had to be consulted, for they had determined to take the old man with them. but here an obstacle occurred of which they had not dreamed. old age is selfish, and saunders obstinately refused to comply with their wishes. the grave that held the remains of his wife and son was dearer to him than all the comforts promised to him by the impatient lovers in that far foreign land. jeanie wept--but saunders, deaf and blind, neither heard nor saw her grief, and, like a dutiful child, she breathed no complaint to him, but promised to remain with him until his head rested upon the same pillow with the dead. “this was a sore and great trial to willie robertson, but he consoled himself for his disappointment with the thought that saunders could not live long, and that he would go and prepare a place for his jean, and have everything ready for her reception against the old man died. “'i was a cousin of willie's,' continued james, 'by the mither's side, and he persuaded me to accompany him to canada. we set sail the first day of may, and were here in time to chop a small fallow for a fall crop. willie robertson had more of this world's gear than i, for his father had provided him with sufficient funds to purchase a good lot of wild land, which he did in the township of m----, and i was to work with him on shares. we were one of the first settlers in that place, and we found the work before us rough and hard to our heart's content. but willie had a strong motive for exertion--and never did man work harder than he did that first year on his bush-farm, for the love of jeanie burns.' “we built a comfortable log-house, in which we were assisted by the few neighbours we had, who likewise lent a hand in clearing ten acres we had chopped for fall crop. “all this time willie kept up a constant correspondence with jeanie burns, and he used to talk to me of her coming out, and his future plans, every night when our work was done. if i had not loved and respected the girl mysel' i should have got unco' tired o' the subject. “we had just put in our first crop of wheat, when a letter came from jeanie bringing us the news of her grandfather's death. weel i ken the word that willie spak' to me when he closed that letter. 'jamie, the auld man is gane at last--an', god forgi'e me, i feel too gladsome to greet. jeanie is willin' to come whenever i ha'e the means to bring her out, an', hout man, i'm jist thinkin' that she winna' ha'e to wait lang.' “good workmen were getting very high wages just then, and willie left the care of the place to me, and hired for three months with auld squire jones. he was an excellent teamster, and could put his hand to any sort of work. when his term of service expired he sent jeanie forty dollars to pay her passage out, which he hoped she would not delay longer than the spring. “he got an answer from jeanie full of love and gratitude, but she thought that her voyage might be delayed until the fall. the good woman, with whom she had lodged since her parents died, had just lost her husband, and was in a bad state of health, and she begged jeanie to stay with her until her daughter could leave her service in edinburgh and come to take charge of the house. this person had been a kind and steadfast friend to jeanie in all her troubles, and had helped her nurse the old man in his dying illness. i am sure it was just like jeanie to act as she did. she had all her life looked more to the comforts of others than to her ain. but robertson was an angry man when he got that letter, and he said, 'if that was a' the lo'e that jeanie burns had for him, to prefer an auld woman's comfort, who was naething to her, to her betrothed husband, she might bide awa' as lang as she pleased, he would never trouble himsel' to write to her again.' “i did na' think that the man was in earnest, an' i remonstrated with him on his folly an' injustice. this ended in a sharp quarrel atween us, and i left him to gang his ain gate, an' went to live with my uncle, who kept a blacksmith's forge in the village. “after a while, we heard that willie robertson was married to a canadian woman--neither young nor good-looking, and very much his inferior in every way, but she had a good lot of land in the rear of his farm. of course i thought that it was all broken off with puir jeanie, and i wondered what she would spier at the marriage. “it was early in june, and our canadian woods were in their first flush o' green--an' how green an' lightsome they be in their spring dress--when jeanie burns landed in canada. she travelled her lane up the country, wondering why willie was not at montreal to meet her as he had promised in the last letter he sent her. it was late in the afternoon when the steam-boat brought her to c----, and, without waiting to ask any questions respecting him, she hired a man and cart to take her and her luggage to m----. the road through the bush was very heavy, and it was night before they reached robertson's clearing, and with some difficulty the driver found his way among the logs to the cabin-door. “hearing the sound of wheels, the wife, a coarse ill-dressed slattern, came out to see what could bring strangers to such an out-o'-the-way place at that late hour. “puir jeanie! i can weel imagine the fluttering o' her heart when she spier'd of the woman for ane willie robertson, and asked if he was at hame?' “'yes,' answered the wife gruffly. 'but he is not in from the fallow yet--you may see him up yonder tending the blazing logs.' “while jeanie was striving to look in the direction which the woman pointed out, and could na' see through the tears that blinded her e'e, the driver jumped down from the cart, and asked the puir girl where he should leave her trunks, as it was getting late, and he must be off? “'you need not bring these big chests in here,' said mrs. robertson, 'i have no room in my house for strangers and their luggage.' “'your house!' gasped jeanie, catching her arm. 'did ye na' tell me that _he_ lived here?--and wherever willie robertson bides jeanie burns sud be a welcome guest. tell him,' she continued, trembling all ower, for she told me afterwards that there was something in the woman's look and tone that made the cold chills run to her heart, 'that an auld friend from scotland has jist come off a lang wearisome journey to see him.' “'you may speak for yourself!' cried the woman angrily, 'for my husband is now coming down the clearing.' “the word husband was scarcely out o' her mouth than puir jeanie fell as ane dead across the door-step. “the driver lifted up the unfortunate girl, carried her into the cabin, and placed her in a chair, regardless of the opposition of mrs. robertson, whose jealousy was now fairly aroused, and who declared that the bold huzzie should not enter her doors. “it was a long time before the driver succeeded in bringing jeanie to herself, and she had only just unclosed her eyes when willie came in. “'wife,' he said, 'whose cart is this standing at the door, and what do these people want here?' “'you know best,' cried the angry woman, bursting into tears; 'that creature is no acquaintance of mine, and if she is suffered to remain here, i will leave the house at once.' “'forgi'e me, gude woman, for having unwittingly offended ye,' said jeanie, rising. 'but, merciful father! how sud i ken that willie robertson, my ain willie, had a wife? oh, willie!' she cried, covering her face in her hands to hide all the agony that was in her heart. 'i ha' come a lang way, an' a weary to see ye, an' ye might ha' spared me the grief--the burning shame o' this. farewell, willie robertson, i will never mair trouble ye nor her wi' my presence, but this cruel deed of yours has broken my heart!' “she went away weeping, and he had not the courage to detain her, or say one word to comfort her, or account for his strange conduct; yet, if i know him right, that must ha' been the most sorrowfu' moment in his life. “jeanie was a distant connexion of my uncle's, and she found us out that night, on her return to the village, and told us all her grief. my aunt, who was a kind good woman, was indignant at the treatment she had received; and loved and cherished her as if she had been her own child. “for two whole weeks she kept her bed, and was so ill that the doctor despaired of her life; and when she did come again among us, the colour had faded from her cheeks, and the light from her sweet blue eyes, and she spoke in a low subdued voice, but she never spoke of _him_ as the cause of her grief. “one day she called me aside and said-- “'jamie, you know how i lo'ed an' trusted _him,_ an' obeyed his ain wishes in comin' out to this strange country to be his wife. but 'tis all over now,' and she pressed her sma' hands tightly over her breast to keep doon the swelling o' her heart. 'jamie, i know now that it is a' for the best; i lo'ed him too weel--mair than ony creature sud lo'e a perishing thing o' earth. but i thought that he wud be sae glad an' sae proud to see his ain jeanie sae sune. but, oh!--ah, weel!--i maun na think o' that; what i wud jist say is this,' an' she took a sma' packet fra' her breast, while the tears streamed down her pale cheeks. 'he sent me forty dollars to bring me ower the sea to him--god bless him for that, i ken he worked hard to earn it, for he lo'ed me then--i was na' idle during his absence. i had saved enough to bury my dear auld grandfather, and to pay my ain expenses out, and i thought, like the gude servant in the parable, i wud return willie his ain with interest; an' i hoped to see him smile at my diligence, an' ca' me his bonnie gude lassie. jamie, i canna' keep this siller, it lies like a weight o' lead on my heart. tak' it back to him, an' tell him fra' me, that i forgi'e him a' his cruel deceit, an' pray to god to grant him prosperity, and restore to him that peace o' mind o' which he has robbed me for ever.' “i did as she bade me. willie looked stupified when i delivered her message. the only remark he made, when i gave him back the money, was, 'i maun be gratefu', man, that she did na' curse me.' the wife came in, and he hid away the packet and slunk off. the man looked degraded in his own eyes, and so wretched, that i pitied him from my very heart. “when i came home, jeanie met me at my uncle's gate. 'tell me,' she said in a low anxious voice, 'tell me, cousin jamie, what passed atween ye. had he nae word for me?' “'naething, jeanie, the man is lost to himsel', to a' who ance wished him weel. he is not worth a decent body's thought.' “she sighed deeply, for i saw that her heart craved after some word fra' him, but she said nae mair, but pale an' sorrowfu', the very ghaist o' her former sel', went back into the house. “from that hour she never breathed his name to ony of us; but we all ken'd that it was her love for him that was preying upon her life. the grief that has nae voice, like the canker-worm, always lies ne'est to the heart. puir jeanie! she held out during the simmer, but when the fall came, she just withered awa' like a flower, nipped by the early frost, and this day we laid her in the earth. “after the funeral was ower, and the mourners were all gone, i stood beside her grave, thinking ower the days of my boyhood, when she and i were happy weans, an' used to pu' the gowans together on the heathery hills o' dear auld scotland. an' i tried in vain to understan' the mysterious providence o' god, who had stricken her, who seemed sae gude and pure, an' spared the like o' me, who was mair deservin' o' his wrath, when i heard a deep groan, an' i saw willie robertson standing near me beside the grave. “'ye may as weel spare your grief noo,' said i, for i felt hard towards him, 'an' rejoice that the weary is at rest.' “'it was i murdered her,' said he, 'an' the thought will haunt me to my last day. did she remember me on her death bed?' “'her thoughts were only ken'd by him who reads the secrets of a' hearts, willie. her end was peace, an' her saviour's blessed name was the last sound upon her lips. but if ever woman died fra' a broken heart, there she lies.' “'oh, jeanie!' he cried, 'mine ain darling jeanie! my blessed lammie! i was na' worthy o' yer love--my heart, too, is breaking. to bring ye back aince mair, i wad lay me down an' dee.' “an' he flung himsel' upon the grave and embraced the fresh clods, and greeted like a child. “when he grew more calm, we had a long conversation about the past, and truly i believe that the man was not in his right senses when he married yon wife; at ony rate, he is not lang for this warld; he has fretted the flesh aff his banes, an' before many months are ower, his heid will lie as low as puir jeanie burns's.” while i was pondering this sad story in my mind, mrs. h---- came in. “you have heard the news, mrs. m----?” i looked inquiringly. “one of clark's little boys that were lost last wednesday in the woods has been found.” “this is the first i have heard about it. how were they lost?” “oh, 'tis a thing of very common occurrence here. new settlers, who are ignorant of the danger of going astray in the forest, are always having their children lost. this is not the first instance by many that i have known, having myself lived for many years in the bush. i only wonder that it does not more frequently happen. “these little fellows are the sons of a poor man who came out this summer, and who has taken up some wild land about a mile back of us, towards the plains. clark is busy logging up a small fallow for fall wheat, on which his family must depend for bread during the ensuing year; and he is so anxious to get it ready in time, that he will not allow himself an hour at noon to go home to his dinner, which his wife generally sends in a basket to the woods by his eldest daughter. “last wednesday the girl had been sent on an errand by her mother, who thought, in her absence, that she might venture to trust the two boys to take the dinner to their father. the boys were from seven to five years old, and very smart and knowing for their age. they promised to mind all her directions, and went off quite proud of the task, carrying the basket between them. “how they came to ramble away into the woods, the younger child is too much stupified to tell; and perhaps he is too young to remember. at night the father returned, and scolded the wife for not sending his dinner as usual; but the poor woman (who all day had quieted her fears with the belief that the children had stayed with their father), instead of paying any regard to his angry words, demanded, in a tone of agony, what had become of her children? “tired and hungry as clark was, in a moment he comprehended their danger, and started off in pursuit of the boys. the shrieks of the distracted woman soon called the neighbours together, who instantly joined in the search. “it was not until this afternoon that any trace could be obtained of the lost children, when brian, the hunter, found the youngest boy, johnnie, lying fast asleep upon the trunk of a fallen tree, fifteen miles back in the bush.” “and the other boy?” “will never, i fear, be heard of again,” said she. “they have searched for him in all directions and have not discovered him. the story little johnnie tells is to this effect. during the first two days of their absence, the food they had brought in the basket for their father's dinner, sustained life; but to-day it seems that the little johnnie grew very hungry, and cried continually for bread. william, the elder boy, he says, promised him bread if he would try and walk further; but his feet were bleeding and sore, and he could not stir another step. william told him to sit down upon the log on which he was found, and not stir from the place until he came back, and he would run on until he found a house and brought him something to eat. he then wiped his eyes, and bade him not to be frightened or to cry, and kissed him and went away. “this is all the little fellow knows about his brother; and it is very probable the generous-hearted boy has been eaten by the wolves. the indians traced him for more than a mile along the banks of a stream, when they lost his trail altogether. if he had fallen into the water, they would have discovered his body, but they say that he has been dragged into some hole in the bank among the tangled cedars and devoured. “since i have been in the country,” continued mrs. h----, “i have known many cases of children, and even of grown persons, being lost in the woods, who were never heard of again. it is a frightful calamity to happen to any one, and mothers cannot be too careful in guarding their children against rambling alone into the bush. persons, when once they lose sight of the beaten track, get frightened and bewildered and lose all presence of mind; and instead of remaining where they are, which is their only chance of being discovered, they plunge desperately on, running hither and thither, in the hope of getting out, while they only involve themselves more deeply among the mazes of the interminable forest. “two winters ago, the daughter of a settler in the remote township of dummer, where my husband took up his grant of wild land, went with her father to the mill, which was four miles from their log shanty and the road lay entirely through the bush. for a while the girl, who was about twelve years of age, kept up with her father, who walked briskly ahead with his bag of corn on his back, for, as their path lay through a tangled swamp, he was anxious to get home before night. after a time sarah grew tired, and lagged a long way behind. the man felt not the least apprehensive when he lost sight of her, expecting that she would soon come up with him again. once or twice he stopped and shouted, and she answered, 'coming, father;' and he did not turn to look after her again. he reached the mill--saw the grist ground, resumed his burthen and took the road home, expecting to meet sarah by the way. he trod the path alone, but still thought that the girl, tired of the long walk, had turned back, and that he should find her safe at home. “you may imagine, mrs. m----, his consternation and that of the family, when they found that the girl was lost. “it was now dark, and all search for her was given up for the night as hopeless. by day-break the next morning, the whole settlement, which was then confined to a few lonely log tenements inhabited by cornish miners, were roused from their sleep to assist in the search. “the men turned out with guns and arms, and parties started in different directions. those who first discovered the girl were to fire their guns, which was to be the signal to guide the rest to the spot. it was not long before they found the object of their search seated under a tree, about half a mile from the path she had lost on the preceding day. “she had been tempted by the beauty of some wild berries to leave the road, and when once in the bush she grew bewildered and could not find her way back. at first she ran to and fro in an agony of terror at finding herself in the woods all alone, and uttered loud and frantic cries, but her father had by this time reached the mill and was out of hearing. “with a sagacity beyond her years and not very common to her class, instead of wandering further into the labyrinth which surrounded her, she sat down under a large tree, covered her face with her apron, said the lord's prayer--the only one she knew--and hoped that god would send her father back to find her the moment he discovered that she was lost. “when night came down upon the dark forest (and oh how dark night is in the woods!), the poor girl said, that she felt horribly afraid of being eaten by the wolves which abound in those dreary swamps. but she did not cry, for fear they should hear her. simple girl! she did not know that the scent of a wolf is far keener that his ear, but that was her notion, and she lay down close to the ground and never once raised her head, for fear of seeing something dreadful standing beside her, until overcome by terror and fatigue she fell fast asleep, and did not awake until roused by the shrill braying of the horns and the shouts of the party who were seeking her.” “what a dreadful situation! i am sure that i should not have had the courage of this poor girl, but should have died with fear.” “we don't know how much we can bear, mrs. m----, until we are tried. this girl was more fortunate than a boy of the same age, who was lost in the same township, just as the winter set in. the lad was sent by his father, an english settler, in company with two boys of his own age, to be measured for a pair of shoes. george desne, who followed the double employment of farmer and shoemaker, lived about three miles from the clearing known by the name of the english line. after the lads left the clearing, their road lay entirely through the bush. but it was a path they had often travelled both alone and with their parents, and they felt no fear. “there had been a slight fall of snow, just enough to cover the ground, and the day was clear and frosty. the boys in this country always hail with delight the first fall of snow, and they ran races and slid over all the shallow pools until they reached george desne's cabin. “he measured young brown for a strong pair of winter boots, and the boys went on their homeward way, shouting and laughing in the glee of their hearts. “about halfway they suddenly missed their companion, and ran back nearly a mile to find him. not succeeding in this, they thought that he had hidden behind some of the trees, and pretended to be lost, in order to frighten them, and after shouting at the top of their voices, and receiving no answer, they determined to go home without him. they knew that he was well acquainted with the road, and that it was still broad day, and that he could easily find his way home alone. when his father inquired for george, they said that he was coming, and went to their respective homes. “night came, and the lad did not return, and his parents began to be alarmed at his absence. mr. brown went over to the neighbouring cabins, and made the lads tell him all they knew about his son. they described the place where they first missed him; but they concluded that he had either run home before them, or gone back to spend the night with the young desnes, who had been very urgent for him to stay. this account pacified the anxious father. early the next morning he went to desne's himself to bring home the boy, but the lad had not been there. “his mysterious disappearance gave rise to a thousand strange surmises. the whole settlement turned out in search of the boy. his steps were traced from the road a few yards into the bush, and entirely disappeared at the foot of a large tree. the moss was rubbed from the trunk of the tree, but the tree was lofty, and the branches so far from the ground, that it was almost impossible for any boy, unassisted, to have raised himself to such a height. there was no track of any animal all around in the unbroken snow, no shred of garment or stain of blood,--that boy's fate will ever remain a great mystery, for he was never found.” “he must have been carried up that tree by a bear, and dragged down into the hollow trunk,” said i. “if that had been the case, there would have been the print of the bear's feet in the snow. it does not, however, follow that the boy is dead, though it is more than probable. i knew of a case where two boys and a girl were sent into the woods by their mother to fetch home the cows. the children were lost; the parents mourned them for dead, for all search for them proved fruitless, and after seven years the eldest son returned. they had been overtaken and carried off by a party of indians, who belonged to a tribe inhabiting the islands in lake huron, several hundred miles away from their forest-home. the girl, as she grew into woman, married one of the tribe; the boys followed the occupation of hunters and fishers, and from their dress and appearance might have passed for the red sons of the forest. the eldest boy, however, never forgot the name of his parent, and the manner in which he had been lost, and took the first opportunity of making his escape, and travelling back to the home of his childhood. “when he made himself known to his mother, who was a widow, but still resided upon the same spot, he was so dark and indian-like, that she could not believe that he was her son, until he brought to her mind a little incident, that, forgotten by her, had never left his memory. “mother, don't you remember saying to me on that afternoon, 'ned, you need not look for the cows in the swamp, they went off towards the big hill.' “the delighted mother clasped him in her arms, exclaiming, 'you say truly,--you are indeed my own, my long lost son!'” [illustration: book cover] the crux books by charlotte perkins gilman women and economics $ . concerning children . in this our world (verse) . the yellow wallpaper (story) . the home . human work . what diantha did (novel) . the man-made world; or, our androcentric culture . moving the mountain . the crux . suffrage songs . the crux a novel by charlotte perkins gilman charlton company new york copyright, by charlotte perkins gilman the co-operative press, spruce street, new york preface this story is, first, for young women to read; second, for young men to read; after that, for anybody who wants to. anyone who doubts its facts and figures is referred to "social diseases and marriage," by dr. prince morrow, or to "hygiene and morality," by miss lavinia dock, a trained nurse of long experience. some will hold that the painful facts disclosed are unfit for young girls to know. young girls are precisely the ones who must know them, in order that they may protect themselves and their children to come. the time to know of danger is before it is too late to avoid it. if some say "innocence is the greatest charm of young girls," the answer is, "what good does it do them?" contents chapter page i. the back way ii. bainville effects iii. the outbreak iv. transplanted v. contrasts vi. new friends and old vii. side lights viii. a mixture ix. consequences x. determination xi. thereafter xii. achievements _who should know but the woman?--the young wife-to-be? whose whole life hangs on the choice; to her the ruin, the misery; to her, the deciding voice._ _who should know but the woman?--the mother-to-be? guardian, giver, and guide; if she may not foreknow, forejudge and foresee, what safety has childhood beside?_ _who should know but the woman?--the girl in her youth? the hour of the warning is then, that, strong in her knowledge and free in her truth, she may build a new race of new men._ chapter i the back way along the same old garden path, sweet with the same old flowers; under the lilacs, darkly dense, the easy gate in the backyard fence-- those unforgotten hours! the "foote girls" were bustling along margate street with an air of united purpose that was unusual with them. miss rebecca wore her black silk cloak, by which it might be seen that "a call" was toward. miss jessie, the thin sister, and miss sallie, the fat one, were more hastily attired. they were persons of less impressiveness than miss rebecca, as was tacitly admitted by their more familiar nicknames, a concession never made by the older sister. even miss rebecca was hurrying a little, for her, but the others were swifter and more impatient. "do come on, rebecca. anybody'd think you were eighty instead of fifty!" said miss sallie. "there's mrs. williams going in! i wonder if she's heard already. do hurry!" urged miss josie. but miss rebecca, being concerned about her dignity, would not allow herself to be hustled, and the three proceeded in irregular order under the high-arched elms and fence-topping syringas of the small new england town toward the austere home of mr. samuel lane. it was a large, uncompromising, square, white house, planted starkly in the close-cut grass. it had no porch for summer lounging, no front gate for evening dalliance, no path-bordering beds of flowers from which to pluck a hasty offering or more redundant tribute. the fragrance which surrounded it came from the back yard, or over the fences of neighbors; the trees which waved greenly about it were the trees of other people. mr. lane had but two trees, one on each side of the straight and narrow path, evenly placed between house and sidewalk--evergreens. mrs. lane received them amiably; the minister's new wife, mrs. williams, was proving a little difficult to entertain. she was from cambridge, mass., and emanated a restrained consciousness of that fact. mr. lane rose stiffly and greeted them. he did not like the foote girls, not having the usual american's share of the sense of humor. he had no enjoyment of the town joke, as old as they were, that "the three of them made a full yard;" and had frowned down as a profane impertinent the man--a little sore under some effect of gossip--who had amended it with "make an 'ell, i say." safely seated in their several rocking chairs, and severally rocking them, the misses foote burst forth, as was their custom, in simultaneous, though by no means identical remarks. "i suppose you've heard about morton elder?" "what do you think mort elder's been doing now?" "we've got bad news for poor miss elder!" mrs. lane was intensely interested. even mr. lane showed signs of animation. "i'm not surprised," he said. "he's done it now," opined miss josie with conviction. "i always said rella elder was spoiling that boy." "it's too bad--after all she's done for him! he always was a scamp!" thus miss sallie. "i've been afraid of it all along," miss rebecca was saying, her voice booming through the lighter tones of her sisters. "i always said he'd never get through college." "but who is morton elder, and what has he done?" asked mrs. williams as soon as she could be heard. this lady now proved a most valuable asset. she was so new to the town, and had been so immersed in the suddenly widening range of her unsalaried duties as "minister's wife," that she had never even heard of morton elder. a new resident always fans the languishing flame of local conversation. the whole shopworn stock takes on a fresh lustre, topics long trampled flat in much discussion lift their heads anew, opinions one scarce dared to repeat again become almost authoritative, old stories flourish freshly, acquiring new detail and more vivid color. mrs. lane, seizing her opportunity while the sisters gasped a momentary amazement at anyone's not knowing the town scapegrace, and taking advantage of her position as old friend and near neighbor of the family under discussion, swept into the field under such headway that even the foote girls remained silent perforce; surcharged, however, and holding their breaths in readiness to burst forth at the first opening. "he's the nephew--orphan nephew--of miss elder--who lives right back of us--our yards touch--we've always been friends--went to school together, rella's never married--she teaches, you know--and her brother--he owned the home--it's all hers now, he died all of a sudden and left two children--morton and susie. mort was about seven years old and susie just a baby. he's been an awful cross--but she just idolizes him--she's spoiled him, i tell her." mrs. lane had to breathe, and even the briefest pause left her stranded to wait another chance. the three social benefactors proceeded to distribute their information in a clattering torrent. they sought to inform mrs. williams in especial, of numberless details of the early life and education of their subject, matters which would have been treated more appreciatively if they had not been blessed with the later news; and, at the same time, each was seeking for a more dramatic emphasis to give this last supply of incident with due effect. no regular record is possible where three persons pour forth statement and comment in a rapid, tumultuous stream, interrupted by cross currents of heated contradiction, and further varied by the exclamations and protests of three hearers, or at least, of two; for the one man present soon relapsed into disgusted silence. mrs. williams, turning a perplexed face from one to the other, inwardly condemning the darkening flood of talk, yet conscious of a sinful pleasure in it, and anxious as a guest, _and_ a minister's wife, to be most amiable, felt like one watching three kinetescopes at once. she saw, in confused pictures of blurred and varying outline, orella elder, the young new england girl, only eighteen, already a "school ma'am," suddenly left with two children to bring up, and doing it, as best she could. she saw the boy, momentarily changing, in his shuttlecock flight from mouth to mouth, through pale shades of open mischief to the black and scarlet of hinted sin, the terror of the neighborhood, the darling of his aunt, clever, audacious, scandalizing the quiet town. "boys are apt to be mischievous, aren't they?" she suggested when it was possible. "he's worse than mischievous," mr. lane assured her sourly. "there's a mean streak in that family." "that's on his mother's side," mrs. lane hastened to add. "she was a queer girl--came from new york." the foote girls began again, with rich profusion of detail, their voices rising shrill, one above the other, and playing together at their full height like emulous fountains. "we ought not to judge, you know;" urged mrs. williams. "what do you say he's really done?" being sifted, it appeared that this last and most terrible performance was to go to "the city" with a group of "the worst boys of college," to get undeniably drunk, to do some piece of mischief. (here was great licence in opinion, and in contradiction.) "_anyway_ he's to be suspended!" said miss rebecca with finality. "suspended!" miss josie's voice rose in scorn. "_expelled!_ they said he was expelled." "in disgrace!" added miss sallie. vivian lane sat in the back room at the window, studying in the lingering light of the long june evening. at least, she appeared to be studying. her tall figure was bent over her books, but the dark eyes blazed under their delicate level brows, and her face flushed and paled with changing feelings. she had heard--who, in the same house, could escape hearing the misses foote?--and had followed the torrent of description, hearsay, surmise and allegation with an interest that was painful in its intensity. "it's a _shame_!" she whispered under her breath. "a _shame_! and nobody to stand up for him!" she half rose to her feet as if to do it herself, but sank back irresolutely. a fresh wave of talk rolled forth. "it'll half kill his aunt." "poor miss elder! i don't know what she'll do!" "i don't know what _he'll_ do. he can't go back to college." "he'll have to go to work." "i'd like to know where--nobody'd hire him in this town." the girl could bear it no longer. she came to the door, and there, as they paused to speak to her, her purpose ebbed again. "my daughter, vivian, mrs. williams," said her mother; and the other callers greeted her familiarly. "you'd better finish your lessons, vivian," mr. lane suggested. "i have, father," said the girl, and took a chair by the minister's wife. she had a vague feeling that if she were there, they would not talk so about morton elder. mrs. williams hailed the interruption gratefully. she liked the slender girl with the thoughtful eyes and pretty, rather pathetic mouth, and sought to draw her out. but her questions soon led to unfortunate results. "you are going to college, i suppose?" she presently inquired; and vivian owned that it was the desire of her heart. "nonsense!" said her father. "stuff and nonsense, vivian! you're not going to college." the foote girls now burst forth in voluble agreement with mr. lane. his wife was evidently of the same mind; and mrs. williams plainly regretted her question. but vivian mustered courage enough to make a stand, strengthened perhaps by the depth of the feeling which had brought her into the room. "i don't know why you're all so down on a girl's going to college. eve marks has gone, and mary spring is going--and both the austin girls. everybody goes now." "i know one girl that won't," was her father's incisive comment, and her mother said quietly, "a girl's place is at home--'till she marries." "suppose i don't want to marry?" said vivian. "don't talk nonsense," her father answered. "marriage is a woman's duty." "what do you want to do?" asked miss josie in the interests of further combat. "do you want to be a doctor, like jane bellair?" "i should like to very much indeed," said the girl with quiet intensity. "i'd like to be a doctor in a babies' hospital." "more nonsense," said mr. lane. "don't talk to me about that woman! you attend to your studies, and then to your home duties, my dear." the talk rose anew, the three sisters contriving all to agree with mr. lane in his opinions about college, marriage and dr. bellair, yet to disagree violently among themselves. mrs. williams rose to go, and in the lull that followed the liquid note of a whippoorwill met the girl's quick ear. she quietly slipped out, unnoticed. the lane's home stood near the outer edge of the town, with an outlook across wide meadows and soft wooded hills. behind, their long garden backed on that of miss orella elder, with a connecting gate in the gray board fence. mrs. lane had grown up here. the house belonged to her mother, mrs. servilla pettigrew, though that able lady was seldom in it, preferring to make herself useful among two growing sets of grandchildren. miss elder was vivian's favorite teacher. she was a careful and conscientious instructor, and the girl was a careful and conscientious scholar; so they got on admirably together; indeed, there was a real affection between them. and just as the young laura pettigrew had played with the younger orella elder, so vivian had played with little susie elder, miss orella's orphan niece. susie regarded the older girl with worshipful affection, which was not at all unpleasant to an emotional young creature with unemotional parents, and no brothers or sisters of her own. moreover, susie was morton's sister. the whippoorwill's cry sounded again through the soft june night. vivian came quickly down the garden path between the bordering beds of sweet alyssum and mignonette. a dew-wet rose brushed against her hand. she broke it off, pricking her fingers, and hastily fastened it in the bosom of her white frock. large old lilac bushes hung over the dividing fence, a thick mass of honeysuckle climbed up by the gate and mingled with them, spreading over to a pear tree on the lane side. in this fragrant, hidden corner was a rough seat, and from it a boy's hand reached out and seized the girl's, drawing her down beside him. she drew away from him as far as the seat allowed. "oh morton!" she said. "what have you done?" morton was sulky. "now vivian, are you down on me too? i thought i had one friend." "you ought to tell me," she said more gently. "how can i be your friend if i don't know the facts? they are saying perfectly awful things." "who are?" "why--the foote girls--everybody." "oh those old maids aren't everybody, i assure you. you see, vivian, you live right here in this old oyster of a town--and you make mountains out of molehills like everybody else. a girl of your intelligence ought to know better." she drew a great breath of relief. "then you haven't--done it?" "done what? what's all this mysterious talk anyhow? the prisoner has a right to know what he's charged with before he commits himself." the girl was silent, finding it difficult to begin. "well, out with it. what do they say i did?" he picked up a long dry twig and broke it, gradually, into tiny, half-inch bits. "they say you--went to the city--with a lot of the worst boys in college----" "well? many persons go to the city every day. that's no crime, surely. as for 'the worst boys in college,'"--he laughed scornfully--"i suppose those old ladies think if a fellow smokes a cigarette or says 'darn' he's a tough. they're mighty nice fellows, that bunch--most of 'em. got some ginger in 'em, that's all. what else?" "they say--you drank." "o ho! said i got drunk, i warrant! well--we did have a skate on that time, i admit!" and he laughed as if this charge were but a familiar joke. "why morton elder! i think it is a--disgrace!" "pshaw, vivian!--you ought to have more sense. all the fellows get gay once in a while. a college isn't a young ladies' seminary." he reached out and got hold of her hand again, but she drew it away. "there was something else," she said. "what was it?" he questioned sharply. "what did they say?" but she would not satisfy him--perhaps could not. "i should think you'd be ashamed, to make your aunt so much trouble. they said you were suspended--or--_expelled_!" he shrugged his big shoulders and threw away the handful of broken twigs. "that's true enough--i might as well admit that." "oh, _morton_!--i didn't believe it. _expelled!_" "yes, expelled--turned down--thrown out--fired! and i'm glad of it." he leaned back against the fence and whistled very softly through his teeth. "sh! sh!" she urged. "please!" he was quiet. "but morton--what are you going to do?--won't it spoil your career?" "no, my dear little girl, it will not!" said he. "on the contrary, it will be the making of me. i tell you, vivian, i'm sick to death of this town of maiden ladies--and 'good family men.' i'm sick of being fussed over for ever and ever, and having wristers and mufflers knitted for me--and being told to put on my rubbers! there's no fun in this old clamshell--this kitchen-midden of a town--and i'm going to quit it." he stood up and stretched his long arms. "i'm going to quit it for good and all." the girl sat still, her hands gripping the seat on either side. "where are you going?" she asked in a low voice. "i'm going west--clear out west. i've been talking with aunt rella about it. dr. bellair'll help me to a job, she thinks. she's awful cut up, of course. i'm sorry she feels bad--but she needn't, i tell her. i shall do better there than i ever should have here. i know a fellow that left college--his father failed--and he went into business and made two thousand dollars in a year. i always wanted to take up business--you know that!" she knew it--he had talked of it freely before they had argued and persuaded him into the college life. she knew, too, how his aunt's hopes all centered in him, and in his academic honors and future professional life. "business," to his aunt's mind, was a necessary evil, which could at best be undertaken only after a "liberal education." "when are you going," she asked at length. "right off--to-morrow." she gave a little gasp. "that's what i was whippoorwilling about--i knew i'd get no other chance to talk to you--i wanted to say good-by, you know." the girl sat silent, struggling not to cry. he dropped beside her, stole an arm about her waist, and felt her tremble. "now, viva, don't you go and cry! i'm sorry--i really am sorry--to make _you_ feel bad." this was too much for her, and she sobbed frankly. "oh, morton! how could you! how could you!--and now you've got to go away!" "there now--don't cry--sh!--they'll hear you." she did hush at that. "and don't feel so bad--i'll come back some time--to see you." "no, you won't!" she answered with sudden fierceness. "you'll just go--and stay--and i never shall see you again!" he drew her closer to him. "and do you care--so much--viva?" "of course, i care!" she said, "haven't we always been friends, the best of friends?" "yes--you and aunt rella have been about all i had," he admitted with a cheerful laugh. "i hope i'll make more friends out yonder. but viva,"--his hand pressed closer--"is it only--friends?" she took fright at once and drew away from him. "you mustn't do that, morton!" "do what?" a shaft of moonlight shone on his teasing face. "what am i doing?" he said. it is difficult--it is well nigh impossible--for a girl to put a name to certain small cuddlings not in themselves terrifying, nor even unpleasant, but which she obscurely feels to be wrong. viva flushed and was silent--he could see the rich color flood her face. "come now--don't be hard on a fellow!" he urged. "i shan't see you again in ever so long. you'll forget all about me before a year's over." she shook her head, still silent. "won't you speak to me--viva?" "i wish----" she could not find the words she wanted. "oh, i wish you--wouldn't!" "wouldn't what, girlie? wouldn't go away? sorry to disoblige--but i have to. there's no place for me here." the girl felt the sad truth of that. "aunt rella will get used to it after a while. i'll write to her--i'll make lots of money--and come back in a few years--astonish you all!--meanwhile--kiss me good-by, viva!" she drew back shyly. she had never kissed him. she had never in her life kissed any man younger than an uncle. "no, morton--you mustn't----" she shrank away into the shadow. but, there was no great distance to shrink to, and his strong arms soon drew her close again. "suppose you never see me again," he said. "then you'll wish you hadn't been so stiff about it." she thought of this dread possibility with a sudden chill of horror, and while she hesitated, he took her face between her hands and kissed her on the mouth. steps were heard coming down the path. "they're on," he said with a little laugh. "good-by, viva!" he vaulted the fence and was gone. "what are you doing here, vivian?" demanded her father. "i was saying good-by to morton," she answered with a sob. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself--philandering out here in the middle of the night with that scapegrace! come in the house and go to bed at once--it's ten o'clock." bowing to this confused but almost equally incriminating chronology, she followed him in, meekly enough as to her outward seeming, but inwardly in a state of stormy tumult. she had been kissed! her father's stiff back before her could not blot out the radiant, melting moonlight, the rich sweetness of the flowers, the tender, soft, june night. "you go to bed," said he once more. "i'm ashamed of you." "yes, father," she answered. her little room, when at last she was safely in it and had shut the door and put a chair against it--she had no key--seemed somehow changed. she lit the lamp and stood looking at herself in the mirror. her eyes were star-bright. her cheeks flamed softly. her mouth looked guilty and yet glad. she put the light out and went to the window, kneeling there, leaning out in the fragrant stillness, trying to arrange in her mind this mixture of grief, disapproval, shame and triumph. when the episcopal church clock struck eleven, she went to bed in guilty haste, but not to sleep. for a long time she lay there watching the changing play of moonlight on the floor. she felt almost as if she were married. chapter ii. bainville effects. lockstep, handcuffs, ankle-ball-and-chain, dulltoil and dreary food and drink; small cell, cold cell, narrow bed and hard; high wall, thick wall, window iron-barred; stone-paved, stone-pent little prison yard-- young hearts weary of monotony and pain, young hearts weary of reiterant refrain: "they say--they do--what will people think?" at the two front windows of their rather crowded little parlor sat miss rebecca and miss josie foote, miss sallie being out on a foraging expedition--marketing, as it were, among their neighbors to collect fresh food for thought. a tall, slender girl in brown passed on the opposite walk. "i should think vivian lane would get tired of wearing brown," said miss rebecca. "i don't know why she should," her sister promptly protested, "it's a good enough wearing color, and becoming to her." "she could afford to have more variety," said miss rebecca. "the lanes are mean enough about some things, but i know they'd like to have her dress better. she'll never get married in the world." "i don't know why not. she's only twenty-five--and good-looking." "good-looking! that's not everything. plenty of girls marry that are not good-looking--and plenty of good-looking girls stay single." "plenty of homely ones, too. rebecca," said miss josie, with meaning. miss rebecca certainly was not handsome. "going to the library, of course!" she pursued presently. "that girl reads all the time." "so does her grandmother. i see her going and coming from that library every day almost." "oh, well--she reads stories and things like that. sallie goes pretty often and she notices. we use that library enough, goodness knows, but they are there every day. vivian lane reads the queerest things--doctor's books and works on pedagoggy." "godgy," said miss rebecca, "not goggy." and as her sister ignored this correction, she continued: "they might as well have let her go to college when she was so set on it." "college! i don't believe she'd have learned as much in any college, from what i hear of 'em, as she has in all this time at home." the foote girls had never entertained a high opinion of extensive culture. "i don't see any use in a girl's studying so much," said miss rebecca with decision. "nor i," agreed miss josie. "men don't like learned women." "they don't seem to always like those that aren't learned, either," remarked miss rebecca with a pleasant sense of retribution for that remark about "homely ones." the tall girl in brown had seen the two faces at the windows opposite, and had held her shoulders a little straighter as she turned the corner. "nine years this summer since morton elder went west," murmured miss josie, reminiscently. "i shouldn't wonder if vivian had stayed single on his account." "nonsense!" her sister answered sharply. "she's not that kind. she's not popular with men, that's all. she's too intellectual." "she ought to be in the library instead of sue elder," miss rebecca suggested. "she's far more competent. sue's a feather-headed little thing." "she seems to give satisfaction so far. if the trustees are pleased with her, there's no reason for you to complain that i see," said miss rebecca with decision. * * * * * vivian lane waited at the library desk with an armful of books to take home. she had her card, her mother's and her father's--all utilized. her grandmother kept her own card--and her own counsel. the pretty assistant librarian, withdrawing herself with some emphasis from the unnecessary questions of a too gallant old gentleman, came to attend her. "you _have_ got a load," she said, scribbling complex figures with one end of her hammer-headed pencil, and stamping violet dates with the other. she whisked out the pale blue slips from the lid pockets, dropped them into their proper openings in the desk and inserted the cards in their stead with delicate precision. "can't you wait a bit and go home with me?" she asked. "i'll help you carry them." "no, thanks. i'm not going right home." "you're going to see your saint--i know!" said miss susie, tossing her bright head. "i'm jealous, and you know it." "don't be a goose, susie! you know you're my very best friend, but--she's different." "i should think she was different!" susie sharply agreed. "and you've been 'different' ever since she came." "i hope so," said vivian gravely. "mrs. st. cloud brings out one's very best and highest. i wish you liked her better, susie." "i like you," susie answered. "you bring out my 'best and highest'--if i've got any. she don't. she's like a lovely, faint, bright--bubble! i want to prick it!" vivian smiled down upon her. "you bad little mouse!" she said. "come, give me the books." "leave them with me, and i'll bring them in the car." susie looked anxious to make amends for her bit of blasphemy. "all right, dear. thank you. i'll be home by that time, probably." * * * * * in the street she stopped before a little shop where papers and magazines were sold. "i believe father'd like the new centurion," she said to herself, and got it for him, chatting a little with the one-armed man who kept the place. she stopped again at a small florist's and bought a little bag of bulbs. "your mother's forgotten about those, i guess," said mrs. crothers, the florist's wife, "but they'll do just as well now. lucky you thought of them before it got too late in the season. bennie was awfully pleased with that red and blue pencil you gave him, miss lane." vivian walked on. a child ran out suddenly from a gate and seized upon her. "aren't you coming in to see me--ever?" she demanded. vivian stooped and kissed her. "yes, dear, but not to-night. how's that dear baby getting on?" "she's better," said the little girl. "mother said thank you--lots of times. wait a minute--" the child fumbled in vivian's coat pocket with a mischievous upward glance, fished out a handful of peanuts, and ran up the path laughing while the tall girl smiled down upon her lovingly. a long-legged boy was lounging along the wet sidewalk. vivian caught up with him and he joined her with eagerness. "good evening, miss lane. say--are you coming to the club to-morrow night?" she smiled cordially. "of course i am, johnny. i wouldn't disappoint my boys for anything--nor myself, either." they walked on together chatting until, at the minister's house, she bade him a cheery "good-night." mrs. st. cloud was at the window pensively watching the western sky. she saw the girl coming and let her in with a tender, radiant smile--a lovely being in a most unlovely room. there was a chill refinement above subdued confusion in that cambridge-bainville parlor, where the higher culture of the second mrs. williams, superimposed upon the lower culture of the first, as that upon the varying tastes of a combined ancestry, made the place somehow suggestive of excavations at abydos. it was much the kind of parlor vivian had been accustomed to from childhood, but mrs. st. cloud was of a type quite new to her. clothed in soft, clinging fabrics, always with a misty, veiled effect to them, wearing pale amber, large, dull stones of uncertain shapes, and slender chains that glittered here and there among her scarfs and laces, sinking gracefully among deep cushions, even able to sink gracefully into a common bainville chair--this beautiful woman had captured the girl's imagination from the first. clearly known, she was a sister of mrs. williams, visiting indefinitely. vaguely--and very frequently--hinted, her husband had "left her," and "she did not believe in divorce." against her background of dumb patience, he shone darkly forth as a brute of unknown cruelties. nothing against him would she ever say, and every young masculine heart yearned to make life brighter to the ideal woman, so strangely neglected; also some older ones. her young men's bible class was the pride of mr. williams' heart and joy of such young men as the town possessed; most of bainville's boys had gone. "a wonderful uplifting influence," mr. williams called her, and refused to say anything, even when directly approached, as to "the facts" of her trouble. "it is an old story," he would say. "she bears up wonderfully. she sacrifices her life rather than her principles." to vivian, sitting now on a hassock at the lady's feet and looking up at her with adoring eyes, she was indeed a star, a saint, a cloud of mystery. she reached out a soft hand, white, slender, delicately kept, wearing one thin gold ring, and stroked the girl's smooth hair. vivian seized the hand and kissed it, blushing as she did so. "you foolish child! don't waste your young affection on an old lady like me." "old! you! you don't look as old as i do this minute!" said the girl with hushed intensity. "life wears on you, i'm afraid, my dear.... do you ever hear from him?" to no one else, not even to susie, could vivian speak of what now seemed the tragedy of her lost youth. "no," said she. "never now. he did write once or twice--at first." "he writes to his aunt, of course?" "yes," said vivian. "but not often. and he never--says anything." "i understand. poor child! you must be true, and wait." and the lady turned the thin ring on her finger. vivian watched her in a passion of admiring tenderness. "oh, you understand!" she exclaimed. "you understand!" "i understand, my dear," said mrs. st. cloud. when vivian reached her own gate she leaned her arms upon it and looked first one way and then the other, down the long, still street. the country was in sight at both ends--the low, monotonous, wooded hills that shut them in. it was all familiar, wearingly familiar. she had known it continuously for such part of her lifetime as was sensitive to landscape effects, and had at times a mad wish for an earthquake to change the outlines a little. the infrequent trolley car passed just then and sue elder joined her, to take the short cut home through the lane's yard. "here you are," she said cheerfully, "and here are the books." vivian thanked her. "oh, say--come in after supper, can't you? aunt rella's had another letter from mort." vivian's sombre eyes lit up a little. "how's he getting on? in the same business he was last year?" she asked with an elaborately cheerful air. morton had seemed to change occupations oftener than he wrote letters. "yes, i believe so. i guess he's well. he never says much, you know. i don't think it's good for him out there--good for any boy." and susie looked quite the older sister. "what are they to do? they can't stay here." "no, i suppose not--but we have to." "dr. bellair didn't," remarked vivian. "i like her--tremendously, don't you?" in truth, dr. bellair was already a close second to mrs. st. cloud in the girl's hero-worshipping heart. "oh, yes; she's splendid! aunt rella is so glad to have her with us. they have great times recalling their school days together. aunty used to like her then, though she is five years older--but you'd never dream it. and i think she's real handsome." "she's not beautiful," said vivian, with decision, "but she's a lot better. sue elder, i wish----" "wish what?" asked her friend. sue put the books on the gate-post, and the two girls, arm in arm, walked slowly up and down. susie was a round, palely rosy little person, with a delicate face and soft, light hair waving fluffily about her small head. vivian's hair was twice the length, but so straight and fine that its mass had no effect. she wore it in smooth plaits wound like a wreath from brow to nape. after an understanding silence and a walk past three gates and back again, vivian answered her. "i wish i were in your shoes," she said. "what do you mean--having the doctor in the house?" "no--i'd like that too; but i mean work to do--your position." "oh, the library! you needn't; it's horrid. i wish i were in your shoes, and had a father and mother to take care of me. i can tell you, it's no fun--having to be there just on time or get fined, and having to poke away all day with those phooty old ladies and tiresome children." "but you're independent." "oh, yes, i'm independent. i have to be. aunt rella _could_ take care of me, i suppose, but of course i wouldn't let her. and i dare say library work is better than school-teaching." "what'll we be doing when we're forty, i wonder?" said vivian, after another turn. "forty! why i expect to be a grandma by that time," said sue. she was but twenty-one, and forty looked a long way off to her. "a grandma! and knit?" suggested vivian. "oh, yes--baby jackets--and blankets--and socks--and little shawls. i love to knit," said sue, cheerfully. "but suppose you don't marry?" pursued her friend. "oh, but i shall marry--you see if i don't. marriage"--here she carefully went inside the gate and latched it--"marriage is--a woman's duty!" and she ran up the path laughing. vivian laughed too, rather grimly, and slowly walked towards her own door. the little sitting-room was hot, very hot; but mr. lane sat with his carpet-slippered feet on its narrow hearth with a shawl around him. "shut the door, vivian!" he exclaimed irritably. "i'll never get over this cold if such draughts are let in on me." "why, it's not cold out, father--and it's very close in here." mrs. lane looked up from her darning. "you think it's close because you've come in from outdoors. sit down--and don't fret your father; i'm real worried about him." mr. lane coughed hollowly. he had become a little dry old man with gray, glassy eyes, and had been having colds in this fashion ever since vivian could remember. "dr. bellair says that the out-door air is the best medicine for a cold," remarked vivian, as she took off her things. "dr. bellair has not been consulted in this case," her father returned wheezingly. "i'm quite satisfied with my family physician. he's a man, at any rate." "save me from these women doctors!" exclaimed his wife. vivian set her lips patiently. she had long since learned how widely she differed from both father and mother, and preferred silence to dispute. mr. lane was a plain, ordinary person, who spent most of a moderately useful life in the shoe business, from which he had of late withdrawn. both he and his wife "had property" to a certain extent; and now lived peacefully on their income with neither fear nor hope, ambition nor responsibility to trouble them. the one thing they were yet anxious about was to see vivian married, but this wish seemed to be no nearer to fulfillment for the passing years. "i don't know what the women are thinking of, these days," went on the old gentleman, putting another shovelful of coal on the fire with a careful hand. "doctors and lawyers and even ministers, some of 'em! the lord certainly set down a woman's duty pretty plain--she was to cleave unto her husband!" "some women have no husbands to cleave to, father." "they'd have husbands fast enough if they'd behave themselves," he answered. "no man's going to want to marry one of these self-sufficient independent, professional women, of course." "i do hope, viva," said her mother, "that you're not letting that dr. bellair put foolish ideas into your head." "i want to do something to support myself--sometime, mother. i can't live on my parents forever." "you be patient, child. there's money enough for you to live on. it's a woman's place to wait," put in mr. lane. "how long?" inquired vivian. "i'm twenty-five. no man has asked me to marry him yet. some of the women in this town have waited thirty--forty--fifty--sixty years. no one has asked them." "i was married at sixteen," suddenly remarked vivian's grandmother. "and my mother wasn't but fifteen. huh!" a sudden little derisive noise she made; such as used to be written "humph!" for the past five years, mrs. pettigrew had made her home with the lanes. mrs. lane herself was but a feeble replica of her energetic parent. there was but seventeen years difference in their ages, and comparative idleness with some ill-health on the part of the daughter, had made the difference appear less. mrs. pettigrew had but a poor opinion of the present generation. in her active youth she had reared a large family on a small income; in her active middle-age, she had trotted about from daughter's house to son's house, helping with the grandchildren. and now she still trotted about in all weathers, visiting among the neighbors and vibrating as regularly as a pendulum between her daughter's house and the public library. the books she brought home were mainly novels, and if she perused anything else in the severe quiet of the reading-room, she did not talk about it. indeed, it was a striking characteristic of mrs. pettigrew that she talked very little, though she listened to all that went on with a bright and beady eye, as of a highly intelligent parrot. and now, having dropped her single remark into the conversation, she shut her lips tight as was her habit, and drew another ball of worsted from the black bag that always hung at her elbow. she was making one of those perennial knitted garments, which, in her young days, were called "cardigan jackets," later "jerseys," and now by the offensive name of "sweater." these she constructed in great numbers, and their probable expense was a source of discussion in the town. "how do you find friends enough to give them to?" they asked her, and she would smile enigmatically and reply, "good presents make good friends." "if a woman minds her p's and q's she can get a husband easy enough," insisted the invalid. "just shove that lamp nearer, vivian, will you." vivian moved the lamp. her mother moved her chair to follow it and dropped her darning egg, which the girl handed to her. "supper's ready," announced a hard-featured middle-aged woman, opening the dining-room door. at this moment the gate clicked, and a firm step was heard coming up the path. "gracious, that's the minister!" cried mrs. lane. "he said he'd be in this afternoon if he got time. i thought likely 'twould be to supper." she received him cordially, and insisted on his staying, slipping out presently to open a jar of quinces. the reverend otis williams was by no means loathe to take occasional meals with his parishioners. it was noted that, in making pastoral calls, he began with the poorer members of his flock, and frequently arrived about meal-time at the houses of those whose cooking he approved. "it is always a treat to take supper here," he said. "not feeling well, mr. lane? i'm sorry to hear it. ah! mrs. pettigrew! is that jacket for me, by any chance? a little sombre, isn't it? good evening, vivian. you are looking well--as you always do." vivian did not like him. he had married her mother, he had christened her, she had "sat under" him for long, dull, uninterrupted years; yet still she didn't like him. "a chilly evening, mr. lane," he pursued. "that's what i say," his host agreed. "vivian says it isn't; i say it is." "disagreement in the family! this won't do, vivian," said the minister jocosely. "duty to parents, you know! duty to parents!" "does duty to parents alter the temperature?" the girl asked, in a voice of quiet sweetness, yet with a rebellious spark in her soft eyes. "huh!" said her grandmother--and dropped her gray ball. vivian picked it up and the old lady surreptitiously patted her. "pardon me," said the reverend gentleman to mrs. pettigrew, "did you speak?" "no," said the old lady, "seldom do." "silence is golden, mrs. pettigrew. silence is golden. speech is silver, but silence is golden. it is a rare gift." mrs. pettigrew set her lips so tightly that they quite disappeared, leaving only a thin dented line in her smoothly pale face. she was called by the neighbors "wonderfully well preserved," a phrase she herself despised. some visitor, new to the town, had the hardihood to use it to her face once. "huh!" was the response. "i'm just sixty. henry haskins and george baker and stephen doolittle are all older'n i am--and still doing business, doing it better'n any of the young folks as far as i can see. you don't compare them to canned pears, do you?" mr. williams knew her value in church work, and took no umbrage at her somewhat inimical expression; particularly as just then mrs. lane appeared and asked them to walk out to supper. vivian sat among them, restrained and courteous, but inwardly at war with her surroundings. here was her mother, busy, responsible, serving creamed codfish and hot biscuit; her father, eating wheezily, and finding fault with the biscuit, also with the codfish; her grandmother, bright-eyed, thin-lipped and silent. vivian got on well with her grandmother, though neither of them talked much. "my mother used to say that the perfect supper was cake, preserves, hot bread, and a 'relish,'" said mr. williams genially. "you have the perfect supper, mrs. lane." "i'm glad if you enjoy it, i'm sure," said that lady. "i'm fond of a bit of salt myself." "and what are you reading now, vivian," he asked paternally. "ward," she answered, modestly and briefly. "ward? dr. ward of the _centurion_?" vivian smiled her gentlest. "oh, no," she replied; "lester f. ward, the sociologist." "poor stuff, i think!" said her father. "girls have no business to read such things." "i wish you'd speak to vivian about it, mr. williams. she's got beyond me," protested her mother. "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew. "i'd like some more of that quince, laura." "my dear young lady, you are not reading books of which your parents disapprove, i hope?" urged the minister. "shouldn't i--ever?" asked the girl, in her soft, disarming manner. "i'm surely old enough!" "the duty of a daughter is not measured by years," he replied sonorously. "does parental duty cease? are you not yet a child in your father's house?" "is a daughter always a child if she lives at home?" inquired the girl, as one seeking instruction. he set down his cup and wiped his lips, flushing somewhat. "the duty of a daughter begins at the age when she can understand the distinction between right and wrong," he said, "and continues as long as she is blessed with parents." "and what is it?" she asked, large-eyed, attentive. "what is it?" he repeated, looking at her in some surprise. "it is submission, obedience--obedience." "i see. so mother ought to obey grandmother," she pursued meditatively, and mrs. pettigrew nearly choked in her tea. vivian was boiling with rebellion. to sit there and be lectured at the table, to have her father complain of her, her mother invite pastoral interference, the minister preach like that. she slapped her grandmother's shoulder, readjusted the little knit shawl on the straight back--and refrained from further speech. when mrs. pettigrew could talk, she demanded suddenly of the minister, "have you read campbell's new theology?" and from that on they were all occupied in listening to mr. williams' strong, clear and extensive views on the subject--which lasted into the parlor again. vivian sat for awhile in the chair nearest the window, where some thin thread of air might possibly leak in, and watched the minister with a curious expression. all her life he had been held up to her as a person to honor, as a man of irreproachable character, great learning and wisdom. of late she found with a sense of surprise that she did not honor him at all. he seemed to her suddenly like a relic of past ages, a piece of an old parchment--or papyrus. in the light of the studies she had been pursuing in the well-stored town library, the teachings of this worthy old gentleman appeared a jumble of age-old traditions, superimposed one upon another. "he's a palimpsest," she said to herself, "and a poor palimpsest at that." she sat with her shapely hands quiet in her lap while her grandmother's shining needles twinkled in the dark wool, and her mother's slim crochet hook ran along the widening spaces of some thin, white, fuzzy thing. the rich powers of her young womanhood longed for occupation, but she could never hypnotize herself with "fancywork." her work must be worth while. she felt the crushing cramp and loneliness of a young mind, really stronger than those about her, yet held in dumb subjection. she could not solace herself by loving them; her father would have none of it, and her mother had small use for what she called "sentiment." all her life vivian had longed for more loving, both to give and take; but no one ever imagined it of her, she was so quiet and repressed in manner. the local opinion was that if a woman had a head, she could not have a heart; and as to having a body--it was indelicate to consider such a thing. "i mean to have six children," vivian had planned when she was younger. "and they shall never be hungry for more loving." she meant to make up to her vaguely imagined future family for all that her own youth missed. even grandma, though far more sympathetic in temperament, was not given to demonstration, and vivian solaced her big, tender heart by cuddling all the babies she could reach, and petting cats and dogs when no children were to be found. presently she arose and bade a courteous goodnight to the still prolix parson. "i'm going over to sue's," she said, and went out. * * * * * there was a moon again--a low, large moon, hazily brilliant. the air was sweet with the odors of scarce-gone summer, of coming autumn. the girl stood still, half-way down the path, and looked steadily into that silver radiance. moonlight always filled her heart with a vague excitement, a feeling that something ought to happen--soon. this flat, narrow life, so long, so endlessly long--would nothing ever end it? nine years since morton went away! nine years since the strange, invading thrill of her first kiss! back of that was only childhood; these years really constituted life; and life, in the girl's eyes, was a dreary treadmill. she was externally quiet, and by conscience dutiful; so dutiful, so quiet, so without powers of expression, that the ache of an unsatisfied heart, the stir of young ambitions, were wholly unsuspected by those about her. a studious, earnest, thoughtful girl--but study alone does not supply life's needs, nor does such friendship as her life afforded. susie was "a dear"--susie was morton's sister, and she was very fond of her. but that bright-haired child did not understand--could not understand--all that she needed. then came mrs. st. cloud into her life, stirring the depths of romance, of the buried past, and of the unborn future. from her she learned to face a life of utter renunciation, to be true, true to her ideals, true to her principles, true to the past, to be patient; and to wait. so strengthened, she had turned a deaf ear to such possible voice of admiration as might have come from the scant membership of the young men's bible class, leaving them the more devoted to scripture study. there was no thin ring to turn upon her finger; but, for lack of better token, she had saved the rose she wore upon her breast that night, keeping it hidden among her precious things. and then, into the gray, flat current of her daily life, sharply across the trend of mrs. st. cloud's soft influence, had come a new force--dr. bellair. vivian liked her, yet felt afraid, a slight, shivering hesitancy as before a too cold bath, a subtle sense that this breezy woman, strong, cheerful, full of new ideas, if not ideals, and radiating actual power, power used and enjoyed, might in some way change the movement of her life. change she desired, she longed for, but dreaded the unknown. slowly she followed the long garden path, paused lingeringly by that rough garden seat, went through and closed the gate. chapter iii. the outbreak there comes a time after white months of ice-- slow months of ice--long months of ice-- there comes a time when the still floods below rise, lift, and overflow-- fast, far they go. miss orella sat in her low armless rocker, lifting perplexed, patient eyes to look up at dr. bellair. dr. bellair stood squarely before her, stood easily, on broad-soled, low-heeled shoes, and looked down at miss orella; her eyes were earnest, compelling, full of hope and cheer. "you are as pretty as a girl, orella," she observed irrelevantly. miss orella blushed. she was not used to compliments, even from a woman, and did not know how to take them. "how you talk!" she murmured shyly. "i mean to talk," continued the doctor, "until you listen to reason." reason in this case, to dr. bellair's mind, lay in her advice to miss elder to come west with her--to live. "i don't see how i can. it's--it's such a complete change." miss orella spoke as if change were equivalent to sin, or at least to danger. "do you good. as a physician, i can prescribe nothing better. you need a complete change if anybody ever did." "why, jane! i am quite well." "i didn't say you were sick. but you are in an advanced stage of _arthritis deformans_ of the soul. the whole town's got it!" the doctor tramped up and down the little room, freeing her mind. "i never saw such bed-ridden intellects in my life! i suppose it was so when i was a child--and i was too young to notice it. but surely it's worse now. the world goes faster and faster every day, the people who keep still get farther behind! i'm fond of you, rella. you've got an intellect, and a conscience, and a will--a will like iron. but you spend most of your strength in keeping yourself down. now, do wake up and use it to break loose! you don't have to stay here. come out to colorado with me--and grow." miss elder moved uneasily in her chair. she laid her small embroidery hoop on the table, and straightened out the loose threads of silk, the doctor watching her impatiently. "i'm too old," she said at length. jane bellair laughed aloud, shortly. "old!" she cried. "you're five years younger than i am. you're only thirty-six! old! why, child, your life's before you--to make." "you don't realize, jane. you struck out for yourself so young--and you've grown up out there--it seems to be so different--there." "it is. people aren't afraid to move. what have you got here you so hate to leave, rella?" "why, it's--home." "yes. it's home--now. are you happy in it?" "i'm--contented." "don't you deceive yourself, rella. you are not contented--not by a long chalk. you are doing your duty as you see it; and you've kept yourself down so long you've almost lost the power of motion. i'm trying to galvanize you awake--and i mean to do it." "you might as well sit down while you're doing it, anyway," miss elder suggested meekly. dr. bellair sat down, selecting a formidable fiddle-backed chair, the unflinching determination of its widely-placed feet being repeated by her own square toes. she placed herself in front of her friend and leaned forward, elbows on knees, her strong, intelligent hands clasped loosely. "what have you got to look forward to, rella?" "i want to see susie happily married--" "i said _you_--not susie." "oh--me? why, i hope some day morton will come back----" "i said _you_--not morton." "why i--you know i have friends, jane--and neighbors. and some day, perhaps--i mean to go abroad." "are you scolding aunt rella again, dr. bellair. i won't stand it." pretty susie stood in the door smiling. "come and help me then," the doctor said, "and it won't sound so much like scolding." "i want mort's letter--to show to viva," the girl answered, and slipped out with it. she sat with vivian on the stiff little sofa in the back room; the arms of the two girls were around one another, and they read the letter together. more than six months had passed since his last one. it was not much of a letter. vivian took it in her own hands and went through it again, carefully. the "remember me to viva--unless she's married," at the end did not seem at all satisfying. still it might mean more than appeared--far more. men were reticent and proud, she had read. it was perfectly possible that he might be concealing deep emotion under the open friendliness. he was in no condition to speak freely, to come back and claim her. he did not wish her to feel bound to him. she had discussed it with mrs. st. cloud, shrinkingly, tenderly, led on by tactful, delicate, questions, by the longing of her longing heart for expression and sympathy. "a man who cannot marry must speak of marriage--it is not honorable," her friend had told her. "couldn't he--write to me--as a friend?" and the low-voiced lady had explained with a little sigh that men thought little of friendship with women. "i have tried, all my life, to be a true and helpful friend to men, to such men as seemed worthy, and they so often--misunderstood." the girl, sympathetic and admiring, thought hotly of how other people misunderstood this noble, lovely soul; how they even hinted that she "tried to attract men," a deadly charge in bainville. "no," mrs. st. cloud had told her, "he might love you better than all the world--yet not write to you--till he was ready to say 'come.' and, of course, he wouldn't say anything in his letters to his aunt." so vivian sat there, silent, weaving frail dreams out of "remember me to viva--unless she's married." that last clause might mean much. dr. bellair's voice sounded clear and insistent in the next room. "she's trying to persuade aunt rella to go west!" said susie. "wouldn't it be funny if she did!" in susie's eyes her aunt's age was as the age of mountains, and also her fixity. since she could remember, aunt rella, always palely pretty and neat, like the delicate, faintly-colored spring flowers of new england, had presided over the small white house, the small green garden and the large black and white school-room. in her vacation she sewed, keeping that quiet wardrobe of hers in exquisite order--and also making susie's pretty dresses. to think of aunt orella actually "breaking up housekeeping," giving up her school, leaving bainville, was like a vision of trees walking. to dr. jane bellair, forty-one, vigorous, successful, full of new plans and purposes, miss elder's life appeared as an arrested girlhood, stagnating unnecessarily in this quiet town, while all the world was open to her. "i couldn't think of leaving susie!" protested miss orella. "bring her along," said the doctor. "best thing in the world for her!" she rose and came to the door. the two girls make a pretty picture. vivian's oval face, with its smooth madonna curves under the encircling wreath of soft, dark plaits, and the long grace of her figure, delicately built, yet strong, beside the pink, plump little susie, roguish and pretty, with the look that made everyone want to take care of her. "come in here, girls," said the doctor. "i want you to help me. you're young enough to be movable, i hope." they cheerfully joined the controversy, but miss orella found small support in them. "why don't you do it, auntie!" susie thought it an excellent joke. "i suppose you could teach school in denver as well as here. and you could vote! oh, auntie--to think of your voting!" miss elder, too modestly feminine, too inherently conservative even to be an outspoken "anti," fairly blushed at the idea. "she's hesitating on your account," dr. bellair explained to the girl. "wants to see you safely married! i tell her you'll have a thousandfold better opportunities in colorado than you ever will here." vivian was grieved. she had heard enough of this getting married, and had expected dr. bellair to hold a different position. "surely, that's not the only thing to do," she protested. "no, but it's a very important thing to do--and to do right. it's a woman's duty." vivian groaned in spirit. that again! the doctor watched her understandingly. "if women only did their duty in that line there wouldn't be so much unhappiness in the world," she said. "all you new england girls sit here and cut one another's throats. you can't possible marry, your boys go west, you overcrowd the labor market, lower wages, steadily drive the weakest sisters down till they--drop." they heard the back door latch lift and close again, a quick, decided step--and mrs. pettigrew joined them. miss elder greeted her cordially, and the old lady seated herself in the halo of the big lamp, as one well accustomed to the chair. "go right on," she said--and knitted briskly. "do take my side, mrs. pettigrew," miss orella implored her. "jane bellair is trying to pull me up by the roots and transplant me to colorado." "and she says i shall have a better chance to marry out there--and ought to do it!" said susie, very solemnly. "and vivian objects to being shown the path of duty." vivian smiled. her quiet, rather sad face lit with sudden sparkling beauty when she smiled. "grandma knows i hate that--point of view," she said. "i think men and women ought to be friends, and not always be thinking about--that." "i have some real good friends--boys, i mean," susie agreed, looking so serious in her platonic boast that even vivian was a little amused, and dr. bellair laughed outright. "you won't have a 'friend' in that sense till you're fifty, miss susan--if you ever do. there can be, there are, real friendships between men and women, but most of that talk is--talk, sometimes worse. "i knew a woman once, ever so long ago," the doctor continued musingly, clasping her hands behind her head, "a long way from here--in a college town--who talked about 'friends.' she was married. she was a 'good' woman--perfectly 'good' woman. her husband was not a very good man, i've heard, and strangely impatient of her virtues. she had a string of boys--college boys--always at her heels. quite too young and too charming she was for this friendship game. she said that such a friendship was 'an ennobling influence' for the boys. she called them her 'acolytes.' lots of them were fairly mad about her--one young chap was so desperate over it that he shot himself." there was a pained silence. "i don't see what this has to do with going to colorado," said mrs. pettigrew, looking from one to the other with a keen, observing eye. "what's your plan, dr. bellair?" "why, i'm trying to persuade my old friend here to leave this place, change her occupation, come out to colorado with me, and grow up. she's a case of arrested development." "she wants me to keep boarders!" miss elder plaintively protested to mrs. pettigrew. that lady was not impressed. "it's quite a different matter out there, mrs. pettigrew," the doctor explained. "'keeping boarders' in this country goes to the tune of 'come ye disconsolate!' it's a doubtful refuge for women who are widows or would be better off if they were. where i live it's a sure thing if well managed--it's a good business." mrs. pettigrew wore an unconvinced aspect. "what do you call 'a good business?'" she asked. "the house i have in mind cleared a thousand a year when it was in right hands. that's not bad, over and above one's board and lodging. that house is in the market now. i've just had a letter from a friend about it. orella could go out with me, and step right into mrs. annerly's shoes--she's just giving up." "what'd she give up for?" mrs. pettigrew inquired suspiciously. "oh--she got married; they all do. there are three men to one woman in that town, you see." "i didn't know there was such a place in the world--unless it was a man-of-war," remarked susie, looking much interested. dr. bellair went on more quietly. "it's not even a risk, mrs. pettigrew. rella has a cousin who would gladly run this house for her. she's admitted that much. so there's no loss here, and she's got her home to come back to. i can write to dick hale to nail the proposition at once. she can go when i go, in about a fortnight, and i'll guarantee the first year definitely." "i wouldn't think of letting you do that, jane! and if it's as good as you say, there's no need. but a fortnight! to leave home--in a fortnight!" "what are the difficulties?" the old lady inquired. "there are always some difficulties." "you are right, there," agreed the doctor. "the difficulties in this place are servants. but just now there's a special chance in that line. dick says the best cook in town is going begging. i'll read you his letter." she produced it, promptly, from the breast pocket of her neat coat. dr. bellair wore rather short, tailored skirts of first-class material; natty, starched blouses--silk ones for "dress," and perfectly fitting light coats. their color and texture might vary with the season, but their pockets, never. "'my dear jane' (this is my best friend out there--a doctor, too. we were in the same class, both college and medical school. we fight--he's a misogynist of the worst type--but we're good friends all the same.) 'why don't you come back? my boys are lonesome without you, and i am overworked--you left so many mishandled invalids for me to struggle with. your boarding house is going to the dogs. mrs. annerly got worse and worse, failed completely and has cleared out, with a species of husband, i believe. the owner has put in a sort of caretaker, and the roomers get board outside--it's better than what they were having. moreover, the best cook in town is hunting a job. wire me and i'll nail her. you know the place pays well. now, why don't you give up your unnatural attempt to be a doctor and assume woman's proper sphere? come back and keep house!' "he's a great tease, but he tells the truth. the house is there, crying to be kept. the boarders are there--unfed. now, orella elder, why don't you wake up and seize the opportunity?" miss orella was thinking. "where's that last letter of morton's?" susie looked for it. vivian handed it to her, and miss elder read it once more. "there's plenty of homeless boys out there besides yours, orella," the doctor assured her. "come on--and bring both these girls with you. it's a chance for any girl, miss lane." but her friend did not hear her. she found what she was looking for in the letter and read it aloud. "i'm on the road again now, likely to be doing colorado most of the year if things go right. it's a fine country." susie hopped up with a little cry. "just the thing, aunt rella! let's go out and surprise mort. he thinks we are just built into the ground here. won't it be fun, viva?" vivian had risen from her seat and stood at the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes at the shadowy little front yard. morton might be there. she might see him. but--was it womanly to go there--for that? there were other reasons, surely. she had longed for freedom, for a chance to grow, to do something in life--something great and beautiful! perhaps this was the opening of the gate, the opportunity of a lifetime. "you folks are so strong on duty," the doctor was saying, "why can't you see a real duty in this? i tell you, the place is full of men that need mothering, and sistering--good honest sweethearting and marrying, too. come on, rella. do bigger work than you've ever done yet--and, as i said, bring both these nice girls with you. what do you say, miss lane?" vivian turned to her, her fine face flushed with hope, yet with a small greek fret on the broad forehead. "i'd like to, very much, dr. bellair--on some accounts. but----" she could not quite voice her dim objections, her obscure withdrawals; and so fell back on the excuse of childhood--"i'm sure mother wouldn't let me." dr. bellair smiled broadly. "aren't you over twenty-one?" she asked. "i'm twenty-five," the girl replied, with proud acceptance of a life long done--as one who owned to ninety-seven. "and self-supporting?" pursued the doctor. vivian flushed. "no--not yet," she answered; "but i mean to be." "exactly! now's your chance. break away now, my dear, and come west. you can get work--start a kindergarten, or something. i know you love children." the girl's heart rose within her in a great throb of hope. "oh--if i _could_!" she exclaimed, and even as she said it, rose half-conscious memories of the low, sweet tones of mrs. st. cloud. "it is a woman's place to wait--and to endure." she heard a step on the walk outside--looked out. "why, here is mrs. st. cloud!" she cried. "guess i'll clear out," said the doctor, as susie ran to the door. she was shy, socially. "nonsense, jane," said her hostess, whispering. "mrs. st. cloud is no stranger. she's mrs. williams' sister--been here for years." she came in at the word, her head and shoulders wreathed in a pearl gray shining veil, her soft long robe held up. "i saw your light, miss elder, and thought i'd stop in for a moment. good evening, mrs. pettigrew--and miss susie. ah! vivian!" "this is my friend, dr. bellair--mrs. st. cloud," miss elder was saying. but dr. bellair bowed a little stiffly, not coming forward. "i've met mrs. st. cloud before, i think--when she was 'mrs. james.'" the lady's face grew sad. "ah, you knew my first husband! i lost him--many years ago--typhoid fever." "i think i heard," said the doctor. and then, feeling that some expression of sympathy was called for, she added, "too bad." not all miss elder's gentle hospitality, mrs. pettigrew's bright-eyed interest, susie's efforts at polite attention, and vivian's visible sympathy could compensate mrs. st. cloud for one inimical presence. "you must have been a mere girl in those days," she said sweetly. "what a lovely little town it was--under the big trees." "it certainly was," the doctor answered dryly. "there is such a fine atmosphere in a college town, i think," pursued the lady. "especially in a co-educational town--don't you think so?" vivian was a little surprised. she had had an idea that her admired friend did not approve of co-education. she must have been mistaken. "such a world of old memories as you call up, dr. bellair," their visitor pursued. "those quiet, fruitful days! you remember dr. black's lectures? of course you do, better than i. what a fine man he was! and the beautiful music club we had one winter--and my little private dancing class--do you remember that? such nice boys, miss elder! i used to call them my acolytes." susie gave a little gulp, and coughed to cover it. "i guess you'll have to excuse me, ladies," said dr. bellair. "good-night." and she walked upstairs. vivian's face flushed and paled and flushed again. a cold pain was trying to enter her heart, and she was trying to keep it out. her grandmother glanced sharply from one face to the other. "glad to've met you, mrs. st. cloud," she said, bobbing up with decision. "good-night, rella--and susie. come on child. it's a wonder your mother hasn't sent after us." for once vivian was glad to go. "that's a good scheme of jane bellair's, don't you think so?" asked the old lady as they shut the gate behind them. "i--why yes--i don't see why not." vivian was still dizzy with the blow to her heart's idol. all the soft, still dream-world she had so labored to keep pure and beautiful seemed to shake and waver swimmingly. she could not return to it. the flat white face of her home loomed before her, square, hard, hideously unsympathetic-- "grandma," said she, stopping that lady suddenly and laying a pleading hand on her arm, "grandma, i believe i'll go." mrs. pettigrew nodded decisively. "i thought you would," she said. "do you blame me, grandma?" "not a mite, child. not a mite. but i'd sleep on it, if i were you." and vivian slept on it--so far as she slept at all. chapter iv transplanted sometimes a plant in its own habitat is overcrowded, starved, oppressed and daunted; a palely feeble thing; yet rises quickly, growing in height and vigor, blooming thickly, when far transplanted. the days between vivian's decision and her departure were harder than she had foreseen. it took some courage to make the choice. had she been alone, independent, quite free to change, the move would have been difficult enough; but to make her plan and hold to it in the face of a disapproving town, and the definite opposition of her parents, was a heavy undertaking. by habit she would have turned to mrs. st. cloud for advice; but between her and that lady now rose the vague image of a young boy, dead,--she could never feel the same to her again. dr. bellair proved a tower of strength. "my dear girl," she would say to her, patiently, but with repressed intensity, "do remember that you are _not_ a child! you are twenty-five years old. you are a grown woman, and have as much right to decide for yourself as a grown man. this isn't wicked--it is a wise move; a practical one. do you want to grow up like the rest of the useless single women in this little social cemetery?" her mother took it very hard. "i don't see how you can think of leaving us. we're getting old now--and here's grandma to take care of----" "huh!" said that lady, with such marked emphasis that mrs. lane hastily changed the phrase to "i mean to _be with_--you do like to have vivian with you, you can't deny that, mother." "but mama," said the girl, "you are not old; you are only forty-three. i am sorry to leave you--i am really; but it isn't forever! i can come back. and you don't really need me. sarah runs the house exactly as you like; you don't depend on me for a thing, and never did. as to grandma!"--and she looked affectionately at the old lady--"she don't need me nor anybody else. she's independent if ever anybody was. she won't miss me a mite--will you grandma?" mrs. pettigrew looked at her for a moment, the corners of her mouth tucked in tightly. "no," she said, "i shan't miss you a mite!" vivian was a little grieved at the prompt acquiescence. she felt nearer to her grandmother in many ways than to either parent. "well, i'll miss you!" said she, going to her and kissing her smooth pale cheek, "i'll miss you awfully!" mr. lane expressed his disapproval most thoroughly, and more than once; then retired into gloomy silence, alternated with violent dissuasion; but since a woman of twenty-five is certainly free to choose her way of life, and there was no real objection to this change, except that it _was_ a change, and therefore dreaded, his opposition, though unpleasant, was not prohibitive. vivian's independent fortune of $ . , the savings of many years, made the step possible, even without his assistance. there were two weeks of exceeding disagreeableness in the household, but vivian kept her temper and her determination under a rain of tears, a hail of criticism, and heavy wind of argument and exhortation. all her friends and neighbors, and many who were neither, joined in the effort to dissuade her; but she stood firm as the martyrs of old. heredity plays strange tricks with us. somewhere under the girl's dumb gentleness and patience lay a store of quiet strength from some pilgrim father or mother. never before had she set her will against her parents; conscience had always told her to submit. now conscience told her to rebel, and she did. she made her personal arrangements, said goodbye to her friends, declined to discuss with anyone, was sweet and quiet and kind at home, and finally appeared at the appointed hour on the platform of the little station. numbers of curious neighbors were there to see them off, all who knew them and could spare the time seemed to be on hand. vivian's mother came, but her father did not. at the last moment, just as the train drew in, grandma appeared, serene and brisk, descending, with an impressive amount of hand baggage, from "the hack." "goodbye, laura," she said. "i think these girls need a chaperon. i'm going too." so blasting was the astonishment caused by this proclamation, and so short a time remained to express it, that they presently found themselves gliding off in the big pullman, all staring at one another in silent amazement. "i hate discussion," said mrs. pettigrew. * * * * * none of these ladies were used to traveling, save dr. bellair, who had made the cross continent trip often enough to think nothing of it. the unaccustomed travelers found much excitement in the journey. as women, embarking on a new, and, in the eyes of their friends, highly doubtful enterprise, they had emotion to spare; and to be confronted at the outset by a totally unexpected grandmother was too much for immediate comprehension. she looked from one to the other, sparkling, triumphant. "i made up my mind, same as you did, hearing jane bellair talk," she explained. "sounded like good sense. i always wanted to travel, always, and never had the opportunity. this was a real good chance." her mouth shut, tightened, widened, drew into a crinkly delighted smile. they sat still staring at her. "you needn't look at me like that! i guess it's a free country! i bought my ticket--sent for it same as you did. and i didn't have to ask _anybody_--i'm no daughter. my duty, as far as i know it, is _done_! this is a pleasure trip!" she was triumph incarnate. "and you never said a word!" this from vivian. "not a word. saved lots of trouble. take care of me indeed! laura needn't think i'm dependent on her _yet_!" vivian's heart rather yearned over her mother, thus doubly bereft. "the truth is," her grandmother went on, "samuel wants to go to florida the worst way; i heard 'em talking about it! he wasn't willing to go alone--not he! wants somebody to hear him cough, i say! and laura couldn't go--'mother was so dependent'--_huh!_" vivian began to smile. she knew this had been talked over, and given up on that account. she herself could have been easily disposed of, but mrs. lane chose to think her mother a lifelong charge. "act as if i was ninety!" the old lady burst forth again. "i'll show 'em!" "i think you're dead right, mrs. pettigrew," said dr. bellair. "sixty isn't anything. you ought to have twenty years of enjoyable life yet, before they call you 'old'--maybe more." mrs. pettigrew cocked an eye at her. "my grandmother lived to be a hundred and four," said she, "and kept on working up to the last year. i don't know about enjoyin' life, but she was useful for pretty near a solid century. after she broke her hip the last time she sat still and sewed and knitted. after her eyes gave out she took to hooking rugs." "i hope it will be forty years, mrs. pettigrew," said sue, "and i'm real glad you're coming. it'll make it more like home." miss elder was a little slow in accommodating herself to this new accession. she liked mrs. pettigrew very much--but--a grandmother thus airily at large seemed to unsettle the foundations of things. she was polite, even cordial, but evidently found it difficult to accept the facts. "besides," said mrs. pettigrew, "you may not get all those boarders at once and i'll be one to count on. i stopped at the bank this morning and had 'em arrange for my account out in carston. they were some surprised, but there was no time to ask questions!" she relapsed into silence and gazed with keen interest at the whirling landscape. throughout the journey she proved the best of travelers; was never car-sick, slept well in the joggling berth, enjoyed the food, and continually astonished them by producing from her handbag the most diverse and unlooked for conveniences. an old-fashioned traveller had forgotten her watchkey--grandma produced an automatic one warranted to fit anything. "takes up mighty little room--and i thought maybe it would come in handy," she said. she had a small bottle of liquid court-plaster, and plenty of the solid kind. she had a delectable lotion for the hands, a real treasure on the dusty journey; also a tiny corkscrew, a strong pair of "pinchers," sewing materials, playing cards, string, safety-pins, elastic bands, lime drops, stamped envelopes, smelling salts, troches, needles and thread. "did you bring a trunk, grandma?" asked vivian. "two," said grandma, "excess baggage. all paid for and checked." "how did you ever learn to arrange things so well?" sue asked admiringly. "read about it," the old lady answered. "there's no end of directions nowadays. i've been studying up." she was so gleeful and triumphant, so variously useful, so steadily gay and stimulating, that they all grew to value her presence long before they reached carston; but they had no conception of the ultimate effect of a resident grandmother in that new and bustling town. to vivian the journey was a daily and nightly revelation. she had read much but traveled very little, never at night. the spreading beauty of the land was to her a new stimulus; she watched by the hour the endless panorama fly past her window, its countless shades of green, the brown and red soil, the fleeting dashes of color where wild flowers gathered thickly. she was repeatedly impressed by seeing suddenly beside her the name of some town which had only existed in her mind as "capital city" associated with "principal exports" and "bounded on the north." at night, sleeping little, she would raise her curtain and look out, sideways, at the stars. big shadowy trees ran by, steep cuttings rose like a wall of darkness, and the hilly curves of open country rose and fell against the sky line like a shaken carpet. she faced the long, bright vistas of the car and studied people's faces--such different people from any she had seen before. a heavy young man with small, light eyes, sat near by, and cast frequent glances at both the girls, going by their seat at intervals. vivian considered this distinctly rude, and sue did not like his looks, so he got nothing for his pains, yet even this added color to the day. the strange, new sense of freedom grew in her heart, a feeling of lightness and hope and unfolding purpose. there was continued discussion as to what the girls should do. "we can be waitresses for auntie till we get something else," sue practically insisted. "the doctor says it will be hard to get good service and i'm sure the boarders would like us." "you can both find work if you want it. what do you want to do, vivian?" asked dr. bellair, not for the first time. vivian was still uncertain. "i love children best," she said. "i could teach--but i haven't a certificate. i'd _love_ a kindergarten; i've studied that--at home." "shouldn't wonder if you could get up a kindergarten right off," the doctor assured her. "meantime, as this kitten says, you could help miss elder out and turn an honest penny while you're waiting." "wouldn't it--interfere with my teaching later?" the girl inquired. "not a bit, not a bit. we're not so foolish out here. we'll fix you up all right in no time." it was morning when they arrived at last and came out of the cindery, noisy crowded cars into the wide, clean, brilliant stillness of the high plateau. they drew deep breaths; the doctor squared her shoulders with a glad, homecoming smile. vivian lifted her head and faced the new surroundings as an unknown world. grandma gazed all ways, still cheerful, and their baggage accrued about them as a rampart. a big bearded man, carelessly dressed, whirled up in a dusty runabout, and stepped out smiling. he seized dr. bellair by both hands, and shook them warmly. "thought i'd catch you, johnny," he said. "glad to see you back. if you've got the landlady, i've got the cook!" "here we are," said she. "miss orella elder--dr. hale; mrs. pettigrew, miss susie elder, miss lane--dr. richard hale." he bowed deeply to mrs. pettigrew, shook hands with miss orella, and addressed himself to her, giving only a cold nod to the two girls, and quite turning away from them. susie, in quiet aside to vivian, made unfavorable comment. "this is your western chivalry, is it?" she said. "even bainville does better than that." "i don't know why we should mind," vivian answered. "it's dr. bellair's friend; he don't care anything about us." but she was rather of sue's opinion. the big man took dr. bellair in his car, and they followed in a station carriage, eagerly observing their new surroundings, and surprised, as most easterners are, by the broad beauty of the streets and the modern conveniences everywhere--electric cars, electric lights, telephones, soda fountains, where they had rather expected to find tents and wigwams. the house, when they were all safely within it, turned out to be "just like a real house," as sue said; and proved even more attractive than the doctor had described it. it was a big, rambling thing, at home they would have called it a hotel, with its neat little sign, "the cottonwoods," and vivian finally concluded that it looked like a seaside boarding house, built for the purpose. a broad piazza ran all across the front, the door opening into a big square hall, a sort of general sitting-room; on either side were four good rooms, opening on a transverse passage. the long dining-room and kitchen were in the rear of the hall. dr. bellair had two, her office fronting on the side street, with a bedroom behind it. they gave mrs. pettigrew the front corner room on that side and kept the one opening from the hall as their own parlor. in the opposite wing was miss elder's room next the hall, and the girls in the outer back corner, while the two front ones on that side were kept for the most impressive and high-priced boarders. mrs. pettigrew regarded her apartments with suspicion as being too "easy." "i don't mind stairs," she said. "dr. bellair has to be next her office--but why do i have to be next dr. bellair?" it was represented to her that she would be nearer to everything that went on and she agreed without more words. dr. hale exhibited the house as if he owned it. "the agent's out of town," he said, "and we don't need him anyway. he said he'd do anything you wanted, in reason." dr. bellair watched with keen interest the effect of her somewhat daring description, as miss orella stepped from room to room examining everything with a careful eye, with an expression of growing generalship. sue fluttered about delightedly, discovering advantages everywhere and making occasional disrespectful remarks to vivian about dr. hale's clothes. "looks as if he never saw a clothes brush!" she said. "a finger out on his glove, a button off his coat. no need to tell us there's no woman in his house!" "you can decide about your cook when you've tried her," he said to miss elder. "i engaged her for a week--on trial. she's in the kitchen now, and will have your dinner ready presently. i think you'll like her, if----" "good boy!" said dr. bellair. "sometimes you show as much sense as a woman--almost." "what's the 'if'" asked miss orella, looking worried. "question of character," he answered. "she's about forty-five, with a boy of sixteen or so. he's not over bright, but a willing worker. she's a good woman--from one standpoint. she won't leave that boy nor give him up to strangers; but she has a past!" "what is her present?" dr. bellair asked, "that's the main thing." dr. hale clapped her approvingly on the shoulder, but looked doubtingly toward miss orella. "and what's her future if somebody don't help her?" vivian urged. "can she cook?" asked grandma. "is she a safe person to have in the house?" inquired dr. bellair meaningly. "she can cook," he replied. "she's french, or of french parentage. she used to keep a little--place of entertainment. the food was excellent. she's been a patient of mine--off and on--for five years--and i should call her perfectly safe." miss orella still looked worried. "i'd like to help her and the boy, but would it--look well? i don't want to be mean about it, but this is a very serious venture with us, dr. hale, and i have these girls with me." "with you and dr. bellair and mrs. pettigrew the young ladies will be quite safe, miss elder. as to the woman's present character, she has suffered two changes of heart, she's become a religious devotee--and a man-hater! and from a business point of view, i assure you that if jeanne jeaune is in your kitchen you'll never have a room empty." "johnny jones! queer name for a woman!" said grandma. they repeated it to her carefully, but she only changed to "jennie june," and adhered to one or the other, thereafter. "what's the boy's name?" she asked further. "theophile," dr. hale replied. "huh!" said she. "why don't she keep an eating-house still?" asked dr. bellair rather suspiciously. "that's what i like best about her," he answered. "she is trying to break altogether with her past. she wants to give up 'public life'--and private life won't have her." they decided to try the experiment, and found it worked well. there were two bedrooms over the kitchen where "mrs. jones" as grandma generally called her, and her boy, could be quite comfortable and by themselves; and although of a somewhat sour and unsociable aspect, and fiercely watchful lest anyone offend her son, this questionable character proved an unquestionable advantage. with the boy's help, she cooked for the houseful, which grew to be a family of twenty-five. he also wiped dishes, helped in the laundry work, cleaned and scrubbed and carried coal; and miss elder, seeing his steady usefulness, insisted on paying wages for him too. this unlooked for praise and gain won the mother's heart, and as she grew more at home with them, and he less timid, she encouraged him to do the heavier cleaning in the rest of the house. "huh!" said grandma. "i wish more sane and moral persons would work like that!" vivian watched with amazement the swift filling of the house. there was no trouble at all about boarders, except in discriminating among them. "make them pay in advance, rella," dr. bellair advised, "it doesn't cost them any more, and it is a great convenience. 'references exchanged,' of course. there are a good many here that i know--you can always count on mr. dykeman and fordham grier, and john unwin." before a month was over the place was full to its limits with what sue called "assorted boarders," the work ran smoothly and the business end of miss elder's venture seemed quite safe. they had the twenty dr. bellair prophesied, and except for her, mrs. pettigrew, miss peeder, a teacher of dancing and music; mrs. jocelyn, who was interested in mining, and sarah hart, who described herself as a "journalist," all were men. fifteen men to eight women. miss elder sat at the head of her table, looked down it and across the other one, and marvelled continuously. never in her new england life had she been with so many men--except in church--and they were more scattered. this houseful of heavy feet and broad shoulders, these deep voices and loud laughs, the atmosphere of interchanging jests and tobacco smoke, was new to her. she hated the tobacco smoke, but that could not be helped. they did not smoke in her parlor, but the house was full of it none the less, in which constant presence she began to reverse the irishman's well known judgment of whiskey, allowing that while all tobacco was bad, some tobacco was much worse than others. chapter v contrasts old england thinks our country is a wilderness at best-- and small new england thinks the same of the large free-minded west. some people know the good old way is the only way to do, and find there must be something wrong in anything that's new. to vivian the new life offered a stimulus, a sense of stir and promise even beyond her expectations. she wrote dutiful letters to her mother, trying to describe the difference between this mountain town and bainville, but found the new england viewpoint an insurmountable obstacle. to bainville "out west" was a large blank space on the map, and the blank space in the mind which matched it was but sparsely dotted with a few disconnected ideas such as "cowboy," "blizzard," "prairie fire," "tornado," "border ruffian," and the like. the girl's painstaking description of the spreading, vigorous young town, with its fine, modern buildings, its banks and stores and theatres, its country club and parks, its pleasant social life, made small impression on the bainville mind. but the fact that miss elder's venture was successful from the first did impress old acquaintances, and mrs. lane read aloud to selected visitors her daughter's accounts of their new and agreeable friends. nothing was said of "chaps," "sombreros," or "shooting up the town," however, and therein a distinct sense of loss was felt. much of what was passing in vivian's mind she could not make clear to her mother had she wished to. the daily presence and very friendly advances of so many men, mostly young and all polite (with the exception of dr. hale, whose indifference was almost rude by contrast), gave a new life and color to the days. she could not help giving some thought to this varied assortment, and the carefully preserved image of morton, already nine years dim, waxed dimmer. but she had a vague consciousness of being untrue to her ideals, or to mrs. st. cloud's ideals, now somewhat discredited, and did not readily give herself up to the cheerful attractiveness of the position. susie found no such difficulty. her ideals were simple, and while quite within the bounds of decorum, left her plenty of room for amusement. so popular did she become, so constantly in demand for rides and walks and oft-recurring dances, that vivian felt called upon to give elder sisterly advice. but miss susan scouted her admonitions. "why shouldn't i have a good time?" she said. "think how we grew up! half a dozen boys to twenty girls, and when there was anything to go to--the lordly way they'd pick and choose! and after all our efforts and machinations most of us had to dance with each other. and the quarrels we had! here they stand around three deep asking for dances--and _they_ have to dance with each other, and _they_ do the quarreling. i've heard 'em." and sue giggled delightedly. "there's no reason we shouldn't enjoy ourselves, susie, of course, but aren't you--rather hard on them?" "oh, nonsense!" sue protested. "dr. bellair said i should get married out here! she says the same old thing--that it's 'a woman's duty,' and i propose to do it. that is--they'll propose, and i won't do it! not till i make up my mind. now see how you like this!" she had taken a fine large block of "legal cap" and set down their fifteen men thereon, with casual comment. . mr. unwin--too old, big, quiet. . mr. elmer skee--big, too old, funny. . jimmy saunders--middle-sized, amusing, nice. . p. r. gibbs--too little, too thin, too cocky. . george waterson--middling, pretty nice. . j. j. cuthbert--big, horrid. . fordham greer--big, pleasant. . w. s. horton--nothing much. . a. l. dykeman--interesting, too old. . professor toomey--little, horrid. . arthur fitzwilliam--ridiculous, too young. . howard winchester--too nice, distrust him. . lawson w. briggs--nothing much. . edward s. jenks--fair to middling. . mr. a. smith--minus. she held it up in triumph. "i got 'em all out of the book--quite correct. now, which'll you have." "susie elder! you little goose! do you imagine that all these fifteen men are going to propose to you?" "i'm sure i hope so!" said the cheerful damsel. "we've only been settled a fortnight and one of 'em has already!" vivian was impressed at once. "which?--you don't mean it!" sue pointed to the one marked "minus." "it was only 'a. smith.' i never should be willing to belong to 'a. smith,' it's too indefinite--unless it was a last resort. several more are--well, extremely friendly! now don't look so severe. you needn't worry about me. i'm not quite so foolish as i talk, you know." she was not. her words were light and saucy, but she was as demure and decorous a little new englander as need be desired; and she could not help it if the hearts of the unattached young men of whom the town was full, warmed towards her. dr. bellair astonished them at lunch one day in their first week. "dick hale wants us all to come over to tea this afternoon," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "tea? where?" asked mrs. pettigrew sharply. "at his house. he has 'a home of his own,' you know. and he particularly wants you, mrs. pettigrew--and miss elder--the girls, of course." "i'm sure i don't care to go," vivian remarked with serene indifference, but susie did. "oh, come on, vivian! it'll be so funny! a man's home!--and we may never get another chance. he's such a bear!" dr. hale's big house was only across the road from theirs, standing in a large lot with bushes and trees about it. "he's been here nine years," dr. bellair told them. "that's an old inhabitant for us. he boarded in that house for a while; then it was for sale and he bought it. he built that little office of his at the corner--says he doesn't like to live where he works, or work where he lives. he took his meals over here for a while--and then set up for himself." "i should think he'd be lonely," miss elder suggested. "oh, he has his boys, you know--always three or four young fellows about him. it's a mighty good thing for them, too." dr. hale's home proved a genuine surprise. they had regarded it as a big, neglected-looking place, and found on entering the gate that the inside view of that rampant shrubbery was extremely pleasant. though not close cut and swept of leaves and twigs, it still was beautiful; and the tennis court and tether-ball ring showed the ground well used. grandma looked about her with a keen interrogative eye, and was much impressed, as, indeed, were they all. she voiced their feelings justly when, the true inwardness of this pleasant home bursting fully upon them, she exclaimed: "well, of all things! a man keeping house!" "why not?" asked dr. hale with his dry smile. "is there any deficiency, mental or physical, about a man, to prevent his attempting this abstruse art?" she looked at him sharply. "i don't know about deficiency, but there seems to be somethin' about 'em that keeps 'em out of the business. i guess it's because women are so cheap." "no doubt you are right, mrs. pettigrew. and here women are scarce and high. hence my poor efforts." his poor efforts had bought or built a roomy pleasant house, and furnished it with a solid comfort and calm attractiveness that was most satisfying. two chinamen did the work; cooking, cleaning, washing, waiting on table, with silent efficiency. "they are as steady as eight-day clocks," said dr. hale. "i pay them good wages and they are worth it." "sun here had to go home once--to be married, also, to see his honored parents, i believe, and to leave a grand-'sun' to attend to the ancestors; but he brought in another chink first and trained him so well that i hardly noticed the difference. came back in a year or so, and resumed his place without a jar." miss elder watched with fascinated eyes these soft-footed servants with clean, white garments and shiny coils of long, braided hair. "i may have to come to it," she admitted, "but--dear me, it doesn't seem natural to have a man doing housework!" dr. hale smiled again. "you don't want men to escape from dependence, i see. perhaps, if more men knew how comfortably they could live without women, the world would be happier." there was a faint wire-edge to his tone, in spite of the courteous expression, but miss elder did not notice it and if mrs. pettigrew did, she made no comment. they noted the varied excellences of his housekeeping with high approval. "you certainly know how, dr. hale," said miss orella; "i particularly admire these beds--with the sheets buttoned down, german fashion, isn't it? what made you do that?" "i've slept so much in hotels," he answered; "and found the sheets always inadequate to cover the blankets--and the marks of other men's whiskers! i don't like blankets in my neck. besides it saves washing." mrs. pettigrew nodded vehemently. "you have sense," she said. the labor-saving devices were a real surprise to them. a "chute" for soiled clothing shot from the bathroom on each floor to the laundry in the basement; a dumbwaiter of construction large and strong enough to carry trunks, went from cellar to roof; the fireplaces dropped their ashes down mysterious inner holes; and for the big one in the living-room a special "lift" raised a box of wood up to the floor level, hidden by one of the "settles." "saves work--saves dirt--saves expense," said dr. hale. miss hale and her niece secretly thought the rooms rather bare, but dr. bellair was highly in favor of that very feature. "you see dick don't believe in jimcracks and dirt-catchers, and he likes sunlight. books all under glass--no curtains to wash and darn and fuss with--none of those fancy pincushions and embroidered thingummies--i quite envy him." "why don't you have one yourself, johnny?" he asked her. "because i don't like housekeeping," she said, "and you do. masculine instinct, i suppose!" "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew with her sudden one-syllable chuckle. the girls followed from room to room, scarce noticing these comments, or the eager politeness of the four pleasant-faced young fellows who formed the doctor's present family. she could not but note the intelligent efficiency of the place, but felt more deeply the underlying spirit, the big-brotherly kindness which prompted his hospitable care of these nice boys. it was delightful to hear them praise him. "o, he's simply great," whispered archie burns, a ruddy-cheeked young scotchman. "he pretends there's nothing to it--that he wants company--that we pay for all we get--and that sort of thing, you know; but this is no boarding house, i can tell you!" and then he flushed till his very hair grew redder--remembering that the guests came from one. "of course not!" vivian cordially agreed with him. "you must have lovely times here. i don't wonder you appreciate it!" and she smiled so sweetly that he felt at ease again. beneath all this cheery good will and the gay chatter of the group her quick sense caught an impression of something hidden and repressed. she felt the large and quiet beauty of the rooms; the smooth comfort, the rational, pleasant life; but still more she felt a deep keynote of loneliness. the pictures told her most. she noted one after another with inward comment. "there's 'persepolis,'" she said to herself--"loneliness incarnate; and that other lion-and-ruin thing,--loneliness and decay. gerome's 'lion in the desert,' too, the same thing. then daniel--more lions, more loneliness, but power. 'circe and the companions of ulysses'--cruel, but loneliness and power again--of a sort. there's that 'island of death' too--a beautiful thing--but o dear!--and young burne-jones' 'vampire' was in one of the bedrooms--that one he shut the door of!" while they ate and drank in the long, low-ceiled wide-windowed room below, she sought the bookcases and looked them over curiously. yes--there was marcus aurelius, epictetus, plato, emerson and carlisle--the great german philosophers, the french, the english--all showing signs of use. dr. hale observed her inspection. it seemed to vaguely annoy him, as if someone were asking too presuming questions. "interested in philosophy, miss lane?" he asked, drily, coming toward her. "yes--so far as i understand it," she answered. "and how far does that go?" she felt the inference, and raised her soft eyes to his rather reproachfully. "not far, i am afraid. but i do know that these books teach one how to bear trouble." he met her gaze steadily, but something seemed to shut, deep in his eyes. they looked as unassailable as a steel safe. he straightened his big shoulders with a defiant shrug, and returned to sit by mrs. pettigrew, to whom he made himself most agreeable. the four young men did the honors of the tea table, with devotion to all; and some especially intended for the younger ladies. miss elder cried out in delight at the tea. "where did you get it, dr. hale? can it be had here?" "i'm afraid not. that is a particular brand. sun brought me a chest of it when he came from his visit." when they went home each lady was given a present, chinese fashion--lychee nuts for sue, lily-bulbs for vivian, a large fan for mrs. pettigrew, and a package of the wonderful tea for miss orella. "that's a splendid thing for him to do," she said, as they walked back. "such a safe place for those boys!" "it's lovely of him," sue agreed. "i don't care if he is a woman-hater." vivian said nothing, but admitted, on being questioned, that "he was very interesting." mrs. pettigrew was delighted with their visit. "i like this country," she declared. "things are different. a man couldn't do that in bainville--he'd be talked out of town." that night she sought dr. bellair and questioned her. "tell me about that man," she demanded. "how old is he?" "not as old as he looks by ten years," said the doctor. "no, i can't tell you why his hair's gray." "what woman upset him?" asked the old lady. dr. bellair regarded her thoughtfully. "he has made me no confidences, mrs. pettigrew, but i think you are right. it must have been a severe shock--for he is very bitter against women. it is a shame, too, for he is one of the best of men. he prefers men patients--and gets them. the women he will treat if he must, but he is kindest to the 'fallen' ones, and inclined to sneer at the rest. and yet he's the straightest man i ever knew. i'm thankful to have him come here so much. he needs it." mrs. pettigrew marched off, nodding sagely. she felt a large and growing interest in her new surroundings, more especially in the numerous boys, but was somewhat amazed at her popularity among them. these young men were mainly exiles from home; the older ones, though more settled perhaps, had been even longer away from their early surroundings; and a real live grandma, as jimmy saunders said, was an "attraction." "if you were mine," he told her laughingly, "i'd get a pianist and some sort of little side show, and exhibit you all up and down the mountains!--for good money. why some of the boys never had a grandma, and those that did haven't seen one since they were kids!" "very complimentary, i'm sure--but impracticable," said the old lady. the young men came to her with confidences, they asked her advice, they kept her amused with tales of their adventures; some true, some greatly diversified; and she listened with a shrewd little smile and a wag of the head--so they never were quite sure whether they were "fooling" grandma or not. to her, as a general confidant, came miss peeder with a tale of woe. the little hall that she rented for her dancing classes had burned down on a windy sunday, and there was no other suitable and within her means. "there's sloan's; but it's over a barroom--it's really not possible. and baker's is too expensive. the church rooms they won't let for dancing--i don't know what i _am_ to do, mrs. pettigrew!" "why don't you ask orella elder to rent you her dining-room--it's big enough. they could move the tables----" miss peeder's eyes opened in hopeful surprise. "oh, if she _would_! do _you_ think she would? it would be ideal." miss elder being called upon, was quite fluttered by the proposition, and consulted dr. bellair. "why not?" said that lady. "dancing is first rate exercise--good for us all. might as well have the girls dance here under your eye as going out all the time--and it's some addition to the income. they'll pay extra for refreshments, too. i'd do it." with considerable trepidation miss orella consented, and their first "class night" was awaited by her in a state of suppressed excitement. to have music and dancing--"with refreshments"--twice a week--in her own house--this seemed to her like a career of furious dissipation. vivian, though with a subtle sense of withdrawal from a too general intimacy, was inwardly rather pleased; and susie bubbled over with delight. "oh what fun!" she cried. "i never had enough dancing! i don't believe anybody has!" "we don't belong to the class, you know," vivian reminded her. "oh yes! miss peeder says we must _all_ come--that she would feel _very_ badly if we didn't; and the boarders have all joined--to a man!" everyone seemed pleased except mrs. jeaune. dancing she considered immoral; music, almost as much so--and miss elder trembled lest she lose her. but the offer of extra payments for herself and son on these two nights each week proved sufficient to quell her scruples. theophile doubled up the tables, set chairs around the walls, waxed the floor, and was then sent to bed and locked in by his anxious mother. she labored, during the earlier hours of the evening, in the preparation of sandwiches and coffee, cake and lemonade--which viands were later shoved through the slide by the austere cook, and distributed as from a counter by miss peeder's assistant. mrs. jeaune would come no nearer, but peered darkly upon them through the peep-hole in the swinging door. it was a very large room, due to the time when many "mealers" had been accommodated. there were windows on each side, windows possessing the unusual merit of opening from the top; wide double doors made the big front hall a sort of anteroom, and the stairs and piazza furnished opportunities for occasional couples who felt the wish for retirement. in the right-angled passages, long hat-racks on either side were hung with "derbies," "kossuths" and "stetsons," and the ladies took off their wraps, and added finishing touches to their toilettes in miss elder's room. the house was full of stir and bustle, of pretty dresses, of giggles and whispers, and the subdued exchange of comments among the gentlemen. the men predominated, so that there was no lack of partners for any of the ladies. miss orella accepted her new position with a half-terrified enjoyment. not in many years had she found herself so in demand. her always neat and appropriate costume had blossomed suddenly for the occasion; her hair, arranged by the affectionate and admiring susie, seemed softer and more voluminous. her eyes grew brilliant, and the delicate color in her face warmed and deepened. miss peeder had installed a pianola to cover emergencies, but on this opening evening she had both piano and violin--good, lively, sole-stirring music. everyone was on the floor, save a few gentlemen who evidently wished they were. sue danced with the gaiety and lightness of a kitten among wind-blown leaves, vivian with gliding grace, smooth and harmonious, miss orella with skill and evident enjoyment, though still conscientious in every accurate step. presently mrs. pettigrew appeared, sedately glorious in black silk, jet-beaded, and with much fine old lace. she bore in front of her a small wicker rocking chair, and headed for a corner near the door. her burden was promptly taken from her by one of the latest comers, a tall person with a most devoted manner. "allow _me_, ma'am," he said, and placed the little chair at the point she indicated. "no lady ought to rustle for rockin' chairs with so many gentlemen present." he was a man of somewhat advanced age, but his hair was still more black than white and had a curly, wiggish effect save as its indigenous character was proven by three small bare patches of a conspicuous nature. he bowed so low before her that she could not help observing these distinctions, and then answered her startled look before she had time to question him. "yes'm," he explained, passing his hand over head; "scalped three several times and left for dead. but i'm here yet. mr. elmer skee, at your service." "i thought when an indian scalped you there wasn't enough hair left to make greeley whiskers," said grandma, rising to the occasion. "oh, no, ma'am, they ain't so efficacious as all that--not in these parts. i don't know what the ancient mohawks may have done, but the apaches only want a patch--smaller to carry and just as good to show off. they're collectors, you know--like a phil-e-a-to-lol-o-gist!" "skee, did you say?" pursued the old lady, regarding him with interest and convinced that there was something wrong with the name of that species of collector. "yes'm. skee--elmer skee. no'm, _not_ pronounced 'she.' do i look like it?" mr. skee was an interesting relic of that stormy past of the once wild west which has left so few surviving. he had crossed the plains as a child, he told her, in the days of the prairie schooner, had then and there lost his parents and his first bit of scalp, was picked up alive by a party of "movers," and had grown up in a playground of sixteen states and territories. grandma gazed upon him fascinated. "i judge you might be interesting to talk with," she said, after he had given her this brief sketch of his youth. "thank you, ma'am," said mr. skee. "may i have the pleasure of this dance?" "i haven't danced in thirty years," said she, dubitating. "the more reason for doing it now," he calmly insisted. "why not?" said mrs. pettigrew, and they forthwith executed a species of march, the gentleman pacing with the elaborate grace of a circus horse, and grandma stepping at his side with great decorum. later on, warming to the occasion, mr. skee frisked and high-stepped with the youngest and gayest, and found the supper so wholly to his liking that he promptly applied for a room, and as soon as one was vacant it was given to him. vivian danced to her heart's content and enjoyed the friendly merriment about her; but when fordham greer took her out on the long piazza to rest and breathe a little, she saw the dark bulk of the house across the street and the office with its half-lit window, and could not avoid thinking of the lonely man there. he had not come to the dance, no one expected that, of course; but all his boys had come and were having the best of times. "it's his own fault, of course; but it's a shame," she thought. the music sounded gaily from within, and young greer urged for another dance. she stood there for a moment, hesitating, her hand on his arm, when a tall figure came briskly up the street from the station, turned in at their gate, came up the steps---- the girl gave a little cry, and shrank back for an instant, then eagerly came forward and gave her hand to him. it was morton. chapter vi new friends and old 'twould be too bad to be true, my dear, and wonders never cease; twould be too bad to be true, my dear, if all one's swans were geese! vivian's startled cry of welcome was heard by susie, perched on the stairs with several eager youths gathered as close as might be about her, and several pairs of hands helped her swift descent to greet her brother. miss orella, dropping mr. dykeman's arm, came flying from the ball-room. "oh, morton! morton! when did you come? why didn't you let us know? oh, my _dear_ boy!" she haled him into their special parlor, took his hat away from him, pulled out the most comfortable chair. "have you had supper? and to think that we haven't a room for you! but there's to be one vacant--next week. i'll see that there is. you shall have my room, dear boy. oh, i am so glad to see you!" susie gave him a sisterly hug, while he kissed her, somewhat gingerly, on the cheek, and then she perched herself on the arm of a chair and gazed upon him with affectionate interest. vivian gazed also, busily engaged in fitting present facts to past memories. surely he had not looked just like that! the morton of her girlhood's dream had a clear complexion, a bright eye, a brave and gallant look--the voice only had not changed. but here was morton in present fact, something taller, it seemed, and a good deal heavier, well dressed in a rather vivid way, and making merry over his aunt's devotion. "well, if it doesn't seem like old times to have aunt 'rella running 'round like a hen with her head cut off, to wait on me." the simile was not unjust, though certainly ungracious, but his aunt was far too happy to resent it. "you sit right still!" she said. "i'll go and bring you some supper. you must be hungry." "now do sit down and hear to reason, auntie!" he said, reaching out a detaining hand and pulling her into a seat beside him. "i'm not hungry a little bit; had a good feed on the diner. never mind about the room--i don't know how long i can stay--and i left my grip at the allen house anyway. how well you're looking, auntie! i declare i'd hardly have known you! and here's little susie--a regular belle! and vivian--don't suppose i dare call you vivian now, miss lane?" vivian gave a little embarrassed laugh. if he had used her first name she would never have noticed it. now that he asked her, she hardly knew what answer to make, but presently said: "why, of course, i always call you morton." "well, i'll come when you call me," he cheerfully replied, leaning forward, elbows on knees, and looking around the pretty room. "how well you're fixed here. guess it was a wise move, aunt 'rella. but i'd never have dreamed you'd do it. your dr. bellair must have been a powerful promoter to get you all out here. i wouldn't have thought anybody in bainville could move--but me. why, there's grandma, as i live!" and he made a low bow. mrs. pettigrew, hearing of his arrival from the various would-be partners of the two girls, had come to the door and stood there regarding him with a non-committal expression. at this address she frowned perceptibly. "my name is mrs. pettigrew, young man. i've known you since you were a scallawag in short pants, but i'm no grandma of yours." "a thousand pardons! please excuse me, mrs. pettigrew," he said with exaggerated politeness. "won't you be seated?" and he set a chair for her with a flourish. "thanks, no," she said. "i'll go back," and went back forthwith, attended by mr. skee. "one of these happy family reunions, ma'am?" he asked with approving interest. "if there's one thing i do admire, it's a happy surprise." "'tis some of a surprise," mrs. pettigrew admitted, and became rather glum, in spite of mr. skee's undeniably entertaining conversation. "some sort of a fandango going on?" morton asked after a few rather stiff moments. "don't let me interrupt! on with the dance! let joy be unconfined! and if she must"--he looked at vivian, and went on somewhat lamely--"dance, why not dance with me? may i have the pleasure, miss lane?" "oh, no," cried miss orella, "we'd much rather be with you!" "but i'd rather dance than talk, any time," said he, and crooked his elbow to vivian with an impressive bow. somewhat uncertain in her own mind, and unwilling to again disappoint fordham greer, who had already lost one dance and was visibly waiting for her in the hall, the girl hesitated; but susie said, "go on, give him part of one. i'll tell mr. greer." so vivian took morton's proffered arm and returned to the floor. she had never danced with him in the old days; no special memory was here to contrast with the present; yet something seemed vaguely wrong. he danced well, but more actively than she admired, and during the rest of the evening devoted himself to the various ladies with an air of long usage. she was glad when the dancing was over and he had finally departed for his hotel, glad when susie had at last ceased chattering and dropped reluctantly to sleep. for a long time she lay awake trying to straighten out things in her mind and account to herself for the sense of vague confusion which oppressed her. morton had come back! that was the prominent thing, of which she repeatedly assured herself. how often she had looked forward to that moment, and felt in anticipation a vivid joy. she had thought of it in a hundred ways, always with pleasure, but never in this particular way--among so many strangers. it must be that which confused her, she thought, for she was extremely sensitive to the attitude of those about her. she felt an unspoken criticism of morton on the part of her new friends in the house, and resented it; yet in her own mind a faint comparison would obtrude itself between his manners and those of jimmie saunders or mr. greer, for instance. the young scotchman she had seen regarding morton with an undisguised dislike, and this she inwardly resented, even while herself disliking his bearing to his aunt--and to her grandmother. it was all contradictory and unsatisfying, and she fell asleep saying over to herself, "he has come back! he has come back!" and trying to feel happy. aunt orella was happy at any rate. she would not rest until her beloved nephew was installed in the house, practically turning out mr. gibbs in order to accommodate him. morton protested, talked of business and of having to go away at any time; and mr. gibbs, who still "mealed" with them, secretly wished he would. but morton did not go away. it was a long time since he had been petted and waited on, and he enjoyed it hugely, treating his aunt with a serio-comic affection that was sometimes funny, sometimes disagreeable. at least susie found it so. her first surprise over, she fell back on a fund of sound common sense, strengthened by present experience, and found a good deal to criticise in her returned brother. she was so young when he left, and he had teased her so unmercifully in those days, that her early memories of him were rather mixed in sentiment, and now he appeared, not as the unquestioned idol of a manless family in a well-nigh manless town, but as one among many; and of those many several were easily his superiors. he was her brother, and she loved him, of course; but there were so many wanting to be "brothers" if not more, and they were so much more polite! morton petted, patronized and teased her, and she took it all in good part, as after the manner of brothers, but his demeanor with other people was not to her mind. his adoring aunt, finding no fault whatever with this well-loved nephew, lavished upon him the affection of her unused motherhood, and he seemed to find it a patent joke, open to everyone, that she should be so fond. to this and, indeed, to his general walk and conversation, mrs. pettigrew took great exception. "fine boy--rella's nephew!" she said to dr. bellair late one night when, seeing a light over her neighbor's transom, she dropped in for a little chat. conversation seemed easier for her here than in the atmosphere of bainville. "fine boy--eh? nice complexion!" dr. bellair was reading a heavy-weight book by a heavier-weight specialist. she laid it down, took off her eyeglasses, and rubbed them. "better not kiss him," she said. "i thought as much!" said grandma. "i _thought_ as much! huh!" "nice world, isn't it?" the doctor suggested genially. "nothing the matter with the world, that i know of," her visitor answered. "nice people, then--how's that?" "nothing the matter with the people but foolishness--plain foolishness. good land! shall we _never_ learn anything!" "not till it's too late apparently," the doctor gloomily agreed, turning slowly in her swivel chair. "that boy never was taught anything to protect him. what did rella know? or for that matter, what do any boys' fathers and mothers know? nothing, you'd think. if they do, they won't teach it to their children." "time they did!" said the old lady decidedly. "high time they did! it's never too late to learn. i've learned a lot out of you and your books, jane bellair. interesting reading! i don't suppose you could give an absolute opinion now, could you?" "no," said dr. bellair gravely, "no, i couldn't; not yet, anyway." "well, we've got to keep our eyes open," mrs. pettigrew concluded. "when i think of that girl of mine----" "yes--or any girl," the doctor added. "you look out for any girl--that's your business; i'll look out for mine--if i can." mrs. pettigrew's were not the only eyes to scrutinize morton elder. through the peep-hole in the swing door to the kitchen, jeanne jeaune watched him darkly with one hand on her lean chest. she kept her watch on whatever went on in that dining-room, and on the two elderly waitresses whom she had helped miss elder to secure when the house filled up. they were rather painfully unattractive, but seemed likely to stay where no young and pretty damsel could be counted on for a year. morton joked with perseverance about their looks, and those who were most devoted to susie seemed to admire his wit, while vivian's special admirers found it pointless in the extreme. "your waitresses are the limit, auntie," he said, "but the cook is all to the good. is she a plain cook or a handsome one?" "handsome is as handsome does, young man," mrs. pettigrew pointedly replied. "mrs. jones is a first-class cook and her looks are neither here nor there." "you fill me with curiosity," he replied. "i must go out and make her acquaintance. i always get solid with the cook; it's worth while." the face at the peep-hole darkened and turned away with a bitter and determined look, and master theophile was hastened at his work till his dim intelligence wondered, and then blessed with an unexpected cookie. vivian, morton watched and followed assiduously. she was much changed from what he remembered--the young, frightened, slender girl he had kissed under the lilac bushes, a kiss long since forgotten among many. perhaps the very number of his subsequent acquaintances during a varied and not markedly successful career in the newer states made this type of new england womanhood more marked. girls he had known of various sorts, women old and young had been kind to him, for morton had the rough good looks and fluent manner which easily find their way to the good will of many female hearts; but this gentle refinement of manner and delicate beauty had a novel charm for him. sitting by his aunt at meals he studied vivian opposite, he watched her in their few quiet evenings together, under the soft lamplight on miss elder's beloved "center table;" and studied her continually in the stimulating presence of many equally devoted men. all that was best in him was stirred by her quiet grace, her reserved friendliness; and the spur of rivalry was by no means wanting. both the girls had their full share of masculine attention in that busy houseful, each having her own particular devotees, and the position of comforter to the others. morton became openly devoted to vivian, and followed her about, seeking every occasion to be alone with her, a thing difficult to accomplish. "i don't ever get a chance to see anything of you," he said. "come on, take a walk with me--won't you?" "you can see me all day, practically," she answered. "it seems to me that i never saw a man with so little to do." "now that's too bad, vivian! just because a fellow's out of a job for a while! it isn't the first time, either; in my business you work like--like anything, part of the time, and then get laid off. i work hard enough when i'm at it." "do you like it--that kind of work?" the girl asked. they were sitting in the family parlor, but the big hall was as usual well occupied, and some one or more of the boarders always eager to come in. miss elder at this moment had departed for special conference with her cook, and susie was at the theatre with jimmie saunders. fordham greer had asked vivian, as had morton also, but she declined both on the ground that she didn't like that kind of play. mrs. pettigrew, being joked too persistently about her fondness for "long whist," had retired to her room--but then, her room was divided from the parlor only by a thin partition and a door with a most inefficacious latch. "come over here by the fire," said morton, "and i'll tell you all about it." he seated himself on a sofa, comfortably adjacent to the fireplace, but vivian preferred a low rocker. "i suppose you mean travelling--and selling goods?" he pursued. "yes, i like it. there's lots of change--and you meet people. i'd hate to be shut up in an office." "but do you--get anywhere with it? is there any outlook for you? anything worth doing?" "there's a good bit of money to be made, if you mean that; that is, if a fellow's a good salesman. i'm no slouch myself, when i feel in the mood. but it's easy come, easy go, you see. and it's uncertain. there are times like this, with nothing doing." "i didn't mean money, altogether," said the girl meditatively, "but the work itself; i don't see any future for you." morton was pleased with her interest. reaching between his knees he seized the edge of the small sofa and dragged it a little nearer, quite unconscious that the act was distasteful to her. though twenty-five years old, vivian was extremely young in many ways, and her introspection had spent itself in tending the inner shrine of his early image. that ikon was now jarringly displaced by this insistent presence, and she could not satisfy herself yet as to whether the change pleased or displeased her. again and again his manner antagonized her, but his visible devotion carried an undeniable appeal, and his voice stirred the deep well of emotion in her heart. "look here, vivian," he said, "you've no idea how it goes through me to have you speak like that! you see i've been knocking around here for all this time, and i haven't had a soul to take an interest. a fellow needs the society of good women--like you." it is an old appeal, and always reaches the mark. to any women it is a compliment, and to a young girl, doubly alluring. as she looked at him, the very things she most disliked, his too free manner, his coarsened complexion, a certain look about the eyes, suddenly assumed a new interest as proofs of his loneliness and lack of right companionship. what mrs. st. cloud had told her of the ennobling influence of a true woman, flashed upon her mind. "you see, i had no mother," he said simply--"and aunt rella spoiled me--." he looked now like the boy she used to know. "of course i ought to have behaved better," he admitted. "i was ungrateful--i can see it now. but it did seem to me i couldn't stand that town a day longer!" she could sympathize with this feeling and showed it. "then when a fellow knocks around as i have so long, he gets to where he doesn't care a hang for anything. seeing you again makes a lot of difference, vivian. i think, perhaps--i could take a new start." "oh do! do!" she said eagerly. "you're young enough, morton. you can do anything if you'll make up your mind to it." "and you'll help me?" "of course i'll help you--if i can," said she. a feeling of sincere remorse for wasted opportunities rose in the young man's mind; also, in the presence of this pure-eyed girl, a sense of shame for his previous habits. he walked to the window, his hands in his pockets, and looked out blankly for a moment. "a fellow does a lot of things he shouldn't," he began, clearing his throat; she met him more than half way with the overflowing generosity of youth and ignorance: "never mind what you've done, morton--you're going to do differently now! susie'll be so proud of you--and aunt orella!" "and you?" he turned upon her suddenly. "oh--i? of course! i shall be very proud of my old friend." she met his eyes bravely, with a lovely look of hope and courage, and again his heart smote him. "i hope you will," he said and straightened his broad shoulders manfully. "morton elder!" cried his aunt, bustling in with deep concern in her voice, "what's this i hear about you're having a sore throat?" "nothing, i hope," said he cheerfully. "now, morton"--vivian showed new solicitude--"you know you have got a sore throat; susie told me." "well, i wish she'd hold her tongue," he protested. "it's nothing at all--be all right in a jiffy. no, i won't take any of your fixings, auntie." "i want dr. bellair to look at it anyhow," said his aunt, anxiously. "she'll know if it's diphtheritic or anything. she's coming in." "she can just go out again," he said with real annoyance. "if there's anything i've no use for it's a woman doctor!" "oh hush, hush!" cried vivian, too late. "don't apologize," said dr. bellair from her doorway. "i'm not in the least offended. indeed, i had rather surmised that that was your attitude; i didn't come in to prescribe, but to find mrs. pettigrew." "want me?" inquired the old lady from her doorway. "who's got a sore throat?" "morton has," vivian explained, "and he won't let aunt rella--why where is she?" miss elder had gone out as suddenly as she had entered. "camphor's good for sore throat," mrs. pettigrew volunteered. "three or four drops on a piece of sugar. is it the swelled kind, or the kind that smarts?" "oh--halifax!" exclaimed morton, disgustedly. "it isn't _any_ kind. i haven't a sore throat." "camphor's good for cold sores; you have one of them anyhow," the old lady persisted, producing a little bottle and urging it upon morton. "just keep it wet with camphor as often as you think of it, and it'll go away." vivian looked on, interested and sympathetic, but morton put his hand to his lip and backed away. "if you ladies don't stop trying to doctor me, i'll clear out to-morrow, so there!" this appalling threat was fortunately unheard by his aunt, who popped in again at this moment, dragging dr. hale with her. dr. bellair smiled quietly to herself. "i wouldn't tell him what i wanted him for, or he wouldn't have come, i'm sure--doctors are so funny," said miss elder, breathlessly, "but here he is. now, dr. hale, here's a foolish boy who won't listen to reason, and i'm real worried about him. i want you to look at his throat." dr. hale glanced briefly at morton's angry face. "the patient seems to be of age, miss elder; and, if you'll excuse me, does not seem to have authorized this call." "my affectionate family are bound to have me an invalid," morton explained. "i'm in imminent danger of hot baths, cold presses, mustard plasters, aconite, belladonna and quinine--and if i can once reach my hat--" he sidled to the door and fled in mock terror. "thank you for your good intentions, miss elder," dr. hale remarked drily. "you can bring water to the horse, but you can't make him drink it, you see." "now that that young man has gone we might have a game of whist," mrs. pettigrew suggested, looking not ill-pleased. "for which you do not need me in the least," and dr. hale was about to leave, but dr. bellair stopped him. "don't be an everlasting winter woodchuck, dick! sit down and play; do be good. i've got to see old mrs. graham yet; she refuses to go to sleep without it--knowing i'm so near. by by." mrs. pettigrew insisted on playing with miss elder, so vivian had the questionable pleasure of dr. hale as a partner. he was an expert, used to frequent and scientific play, and by no means patient with the girl's mistakes. he made no protest at a lost trick, but explained briefly between hands what she should have remembered and how the cards lay, till she grew quite discouraged. her game was but mediocre, played only to oblige; and she never could see why people cared so much about a mere pastime. pride came to her rescue at last; the more he criticised, the more determined she grew to profit by all this advice; but her mind would wander now and then to morton, to his young life so largely wasted, it appeared, and to what hope might lie before him. could she be the help and stimulus he seemed to think? how much did he mean by asking her to help him? "why waste a thirteenth trump on your partner's thirteenth card?" dr. hale was asking. she flushed a deep rose color and lifted appealing eyes to him. "do forgive me; my mind was elsewhere." "will you not invite it to return?" he suggested drily. he excused himself after a few games, and the girl at last was glad to have him go. she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. mrs. pettigrew, sitting unaccountably late at her front window, watched the light burn steadily in the small office at the opposite corner. presently she saw a familiar figure slip in there, and, after a considerable stay, come out quietly, cross the street, and let himself in at their door. "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew. chapter vii. side lights. high shines the golden shield in front, to those who are not blind; and clear and bright in all men's sight, the silver shield behind. in breadth and sheen each face is seen; how tall it is, how wide; but its thinness shows to only those who stand on either side. theophile wept aloud in the dining-room, nursing one hand in the other, like a hurt monkey. most of the diners had departed, but professor toomey and mr. cuthbert still lingered about miss susie's corner, to the evident displeasure of mr. saunders, who lingered also. miss susie smiled upon them all; and mr. saunders speculated endlessly as to whether this was due to her general friendliness of disposition, to an interest in pleasing her aunt's boarders, to personal preference, or, as he sometimes imagined, to a desire to tease him. morton was talking earnestly with vivian at the other end of the table, from which the two angular waitresses had some time since removed the last plate. one of them opened the swing door a crack and thrust her head in. "he's burnt his hand," she said, "and his ma's out. we don't dare go near him." both of these damsels professed great terror of the poor boy, though he was invariably good natured, and as timid as a rabbit. "do get the doctor!" cried susie, nervously; she never felt at ease with theophile. "dr. bellair, i fear, is not in her office," professor toomey announced. "we might summon dr. hale." "nonsense!" said mr. cuthbert, rising heavily. "he's a great baby, that's all. here! quit that howling and show me your hand!" he advanced upon theophile, who fled toward vivian. morton rose in her defence. "get out!" he said, "go back to the kitchen. there's nothing the matter with you." "wait till you get burned, and see if you think it's nothing," jimmy saunders remarked with some acidity. he did not like mr. elder. "come here youngster, let me see it." but the boy was afraid of all of them, and cowered in a corner, still bawling. "stop your noise," mr. cuthbert shouted, "get out of this, or i'll put you out." vivian rose to her feet. "you will do nothing of the kind. if you, all of you, will go away, i can quiet theophile, myself." susie went promptly. she had every confidence in her friend's management. mr. cuthbert was sulky, but followed susie; and mr. saunders, after some hesitation, followed susie, too. morton lingered, distrustful. "please go, morton. i know how to manage him. just leave us alone," vivian urged. "you'd better let me put him out, and keep him out, till the old woman comes back," morton insisted. "you mean kindly, i don't doubt, but you're making me very angry," said the girl, flushing; and he reluctantly left the room. professor toomey had departed long since, to fulfill his suggestion of calling dr. hale, but when that gentleman appeared, he found that vivian had quieted the boy, stayed him with flagons and comforted him with apples, as it were, and bound up his hand in wet cooking soda. "it's not a very bad burn," she told the doctor, "but it hurt, and he was frightened. he is afraid of everybody but his mother, and the men were cross to him." "i see," said dr. hale, watching theophile as he munched his apple, keeping carefully behind vivian and very near her. "he does not seem much afraid of you, i notice, and he's used to me. the soda is all right. where did you learn first aid to the injured, and how to handle--persons of limited understanding?" "the former i studied. the latter comes by nature, i think," replied the girl, annoyed. he laughed, rather suddenly. "it's a good quality, often needed in this world." "what's all this rumpus?" demanded grandma, appearing at the door. "waking me up out of my nap!" grandma's smooth, fine, still dark hair, which she wore in "water waves," was somewhat disarranged, and she held a little shawl about her. "only the household baby, playing with fire," dr. hale answered. "miss lane resolved herself into a red cross society, and attended to the wounded. however i think i'll have a look at it now i'm here." then was vivian surprised, and compelled to admiration, to see with what wise gentleness the big man won the confidence of the frightened boy, examined the hurt hand, and bound it up again. "you'll do, all right, won't you theophile," he said, and offered him a shining nickel and a lozenge, "which will you have, old man?" after some cautious hesitation the boy chose the lozenge, and hastily applied it where it would do the most good. "where's mrs. jones all this time?" suddenly demanded grandma, who had gone back to her room and fetched forth three fat, pink gumdrops for the further consolation of the afflicted. "she had to go out to buy clothes for him, she hardly ever leaves him you know," vivian explained. "and the girls out there are so afraid that they won't take any care of him." this was true enough, but vivian did not know that "mrs. jones" had returned and, peering through her favorite peephole, had seen her send out the others, and attend to the boy's burn with her own hand. jeanne jeaune was not a sentimental person, and judged from her son's easy consolation that he was little hurt, but she watched the girl's prompt tenderness with tears in her eyes. "she regards him, as any other boy;" thought the mother. "his infirmity, she does not recall it." dr. hale had long since won her approval, and when theophile at last ran out, eager to share his gumdrops, he found her busy as usual in the kitchen. she was a silent woman, professionally civil to the waitresses, but never cordial. the place pleased her, she was saving money, and she knew that there must be _some_ waitresses--these were probably no worse than others. for her unfortunate son she expected little, and strove to keep him near her so far as possible; but vivian's real kindness touched her deeply. she kept a sharp eye on whatever went on in the dining-room, and what with the frequent dances and the little groups which used to hang about the table after meals, or fill a corner of the big room for quiet chats, she had good opportunities. morton's visible devotion she watched with deep disapproval; though she was not at all certain that her "young lady" was favorably disposed toward him. she could see and judge the feelings of the men, these many men who ate and drank and laughed and paid court to both the girls. dr. hale's brusque coldness she accepted, as from a higher order of being. susie's gay coquetries were transparent to her; but vivian she could not read so well. the girl's deep conscientiousness, her courtesy and patience with all, and the gentle way in which she evaded the attentions so persistently offered, were new to jeanne's experience. when morton hung about and tried always to talk with vivian exclusively, she saw her listen with kind attention, but somehow without any of that answering gleam which made susie's blue eyes so irresistible. "she has the lovers, but she has _no_ beauty--to compare with my young lady!" jeanne commented inwardly. if the sad-eyed jeanne had been of scotch extraction instead of french, she might have quoted the explanation of the homely widow of three husbands when questioned by the good-looking spinster, who closed her inquiry by saying aggrievedly, "and ye'r na sae bonny." "it's na the bonny that does it," explained the triple widow, "it's the come hither i' the een." susie's eyes sparkled with the "come hither," but those who came failed to make any marked progress. she was somewhat more cautious after the sudden approach and overthrow of mr. a. smith; yet more than one young gentleman boarder found business called him elsewhere, with marked suddenness; his place eagerly taken by another. the cottonwoods had a waiting list, now. vivian made friends first, lovers afterward. then if the love proved vain, the friendship had a way of lingering. hers was one of those involved and over-conscientious characters, keenly sensitive to the thought of duty and to others, pain. she could not play with hearts that might be hurt in the handling, nor could she find in herself a quick and simple response to the appeals made to her; there were so many things to be considered. morton studied her with more intensity than he had ever before devoted to another human being; his admiration and respect grew with acquaintance, and all that was best in him rose in response to her wise, sweet womanliness. he had the background of their childhood's common experiences and her early sentiment--how much he did not know, to aid him. then there was the unknown country of his years of changeful travel, many tales that he could tell her, many more which he found he could not. he pressed his advantage, cautiously, finding the fullest response when he used the appeal to her uplifting influence. when they talked in the dining-room the sombre eye at the peephole watched with growing disapproval. the kitchen was largely left to her and her son by her fellow workers, on account of their nervous dislike for theophile, and she utilized her opportunities. vivian had provided the boy with some big bright picture blocks, and he spent happy hours in matching them on the white scoured table, while his mother sewed, and watched. he had forgotten his burn by now, and she sewed contentedly for there was no one talking to her young lady but dr. hale, who lingered unaccountably. to be sure, vivian had brought him a plate of cakes from the pantry, and he seemed to find the little brown things efficiently seductive, or perhaps it was grandma who held him, sitting bolt upright in her usual place, at the head of one table, and asking a series of firm but friendly questions. this she found the only way of inducing dr. hale to talk at all. yes, he was going away--yes, he would be gone some time--a matter of weeks, perhaps--he could not say--his boys were all well--he did not wonder that they saw a good deal of them--it was a good place for them to come. "you might come oftener yourself," said grandma, "and play real whist with me. these young people play _bridge_!" she used this word with angry scorn, as symbol of all degeneracy; and also despised pinochle, refusing to learn it, though any one could induce her to play bezique. some of the more venturous and argumentative, strove to persuade her that the games were really the same. "you needn't tell me," mrs. pettigrew would say, "i don't want to play any of your foreign games." "but, madam, bezique is not an english word," professor toomey had insisted, on one occasion; to which she had promptly responded, "neither is 'bouquet!'" dr. hale shook his head with a smile. he had a very nice smile, even vivian admitted that. all the hard lines of his face curved and melted, and the light came into those deep-set eyes and shone warmly. "i should enjoy playing whist with you very often, mrs. pettigrew; but a doctor has no time to call his own. and a good game of whist must not be interrupted by telephones." "there's miss orella!" said grandma, as the front door was heard to open. "she's getting to be quite a gadder." "it does her good, i don't doubt," the doctor gravely remarked, rising to go. miss orella met him in the hall, and bade him good-bye with regret. "we do not see much of you, doctor; i hope you'll be back soon." "why it's only a little trip; you good people act as if i were going to alaska," he said, "it makes me feel as if i had a family!" "pity you haven't," remarked grandma with her usual definiteness. dykeman stood holding miss orella's wrap, with his dry smile. "good-bye, hale," he said. "i'll chaperon your orphan asylum for you. so long." "come out into the dining-room," said miss orella, after dr. hale had departed. "i know you must be hungry," and mr. dykeman did not deny it. in his quiet middle-aged way, he enjoyed this enlarged family circle as much as the younger fellows, and he and mr. unwin seemed to vie with one another to convince miss orella that life still held charms for her. mr. skee also hovered about her to a considerable extent, but most of his devotion was bestowed upon damsels of extreme youth. "here's one that's hungry, anyhow," remarked dr. bellair, coming out of her office at the moment, with her usual clean and clear-starched appearance. "i've been at it for eighteen hours, with only bites to eat. yes, all over; both doing well." it was a source of deep self-congratulation to dr. bellair to watch her friend grow young again in the new atmosphere. to susie it appeared somewhat preposterous, as her aunt seems to her mind a permanently elderly person; while to mrs. pettigrew it looked only natural. "rella's only a young thing anyway," was her comment. but jane bellair marked and approved the added grace of each new gown, the blossoming of lace and ribbon, the appearance of long-hoarded bits of family jewelry, things held "too showy to wear" in bainville, but somehow quite appropriate here. vivian and grandma made miss orella sit down at her own table head, and bustled about in the pantry, bringing cheese and crackers, cake and fruit; but the doctor poked her head through the swing door and demanded meat. "i don't want a refection, i want food," she said, and jeanne cheerfully brought her a plate of cold beef. she was much attached to dr. bellair, for reasons many and good. "what i like about this place," said mrs. pettigrew, surveying the scene from the head of her table, "is that there's always something going on." "what i like about it," remarked dr. bellair, between well-fletcherized mouthfuls, "is that people have a chance to grow and are growing." "what i like," mr. dykeman looked about him, and paused in the middle of a sentence, as was his wont; "is being beautifully taken care of and made comfortable--any man likes that." miss orella beamed upon him. emboldened, he went on: "and what i like most is the new, delightful"--he was gazing admiringly at her, and she looked so embarrassed that he concluded with a wide margin of safety--"friends i'm making." miss orella's rosy flush, which had risen under his steady gaze, ebbed again to her usual soft pink. even her coldest critics, in the most caustic bainvillian circles, could never deny that she had "a good complexion." new england, like old england, loves roses on the cheeks, and our dry western winds play havoc with them. but miss orella's bloomed brighter than at home. "it is pleasant," she said softly; "all this coming and going--and the nice people--who stay." she looked at no one in particular, yet mr. dykeman seemed pleased. "there's another coming, i guess," remarked grandma, as a carriage was heard to stop outside, the gate slammed, and trunk-burdened steps pounded heavily across the piazza. the bell rang sharply, mr. dykeman opened the door, and the trunk came in first--a huge one, dumped promptly on the hall floor. behind the trunk and the man beneath it entered a lady; slim, elegant, graceful, in a rich silk dust coat and soft floating veils. "my dear miss elder!" she said, coming forward; "and vivian! dear vivian! i thought you could put me up, somewhere, and told him to come right here. o--and please--i haven't a bit of change left in my purse--will you pay the man?" "well, if it isn't mrs. st. cloud," said grandma, without any note of welcome in her voice. mr. dykeman paid the man; looked at the trunk, and paid him some more. the man departed swearing softly at nothing in particular, and mr. dykeman departed also to his own room. miss orella's hospitable soul was much exercised. refuse shelter to an old acquaintance, a guest, however unexpected, she could not; yet she had no vacant room. vivian, flushed and excited, moved anew by her old attraction, eagerly helped the visitor take off her wraps, mrs. pettigrew standing the while, with her arms folded, in the doorway of her room, her thin lips drawn to a hard line, as one intending to repel boarders at any risk to life or limb. dr. bellair had returned to her apartments at the first sound of the visitor's voice. she, gracious and calm in the midst of confusion, sat in a wreath of down-dropped silken wrappings, and held vivian's hand. "you dear child!" she said, "how well you look! what a charming place this is. the doctors sent me west for my health; i'm on my way to california. but when i found the train stopped here--i didn't know that it did till i saw the name--i had them take my trunk right off, and here i am! it is such a pleasure to see you all." "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew, and disappeared completely, closing the door behind her. "anything will do, miss elder," the visitor went on. "i shall find a hall bedroom palatial after a sleeping car; or a garret--anything! it's only for a few days, you know." vivian was restraining herself from hospitable offers by remembering that her room was also susie's, and miss orella well knew that to give up hers meant sleeping on a hard, short sofa in that all-too-public parlor. she was hastily planning in her mind to take susie in with her and persuade mrs. pettigrew to harbor vivian, somewhat deterred by memories of the old lady's expression as she departed, when mr. dykeman appeared at the door, suitcase in hand. "i promised hale i'd keep house for those fatherless boys, you know," he said. "in the meantime, you're quite welcome to use my room, miss elder." and he departed, her blessing going with him. more light refreshments were now in order. mrs. st. cloud protesting that she wanted nothing, but finding much to praise in the delicacies set before her. several of the other boarders drifted in, always glad of an extra bite before going to bed. susie and mr. saunders returned from a walk, morton reappeared, and jeanne, peering sharply in, resentful of this new drain upon her pantry shelves, saw a fair, sweet-faced woman, seated at ease, eating daintily, while miss elder and vivian waited upon her, and the men all gathered admiringly about. jeanne jeaune wagged her head. "ah, ha, madame!" she muttered softly, "such as you i have met before!" theophile she had long since sent to bed, remaining up herself to keep an eye on the continued disturbance in the front of the house. vivian and susie brought the dishes out, and would have washed them or left them till morning for the maids. "truly, no," said jeanne jeaune; "go you to your beds; i will attend to these." one by one she heard them go upstairs, distant movement and soft dissuasion as two gentlemen insisted on bearing mrs. st. cloud's trunk into her room, receding voices and closing doors. there was no sound in the dining-room now, but still she waited; the night was not yet quiet. miss elder and susie, vivian also, hovered about, trying to make this new guest comfortable, in spite of her graceful protests that they must not concern themselves in the least about her, that she wanted nothing--absolutely nothing. at last they left her, and still later, after some brief exchange of surprised comment and warm appreciation of mr. dykeman's thoughtfulness, the family retired. vivian, when her long hair was smoothly braided for the night, felt an imperative need for water. "don't you want some, susie? i'll bring you a glass." but susie only huddled the bedclothes about her pretty shoulders and said: "don't bring me _anything_, until to-morrow morning!" so her room-mate stole out softly in her wrapper, remembering that a pitcher of cool water still stood on one of the tables. the windows to the street let in a flood of light from a big street lamp, and she found her way easily, but was a bit startled for a moment to find a man still sitting there, his head upon his arms. "why, morton," she said; "is that you? what are you sitting up for? it's awfully late. i'm just after some water." she poured a glassful. "don't you want some?" "no, thank you," he said. "yes, i will. give me some, please." the girl gave him a glass, drank from her own and set it down, turning to go, but he reached out and caught a flowing sleeve of her kimono. "don't go, vivian! do sit down and talk to a fellow. i've been trying to see you for days and days." "why, morton elder, how absurd! you have certainly seen me every day, and we've talked hours this very evening. this is no time for conversation, surely." "the best time in the world," he assured her. "all the other times there are people about--dozens--hundreds--swarms! i want to talk to just you." there were certainly no dozens or hundreds about now, but as certainly there was one, noting with keen and disapproving interest this midnight tête-à-tête. it did not last very long, and was harmless and impersonal enough while it lasted. vivian sat for a few moments, listening patiently while the young man talked of his discouragements, his hopes, his wishes to succeed in life, to be worthy of her; but when the personal note sounded, when he tried to take her hand in the semi-darkness, then her new england conscience sounded also, and she rose to her feet and left him. "we'll talk about that another time," she said. "now do be quiet and do not wake people up." he stole upstairs, dutifully, and she crept softly back to her room and got into bed, without eliciting more than a mild grunt from sleepy susie. silence reigned at last in the house. not for long, however. at about half past twelve dr. bellair was roused from a well-earned sleep by a light, insistent tap upon her door. she listened, believing it to be a wind-stirred twig; but no, it was a finger tap--quiet--repeated. she opened the door upon jeanne in her stocking feet. "your pardon, mrs. doctor," said the visitor, "but it is of importance. may i speak for a little? no, i'm not ill, and we need not a light." they sat in the clean little office, the swaying cottonwood boughs making a changeful pattern on the floor. "you are a doctor, and you can make an end to it--you must make an end to it," said jeanne, after a little hesitation. "this young man--this nephew--he must not marry my young lady." "what makes you think he wants to?" asked the doctor. "i have seen, i have heard--i know," said jeanne. "you know, all can see that he loves her. _he!_ not such as he for my young lady." "why do you object to him, jeanne?" "he has lived the bad life," said the woman, grimly. "most young men are open to criticism," said dr. bellair. "have you anything definite to tell me--anything that you could _prove_?--if it were necessary to save her?" she leaned forward, elbows on knees. jeanne sat in the flickering shadows, considering her words. "he has had the sickness," she said at last. "can you prove that?" "i can prove to you, a doctor, that coralie and anastasia and estelle--they have had it. they are still alive; but not so beautiful." "yes; but how can you prove it on him?" "i know he was with them. well, it was no secret. i myself have seen--he was there often." "how on earth have you managed not to be recognized?" dr. bellair inquired after a few moments. jeanne laughed bitterly. "that was eight years ago; he was but a boy--gay and foolish, with the others. what does a boy know?... also, at that time i was blonde, and--of a difference." "i see," said the doctor, "i see! that's pretty straight. you know personally of that time, and you know the record of those others. but that was a long time ago." "i have heard of him since, many times, in such company," said jeanne. they sat in silence for some time. a distant church clock struck a single deep low note. the woman rose, stood for a hushed moment, suddenly burst forth with hushed intensity: "you must save her, doctor--you will! i was young once," she went on. "i did not know--as she does not. i married, and--_that_ came to me! it made me a devil--for awhile. tell her, doctor--if you must; tell her about my boy!" she went away, weeping silently, and dr. bellair sat sternly thinking in her chair, and fell asleep in it from utter weariness. chapter viii. a mixture. in poetry and painting and fiction we see such praise for the dawn of the day, we've long since been convinced that a sunrise must be all glorious and golden and gay. but we find there are mornings quite foggy and drear, with the clouds in a low-hanging pall; till the grey light of daylight can hardly make clear that the sun has arisen at all. dr. richard hale left his brood of temporary orphans without really expecting for them any particular oversight from andrew dykeman; but the two were sufficiently close friends to well warrant the latter in moving over to the monastery--as jimmie saunders called it. mr. dykeman was sufficiently popular with the young men to be welcome, even if he had not had a good excuse, and when they found how super-excellent his excuse was they wholly approved. to accommodate miss orella was something--all the boys liked miss orella. they speculated among themselves on her increasing youth and good looks, and even exchanged sagacious theories as to the particular acting cause. but when they found that mr. dykeman's visit was to make room for the installation of mrs. st. cloud, they were more than pleased. all the unexpressed ideals of masculine youth seemed centered in this palely graceful lady; the low, sweet voice, the delicate hands, the subtle sympathy of manner, the nameless, quiet charm of dress. young burns became her slave on sight, lawson and peters fell on the second day; not one held out beyond the third. even susie's attractions paled, her very youth became a disadvantage; she lacked that large considering tenderness. "fact is," mr. peters informed his friends rather suddenly, "young women are selfish. naturally, of course. it takes some experience to--well, to understand a fellow." they all agreed with him. mr. dykeman, quiet and reserved as always, was gravely polite to the newcomer, and mr. skee revolved at a distance, making observations. occasionally he paid some court to her, at which times she was cold to him; and again he devoted himself to the other ladies with his impressive air, as of one bowing low and sweeping the floor with a plumed hat. mr. skee's stetson had, as a matter of fact, no sign of plumage, and his bows were of a somewhat jerky order; but his gallantry was sweeping and impressive, none the less. if he remained too far away mrs. st. cloud would draw him to her circle, which consisted of all the other gentlemen. there were two exceptions. mr. james saunders had reached the stage where any woman besides susie was but a skirted ghost, and morton was by this time so deeply devoted to vivian that he probably would not have wavered even if left alone. he was not wholly a free agent, however. adela st. cloud had reached an age when something must be done. her mysterious absent husband had mysteriously and absently died, and still she never breathed a word against him. but the bible class in bainville furnished no satisfactory material for further hopes, the place of her earlier dwelling seemed not wholly desirable now, and the west had called her. finding herself comfortably placed in mr. dykeman's room, and judging from the number of his shoe-trees and the quality of his remaining toilet articles that he might be considered "suitable," she decided to remain in the half-way house for a season. so settled, why, for a thousand reasons one must keep one's hand in. there were men in plenty, from twenty year old archie to the uncertain decades of mr. skee. idly amusing herself, she questioned that gentleman indirectly as to his age, drawing from him astounding memories of the previous century. when confronted with historic proof that the events he described were over a hundred years passed, he would apologize, admitting that he had no memory for dates. she owned one day, with gentle candor, to being thirty-three. "that must seem quite old to a man like you, mr. skee. i feel very old sometimes!" she lifted large eyes to him, and drew her filmy scarf around her shoulders. "your memory must be worse than mine, ma'am," he replied, "and work the same way. you've sure got ten or twenty years added on superfluous! now me!" he shook his head; "i don't remember when i was born at all. and losin' my folks so young, _and_ the family bible--i don't expect i ever shall. but i 'low i'm all of ninety-seven." this being palpably impossible, and as the only local incidents he could recall in his youth were quite dateless adventures among the indians, she gave it up. why mr. skee should have interested her at all was difficult to say, unless it was the appeal to his uncertainty--he was at least a game fish, if not edible. of the women she met, susie and vivian were far the most attractive, wherefore mrs. st. cloud, with subtle sympathy and engaging frankness, fairly cast mr. saunders in susie's arms, and vice versa, as opportunity occurred. morton she rather snubbed, treated him as a mere boy, told tales of his childhood that were in no way complimentary--so that he fled from her. with vivian she renewed her earlier influence to a great degree. with some inquiry and more intuition she discovered what it was that had chilled the girl's affection for her. "i don't wonder, my dear child," she said; "i never told you of that--i never speak of it to anyone.... it was one of the--" she shivered slightly--"darkest griefs of a very dark time.... he was a beautiful boy.... i never _dreamed_----" the slow tears rose in her beautiful eyes till they shone like shimmering stars. "heaven send no such tragedy may ever come into your life, dear!" she reached a tender hand to clasp the girl's. "i am so glad of your happiness!" vivian was silent. as a matter of fact, she was not happy enough to honestly accept sympathy. mrs. st. cloud mistook her attitude, or seemed to. "i suppose you still blame me. many people did. i often blame myself. one cannot be _too_ careful. it's a terrible responsibility, vivian--to have a man love you." the girl's face grew even more somber. that was one thing which was troubling her. "but your life is all before you," pursued the older woman. "your dream has come true! how happy--how wonderfully happy you must be!" "i am not, not _really_," said the girl. "at least----" "i know--i know; i understand," mrs. st. cloud nodded with tender wisdom. "you are not sure. is not that it?" that was distinctly "it," and vivian so agreed. "there is no other man?" "not the shadow of one!" said the girl firmly. and as her questioner had studied the field and made up her mind to the same end, she believed her. "then you must not mind this sense of uncertainty. it always happens. it is part of the morning clouds of maidenhood, my dear--it vanishes with the sunrise!" and she smiled beatifically. then the girl unburdened herself of her perplexities. she could always express herself so easily to this sympathetic friend. "there are so many things that i--dislike--about him," she said. "habits of speech--of manners. he is not--not what i----" she paused. "not all the dream! ah! my dear child, they never are! we are given these beautiful ideals to guard and guide us; but the real is never quite the same. but when a man's soul opens to you--when he loves--these small things vanish. they can be changed--you will change them." "yes--he says so," vivian admitted. "he says that he knows that he is--unworthy--and has done wrong things. but so have i, for that matter." mrs. st. cloud agreed with her. "i am glad you feel that, my dear. men have their temptations--their vices--and we good women are apt to be hard on them. but have we no faults? ah, my dear, i have seen good women--young girls, like yourself--ruin a man's whole life by--well, by heartlessness; by lack of understanding. most young men do things they become ashamed of when they really love. and in the case of a motherless boy like this--lonely, away from his home, no good woman's influence about--what else could we expect? but you can make a new man of him. a glorious work!" "that's what he says. i'm not so sure--" the girl hesitated. "not sure you can? oh, my child, it is the most beautiful work on earth! to see from year to year a strong, noble character grow under your helping hand! to be the guiding star, the inspiration of a man's life. to live to hear him say: "'ah, who am i that god should bow from heaven to choose a wife for me? what have i done he should endow my home with thee?'" there was a silence. vivian's dark eyes shone with appreciation for the tender beauty of the lines, the lovely thought. then she arose and walked nervously across the floor, returning presently. "mrs. st. cloud----" "call me adela, my dear." "adela--dear adela--you--you have been married. i have no mother. tell me, ought not there to be more--more love? i'm fond of morton, of course, and i do want to help him--but surely, if i loved him--i should feel happier--more sure!" "the first part of love is often very confusing, my dear. i'll tell you how it is: just because you are a woman grown and feel your responsibilities, especially here, where you have so many men friends, you keep morton at a distance. then the external sort of cousinly affection you have for him rather blinds you to other feelings. but i have not forgotten--and i'm sure you have not--the memory of that hot, sweet night so long ago; the world swimming in summer moonlight and syringa sweetness; the stillness everywhere--and your first kiss!" vivian started to her feet. she moved to the window and stood awhile; came back and kissed her friend warmly, and went away without another word. the lady betook herself to her toilet, and spent some time on it, for there was one of miss peeder's classes that night. mrs. st. cloud danced with many, but most with mr. dykeman; no woman in the room had her swimming grace of motion, and yet, with all the throng of partners about her she had time to see susie's bright head bobbing about beneath mr. saunders down-bent, happy face, and vivian, with her eyes cast down, dancing with morton, whose gaze never left her. he was attention itself, he brought her precisely the supper she liked, found her favorite corner to rest in, took her to sit on the broad piazza between dances, remained close to her, still talking earnestly, when all the outsiders had gone. vivian found it hard to sleep that night. all that he had said of his new hope, new power, new courage, bore out mrs. st. cloud's bright promise of a new-built life. and some way, as she had listened and did not forbid, the touch of his hand, the pressure of his arm, grew warmer and brought back the memories of that summer night so long ago. he had begged hard for a kiss before he left her, and she quite had to tear herself away, as susie drifted in, also late; and aunt orella said they must all go to bed right away--she was tired if they were not. she did look tired. this dance seemed somehow less agreeable to her than had others. she took off her new prettinesses and packed them away in a box in the lower drawer. "i'm an old fool!" she said. "trying to dress up like a girl. i'm ashamed of myself!" quite possibly she did not sleep well either, yet she had no room-mate to keep her awake by babbling on, as susie did to vivian. her discourse was first, last and always about jimmie saunders. he had said this, he had looked that, he had done so; and what did vivian think he meant? and wasn't he handsome--and _so_ clever! little susie cuddled close and finally dropped off asleep, her arms around vivian. but the older girl counted the hours; her head, or her heart, in a whirl. morton elder was wakeful, too. so much so that he arose with a whispered expletive, took his shoes in his hand, and let himself softly out for a tramp in the open. this was not the first of his love affairs, but with all his hot young heart he wished it was. he stood still, alone on the high stretches of moonlit mesa and looked up at the measureless, brilliant spaces above him. "i'll keep straight--if i can have her!" he repeated under his breath. "i will! i will!" it had never occurred to him before to be ashamed of the various escapades of his youth. he had done no more than others, many others. none of "the boys" he associated with intended to do what was wrong; they were quite harsh in judgment of those who did, according to their standards. none of them had been made acquainted with the social or pathological results of their amusements, and the mere "zutritt ist verboten" had never impressed them at all. but now the gentler influences of his childhood, even the narrow morality of bainville, rose in pleasant colors in his mind. he wished he had saved his money, instead of spending it faster than it came in. he wished he had kept out of poker and solo and barrooms generally. he wished, in a dumb, shamed way, that he could come to her as clean as she was. but he threw his shoulders back and lifted his head determinedly. "i'll be good to her," he determined; "i'll make her a good husband." in the days that followed his devotion was as constant as before, but more intelligent. his whole manner changed and softened. he began to read the books she liked, and to talk about them. he was gentler to everyone, more polite, even to the waitresses, tender and thoughtful of his aunt and sister. vivian began to feel a pride in him, and in her influence, deepening as time passed. mrs. pettigrew, visiting the library on one of her frequent errands, was encountered there and devotedly escorted home by mr. skee. "that is a most fascinating young lady who has mr. dykeman's room; don't you think so, ma'am?" quoth he. "i do not," said mrs. pettigrew. "young! she's not so young as you are--nothing like--never was!" he threw back his head and laughed his queer laugh, which looked so uproarious and made so little noise. "she certainly is a charmer, whatever her age may be," he continued. "glad you think so, mr. skee. it may be time you lost a fourth!" "lost a fourth? what in the--hesperides!" "if you can't guess what, you needn't ask me!" said the lady, with some tartness. "but for my own part i prefer the apaches. good afternoon, mr. skee." she betook herself to her room with unusual promptness, and refused to be baited forth by any kind of offered amusement. "it's right thoughtful of andy dykeman, gettin' up this entertainment for mrs. st. cloud, isn't it, mrs. elder?" thus mr. skee to miss orella a little later. "i don't think it is mr. dykeman's idea at all," she told him. "it's those boys over there. they are all wild about her, quite naturally." she gave a little short sigh. "if dr. hale were at home i doubt if he would encourage it." "i'm pretty sure he wouldn't, ma'am. he's certainly down on the fair sex, even such a peacherino as this one. but with andy, now, it's different. he is a man of excellent judgment." "i guess all men's judgment is pretty much alike in some ways," said miss orella, oracularly. she seemed busy and constrained, and mr. skee drifted off and paid court as best he might to dr. bellair. "charmed to find you at home, ma'am," he said; "or shall i say at office?" "call it what you like, mr. skee; it's been my home for a good many years now." "it's a mighty fine thing for a woman, livin' alone, to have a business, seems to me," remarked the visitor. "it's a fine thing for any woman, married or single, to my mind," she answered. "i wish i could get vivian lane started in that kindergarten she talks about." "there's kids enough, and goodness knows they need a gardener! what's lackin'? house room?" "she thinks she's not really competent. she has no regular certificate, you see. her parents would never let go of her long enough," the doctor explained. "some parents _are_ pretty graspin', ain't they? to my mind, miss vivian would be a better teacher than lots of the ticketed ones. she's got the natural love of children." "yes, and she has studied a great deal. she just needs an impetus." "perhaps if she thought there was 'a call' she might be willing. i doubt if the families here realize what they're missin'. aint there some among your patients who could be stirred up a little?" the doctor thought there were, and he suggested several names from his apparently unlimited acquaintance. "i believe in occupation for the young. it takes up their minds," said mr. skee, and departed with serenity. he strolled over to dr. hale's fence and leaned upon it, watching the preparations. mr. dykeman, in his shirt-sleeves, stood about offering suggestions, while the young men swarmed here and there with poles and stepladders, hanging chinese lanterns. "hello, elmer; come in and make yourself useful," called mr. dykeman. "i'll come in, but i'll be switched if i'll be useful," he replied, laying a large hand on the fence and vaulting his long legs over it with an agility amazing in one of his alleged years. "you all are sure putting yourself out for this occasion. is it somebody's birthday?" "no; it's a get-up of these youngsters. they began by wanting mrs. st. cloud to come over to tea--afternoon tea--and now look at this!" "did she misunderstand the invitation as bad as that?" "o, no; just a gradual change of plan. one thing leads to another, you know. here, archie! that bush won't hold the line. put it on the willow." "i see," said mr. skee; "and, as we're quotin' proverbs, i might remark that 'while the cat's away the mice will play.'" mr. dykeman smiled. "it's rather a good joke on hale, isn't it?" "would be if he should happen to come home--and find this hen-party on." they both chuckled. "i guess he's good for a week yet," said mr. dykeman. "those medical associations do a lot of talking. higher up there, george--a good deal higher." he ran over to direct the boys, and mr. skee, hands behind him, strolled up and down the garden, wearing a meditative smile. he and andrew dykeman had been friends for many long years. dr. bellair used her telephone freely after mr. skee's departure, making notes and lists of names. late in the afternoon she found vivian in the hall. "i don't see much of you these days, miss lane," she said. the girl flushed. since mrs. st. cloud's coming and their renewed intimacy she had rather avoided the doctor, and that lady had kept herself conspicuously out of the way. "don't call me miss lane; i'm vivian--to my friends." "i hope you count me a friend?" said dr. bellair, gravely. "i do, doctor, and i'm proud to. but so many things have been happening lately," she laughed, a little nervously. "the truth is, i'm really ashamed to talk to you; i'm so lazy." "that's exactly what i wanted to speak about. aren't you ready to begin that little school of yours?" "i'd like to--i should, really," said the girl. "but, somehow, i don't know how to set about it." "i've been making some inquiries," said the doctor. "there are six or eight among my patients that you could count on--about a dozen young ones. how many could you handle?" "oh, i oughtn't to have more than twenty in any case. a dozen would be plenty to begin with. do you think i _could_ count on them--really?" "i tell you what i'll do," her friend offered; "i'll take you around and introduce you to any of them you don't know. most of 'em come here to the dances. there's mrs. horsford and mrs. blake, and that little mary jackson with the twins. you'll find they are mostly friends." "you are awfully kind," said the girl. "i wish"--her voice took on a sudden note of intensity--"i do wish i were strong, like you, dr. bellair." "i wasn't very strong--at your age--my child. i did the weakest of weak things--" vivian was eager to ask her what it was, but a door opened down one side passage and the doctor quietly disappeared down the other, as mrs. st. cloud came out. "i thought i heard your voice," she said. "and miss elder's, wasn't it?" "no; it was dr. bellair." "a strong character, and a fine physician, i understand. i'm sorry she does not like me." mrs. st. cloud's smile made it seem impossible that anyone should dislike her. vivian could not, however, deny the fact, and was not diplomatic enough to smooth it over, which her more experienced friend proceeded to do. "it is temperamental," she said gently. "if we had gone to school together we would not have been friends. she is strong, downright, progressive; i am weaker, more sensitive, better able to bear than to do. you must find her so stimulating." "yes," the girl said. "she was talking to me about my school." "your school?" "didn't you know i meant to have a sort of kindergarten? we planned it even before starting; but miss elder seemed to need me at first, and since then--things--have happened----" "and other things will happen, dear child! quite other and different things." the lady's smile was bewitching. vivian flushed slowly under her gaze. "oh, my dear, i watched you dancing together! you don't mind my noticing, do you?" her voice was suddenly tender and respectful. "i do not wish to intrude, but you are very dear to me. come into my room--do--and tell me what to wear to-night." mrs. st. cloud's clothes had always been a delight to vivian. they were what she would have liked to wear--and never quite have dared, under the new england fear of being "too dressy." her own beauty was kept trimly neat, like a closed gentian. her friend was in the gayest mood. she showed her a trunkful of delicate garments and gave her a glittering embroidered scarf, which the girl rapturously admired, but declared she would never have the courage to wear. "you shall wear it this very night," declared the lady. "here--show me what you've got. you shall be as lovely as you _are_, for once!" so vivian brought out her modest wardrobe, and the older woman chose a gown of white, insisted on shortening the sleeves to fairy wings of lace, draped the scarf about her white neck, raised the soft, close-bound hair to a regal crown, and put a shining star in it, and added a string of pearls on the white throat. "look at yourself now, child!" she said. vivian looked, in the long depths of mr. dykeman's mirror. she knew that she had beauty, but had never seen herself so brilliantly attired. erect, slender, graceful, the long lines of her young body draped in soft white, and her dark head, crowned and shining, poised on its white column, rising from the shimmering lace. her color deepened as she looked, and added to the picture. "you shall wear it to-night! you shall!" cried her admiring friend. "to please me--if no one else!" whether to please her or someone else, vivian consented, the two arriving rather late at the garden party across the way. mr. dykeman, looking very tall and fine in his evening clothes, was a cordial host, ably seconded by the eager boys about him. the place was certainly a credit to their efforts, the bare rooms being turned to bowers by vines and branches brought from the mountains, and made fragrant by piled flowers. lights glimmered through colored shades among the leaves, and on the dining table young peters, who came from connecticut, had rigged a fountain by means of some rubber tubing and an auger hole in the floor. this he had made before mr. dykeman caught him, and vowed dr. hale would not mind. mr. peters' enjoyment of the evening, however, was a little dampened by his knowledge of the precarious nature of this arrangement. he danced attendance on mrs. st. cloud, with the others, but wore a preoccupied expression, and stole in once or twice from the lit paths outside to make sure that all was running well. it was well to and during supper time, and the young man was complimented on his ingenuity. "reminds me of the hanging gardens of babylon," said mr. skee, sentimentally. "why?" asked mrs. pettigrew. "oh, _why_, ma'am? how can a fellow say why?" he protested. "because it is so--so efflorescent, i suppose." "reminds me of a loose faucet," said she, _sotto voce_, to dr. bellair. mr. peters beamed triumphantly, but in the very hour of his glory young burns, hastening to get a cup of coffee for his fair one, tripped over the concealed pipe, and the fountain poured forth its contributions among the feet of the guests. this was a minor misadventure, however, hurting no one's feeling but mr. peters', and mrs. st. cloud was so kind to him in consequence that he was envied by all the others. mr. dykeman was attentive to his guests, old and young, but mrs. pettigrew had not her usual smile for him; miss orella declined to dance, alleging that she was too tired, and dr. bellair somewhat dryly told him that he need not bother with her. he was hardly to be blamed if he turned repeatedly to mrs. st. cloud, whose tactful sweetness was always ready. she had her swarm of young admirers about her, yet never failed to find a place for her host, a smile and a word of understanding. her eyes were everywhere. she watched mr. skee waltzing with the youngest, providing well-chosen refreshments for miss orella, gallantly escorting grandma to see the "lovers' lane" they had made at the end of the garden. its twin lines of lights were all outside; within was grateful shadow. mrs. st. cloud paced through this fragrant arbor with each and every one of the receiving party, uttering ever-fresh expressions of admiration and gratitude for their kind thoughtfulness, especially to mr. dykeman. when she saw susie and mr. saunders go in at the farther end, she constituted herself a sort of protective agency to keep every one else out, holding them in play with various pleasant arts. and vivian? when she arrived there was a little gasp from morton, who was waiting for her near the door. she was indeed a sight to make a lover's heart leap. he had then, as it were, surrounded her. vainly did the others ask for dances. morton had unblushingly filled out a card with his own name and substituted it for the one she handed him. she protested, but the music sounded and he whirled her away before she could expostulate to any avail. his eyes spoke his admiration, and for once his tongue did not spoil the impression. half laughing and half serious, she let him monopolize her, but quite drove him away when mr. dykeman claimed his dance. "all filled up!" said morton for her, showing his card. "mine was promised yesterday, was it not, miss lane?" said the big man, smiling. and she went with him. he took her about the garden later, gravely admiring and attentive, and when susie fairly rushed into her arms, begging her to come and talk with her, he left them both in a small rose-crowned summer-house and went back to mrs. st. cloud. "oh, vivian, vivian! what do you think!" susie's face was buried on vivian's shoulder. "i'm engaged!" vivian held her close and kissed her soft hair. her joyous excitement was contagious. "he's the nicest man in the world!" breathed susie, "and he loves me!" "we all supposed he did. didn't you know it before?" "oh, yes, in a way; but, vivian--he kissed me!" "well, child, have you never in all your little life been kissed before?" susie lifted a rosy, tearful face for a moment. "never, never, never!" she said. "i thought i had, but i haven't! oh, i am so happy!" "what's up?" inquired morton, appearing with a pink lantern in his hand, in impatient search for his adored one. "susie--crying?" "no, i'm _not_," she said, and ran forthwith back to the house, whence jimmy was bringing her ice cream. vivian started to follow her. "oh, no, vivian; don't go. wait." he dropped the lantern and took her hands. the paper cover flared up, showing her flushed cheeks and starry eyes. he stamped out the flame, and in the sudden darkness caught her in his arms. for a moment she allowed him, turning her head away. he kissed her white shoulder. "no! no, morton--don't! you mustn't!" she tried to withdraw herself, but he held her fast. she could feel the pounding of his heart. "oh, vivian, don't say no! you will marry me, won't you? some day, when i'm more worth while. say you will! some day--if not now. i love you so; i need you so! say yes, vivian." he was breathing heavily. his arms held her motionless. she still kept her face turned from him. "let me go, morton; let me go! you hurt me!" "say yes, dear, and i'll let you go--for a little while." "yes," said vivian. the ground jarred beside them, as a tall man jumped the hedge boundary. he stood a moment, staring. "well, is this my house, or coney island?" they heard him say. and then morton swore softly to himself as vivian left him and came out. "good evening, dr. hale," she said, a little breathlessly. "we weren't expecting you so soon." "i should judge not," he answered. "what's up, anyhow?" "the boys--and mr. dykeman--are giving a garden party for mrs. st. cloud." "for whom?" "for adela st. cloud. she is visiting us. aren't you coming in?" "not now," he said, and was gone without another word. chapter ix. consequences. you may have a fondness for grapes that are green, and the sourness that greenness beneath; you may have a right to a colic at night-- but consider your children's teeth! dr. hale retired from his gaily illuminated grounds in too much displeasure to consider the question of dignity. one suddenly acting cause was the news given him by vivian. the other was the sight of morton elder's face as he struck a match to light his cigarette. thus moved, and having entered and left his own grounds like a thief in the night, he proceeded to tramp in the high-lying outskirts of the town until every light in his house had gone out. then he returned, let himself into his office, and lay there on a lounge until morning. vivian had come out so quickly to greet the doctor from obscure motives. she felt a sudden deep objection to being found there with morton, a wish to appear as one walking about unconcernedly, and when that match glow made morton's face shine out prominently in the dark shelter, she, too, felt a sudden displeasure. without a word she went swiftly to the house, excused herself to her grandmother, who nodded understandingly, and returned to the cottonwoods, to her room. she felt that she must be alone and think; think of that irrevocable word she had uttered, and its consequences. she sat at her window, rather breathless, watching the rows of pink lanterns swaying softly on the other side of the street; hearing the lively music, seeing young couples leave the gate and stroll off homeward. susie's happiness came more vividly to mind than her own. it was so freshly joyous, so pure, so perfectly at rest. she could not feel that way, could not tell with decision exactly how she did feel. but if this was happiness, it was not as she had imagined it. she thought of that moonlit summer night so long ago, and the memory of its warm wonder seemed sweeter than the hasty tumult and compulsion of to-night. she was stirred through and through by morton's intense emotion, but with a sort of reaction, a wish to escape. he had been so madly anxious, he had held her so close; there seemed no other way but to yield to him--in order to get away. and then dr. hale had jarred the whole situation. she had to be polite to him, in his own grounds. if only morton had kept still--that grating match--his face, bent and puffing, dr. hale must have seen him. and again she thought of little susie with almost envy. even after that young lady had come in, bubbled over with confidences and raptures, and finally dropped to sleep without vivian's having been able to bring herself to return the confidences, she stole back to her window again to breathe. why had dr. hale started so at the name of mrs. st. cloud? that was puzzling her more than she cared to admit. by and by she saw his well-known figure, tall and erect, march by on the other side and go into the office. "o, well," she sighed at last, "i'm not young, like susie. perhaps it _is_ like this--" now morton had been in no special need of that cigarette at that special moment, but he did not wish to seem to hide in the dusky arbor, nor to emerge lamely as if he had hidden. so he lit the match, more from habit than anything else. when it was out, and the cigarette well lighted, he heard the doctor's sudden thump on the other side of the fence and came out to rejoin vivian. she was not there. he did not see her again that night, and his meditations were such that next day found him, as a lover, far more agreeable to vivian than the night before. he showed real understanding, no triumph, no airs of possession; took no liberties, only said: "when i am good enough i shall claim you--my darling!" and looked at her with such restrained longing that she quite warmed to him again. he held to this attitude, devoted, quietly affectionate; till her sense of rebellion passed away and her real pleasure in his improvement reasserted itself. as they read together, if now and then his arm stole around her waist, he always withdrew it when so commanded. still, one cannot put the same severity into a prohibition too often repeated. the constant, thoughtful attention of a man experienced in the art of pleasing women, the new and frankly inexperienced efforts he made to meet her highest thoughts, to learn and share her preferences, both pleased her. he was certainly good looking, certainly amusing, certainly had become a better man from her companionship. she grew to feel a sort of ownership in this newly arisen character; a sort of pride in it. then, she had always been fond of morton, since the time when he was only "susie's big brother." that counted. another thing counted, too, counted heavily, though vivian never dreamed of it and would have hotly repudiated the charge. she was a woman of full marriageable age, with all the unused powers of her woman's nature calling for expression, quite unrecognized. he was a man who loved her, loved her more deeply than he had ever loved before, than he had even known he could love; who quite recognized what called within him and meant to meet the call. and he was near her every day. after that one fierce outbreak he held himself well in check. he knew he had startled her then, almost lost her. and with every hour of their companionship he felt more and more how much she was to him. other women he had pursued, overtaken, left behind. he felt that there was something in vivian which was beyond him, giving a stir and lift of aspiration which he genuinely enjoyed. day by day he strove to win her full approval, and day by day he did not neglect the tiny, slow-lapping waves of little tendernesses, small affectionate liberties at well-chosen moments, always promptly withdrawing when forbidden, but always beginning again a little further on. dr. bellair went to dr. hale's office and sat herself down solidly in the patient's chair. "dick," she said, "are you going to stand for this?" "stand for what, my esteemed but cryptic fellow-practitioner?" she eyed his calm, reserved countenance with friendly admiration. "you are an awfully good fellow, dick, but dull. at the same time dull and transparent. are you going to sit still and let that dangerous patient of yours marry the finest girl in town?" "your admiration for girls is always stronger than mine, jane; and i have, if you will pardon the boast, more than one patient." "all right, dick--if you want it made perfectly clear to your understanding. do you mean to let morton elder marry vivian lane?" "what business is it of mine?" he demanded, more than brusquely--savagely. "you know what he's got." "i am a physician, not a detective. and i am not miss lane's father, brother, uncle or guardian." "or lover," added dr. bellair, eyeing him quietly. she thought she saw a second's flicker of light in the deep gray eyes, a possible tightening of set lips. "suppose you are not," she said; "nor even a humanitarian. you _are_ a member of society. do you mean to let a man whom you know has no right to marry, poison the life of that splendid girl?" he was quite silent for a moment, but she could see the hand on the farther arm of his chair grip it till the nails were white. "how do you know he--wishes to marry her?" "if you were about like other people, you old hermit, you'd know it as well as anybody. i think they are on the verge of an engagement, if they aren't over it already. once more, dick, shall you do anything?" "no," said he. then, as she did not add a word, he rose and walked up and down the office in big strides, turning upon her at last. "you know how i feel about this. it is a matter of honor--professional honor. you women don't seem to know what the word means. i've told that good-for-nothing young wreck that he has no right to marry for years yet, if ever. that is all i can do. i will not betray the confidence of a patient." "not if he had smallpox, or scarlet fever, or the bubonic plague? suppose a patient of yours had the leprosy, and wanted to marry your sister, would you betray his confidence?" "i might kill my sister," he said, glaring at her. "i refuse to argue with you." "yes, i think you'd better refuse," she said, rising. "and you don't have to kill vivian lane, either. a man's honor always seems to want to kill a woman to satisfy it. i'm glad i haven't got the feeling. well, dick, i thought i'd give you a chance to come to your senses, a real good chance. but i won't leave you to the pangs of unavailing remorse, you poor old goose. that young syphilitic is no patient of mine." and she marched off to perform a difficult duty. she was very fond of vivian. the girl's unselfish sweetness of character and the depth of courage and power she perceived behind the sensitive, almost timid exterior, appealed to her. if she had had a daughter, perhaps she would have been like that. if she had had a daughter would she not have thanked anyone who would try to save her from such a danger? from that worse than deadly peril, because of which she had no daughter. dr. bellair was not the only one who watched morton's growing devotion with keen interest. to his aunt it was a constant joy. from the time her boisterous little nephew had come to rejoice her heart and upset her immaculate household arrangements, and had played, pleasantly though tyrannically, with the little girl next door, miss orella had dreamed this romance for him. to have it fail was part of her grief when he left her, to have it now so visibly coming to completion was a deep delight. if she had been blind to his faults, she was at least vividly conscious of the present sudden growth of virtues. she beamed at him with affectionate pride, and her manner to mrs. pettigrew was one of barely subdued "i told you so." indeed, she could not restrain herself altogether, but spoke to that lady with tender triumph of how lovely it was to have morton so gentle and nice. "you never did like the boy, i know, but you must admit that he is behaving beautifully now." "i will," said the old lady; "i'll admit it without reservation. he's behaving beautifully--now. but i'm not going to talk about him--to you, orella." so she rolled up her knitting work and marched off. "too bad she's so prejudiced and opinionated," said miss elder to susie, rather warmly. "i'm real fond of mrs. pettigrew, but when she takes a dislike----" susie was so happy herself that she seemed to walk in an aura of rosy light. her jimmie was so evidently the incarnation of every masculine virtue and charm that he lent a reflected lustre to other men, even to her brother. because of her love for jimmie, she loved morton better--loved everybody better. to have her only brother marry her dearest friend was wholly pleasant to susie. it was not difficult to wring from vivian a fair knowledge of how things stood, for, though reserved by nature, she was utterly unused to concealing anything, and could not tell an efficient lie if she wanted to. "are you engaged or are you not, you dear old thing?" demanded susie. and vivian admitted that there was "an understanding." but susie absolutely must not speak of it. for a wonder she did not, except to jimmie. but people seemed to make up their minds on the subject with miraculous agreement. the general interest in the manifold successes of mrs. st. cloud gave way to this vivid personal interest, and it was discussed from two sides among their whole circle of acquaintance. one side thought that a splendid girl was being wasted, sacrificed, thrown away, on a disagreeable, good-for-nothing fellow. the other side thought the "interesting" mr. elder might have done better; they did not know what he could see in her. they, that vaguely important they, before whom we so deeply bow, were also much occupied in their mind by speculations concerning mr. dykeman and two possibilities. one quite patently possible, even probable, giving rise to the complacent "why, anybody could see that!" and the other a fascinatingly impossible possibility of a sort which allows the even more complacent "didn't you? why, i could see it from the first." mr. dykeman had been a leading citizen in that new-built town for some ten years, which constituted him almost the oldest inhabitant. he was reputed to be extremely wealthy, though he never said anything about it, and neither his clothing nor his cigars reeked of affluence. perhaps nomadic chambermaids had spread knowledge of those silver-backed appurtenances, and the long mirror. or perhaps it was not woman's gossip at all, but men's gossip, which has wider base, and wider circulation, too. mr. dykeman had certainly "paid attentions" to miss elder. miss elder had undeniably brightened and blossomed most becomingly under these attentions. he had danced with her, he had driven with her, he had played piquet with her when he might have played whist. to be sure, he did these things with other ladies, and had done them for years past, but this really looked as if there might be something in it. mr. skee, as mr. dykeman's oldest friend, was even questioned a little; but it was not very much use to question mr. skee. his manner was not repellant, and not in the least reserved. he poured forth floods of information so voluminous and so varied that the recipient was rather drowned than fed. so opinions wavered as to mr. dykeman's intentions. then came this lady of irresistible charm, and the unmarried citizens of the place fell at her feet as one man. even the married ones slanted over a little. mr. dykeman danced with her, more than he had with miss elder. mr. dykeman drove with her, more than he had with miss elder. mr. dykeman played piquet with her, and chess, which miss elder could not play. and miss elder's little opening petals of ribbon and lace curled up and withered away; while mrs. st. cloud's silken efflorescence, softly waving and jewel-starred, flourished apace. dr. bellair had asked vivian to take a walk with her; and they sat together, resting, on a high lonely hill, a few miles out of town. "it's a great pleasure to see this much of you, dr. bellair," said the girl, feeling really complimented. "i'm afraid you won't think so, my dear, when you hear what i have to say: what i _have_ to say." the girl flushed a little. "are you going to scold me about something? have i done anything wrong?" her eyes smiled bravely. "go on, doctor. i know it will be for my best good." "it will indeed, dear child," said the doctor, so earnestly that vivian felt a chill of apprehension. "i am going to talk to you 'as man to man' as the story books say; as woman to woman. when i was your age i had been married three years." vivian was silent, but stole out a soft sympathetic hand and slipped it into the older woman's. she had heard of this early-made marriage, also early broken; with various dark comments to which she had paid no attention. dr. bellair was dr. bellair, and she had a reverential affection for her. there was a little silence. the doctor evidently found it hard to begin. "you love children, don't you, vivian?" the girl's eyes kindled, and a heavenly smile broke over her face. "better than anything in the world," she said. "ever think about them?" asked her friend, her own face whitening as she spoke. "think about their lovely little soft helplessness--when you hold them in your arms and have to do _everything_ for them. have to go and turn them over--see that the little ear isn't crumpled--that the covers are all right. can't you see 'em, upside down on the bath apron, grabbing at things, perfectly happy, but prepared to howl when it comes to dressing? and when they are big enough to love you! little soft arms that will hardly go round your neck. little soft cheeks against yours, little soft mouths and little soft kisses,--ever think of them?" the girl's eyes were like stars. she was looking into the future; her breath came quickly; she sat quite still. the doctor swallowed hard, and went on. "we mostly don't go much farther than that at first. it's just the babies we want. but you can look farther--can follow up, year by year, the lovely changing growing bodies and minds, the confidence and love between you, the pride you have as health is established, strength and skill developed, and character unfolds and deepens. "then when they are grown, and sort of catch up, and you have those splendid young lives about you, intimate strong friends and tender lovers. and you feel as though you had indeed done something for the world." she stopped, saying no more for a little, watching the girl's awed shining face. suddenly that face was turned to her, full of exquisite sympathy, the dark eyes swimming with sudden tears; and two soft eager arms held her close. "oh, doctor! to care like that and not--!" "yes, my dear;" said the doctor, quietly. "and not have any. not be able to have any--ever." vivian caught her breath with pitying intensity, but her friend went on. "never be able to have a child, because i married a man who had gonorrhea. in place of happy love, lonely pain. in place of motherhood, disease. misery and shame, child. medicine and surgery, and never any possibility of any child for me." the girl was pale with horror. "i--i didn't know--" she tried to say something, but the doctor burst out impatiently: "no! you don't know. i didn't know. girls aren't taught a word of what's before them till it's too late--not _then_, sometimes! women lose every joy in life, every hope, every capacity for service or pleasure. they go down to their graves without anyone's telling them the cause of it all." "that was why you--left him?" asked vivian presently. "yes, i left him. when i found i could not be a mother i determined to be a doctor, and save other women, if i could." she said this with such slow, grave emphasis that vivian turned a sudden startled face to her, and went white to the lips. "i may be wrong," the doctor said, "you have not given me your confidence in this matter. but it is better, a thousand times better, that i should make this mistake than for you to make that. you must not marry morton elder." vivian did not admit nor deny. she still wore that look of horror. "you think he has--that?" "i do not know whether he has gonorrhea or not; it takes a long microscopic analysis to be sure; but there is every practical assurance that he's had it, and i know he's had syphilis." if vivian could have turned paler she would have, then. "i've heard of--that," she said, shuddering. "yes, the other is newer to our knowledge, far commoner, and really more dangerous. they are two of the most terrible diseases known to us; highly contagious, and in the case of syphilis, hereditary. nearly three-quarters of the men have one or the other, or both." but vivian was not listening. her face was buried in her hands. she crouched low in agonized weeping. "oh, come, come, my dear. don't take it so hard. there's no harm done you see, it's not too late." "oh, it _is_ too late! it is!" wailed the girl. "i have promised to marry him." "i don't care if you were at the altar, child; you _haven't_ married him, and you mustn't." "i have given my word!" said the girl dully. she was thinking of morton now. of his handsome face, with it's new expression of respectful tenderness; of all the hopes they had built together; of his life, so dependent upon hers for its higher interests. she turned to the doctor, her lips quivering. "he _loves_ me!" she said. "i--we--he says i am all that holds him up, that helps him to make a newer better life. and he has changed so--i can see it! he says he has loved me, really, since he was seventeen!" the older sterner face did not relax. "he told me he had--done wrong. he was honest about it. he said he wasn't--worthy." "he isn't," said dr. bellair. "but surely i owe some duty to him. he depends on me. and i have promised--" the doctor grew grimmer. "marriage is for motherhood," she said. "that is its initial purpose. i suppose you might deliberately forego motherhood, and undertake a sort of missionary relation to a man, but that is not marriage." "he loves me," said the girl with gentle stubbornness. she saw morton's eyes, as she had so often seen them lately; full of adoration and manly patience. she felt his hand, as she had felt it so often lately, holding hers, stealing about her waist, sometimes bringing her fingers to his lips for a strong slow kiss which she could not forget for hours. she raised her head. a new wave of feeling swept over her. she saw a vista of self-sacrificing devotion, foregoing much, forgiving much, but rejoicing in the companionship of a noble life, a soul rebuilt, a love that was passionately grateful. her eyes met those of her friend fairly. "and i love him!" she said. "will you tell that to your crippled children?" asked dr. bellair. "will they understand it if they are idiots? will they see it if they are blind? will it satisfy you when they are dead?" the girl shrank before her. "you _shall_ understand," said the doctor. "this is no case for idealism and exalted emotion. do you want a son like theophile?" "i thought you said--they didn't have any." "some don't--that is one result. another result--of gonorrhea--is to have children born blind. their eyes may be saved, with care. but it is not a motherly gift for one's babies--blindness. you may have years and years of suffering yourself--any or all of those diseases 'peculiar to women' as we used to call them! and we pitied the men who 'were so good to their invalid wives'! you may have any number of still-born children, year after year. and every little marred dead face would remind you that you allowed it! and they may be deformed and twisted, have all manner of terrible and loathsome afflictions, they and their children after them, if they have any. and many do! dear girl, don't you see that's wicked?" vivian was silent, her two hands wrung together; her whole form shivering with emotion. "don't think that you are 'ruining his life,'" said the doctor kindly. "he ruined it long ago--poor boy!" the girl turned quickly at the note of sympathy. "they don't know either," her friend went on. "what could miss orella do, poor little saint, to protect a lively young fellow like that! all they have in their scatter-brained heads is 'it's naughty but it's nice!' and so they rush off and ruin their whole lives--and their wives'--and their children's. a man don't have to be so very wicked, either, understand. just one mis-step may be enough for infection." "even if it did break his heart, and yours--even if you both lived single, he because it is the only decent thing he can do now, you because of a misguided sense of devotion; that would be better than to commit this plain sin. beware of a biological sin, my dear; for it there is no forgiveness." she waited a moment and went on, as firmly and steadily as she would have held the walls of a wound while she placed the stitches. "if you two love each other so nobly and devotedly that it is higher and truer and more lasting than the ordinary love of men and women, you might be 'true' to one another for a lifetime, you see. and all that friendship can do, exalted influence, noble inspiration--that is open to you." vivian's eyes were wide and shining. she saw a possible future, not wholly unbearable. "has he kissed you yet?" asked the doctor suddenly. "no," she said. "that is--except----" "don't let him. you might catch it. your friendship must be distant. well, shall we be going back? i'm sorry, my dear. i did hate awfully to do it. but i hated worse to see you go down those awful steps from which there is no returning." "yes," said vivian. "thank you. won't you go on, please? i'll come later." an hour the girl sat there, with the clear blue sky above her, the soft steady wind rustling the leaves, the little birds that hopped and pecked and flirted their tails so near her motionless figure. she thought and thought, and through all the tumult of ideas it grew clearer to her that the doctor was right. she might sacrifice herself. she had no right to sacrifice her children. a feeling of unreasoning horror at this sudden outlook into a field of unknown evil was met by her clear perception that if she was old enough to marry, to be a mother, she was surely old enough to know these things; and not only so, but ought to know them. shy, sensitive, delicate in feeling as the girl was, she had a fair and reasoning mind. chapter x. determination. you may shut your eyes with a bandage, the while world vanishes soon; you may open your eyes at a knothole and see the sun and moon. it must have grieved anyone who cared for andrew dykeman, to see mrs. st. cloud's manner toward him change with his changed circumstances--she had been so much with him, had been so kind to him; kinder than carston comment "knew for a fact," but not kinder than it surmised. then, though his dress remained as quietly correct, his face assumed a worn and anxious look, and he no longer offered her long auto rides or other expensive entertainment. she saw men on the piazza stop talking as he came by, and shake their heads as they looked after him; but no one would tell her anything definite till she questioned mr. skee. "i am worried about mr. dykeman," she said to this ever-willing confidant, beckoning him to a chair beside her. a chair, to the mind of mr. skee, seemed to be for pictorial uses, only valuable as part of the composition. he liked one to stand beside, to put a foot on, to lean over from behind, arms on the back; to tip up in front of him as if he needed a barricade; and when he was persuaded to sit in one, it was either facing the back, cross-saddle and bent forward, or--and this was the utmost decorum he was able to approach--tipped backward against the wall. "he does not look well," said the lady, "you are old friends--do tell me; if it is anything wherein a woman's sympathy would be of service?" "i'm afraid not, ma'am," replied mr. skee darkly. "andy's hard hit in a worse place than his heart. i wouldn't betray a friend's confidence for any money, ma'am; but this is all over town. it'll go hard with andy, i'm afraid, at his age." "oh, i'm so sorry!" she whispered. "so sorry! but surely with a man of his abilities it will be only a temporary reverse!--" "dunno 'bout the abilities--not in this case. unless he has ability enough to discover a mine bigger'n the one he's lost! you see, ma'am, it's this way," and he sunk his voice to a confidential rumble. "andy had a bang-up mine, galena ore--not gold, you understand, but often pays better. and he kept on putting the money it made back into it to make more. then, all of a sudden, it petered out! no more eggs in that basket. 'course he can't sell it--now. and last year he refused half a million. andy's sure down on his luck." "but he will recover! you western men are so wonderful! he will find another mine!" "o yes, he _may_! certainly he _may_, ma'am. not that he found this one--he just bought it." "well--he can buy another, there are more, aren't there?" "sure there are! there's as good mines in the earth as ever was salted--that's my motto! but andy's got no more money to buy any mines. what he had before he inherited. no, ma'am," said mr. skee, with a sigh. "i'm afraid its all up with andy dykeman financially!" this he said more audibly; and miss elder and miss pettigrew, sitting in their parlor, could not help hearing. miss elder gave a little gasp and clasped her hands tightly, but miss pettigrew arose, and came outside. "what's this about mr. dykeman?" she questioned abruptly. "has he had losses?" "there now," said mr. skee, remorsefully, "i never meant to give him away like that. mrs. pettigrew, ma'am, i must beg you not to mention it further. i was only satisfyin' this lady here, in answer to sympathetic anxiety, as to what was making andrew h. dykeman so down in the mouth. yes'm--he's lost every cent he had in the world, or is likely to have. of course, among friends, he'll get a job fast enough, bookkeepin', or something like that--though he's not a brilliant man, andy isn't. you needn't to feel worried, mrs. pettigrew; he'll draw a salary all right, to the end of time; but he's out of the game of hot finance." mrs. pettigrew regarded the speaker with a scintillating eye. he returned her look with unflinching seriousness. "have a chair, ma'am," he said. "let me bring out your rocker. sit down and chat with us." "no, thanks," said the old lady. "it seems to me a little--chilly, out here. i'll go in." she went in forthwith, to find miss orella furtively wiping her eyes. "what are you crying about, orella elder! just because a man's lost his money? that happens to most of 'em now and then." "yes, i know--but you heard what he said. oh, i can't believe it! to think of his having to be provided for by his friends--and having to take a small salary--after being so well off! i am so sorry for him!" miss elder's sorrow was increased to intensity by noting mrs. st. cloud's changed attitude. mr. dykeman made no complaint, uttered no protest, gave no confidences; but it soon appeared that he was working in an office; and furthermore that this position was given him by mr. skee. that gentleman, though discreetly reticent as to his own affairs, now appeared in far finer raiment than he had hitherto affected; developed a pronounced taste in fobs and sleeve buttons; and a striking harmony in socks and scarfs. men talked openly of him; no one seemed to know anything definite, but all were certain that "old skee must have struck it rich." mr. skee kept his own counsel; but became munificent in gifts and entertainments. he produced two imposing presents for susie; one a "betrothal gift," the other a conventional wedding present. "this is a new one to me," he said when he offered her the first; "but i understand it's the thing. in fact i'm sure of it--for i've consulted mrs. st. cloud and she helped me to buy 'em." he consulted mrs. st. cloud about a dinner he proposed giving to mr. saunders--"one of these farewell to egypt affairs," he said. "not that i imagine jim saunders ever was much of a--egyptian--but then----!" he consulted her also about vivian--did she not think the girl looked worn and ill? wouldn't it be a good thing to send her off for a trip somewhere? he consulted her about a library; said he had always wanted a library of his own, but the public ones were somewhat in his way. how many books did she think a man ought really to own--to spend his declining years among. also, and at considerable length he consulted her about the best possible place of residence. "i'm getting to be an old man, mrs. st. cloud," he remarked meditatively; "and i'm thinking of buying and building somewhere. but it's a ticklish job. lo! these many years i've been perfectly contented to live wherever i was at; and now that i'm considering a real home--blamed if i know where to put it! i'm distracted between a model farm, and a metropolitan residence. which would you recommend, ma'am?" the lady's sympathy and interest warmed to mr. skee as they cooled to mr. dykeman, not with any blameworthy or noticeable suddenness, but in soft graduations, steady and continuous. the one wore his new glories with an air of modest pride; making no boast of affluence; and the other accepted that which had befallen him without rebellion. miss orella's tender heart was deeply touched. as fast as mrs. st. cloud gave the cold shoulder to her friend, she extended a warm hand; when they chatted about mr. skee's visible success, she spoke bravely of the beauty of limited means; and when it was time to present her weekly bills to the boarders, she left none in mr. dykeman's room. this he took for an oversight at first; but when he found the omission repeated on the following week, he stood by his window smiling thoughtfully for some time, and then went in search of miss orella. she sat by her shaded lamp, alone, knitting a silk tie which was promptly hidden as he entered. he stood by the door looking at her in spite of her urging him to be seated, observing the warm color in her face, the graceful lines of her figure, the gentle smile that was so unfailingly attractive. then he came forward, calmly inquiring, "why haven't you sent me my board bill?" she lifted her eyes to his, and dropped them, flushing. "i--excuse me; but i thought----" "you thought i couldn't conveniently pay it?" "o please excuse me! i didn't mean to be--to do anything you wouldn't like. but i did hear that you were--temporarily embarrassed. and i want you to feel sure, mr. dykeman, that to your real friends it makes no difference in the _least_. and if--for a while that is--it should be a little more convenient to--to defer payment, please feel perfectly at liberty to wait!" she stood there blushing like a girl, her sweet eyes wet with shining tears that did not fall, full of tender sympathy for his misfortune. "have you heard that i've lost all my money?" he asked. she nodded softly. "and that i can't ever get it back--shall have to do clerk's work at a clerk's salary--as long as i live?" again she nodded. he took a step or two back and forth in the quiet parlor, and returned to her. "would you marry a poor man?" he asked in a low tender voice. "would you marry a man not young, not clever, not rich, but who loved you dearly? you are the sweetest woman i ever saw, orella elder--will you marry me?" she came to him, and he drew her close with a long sigh of utter satisfaction. "now i am rich indeed," he said softly. she held him off a little. "don't talk about being rich. it doesn't matter. if you like to live here--why this house will keep us both. if you'd rather have a little one--i can live _so_ happily--on _so_ little! and there is my own little home in bainville--perhaps you could find something to do there. i don't care the least in the world--so long as you love me!" "i've loved you since i first set eyes on you," he answered her. "to see the home you've made here for all of us was enough to make any man love you. but i thought awhile back that i hadn't any chance--you weren't jealous of that artificial fairy, were you?" and conscientiously miss orella lied. carston society was pleased, but not surprised at susie's engagement; it was both pleased and surprised when miss elder's was announced. some there were who protested that they had seen it from the beginning; but disputatious friends taxed them with having prophesied quite otherwise. some thought miss elder foolish to take up with a man of full middle age, and with no prospects; and others attributed the foolishness to mr. dykeman, in marrying an old maid. others again darkly hinted that he knew which side his bread was buttered--"and first-rate butter, too." adding that they "did hate to see a man sit around and let his wife keep boarders!" in bainville circles the event created high commotion. that one of their accumulated maidens, part of the virgin sacrifice of new england, which finds not even a minotaur--had thus triumphantly escaped from their ranks and achieved a husband; this was flatly heretical. the fact that he was a poor man was the only mitigating circumstance, leaving it open to the more captious to criticize the lady sharply. but the calm contentment of andrew dykeman's face, and the decorous bliss of miss elder's were untroubled by what anyone thought or said. little susie was delighted, and teased for a double wedding; without success. "one was enough to attend to, at one time," her aunt replied. * * * * * in all this atmosphere of wooings and weddings, vivian walked apart, as one in a bad dream that could never end. that day when dr. bellair left her on the hill, left her alone in a strange new horrible world, was still glaring across her consciousness, the end of one life, the bar to any other. its small events were as clear to her as those which stand out so painfully on a day of death; all that led up to the pleasant walk, when an eager girl mounted the breezy height, and a sad-faced woman came down from it. she had waited long and came home slowly, dreading to see a face she knew, dreading worst of all to see morton. the boy she had known so long, the man she was beginning to know, had changed to an unbelievable horror; and the love which had so lately seemed real to her recoiled upon her heart with a sense of hopeless shame. she wished--eagerly, desperately, she wished--she need never see him again. she thought of the man's resource of running away--if she could just _go_, go at once, and write to him from somewhere. distant bainville seemed like a haven of safety; even the decorous, narrow, monotony of its dim life had a new attraction. these terrors were not in bainville, surely. then the sickening thought crept in that perhaps they were--only they did not know it. besides, she had no money to go with. if only she had started that little school sooner! write to her father for money she would not. no, she must bear it here. the world was discolored in the girl's eyes. love had become a horror and marriage impossible. she pushed the idea from her, impotently, as one might push at a lava flow. in her wide reading she had learned in a vague way of "evil"--a distant undescribed evil which was in the world, and which must be avoided. she had known that there was such a thing as "sin," and abhorred the very thought of it. morton's penitential confessions had given no details; she had pictured him only as being "led astray," as being "fast," even perhaps "wicked." wickedness could be forgiven; and she had forgiven him, royally. but wickedness was one thing, disease was another. forgiveness was no cure. the burden of new knowledge so distressed her that she avoided the family entirely that evening, avoided susie, went to her grandmother and asked if she might come and sleep on the lounge in her room. "surely, my child, glad to have you," said mrs. pettigrew affectionately. "better try my bed--there's room a-plenty." the girl lay long with those old arms about her, crying quietly. her grandmother asked no questions, only patted her softly from time to time, and said, "there! there!" in a pleasantly soothing manner. after some time she remarked, "if you want to say things, my dear, say 'em--anything you please." in the still darkness they talked long and intimately; and the wise old head straightened things out somewhat for the younger one. "doctors don't realize how people feel about these matters," said mrs. pettigrew. "they are so used to all kinds of ghastly things they forget that other folks can't stand 'em. she was too hard on you, dearie." but vivian defended the doctor. "oh, no, grandma. she did it beautifully. and it hurt her so. she told me about her own--disappointment." "yes, i remember her as a girl, you see. a fine sweet girl she was too. it was an awful blow--and she took it hard. it has made her bitter, i think, perhaps; that and the number of similar cases she had to cope with." "but, grandma--is it--_can_ it be as bad as she said? seventy-five per cent! three-quarters of--of everybody!" "not everybody dear, thank goodness. our girls are mostly clean, and they save the race, i guess." "i don't even want to _see_ a man again!" said the girl with low intensity. "shouldn't think you would, at first. but, dear child--just brace yourself and look it fair in the face! the world's no worse than it was yesterday--just because you know more about it!" "no," vivian admitted, "but it's like uncovering a charnel house!" she shuddered. "never saw a charnel house myself," said the old lady, "even with the lid on. but now see here child; you mustn't feel as if all men were unspeakable villains. they are just ignorant boys--and nobody ever tells 'em the truth. nobody used to know it, for that matter. all this about gonorrhea is quite newly discovered--it has set the doctors all by the ears. having women doctors has made a difference too--lots of difference." "besides," she went on after a pause, "things are changing very fast now, since the general airing began. dr. prince morrow in new york, with that society of his--(i can never remember the name--makes me think of tooth brushes) has done much; and the popular magazines have taken it up. you must have seen some of those articles, vivian." "i have," the girl said, "but i couldn't bear to read them--ever." "that's it!" responded her grandmother, tartly; "we bring up girls to think it is not proper to know anything about the worst danger before them. proper!--why my dear child, the young girls are precisely the ones _to_ know! it's no use to tell a woman who has buried all her children--or wishes she had!--that it was all owing to her ignorance, and her husband's. you have to know beforehand if it's to do you any good." after awhile she continued: "women are waking up to this all over the country, now. nice women, old and young. the women's clubs and congresses are taking it up, as they should. some states have passed laws requiring a medical certificate--a clean bill of health--to go with a license to marry. you can see that's reasonable! a man has to be examined to enter the army or navy, even to get his life insured; marriage and parentage are more important than those things! and we are beginning to teach children and young people what they ought to know. there's hope for us!" "but grandma--it's so awful--about the children." "yes dear, yes. it's pretty awful. but don't feel as if we were all on the brink of perdition. remember that we've got a whole quarter of the men to bank on. that's a good many, in this country. we're not so bad as europe--not yet--in this line. then just think of this, child. we have lived, and done splendid things all these years, even with this load of disease on us. think what we can do when we're rid of it! and that's in the hands of woman, my dear--as soon as we know enough. don't be afraid of knowledge. when we all know about this we can stop it! think of that. we can religiously rid the world of all these--'undesirable citizens.'" "how, grandma?" "easy enough, my dear. by not marrying them." there was a lasting silence. grandma finally went to sleep, making a little soft whistling sound through her parted lips; but vivian lay awake for long slow hours. * * * * * it was one thing to make up her own mind, though not an easy one, by any means; it was quite another to tell morton. he gave her no good opportunity. he did not say again, "will you marry me?" so that she could say, "no," and be done with it. he did not even say, "when will you marry me?" to which she could answer "never!" he merely took it for granted that she was going to, and continued to monopolize her as far as possible, with all pleasant and comfortable attentions. she forced the situation even more sharply than she wished, by turning from him with a shiver when he met her on the stairs one night and leaned forward as if to kiss her. he stopped short. "what is the matter, vivian--are you ill?" "no--" she could say nothing further, but tried to pass him. "look here--there _is_ something. you've been--different--for several days. have i done anything you don't like?" "oh, morton!" his question was so exactly to the point; and so exquisitely inadequate! he had indeed. "i care too much for you to let anything stand between us now," he went on. "come, there's no one in the upper hall--come and 'tell me the worst.'" "as well now as ever." thought the girl. yet when they sat on the long window seat, and he turned his handsome face toward her, with that newer, better look on it, she could not believe that this awful thing was true. "now then--what is wrong between us?" he said. she answered only, "i will tell you the worst, morton. i cannot marry you--ever." he whitened to the lips, but asked quietly, "why?" "because you have--oh, i _cannot_ tell you!" "i have a right to know, vivian. you have made a man of me. i love you with my whole heart. what have i done--that i have not told you?" then she recalled his contrite confessions; and contrasted what he had told her with what he had not; with the unspeakable fate to which he would have consigned her--and those to come; and a sort of holy rage rose within her. "you never told me of the state of your health, morton." it was done. she looked to see him fall at her feet in utter abashment, but he did nothing of the kind. what he did do astonished her beyond measure. he rose to his feet, with clenched fists. "has that damned doctor been giving me away?" he demanded. "because if he has i'll kill him!" "he has not," said vivian. "not by the faintest hint, ever. and is _that_ all you think of?-- "good-bye." she rose to leave him, sick at heart. then he seemed to realize that she was going; that she meant it. "surely, surely!" he cried, "you won't throw me over now! oh, vivian! i told you i had been wild--that i wasn't fit to touch your little slippers! and i wasn't going to ask you to marry me till i felt sure this was all done with. all the rest of my life was yours, darling--is yours. you have made me over--surely you won't leave me now!" "i must," she said. he looked at her despairingly. if he lost her he lost not only a woman, but the hope of a life. things he had never thought about before had now grown dear to him; a home, a family, an honorable place in the world, long years of quiet happiness. "i can't lose you!" he said. "i _can't_!" she did not answer, only sat there with a white set face and her hands tight clenched in her lap. "where'd you get this idea anyhow?" he burst out again. "i believe it's that woman doctor! what does she know!" "look here, morton," said vivian firmly. "it is not a question of who told me. the important thing is that it's--true! and i cannot marry you." "but vivian--" he pleaded, trying to restrain the intensity of his feeling; "men get over these things. they do, really. it's not so awful as you seem to think. it's very common. and i'm nearly well. i was going to wait a year or two yet--to make sure--. vivian! i'd cut my hand off before i'd hurt you!" there was real agony in his voice, and her heart smote her; but there was something besides her heart ruling the girl now. "i am sorry--i'm very sorry," she said dully. "but i will not marry you." "you'll throw me over--just for that! oh, vivian don't--you can't. i'm no worse than other men. it seems so terrible to you just because you're so pure and white. it's only what they call--wild oats, you know. most men do it." she shook her head. "and will you punish me--so cruelly--for that? i can't live without you, vivian--i won't!" "it is not a question of punishing you, morton," she said gently. "nor myself. it is not the sin i am considering. it is the consequences!" he felt a something high and implacable in the gentle girl; something he had never found in her before. he looked at her with despairing eyes. her white grace, her stately little ways, her delicate beauty, had never seemed so desirable. "good god, vivian. you can't mean it. give me time. wait for me. i'll be straight all the rest of my life--i mean it. i'll be true to you, absolutely. i'll do anything you say--only don't give me up!" she felt old, hundreds of years old, and as remote as far mountains. "it isn't anything you can do--in the rest of your life, my poor boy! it is what you have done--in the first of it!... oh, morton! it isn't right to let us grow up without knowing! you never would have done it _if_ you'd known--would you? can't you--can't we--do something to--stop this awfulness?" her tender heart suffered in the pain she was inflicting, suffered too in her own loss; for as she faced the thought of final separation she found that her grief ran back into the far-off years of childhood. but she had made up her mind with a finality only the more absolute because it hurt her. even what he said of possible recovery did not move her--the very thought of marriage had become impossible. "i shall never marry," she added, with a shiver; thinking that he might derive some comfort from the thought; but he replied with a bitter derisive little laugh. he did not rise to her appeal to "help the others." so far in life the happiness of morton elder had been his one engrossing care; and now the unhappiness of morton elder assumed even larger proportions. that bright and hallowed future to which he had been looking forward so earnestly had been suddenly withdrawn from him; his good resolutions, his "living straight" for the present, were wasted. "you women that are so superior," he said, "that'll turn a man down for things that are over and done with--that he's sorry for and ashamed of--do you know what you drive a man to! what do you think's going to become of me if you throw me over!" he reached out his hands to her in real agony. "vivian! i love you! i can't live without you! i can't be good without you! and you love me a little--don't you?" she did. she could not deny it. she loved to shut her eyes to the future, to forgive the past, to come to those outstretched arms and bury everything beneath that one overwhelming phrase--"i love you!" but she heard again dr. bellair's clear low accusing voice--"will you tell that to your crippled children?" she rose to her feet. "i cannot help it, morton. i am sorry--you will not believe how sorry i am! but i will never marry you." a look of swift despair swept over his face. it seemed to darken visibly as she watched. an expression of bitter hatred came upon him; of utter recklessness. all that the last few months had seemed to bring of higher better feeling fell from him; and even as she pitied him she thought with a flicker of fear of how this might have happened--after marriage. "oh, well!" he said, rising to his feet. "i wish you could have made up your mind sooner, that's all. i'll take myself off now." she reached out her hands to him. "morton! please!--don't go away feeling so hardly! i am--fond of you--i always was.--won't you let me help you--to bear it--! can't we be--friends?" again he laughed that bitter little laugh. "no, miss lane," he said. "we distinctly cannot. this is good-bye--you won't change your mind--again?" she shook her head in silence, and he left her. chapter xi. thereafter. if i do right, though heavens fall, and end all light and laughter; though black the night and ages long, bitter the cold--the tempest strong-- if i do right, and brave it all-- the sun shall rise thereafter! the inaccessibility of dr. hale gave him, in the eye of mrs. st. cloud, all the attractiveness of an unscaled peak to the true mountain climber. here was a man, an unattached man, living next door to her, whom she had not even seen. her pursuance of what mr. skee announced to his friends to be "one of these platonic friendships," did not falter; neither did her interest in other relations less philosophic. mr. dykeman's precipitate descent from the class of eligibles was more of a disappointment to her than she would admit even to herself; his firm, kind friendliness had given a sense of comfort, of achieved content that her restless spirit missed. but dr. hale, if he had been before inaccessible, had now become so heavily fortified, so empanoplied in armor offensive and defensive, that even mrs. pettigrew found it difficult to obtain speech with him. that his best friend, so long supporting him in cheerful bachelorhood, should have thus late laid down his arms, was bitterly resented. that mr. skee, free lance of years standing, and risen victor from several "stricken fields," should show signs of capitulation, annoyed him further. whether these feelings derived their intensity from another, which he entirely refused to acknowledge, is matter for the psychologist, and dr. hale avoided all psychologic self-examination. with the boys he was always a hero. they admired his quiet strength and the unbroken good nature that was always presented to those about him, whatever his inner feelings. mr. peters burst forth to the others one day, in tones of impassioned admiration. "by george, fellows," he said, "you know how nice doc was last night?" "never saw him when he wasn't," said archie. "don't interrupt mr. peters," drawled percy. "he's on the brink of a scientific discovery. strange how these secrets of nature can lie unrevealed about us so long--and then suddenly burst upon our ken!" mr. peters grinned affably. "that's all right, but i maintain my assertion; whatever the general attraction of our noble host, you'll admit that on the special occasion of yesterday evening, which we celebrated to a late hour by innocent games of cards--he was--as usual--the soul of--of----" "affability?" suggested percy. "precisely!" peters admitted. "if there is a well-chosen word which perfectly describes the manner of dr. richard hale--it is affable! thank you, sir, thank you. well, what i wish to announce, so that you can all of you get down on your knees at once and worship, is that all last evening he--had a toothache--a bad toothache!" "my word!" said archie, and remained silent. "oh, come now," percy protested, "that's against nature. have a toothache and not _mention_ it? not even mention it--without exaggeration! why archimedes couldn't do that! or--sandalphon--or any of them!" "how'd you learn the facts, my son? tell us that." "heard him on the 'phone making an appointment. 'yes;' 'since noon yesterday,' 'yes, pretty severe.' ' : ? you can't make it earlier? all right.' i'm just mentioning it to convince you fellows that you don't appreciate your opportunities. there was some exceptional female once--they said 'to know her was a liberal education.' what would you call it to live with dr. hale?" and they called it every fine thing they could think of; for these boys knew better than anyone else, the effect of that association. his patients knew him as wise, gentle, efficient, bringing a sense of hope and assurance by the mere touch of that strong hand; his professional associates in the town knew him as a good practitioner and friend, and wider medical circles, readers of his articles in the professional press had an even higher opinion of his powers. yet none of these knew richard hale. none saw him sitting late in his office, the pages of his book unturned, his eyes on the red spaces of the fire. no one was with him on those night tramps that left but an hour or two of sleep to the long night, and made that sleep irresistible from self-enforced fatigue. he had left the associations of his youth and deliberately selected this far-off mountain town to build the life he chose; and if he found it unsatisfying no one was the wiser. his successive relays of boys, young fellows fresh from the east, coming from year to year and going from year to year as business called them, could and did give good testimony as to the home side of his character, however. it was not in nature that they should speculate about him. as they fell in love and out again with the facility of so many romeos, they discoursed among themselves as to his misogyny. "he certainly has a grouch on women," they would admit. "that's the one thing you can't talk to him about--shuts up like a clam. of course, he'll let you talk about your own feelings and experiences, but you might as well talk to the side of a hill. i wonder what did happen to him?" they made no inquiry, however. it was reported that a minister's wife, a person of determined character, had had the courage of her inquisitiveness, and asked him once, "why is it that you have never married, dr. hale?" and that he had replied, "it is owing to my dislike of the meddlesomeness of women." he lived his own life, unquestioned, now more markedly withdrawn than ever, coming no more to the cottonwoods. even when morton elder left, suddenly and without warning, to the great grief of his aunt and astonishment of his sister, their medical neighbor still "sulked in his tent"--or at least in his office. morton's departure had but one explanation; it must be that vivian had refused him, and she did not deny it. "but why, vivian, why? he has improved so--it was just getting lovely to see how nice he was getting. and we all thought you were so happy." thus the perplexed susie. and vivian found herself utterly unable to explain to that happy little heart, on the brink of marriage, why she had refused her brother. miss orella was even harder to satisfy. "it's not as if you were a foolish changeable young girl, my dear. and you've known morton all your life--he was no stranger to you. it breaks my heart, vivian. can't you reconsider?" the girl shook her head. "i'm awfully sorry, miss orella. please believe that i did it for the best--and that it was very hard for me, too." "but, vivian! what can be the reason? i don't think you understand what a beautiful influence you have on the boy. he has improved so, since he has been here. and he was going to get a position here in town--he told me so himself--and really settle down. and now he's _gone_. just off and away, as he used to be--and i never shall feel easy about him again." miss orella was frankly crying; and it wrung the girl's heart to know the pain she was causing; not only to morton, and to herself, but to these others. susie criticised her with frankness. "i know you think you are right, vivian, you always do--you and that conscience of yours. but i really think you had gone too far to draw back, jimmie saw him that night he went away--and he said he looked awfully. and he really was changed so--beginning to be so thoroughly nice. whatever was the matter? i think you ought to tell me, vivian, i'm his sister, and--being engaged and all--perhaps i could straighten it out." and she was as nearly angry as her sunny nature allowed, when her friend refused to give any reason, beyond that she thought it right. her aunt did not criticise, but pleaded. "it's not too late, i'm sure, vivian. a word from you would bring him back in a moment. do speak it, vivian--do! put your pride in your pocket, child, and don't lose a lifetime's happiness for some foolish quarrel." miss orella, like susie, was at present sure that marriage must mean a lifetime's happiness. and vivian looked miserably from one to the other of these loving women-folk, and could not defend herself with the truth. mrs. pettigrew took up the cudgels for her. she was not going to have her favorite grandchild thus condemned and keep silence. "anybody'd think vivian had married the man and then run away with another one!" she said tartly. "pity if a girl can't change her mind before marrying--she's held down pretty close afterward. an engagement isn't a wedding, orella elder." "but you don't consider the poor boy's feelings in the least, mrs. pettigrew." "no, i don't," snapped the old lady. "i consider the poor girl's. i'm willing to bet as much as you will that his feelings aren't any worse than hers. if _he'd_ changed his mind and run off and left _her_, i warrant you two wouldn't have been so hard on him." evading this issue, miss orella wiped her eyes, and said: "heaven knows where he is now. and i'm afraid he won't write--he never did write much, and now he's just heartbroken. i don't know as i'd have seen him at all if i hadn't been awake and heard him rushing downstairs. you've no idea how he suffers." "i don't see as the girl's to blame that he hadn't decency enough to say good-bye to the aunt that's been a mother to him; or to write to her, as he ought to. a person don't need to forget _all_ their duty because they've got the mitten." vivian shrank away from them all. her heart ached intolerably. she had not realized how large a part in her life this constant admiration and attention had become. she missed the outward agreeableness, and the soft tide of affection, which had risen more and more warmly about her. from her earliest memories she had wished for affection--affection deep and continuous, tender and with full expression. she had been too reserved to show her feeling, too proud by far to express it, but under that delicate reticence of hers lay always that deep longing to love and to be loved wholly. susie had been a comfort always, in her kittenish affection and caressing ways, but susie was doubly lost, both in her new absorption and now in this estrangement. then, to bring pain to miss orella, who had been so kind and sweet to her from earliest childhood, to hurt her so deeply, now, to mingle in her cup of happiness this grief and anxiety, made the girl suffer keenly. jimmie, of course, was able to comfort susie. he told her it was no killing matter anyhow, and that morton would inevitably console himself elsewhere. "he'll never wear the willow for any girl, my dear. don't you worry about him." also, mr. dykeman comforted miss orella, not only with wise words, but with his tender sympathy and hopefulness. but no one could comfort vivian. even dr. bellair seemed to her present sensitiveness an alien, cruel power. she had come like the angel with the flaming sword to stand between her and what, now that it was gone, began to look like paradise. she quite forgot that she had always shrunk from morton when he made love too warmly, that she had been far from wholly pleased with him when he made his appearance there, that their engagement, so far as they had one, was tentative--"sometime, when i am good enough" not having arrived. the unreasoning voice of the woman's nature within her had answered, though but partially, to the deep call of the man's; and now she missed more than she would admit to herself the tenderness that was gone. she had her intervals of sharp withdrawal from the memory of that tenderness, of deep thanksgiving for her escape; but fear of a danger only prophesied, does not obliterate memory of joys experienced. her grandmother watched her carefully, saying little. she forced no confidence, made no comment, was not obtrusively affectionate, but formed a definite decision and conveyed it clearly to dr. bellair. "look here, jane bellair, you've upset vivian's dish, and quite right; it's a good thing you did, and i don't know as you could have done it easier." "i couldn't have done it harder--that i know of," the doctor answered. "i'd sooner operate on a baby--without an anæsthetic--than tell a thing like that--to a girl like that. but it had to be done; and nobody else would." "you did perfectly right. i'm thankful enough, i promise you; if you hadn't i should have had to--and goodness knows what a mess i'd have made. but look here, the girl's going all to pieces. now we've got to do something for her, and do it quick." "i know that well enough," answered her friend, "and i set about it even before i made the incision. you've seen that little building going up on the corner of high and stone streets?" "that pretty little thing with the grass and flowers round it?" "yes--they got the flowers growing while the decorators finished inside. it's a first-rate little kindergarten. i've got a list of scholars all arranged for, and am going to pop the girl into it so fast she can't refuse. not that i think she will." "who did it?" demanded mrs. pettigrew. "that man skee?" "mr. skee has had something to do with it," replied the doctor, guardedly; "but he doesn't want his name mentioned." "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew. vivian made no objection, though she was too listless to take up work with enthusiasm. as a prescription nothing could have worked better. enough small pupils were collected to pay the rent of the pretty place, and leave a modest income for her. dr. bellair gathered together the mothers and aunts for a series of afternoon talks in the convenient building, vivian assisting, and roused much interest among them. the loving touch of little hands, the pleasure of seeing the gay contentment of her well-ordered charges, began to lighten the girl's heart at last. they grew so fond of her that the mothers were jealous, but she played with and taught them so wisely, and the youngsters were so much improved by it, that no parent withdrew her darling. further than that, the new interest, the necessary reading and study, above all the study hours of occupation acted most beneficently, slowly, but surely steadying the nerves and comforting the heart. there is a telling oriental phrase describing sorrow: "and the whole world became strait unto him." the sense of final closing down of life, of a dull, long, narrow path between her and the grave, which had so oppressed the girl's spirit, now changed rapidly. here was room to love at least, and she radiated a happy and unselfish affection among the little ones. here was love in return, very sweet and honest, if shallow. here was work; something to do, something to think about; both in her hours with the children and those spent in study. her work took her out of the house, too; away from susie and her aunt, with their happy chatter and endless white needlework, and the gleeful examination of presents. never before had she known the blessed relief of another place to go to. when she left the cottonwoods, as early as possible, and placed her key in the door of the little gray house sitting among the roses, she felt a distinct lightening of the heart. this was hers. not her father's, not miss elder's; not anybody's but hers--as long as she could earn the rent. she paid her board, too, in spite of deep and pained remonstrance, forcing miss elder to accept it by the ultimatum "would you rather make me go away and board somewhere else?" she could not accept favors where she was condemned. this, too, gave her a feeling hitherto inexperienced, deep and inspiring. she began to hold her graceful head insensibly higher, to walk with a freer step. life was not ended after all, though love had gone. she might not be happy, but she might be useful and independent. then dr. bellair, who had by quiet friendliness and wise waiting, regained much of her former place with the girl, asked her to undertake, as a special favor to her, the care of a class of rather delicate children and young girls, in physical culture. "of course, johanna johnson is perfectly reliable and an excellent teacher. i don't know a better; but their mothers will feel easier if there's someone they know on the spot. you keep order and see that they don't overdo. you'll have to go through their little exercises with them, you see. i can't pay you anything for it; but it's only part of two afternoons in the week--and it won't hurt you at any rate." vivian was more than glad to do something for the doctor, as well as to extend her friendship among older children; also glad of anything to further fill her time. to be alone and idle was to think and suffer. mrs. pettigrew came in with dr. bellair one afternoon to watch the exercises. "i don't see but what vivian does the tricks as well as any of them," said her grandmother. "she does beautifully," the doctor answered. "and her influence with the children is just what they needed. you see there's no romping and foolishness, and she sets the pace--starts them off when they're shy. i'm extremely obliged to her." mrs. pettigrew watched vivian's rhythmic movements, her erect carriage and swinging step, her warm color and sparkling eyes, as she led the line of happy youngsters and then turned upon the doctor. "huh!" she said. at susie's wedding, her childhood's friend was so far forgiven as to be chief bridesmaid, but seeing the happiness before her opened again the gates of her own pain. when it was all over, and the glad young things were safely despatched upon their ribboned way, when all the guests had gone, when mrs. st. cloud felt the need of air and with the ever-gallant mr. skee set forth in search of it, when dr. bellair had returned to her patients, and miss orella to her own parlor, and was there consoled by mr. dykeman for the loss of her niece, then vivian went to her room--all hers now, looking strangely large and empty--and set down among the drifts of white tissue paper and scattered pins--alone. she sank down on the bed, weary and sad at heart, for an hour of full surrender long refused; meaning for once to let her grief have its full way with her. but, just as on the night of her hurried engagement she had been unable to taste to the full the happiness expected, so now, surrender as she might, she could not feel the intensity of expected pain. she was lonely, unquestionably. she faced a lonely life. six long, heavy months had passed since she had made her decision. "i am nearly twenty-seven now," she thought, resignedly. "i shall never marry," and she felt a little shiver of the horror of last year. but, having got this far in melancholy contemplation, her mind refused to dwell upon it, but filled in spite of her with visions of merry little ones, prancing in wavering circles, and singing their more wavering songs. she was lonely and a single woman--but she had something to do; and far more power to do it, more interest, enthusiasm, and skill, than at the season's beginning. she thought of morton--of what little they had heard since his hurried departure. he had gone farther west; they had heard of him in san francisco, they had heard of him, after some months, in the klondike region, then they had heard no more. he did not write. it seemed hard to so deeply hurt his aunt for what was no fault of hers; but morton had never considered her feelings very deeply, his bitter anger, his hopelessness, his desperate disappointment, blinding him to any pain but his own. but her thoughts of him failed to rouse any keen distinctive sorrow. they rambled backward and forward, from the boy who had been such a trouble to his aunt, such a continuous disappointment and mortification; to the man whose wooing, looked back upon at this distance, seemed far less attractive to the memory than it had been at the time. even his honest attempt at improvement gave her but a feeling of pity, and though pity is akin to love it is not always a near relation. from her unresisting descent into wells of pain, which proved unexpectedly shallow, the girl arose presently and quietly set to work arranging the room in its new capacity as hers only. from black and bitter agony to the gray tastelessness of her present life was not an exciting change, but vivian had more power in quiet endurance than in immediate resistance, and set herself now in earnest to fulfill the tasks before her. this was march. she was planning an extension of her classes, the employment of an assistant. her work was appreciated, her school increased. patiently and steadily she faced her task, and found a growing comfort in it. when summer came, dr. bellair again begged her to help out in the plan of a girls' camp she was developing. this was new work for vivian, but her season in mrs. johnson's gymnastic class had given her a fresh interest in her own body and the use of it. that stalwart instructress, a large-boned, calm-eyed swedish woman, was to be the manager of the camp, and vivian this time, with a small salary attached, was to act as assistant. "it's a wonderful thing the way people take to these camps," said dr. bellair. "they are springing up everywhere. magnificent for children and young people." "it is a wonderful thing to me," observed mrs. pettigrew. "you go to a wild place that costs no rent; you run a summer hotel without any accommodations; you get a lot of parents to pay handsomely for letting their children be uncomfortable--and there you are." "they are not uncomfortable!" protested her friend, a little ruffled. "they like it. and besides liking it, it's good for them. it's precisely the roughing it that does them good." it did do them good; the group of young women and girls who went to the high-lying mountain lake where dr. bellair had bought a piece of wild, rough country for her own future use, and none of them profited by it more than vivian. she had been, from time to time, to decorous "shore places," where one could do nothing but swim and lie on the sand; or to the "mountains," those trim, green, modest, pretty-picture mountains, of which new england is so proud; but she had never before been in an untouched wilderness. often in the earliest dawn she would rise from the springy, odorous bed of balsam boughs and slip out alone for her morning swim. a run through the pines to a little rocky cape, with a small cave she knew, and to glide, naked, into that glass-smooth water, warmer than the sunless air, and swim out softly, silently, making hardly a ripple, turn on her back and lie there--alone with the sky--this brought peace to her heart. she felt so free from every tie to earth, so like a soul in space, floating there with the clean, dark water beneath her, and the clear, bright heaven above her; and when the pale glow in the east brightened to saffron, warmed to rose, burst into a level blaze of gold, the lake laughed in the light, and vivian laughed, too, in pure joy of being alive and out in all that glittering beauty. she tramped the hills with the girls; picked heaping pails of wild berries, learned to cook in primitive fashion, slept as she had never slept in her life, from dark to dawn, grew brown and hungry and cheerful. after all, twenty-seven was not an old age. she came back at the summer-end, and dr. bellair clapped her warmly on the shoulder, declaring, "i'm proud of you, vivian! simply proud of you!" her grandmother, after a judicious embrace, held her at arm's length and examined her critically. "i don't see but what you've stood it first rate," she admitted. "and if you _like_ that color--why, you certainly are looking well." she was well, and began her second year of teaching with a serene spirit. in all this time of slow rebuilding vivian would not have been left comfortless if masculine admiration could have pleased her. the young men at the cottonwoods, now undistracted by susie's gay presence, concentrated much devotion upon vivian, as did also the youths across the way. she turned from them all, gently, but with absolute decision. among her most faithful devotees was young percy watson, who loved her almost as much as he loved dr. hale, and could never understand, in his guileless, boyish heart, why neither of them would talk about the other. they did not forbid his talking, however, and the earnest youth, sitting in the quiet parlor at the cottonwoods, would free his heart to vivian about how the doctor worked too hard--sat up all hours to study--didn't give himself any rest--nor any fun. "he'll break down some time--i tell him so. it's not natural for any man to work that way, and i don't see any real need of it. he says he's working on a book--some big medical book, i suppose; but what's the hurry? i wish you'd have him over here oftener, and make him amuse himself a little, miss vivian." "dr. hale is quite welcome to come at any time--he knows that," said she. again the candid percy, sitting on the doctor's shadowy piazza, poured out his devoted admiration for her to his silent host. "she's the finest woman i ever knew!" the boy would say. "she's so beautiful and so clever, and so pleasant to everybody. she's _square_--like a man. and she's kind--like a woman, only kinder; a sort of motherliness about her. i don't see how she ever lived so long without being married. i'd marry her in a minute if i was good enough--and if she'd have me." dr. hale tousled the ears of balzac, the big, brown dog whose head was so often on his knee, and said nothing. he had not seen the girl since that night by the arbor. later in the season he learned, perforce, to know her better, and to admire her more. susie's baby came with the new year, and brought danger and anxiety. they hardly hoped to save the life of the child. the little mother was long unable to leave her bed. since her aunt was not there, but gone, as mrs. dykeman, on an extended tour--"part business and part honeymoon," her husband told her--and since mrs. pettigrew now ruled alone at the cottonwoods, with every evidence of ability and enjoyment, vivian promptly installed herself in the saunders home, as general housekeeper and nurse. she was glad then of her strength, and used it royally, comforting the wretched jim, keeping up susie's spirits, and mothering the frail tiny baby with exquisite devotion. day after day the doctor saw her, sweet and strong and patient, leaving her school to the assistant, regardless of losses, showing the virtues he admired most in women. he made his calls as short as possible; but even so, vivian could not but note how his sternness gave way to brusque good cheer for the sick mother, and to a lovely gentleness with the child. when that siege was over and the girl returned to her own work, she carried pleasant pictures in her mind, and began to wonder, as had so many others, why this man, who seemed so fitted to enjoy a family, had none. she missed his daily call, and wondered further why he avoided them more assiduously than at first. chapter xii. achievements. there are some folk born to beauty, and some to plenteous gold, some who are proud of being young, some proud of being old. some who are glad of happy love, enduring, deep and true, and some who thoroughly enjoy the little things they do. upon all this grandma pettigrew cast an observant eye, and meditated sagely thereupon. coming to a decision, she first took a course of reading in some of dr. bellair's big books, and then developed a series of perplexing symptoms, not of a too poignant or perilous nature, that took her to dr. hale's office frequently. "you haven't repudiated dr. bellair, have you?" he asked her. "i have never consulted jane bellair as a physician," she replied, "though i esteem her much as a friend." the old lady's company was always welcome to him; he liked her penetrating eye, her close-lipped, sharp remarks, and appreciated the real kindness of her heart. if he had known how closely she was peering into the locked recesses of his own, and how much she saw there, he would perhaps have avoided her as he did vivian, and if he had known further that this ingenious old lady, pursuing long genealogical discussions with him, had finally unearthed a mutual old-time friend, and had forthwith started a correspondence with that friend, based on this common acquaintance in carston, he might have left that city. the old-time friend, baited by mrs. pettigrew's innocent comment on dr. hale's persistence in single blessedness, poured forth what she knew of the cause with no more embellishment than time is sure to give. "i know why he won't marry," wrote she. "he had reason good to begin with, but i never dreamed he'd be obstinate enough to keep it up sixteen years. when he was a boy in college here i knew him well--he was a splendid fellow, one of the very finest. but he fell desperately in love with that beautiful mrs. james--don't you remember about her? she married a st. cloud later, and he left her, i think. she was as lovely as a cameo--and as hard and flat. that woman was the saintliest thing that ever breathed. she wouldn't live with her husband because he had done something wrong; she wouldn't get a divorce, nor let him, because that was wicked--and she always had a string of boys round her, and talked about the moral influence she had on them. "young hale worshipped her--simply worshipped her--and she let him. she let them all. she had that much that was god-like about her--she loved incense. you need not ask for particulars. she was far too 'particular' for that. but one light-headed chap went and drowned himself--that was all hushed up, of course, but some of us felt pretty sure why. he was a half-brother to dick hale, and dick was awfully fond of him. then he turned hard and hateful all at once--used to talk horrid about women. he kept straight enough--that's easy for a mysogynist, and studying medicine didn't help him any--doctors and ministers know too much about women. so there you are. but i'm astonished to hear he's never gotten over it; he always was obstinate--it's his only fault. they say he swore never to marry--if he did, that accounts. do give my regards if you see him again." mrs. pettigrew considered long and deeply over this information, as she slowly produced a jersey striped with roman vividness. it was noticeable in this new life in carston that mrs. pettigrew's knitted jackets had grown steadily brighter in hue from month to month. whereas, in bainville, purple and brown were the high lights, and black, slate and navy blue the main colors; now her worsteds were as a painter's palette, and the result not only cheered, but bade fair to inebriate. "a pig-headed man," she said to herself, as her needle prodded steadily in and out; "a pig-headed man, with a pig-headedness of sixteen years' standing. his hair must 'a turned gray from the strain of it. and there's vivian, biddin' fair to be an old maid after all. what on _earth_!" she appeared to have forgotten that marriages are made in heaven, or to disregard that saying. "the lord helps those that help themselves," was one of her favorite mottoes. "and much more those that help other people!" she used to add. flitting in and out of dr. hale's at all hours, she noted that he had a fondness for music, with a phenomenal incapacity to produce any. he encouraged his boys to play on any and every instrument the town afforded, and to sing, whether they could or not; and seemed never to weary of their attempts, though far from satisfied with the product. "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew. vivian could play, "well enough to know better," she said, and seldom touched the piano. she had a deep, full, contralto voice, and a fair degree of training. but she would never make music unless she felt like it--and in this busy life, with so many people about her, she had always refused. grandma meditated. she selected an evening when most of the boarders were out at some entertainment, and selfishly begged vivian to stay at home with her--said she was feeling badly and wanted company. grandma so seldom wanted anything that vivian readily acquiesced; in fact, she was quite worried about her, and asked dr. bellair if she thought anything was the matter. "she has seemed more quiet lately," said that astute lady, "and i've noticed her going in to dr. hale's during office hours. but perhaps it's only to visit with him." "are you in any pain, grandma?" asked the girl, affectionately. "you're not sick, are you?" "o, no--i'm not sick," said the old lady, stoutly. "i'm just--well, i felt sort of lonesome to-night--perhaps i'm homesick." as she had never shown the faintest sign of any feeling for their deserted home, except caustic criticism and unfavorable comparison, vivian rather questioned this theory, but she began to think there was something in it when her grandmother, sitting by the window in the spring twilight, began to talk of how this time of year always made her think of her girlhood. "time for the march peepers at home. it's early here, and no peepers anywhere that i've heard. 'bout this time we'd be going to evening meeting. seems as if i could hear that little old organ--and the singing!" "hadn't i better shut that window," asked vivian. "won't you get cold?" "no, indeed," said her grandmother, promptly. "i'm plenty warm--i've got this little shawl around me. and it's so soft and pleasant out." it was soft and pleasant, a delicious may-like night in march, full of spring scents and hints of coming flowers. on the dark piazza across the way she could make out a still figure sitting alone, and the thump of balzac's heel as he struggled with his intimate enemies told her who it was. "come ye disconsolate," she began to hum, most erroneously. "how does that go, vivian? i was always fond of it, even if i can't sing any more'n a peacock." vivian hummed it and gave the words in a low voice. "that's good!" said the old lady. "i declare, i'm kinder hungry for some of those old hymns. i wish you'd play me some of 'em, vivian." so vivian, glad to please her, woke the yellow keys to softer music than they were accustomed to, and presently her rich, low voice, sure, easy, full of quiet feeling, flowed out on the soft night air. grandma was not long content with the hymns. "i want some of those old-fashioned songs--you used to know a lot of 'em. can't you do that 'kerry dance' of molloy's, and 'twickenham ferry'--and 'lauriger horatius?'" vivian gave her those, and many another, scotch ballads, english songs and german lieder--glad to please her grandmother so easily, and quite unconscious of a dark figure which had crossed the street and come silently to sit on the farthest corner of their piazza. grandma, meanwhile, watched him, and vivian as well, and then, with the most unsuspected suddenness, took to her bed. sciatica, she said. an intermittent pain that came upon her so suddenly she couldn't stand up. she felt much better lying down. and dr. hale must attend her unceasingly. this unlooked for overthrow of the phenomenally active old lady was a great blow to mr. skee; he showed real concern and begged to be allowed to see her. "why not?" said mrs. pettigrew. "it's nothing catching." she lay, high-pillowed, as stiff and well arranged as a knight templar on a tombstone, arrayed for the occasion in a most decorative little dressing sack and ribbony night-cap. "why, ma'am," said mr. skee, "it's highly becomin' to you to be sick. it leads me to hope it's nothin' serious." she regarded him enigmatically. "is dr. hale out there, or vivian?" she inquired in a low voice. "no, ma'am--they ain't," he replied, after a glance in the next room. then he bent a penetrating eye upon her. she met it unflinchingly, but as his smile appeared and grew, its limitless widening spread contagion, and her calm front was broken. "elmer skee," said she, with sudden fury, "you hold your tongue!" "ma'am!" he replied, "i have said nothin'--and i don't intend to. but if the throne of europe was occupied by you, mrs. pettigrew, we would have a better managed world." he proved a most agreeable and steady visitor during this period of confinement, and gave her full accounts of all that went on outside, with occasional irrelevant bursts of merriment which no rebuke from mrs. pettigrew seemed wholly to check. he regaled her with accounts of his continuous consultations with mrs. st. cloud, and the wisdom and good taste with which she invariably advised him. "don't you admire a platonic friendship, mrs. pettigrew?" "i do not!" said the old lady, sharply. "and what's more i don't believe you do." "well, ma'am," he answered, swaying backward and forward on the hind legs of his chair, "there are moments when i confess it looks improbable." mrs. pettigrew cocked her head on one side and turned a gimlet eye upon him. "look here, elmer skee," she said suddenly, "how much money have you really got?" he brought down his chair on four legs and regarded her for a few moments, his smile widening slowly. "well, ma'am, if i live through the necessary expenses involved on my present undertaking, i shall have about two thousand a year--if rents are steady." "which i judge you do not wish to be known?" "if there's one thing more than another i have always admired in you, ma'am, it is the excellence of your judgment. in it i have absolute confidence." mrs. st. cloud had some time since summoned dr. hale to her side for a severe headache, but he had merely sent word that his time was fully occupied, and recommended dr. bellair. now, observing mrs. pettigrew's tactics, the fair invalid resolved to take the bull by the horns and go herself to his office. she found him easily enough. he lifted his eyes as she entered, rose and stood with folded arms regarding her silently. the tall, heavy figure, the full beard, the glasses, confused even her excellent memory. after all it was many years since they had met, and he had been but one of a multitude. she was all sweetness and gentle apology for forcing herself upon him, but really she had a little prejudice against women doctors--his reputation was so great--he was so temptingly near--she was in such pain--she had such perfect confidence in him-- he sat down quietly and listened, watching her from under his bent brows. her eyes were dropped, her voice very weak and appealing; her words most perfectly chosen. "i have told you," he said at length, "that i never treat women for their petty ailments, if i can avoid it." she shook her head in grieved acceptance, and lifted large eyes for one of those penetrating sympathetic glances so frequently successful. "how you must have suffered!" she said. "i have," he replied grimly. "i have suffered a long time from having my eyes opened too suddenly to the brainless cruelty of women, mrs. james." she looked at him again, searchingly, and gave a little cry. "dick hale!" she said. "yes, dick hale. brother to poor little joe medway, whose foolish young heart you broke, among others; whose death you are responsible for." she was looking at him with widening wet eyes. "ah! if you only knew how i, too, have suffered over that!" she said. "i was scarce more than a girl myself, then. i was careless, not heartless. no one knew what pain i was bearing, then. i liked the admiration of those nice boys--i never realized any of them would take it seriously. that has been a heavy shadow on my life, dr. hale--the fear that i was the thoughtless cause of that terrible thing. and you have never forgiven me. i do not wonder." he was looking at her in grim silence again, wishing he had not spoken. "so that is why you have never been to the cottonwoods since i came," she pursued. "and i am responsible for all your loneliness. o, how dreadful!" again he rose to his feet. "no, madam, you mistake. you were responsible for my brother's death, and for a bitter awakening on my part, but you are in no way responsible for my attitude since. that is wholly due to myself. allow me again to recommend dr. jane bellair, an excellent physician and even more accessible." he held the door for her, and she went out, not wholly dissatisfied with her visit. she would have been far more displeased could she have followed his thoughts afterward. "what a consummate ass i have been all my life!" he was meditating. "because i met this particular type of sex parasite, to deliberately go sour--and forego all chance of happiness. like a silly girl. a fool girl who says, 'i will never marry!' just because of some quarrel * * * but the girl never keeps her word. a man must." the days were long to vivian now, and dragged a little, for all her industry. mrs. st. cloud tried to revive their former intimacy, but the girl could not renew it on the same basis. she, too, had sympathized with mr. dykeman, and now sympathized somewhat with mr. skee. but since that worthy man still volubly discoursed on platonism, and his fair friend openly agreed in this view, there seemed no real ground for distress. mrs. pettigrew remained ailing and rather captious. she had a telephone put at her bedside, and ran her household affairs efficiently, with vivian as lieutenant, and the ever-faithful jeanne to uphold the honor of the cuisine. also she could consult her physician, and demanded his presence at all hours. he openly ignored mrs. st. cloud now, who met his rude treatment with secret, uncomplaining patience. vivian spoke of this. "i do not see why he need be so rude, grandma. he may hate women, but i don't see why he should treat her so shamefully." "well, i do," replied the invalid, "and what's more i'm going to show you; i've always disliked that woman, and now i know why. i'd turn her out of the house if it wasn't for elmer skee. that man's as good as gold under all his foolishness, and if he can get any satisfaction out of that meringue he's welcome. dr. hale doesn't hate women, child, but a woman broke his heart once--and then he made an idiot of himself by vowing never to marry." she showed her friend's letter, and vivian read it with rising color. "o, grandma! why that's worse than i ever thought--even after what dr. bellair told us. and it was his brother! no wonder he's so fond of boys. he tries to warn them, i suppose." "yes, and the worst of it is that he's really got over his grouch; and he's in love--but tied down by that foolish oath, poor man." "is he, grandma? how do you know? with whom?" "you dear, blind child!" said the old lady, "with you, of course. has been ever since we came." the girl sat silent, a strange feeling of joy rising in her heart, as she reviewed the events of the last two years. so that was why he would not stay that night. and that was why. "no wonder he wouldn't come here!" she said at length. "it's on account of that woman. but why did he change?" "because she went over there to see him. he wouldn't come to her. i heard her 'phone to him one evening." the old lady chuckled. "so she marched herself over there--i saw her, and i guess she got her needin's. she didn't stay long. and his light burned till morning." "do you think he cares for her, still?" "cares for her!" the old lady fairly snorted her derision. "he can't bear the sight of her--treats her as if she wasn't there. no, indeed. if he did she'd have him fast enough, now. well! i suppose he'll repent of that foolishness of his all the days of his life--and stick it out! poor man." mrs. pettigrew sighed, and vivian echoed the sigh. she began to observe dr. hale with new eyes; to study little matters of tone and manner--and could not deny her grandmother's statement. nor would she admit it--yet. the old lady seemed weaker and more irritable, but positively forbade any word of this being sent to her family. "there's nothing on earth ails me," she said. "dr. hale says there's not a thing the matter that he can see--that if i'd only eat more i'd get stronger. i'll be all right soon, my dear. i'll get my appetite and get well, i have faith to believe." she insisted on his coming over in the evening, when not too busy, and staying till she dropped asleep, and he seemed strangely willing to humor her; sitting for hours in the quiet parlor, while vivian played softly, and sang her low-toned hymns. so sitting, one still evening, when for some time no fretful "not so loud" had come from the next room, he turned suddenly to vivian and asked, almost roughly--"do you hold a promise binding?--an oath, a vow--to oneself?" she met his eyes, saw the deep pain there, the long combat, the irrepressible hope and longing. "did you swear to keep your oath secret?" she asked. "why, no," he said, "i did not. i will tell you. i did not swear never to tell a woman i loved her. i never dreamed i should love again. vivian, i was fool enough to love a shallow, cruel woman, once, and nearly broke my heart in consequence. that was long years ago. i have never cared for a woman since--till i met you. and now i must pay double for that boy folly." he came to her and took her hand. "i love you," he said, his tense grip hurting her. "i shall love you as long as i live--day and night--forever! you shall know that at any rate!" she could not raise her eyes. a rich bright color rose to the soft border of her hair. he caught her face in his hands and made her look at him; saw those dark, brilliant eyes softened, tear-filled, asking, and turned sharply away with a muffled cry. "i have taken a solemn oath," he said in a strained, hard voice, "never to ask a woman to marry me." he heard a little gasping laugh, and turned upon her. she stood there smiling, her hands reached out to him. "you don't have to," she said. * * * * * a long time later, upon their happy stillness broke a faint voice from the other room: "vivian, i think if you'd bring me some bread and butter--and a cup of tea--and some cold beef and a piece of pie--i could eat it." * * * * * upon the rapid and complete recovery of her grandmother's health, and the announcement of vivian's engagement, mr. and mrs. lane decided to make a visit to their distant mother and daughter, hoping as well that mr. lane's cough might be better for a visit in that altitude. mr. and mrs. dykeman also sent word of their immediate return. jeanne, using subtle powers of suggestion, caused mrs. pettigrew to decide upon giving a dinner, in honor of these events. there was the betrothed couple, there were the honored guests; there were jimmie and susie, with or without the baby; there were the dykemans; there was dr. bellair, of course; there was mr. skee, an even number. "i'm sorry to spoil that table, but i've got to take in mrs. st. cloud," said the old lady. "o, grandma! why! it'll spoil it for dick." "huh!" said her grandmother. "he's so happy you couldn't spoil it with a mummy. if i don't ask her it'll spoil it for mr. skee." so mrs. st. cloud made an eleventh at the feast, and neither mr. dykeman nor vivian could find it in their happy hearts to care. mr. skee arose, looking unusually tall and shapely in immaculate every-day dress, his well-brushed hair curling vigorously around the little bald spots; his smile wide and benevolent. "ladies and gentlemen, both domestic and foreign, friends and fellowtownsmen and women--ladies, god bless 'em; also children, if any: i feel friendly enough to-night to include the beasts of the fields--but such would be inappropriate at this convivial board--among these convivial boarders. "this is an occasion of great rejoicing. we have many things to rejoice over, both great _and_ small. we have our healths; all of us, apparently. we are experiencing the joys of reunion--in the matter of visiting parents that is, and long absent daughters. "we have also the return of the native, in the shape of my old friend andy--now become a benedict--and seeming to enjoy it. about this same andy i have a piece of news to give you which will cause you astonishment and gratification, but which involves me in a profuse apology--a most sincere and general apology. "you know how a year or more ago it was put about in this town that andrew dykeman was a ruined man?" mrs. st. cloud darted a swift glance at mr. dykeman, but his eyes rested calmly on his wife; then at mr. skee--but he was pursuing his remorseful way. "i do not wish to blame my friend andy for his reticence--but he certainly did exhibit reticence on this occasion--to beat the band! he never contradicted this rumor--not once. _he_ just went about looking kind o' down in the mouth for some reason or other, and when for the sake o' auld lang syne i offered him a job in my office--the cuss took it! i won't call this deceitful, but it sure was reticent to a degree. "well, ladies--and gentlemen--the best of us are liable to mistakes, and i have to admit--i am glad to humble myself and make this public admission--i was entirely in error in this matter. "it wasn't so. there was nothing in it. it was rumor, pure and simple. andy dykeman never lost no mine, it appears; or else he had another up his sleeve concealed from his best friends. anyhow, the facts are these; not only that a. dykeman as he sits before you is a prosperous and wealthy citizen, but that he has been, for these ten years back, and we were all misled by a mixture of rumor and reticence. if he has concealed these facts from the wife of his bosom i submit that that is carrying reticence too far!" again mrs. st. cloud sent a swift glance at the reticent one, and again caught only his tender apologetic look toward his wife, and her utter amazement. mr. dykeman rose to his feet. "i make no apologies for interrupting my friend," he said. "it is necessary at times. he at least can never be accused of reticence. neither do i make apologies for letting rumor take its course--a course often interesting to observe. but i do apologize--in this heartfelt and public manner, to my wife, for marrying her under false pretenses. but any of you gentlemen who have ever had any experience in the attitude of," he hesitated mercifully, and said, "the world, toward a man with money, may understand what it meant to me, after many years of bachelorhood, to find a heart that not only loved me for myself alone, but absolutely loved me better because i'd lost my money--or she thought i had. i have hated to break the charm. but now my unreticent friend here has stated the facts, and i make my confession. will you forgive me, orella?" "speech! speech!" cried mr. skee. but mrs. dykeman could not be persuaded to do anything but blush and smile and squeeze her husband's hand under the table, and mr. skee arose once more. "this revelation being accomplished," he continued cheerfully; "and no one any the worse for it, as i see," he was not looking in the direction of mrs. st. cloud, whose slippered foot beat softly under the table, though her face wore its usual sweet expression, possibly a trifle strained; "i now proceed to a proclamation of that happy event to celebrate which we are here gathered together. i allude to the betrothal of our esteemed friend, dr. richard hale, and the fairest of the fair! regarding the fair, we think he has chosen well. but regarding dick hale, his good fortune is so clear, so evidently undeserved, and his pride and enjoyment thereof so ostentatious, as to leave us some leeway to make remarks. "natural remarks, irresistible remarks, as you might say, and not intended to be acrimonious. namely, such as these: it's a long lane that has no turning; there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip; the worm will turn; the pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broken at last; better late than never. and so on and so forth. any other gentleman like to make remarks on this topic?" dr. hale rose, towering to his feet. "i think i'd better make them," he said. "no one else could so fully, so heartily, with such perfect knowledge point out how many kinds of a fool i've been for all these years. and yet of them all there are only two that i regret--this last two in which if i had been wiser, perhaps i might have found my happiness sooner. as that cannot be proven, however, i will content myself with the general acknowledgment that bachelors are misguided bats, i myself having long been the worst instance; women, in general, are to be loved and honored; and that i am proud and glad to accept your congratulations because the sweetest and noblest woman in the world has honored me with her love." "i never dreamed you could put so many words together, doc--and really make sense!" said mr. skee, genially, as he rose once more. "you certainly show a proper spirit at last, and all is forgiven. but now, my friends; now if your attention is not exhausted, i have yet another event to confide to you." mr. and mrs. lane wore an aspect of polite interest. susie and jim looked at each other with a sad but resigned expression. so did mrs. dykeman and her husband. vivian's hand was in her lover's and she could not look unhappy, but they, too, deprecated this last announcement, only too well anticipated. only mrs. st. cloud, her fair face bowed in gentle confusion, showed anticipating pleasure. mr. skee waved his hand toward her with a large and graceful gesture. "you must all of you have noticed the amount of platonic friendship which has been going on for some time between my undeserving self and this lovely lady here. among so many lovely ladies perhaps i'd better specify that i refer to the one on my left. "what she has been to me, in my lonely old age, none of you perhaps realize." he wore an expression as of one long exiled, knowing no one who could speak his language. "she has been my guide, counsellor and friend; she has assisted me with advice most wise and judicious; she has not interfered with my habits, but has allowed me to enjoy life in my own way, with the added attraction of her companionship. "now, i dare say, there may have been some of you who have questioned my assertion that this friendship was purely platonic. perhaps even the lady herself, knowing the heart of man, may have doubted if my feeling toward her was really friendship." mr. skee turned his head a little to one side and regarded her with a tender inquiring smile. to this she responded sweetly: "why no, mr. skee, of course, i believed what you said." "there, now," said he, admiringly. "what is so noble as the soul of woman? it is to this noble soul in particular, and to all my friends here in general, that i now confide the crowning glory of a long and checkered career, namely, and to wit, that i am engaged to be married to that peerless lady, mrs. servilla pettigrew, of whose remarkable capacities and achievements i can never sufficiently express my admiration." a silence fell upon the table. mr. skee sat down smiling, evidently in cheerful expectation of congratulations. mrs. pettigrew wore an alert expression, as of a skilled fencer preparing to turn any offered thrusts. mrs. st. cloud seemed to be struggling with some emotion, which shook her usual sweet serenity. the others, too, were visibly affected, and not quick to respond. then did mr. saunders arise with real good nature and ever-ready wit; and pour forth good-humored nonsense with congratulations all around, till a pleasant atmosphere was established, in which mrs. st. cloud could so far recover as to say many proper and pretty things; sadly adding that she regretted her imminent return to the east would end so many pleasant friendships. * * * * * books by charlotte perkins gilman moving the mountain. a utopia at short range. how we might change this country in thirty years, if we changed our minds first. mrs. gilman's latest book, like her earliest verse, is a protest against the parrot cry that "you can't alter human nature." by mail of charlton co., $ . what diantha did. a novel. "what she did was to solve the domestic service problem for both mistress and maid in a southern california town." "_the survey._" "a sensible book, it gives a new and deserved comprehension of the importance and complexity of housekeeping." "_the independent._" "mrs. perkins gilman is as full of ideas as ever, and her diantha is a model for all young women." "_the englishwoman._" by mail of charlton co., $ . the man-made world. "we defy any thoughtful person to read this book of mrs. gilman, and not be moved to or towards conviction, whether he acknowledges it or not." "_san francisco star._" "mrs. gilman has presented in this work the results of her thought, study, and observation of the much debated question of the relation of man to woman and of woman to man. the subject is developed with much wise argument and wholesome sense of humor." "_the craftsman._" "mrs. gilman has applied her theory with much cleverness, consistency and logical thinking." "_chicago evening post._" by mail of charlton co., $ . "in this our world" there is a joyous superabundance of life, of strength, of health, in mrs. gilman's verse, which seems born of the glorious sunshine and rich gardens of california. --_washington times._ the freshness, charm and geniality of her satire temporarily convert us to her most advanced views. --_boston journal._ the poet of women and for women, a new and prophetic voice in the world. montaigne would have rejoiced in her. --_mexican herald._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "the home" indeed, mrs. gilman has not intended her book so much as a treatise for scholars as a surgical operation on the popular mind. --_the critic, new york._ whatever mrs. gilman writes, people read--approving or protesting, still they read. --_republican, springfield, mass._ full of thought and of new and striking suggestions. tells what the average woman has and ought not keep, what she is and ought not be. --_literature world._ but it is safe to say that no more stimulating arraignment has ever before taken shape and that the argument of the book is noble, and, on the whole, convincing. --_congregationalist, boston._ the name of this author is a guarantee of logical reasoning, sound economical principles and progressive thought. --_the craftsman, syracuse._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "the home" has been translated into swedish. "women and economics" since john stuart mill's essay there has been no book dealing with the whole position of women to approach it in originality of conception and brilliancy of exposition. --_london chronicle._ the most significant utterance on the subject since mill's "subjection of women." --_the nation._ it is the strongest book on the woman question that has yet been published. --_minneapolis journal._ a remarkable book. a work on economics that has not a dull page,--the work of a woman about women that has not a flippant word. --_boston transcript._ this book unites in a remarkable degree the charm of a brilliantly written essay with the inevitable logic of a proposition of euclid. nothing that we have read for many a long day can approach in clearness of conception, in power of arrangement, and in lucidity of expression the argument developed in the first seven chapters of this remarkable book. --_westminster gazette, london._ will be widely read and discussed as the cleverest, fairest, most forcible presentation of the view of the rapidly increasing group who look with favor on the extension of industrial employment to women. --_political science quarterly._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "women and economics" has been translated into german, dutch, italian, hungarian, russian and japanese. "concerning children" wanted:--a philanthropist, to give a copy to every english-speaking parent. --_the times, new york._ should be read by every mother in the land. --_the press, new york._ wholesomely disturbing book that deserves to be read for its own sake. --_chicago dial._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "concerning children" has been translated into german, dutch and yiddish. "the yellow wallpaper" worthy of a place beside some of the weird masterpieces of hawthorne and poe. --_literature._ as a short story it stands among the most powerful produced in america. --_chicago news._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "human work" charlotte perkins gilman has added a third to her great trilogy of books on economic subjects as they affect our daily life, particularly in the home. mrs. gilman is by far the most brilliant woman writer of our day, and this new volume, which she calls "human work," is a glorification of labor. --_new orleans picayune._ charlotte perkins gilman has been writing a new book, entitled "human work." it is the best thing that mrs. gilman has done, and it is meant to focus all of her previous work, so to speak. --_tribune, chicago._ in her latest volume, "human work," charlotte perkins gilman places herself among the foremost students and elucidators of the problem of social economics. --_san francisco star._ it is impossible to overestimate the value of the insistence on the social aspect of human affairs as mrs. gilman has outlined it. --_public opinion._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. charlton company, wall st., new york the forerunner a monthly magazine, written, edited, owned and published by charlotte perkins gilman wall street, new york city u. s. a. subscription per year domestic $ . canadian . foreign . bound volumes, each year $ . post paid this magazine carries mrs. gilman's best and newest work, her social philosophy, verse, satire, fiction, ethical teaching, humor and opinion. it stands for humanness in women and men; for better methods in child culture; for the new ethics, the better economics--the new world we are to make, are making. the breadth of mrs. gilman's thought and her power of expressing it have made her well-known in america and europe as a leader along lines of human improvement and a champion of woman. the forerunner voices her thought and its messages are not only many, but strong, true and vital. * * * * * transcription notes: text in bold has been marked with equal signs (=text=). text in italics has been marked with underscores (_text_). the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been retained. minor punctuation . , ; " ' changes have been made without annotation. other changes to the original text are listed as follows: page man-made/man-made: the man-made world page evclaimed/exclaimed: exclaimed his wife page removed repeated word a: were a real page who/why: why his hair's page though/thought: i thought as much page mr./my: my dear miss page removed repeated word and: her own and set it page removed redundant word a: he had not had page though/thought: i thought i heard page litle/little: a little dampened page weedings/weddings: wooings and weddings page irrestible/irresistible: sleep irresistible from page cottonwood/cottonwoods: to the cottonwoods page busband/husband: live with her husband page massages/messages: its messages are not only the spirit of the border a romance of the early settlers in the ohio valley by zane grey to my brother with many fond recollections of days spent in the solitude of the forests where only can be satisfied that wild fever of freedom of which this book tells; where to hear the whirr of a wild duck in his rapid flight is joy; where the quiet of an autumn afternoon swells the heart, and where one may watch the fragrant wood-smoke curl from the campfire, and see the stars peep over dark, wooded hills as twilight deepens, and know a happiness that dwells in the wilderness alone. introduction the author does not intend to apologize for what many readers may call the "brutality" of the story; but rather to explain that its wild spirit is true to the life of the western border as it was known only a little more than one hundred years ago. the writer is the fortunate possessor of historical material of undoubted truth and interest. it is the long-lost journal of colonel ebenezer zane, one of the most prominent of the hunter-pioneer, who labored in the settlement of the western country. the story of that tragic period deserves a higher place in historical literature than it has thus far been given, and this unquestionably because of a lack of authentic data regarding the conquering of the wilderness. considering how many years the pioneers struggled on the border of this country, the history of their efforts is meager and obscure. if the years at the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century were full of stirring adventure on the part of the colonists along the atlantic coast, how crowded must they have been for the almost forgotten pioneers who daringly invaded the trackless wilds! none there was to chronicle the fight of these sturdy, travelers toward the setting sun. the story of their stormy lives, of their heroism, and of their sacrifice for the benefit of future generations is too little known. it is to a better understanding of those days that the author has labored to draw from his ancestor's notes a new and striking portrayal of the frontier; one which shall paint the fever of freedom, that powerful impulse which lured so many to unmarked graves; one which shall show his work, his love, the effect of the causes which rendered his life so hard, and surely one which does not forget the wronged indian. the frontier in produced white men so savage as to be men in name only. these outcasts and renegades lived among the savages, and during thirty years harassed the border, perpetrating all manner of fiendish cruelties upon the settlers. they were no less cruel to the redmen whom they ruled, and at the height of their bloody careers made futile the moravian missionaries' long labors, and destroyed the beautiful hamlet of the christian indians, called gnaddenhutten, or village of peace. and while the border produced such outlaws so did it produce hunters eke boone, the zanes, the mccollochs, and wetzel, that strange, silent man whose deeds are still whispered in the country where he once roamed in his insatiate pursuit of savages and renegades, and who was purely a product of the times. civilization could not have brought forth a man like wetzel. great revolutions, great crises, great moments come, and produce the men to deal with them. the border needed wetzel. the settlers would have needed many more years in which to make permanent homes had it not been for him. he was never a pioneer; but always a hunter after indians. when not on the track of the savage foe, he was in the settlement, with his keen eye and ear ever alert for signs of the enemy. to the superstitious indians he was a shadow; a spirit of the border, which breathed menace from the dark forests. to the settlers he was the right arm of defense, a fitting leader for those few implacable and unerring frontiersmen who made the settlement of the west a possibility. and if this story of one of his relentless pursuits shows the man as he truly was, loved by pioneers, respected and feared by redmen, and hated by renegades; if it softens a little the ruthless name history accords him, the writer will have been well repaid. z. g. the spirit of the border chapter i. "nell, i'm growing powerful fond of you." "so you must be, master joe, if often telling makes it true." the girl spoke simply, and with an absence of that roguishness which was characteristic of her. playful words, arch smiles, and a touch of coquetry had seemed natural to nell; but now her grave tone and her almost wistful glance disconcerted joe. during all the long journey over the mountains she had been gay and bright, while now, when they were about to part, perhaps never to meet again, she showed him the deeper and more earnest side of her character. it checked his boldness as nothing else had done. suddenly there came to him the real meaning of a woman's love when she bestows it without reservation. silenced by the thought that he had not understood her at all, and the knowledge that he had been half in sport, he gazed out over the wild country before them. the scene impressed its quietness upon the young couple and brought more forcibly to their minds the fact that they were at the gateway of the unknown west; that somewhere beyond this rude frontier settlement, out there in those unbroken forests stretching dark and silent before them, was to be their future home. from the high bank where they stood the land sloped and narrowed gradually until it ended in a sharp point which marked the last bit of land between the allegheny and monongahela rivers. here these swift streams merged and formed the broad ohio. the new-born river, even here at its beginning proud and swelling as if already certain of its far-away grandeur, swept majestically round a wide curve and apparently lost itself in the forest foliage. on the narrow point of land commanding a view of the rivers stood a long, low structure enclosed by a stockade fence, on the four corners of which were little box-shaped houses that bulged out as if trying to see what was going on beneath. the massive timbers used in the construction of this fort, the square, compact form, and the small, dark holes cut into the walls, gave the structure a threatening, impregnable aspect. below nell and joe, on the bank, were many log cabins. the yellow clay which filled the chinks between the logs gave these a peculiar striped appearance. there was life and bustle in the vicinity of these dwellings, in sharp contrast with the still grandeur of the neighboring forests. there were canvas-covered wagons around which curly-headed youngsters were playing. several horses were grazing on the short grass, and six red and white oxen munched at the hay that had been thrown to them. the smoke of many fires curled upward, and near the blaze hovered ruddy-faced women who stirred the contents of steaming kettles. one man swung an axe with a vigorous sweep, and the clean, sharp strokes rang on the air; another hammered stakes into the ground on which to hang a kettle. before a large cabin a fur-trader was exhibiting his wares to three indians. a second redskin was carrying a pack of pelts from a canoe drawn up on the river bank. a small group of persons stood near; some were indifferent, and others gazed curiously at the savages. two children peeped from behind their mother's skirts as if half-curious, half-frightened. from this scene, the significance of which had just dawned on him, joe turned his eyes again to his companion. it was a sweet face he saw; one that was sedate, but had a promise of innumerable smiles. the blue eyes could not long hide flashes of merriment. the girl turned, and the two young people looked at each other. her eyes softened with a woman's gentleness as they rested upon him, for, broad of shoulder, and lithe and strong as a deer stalker, he was good to look at. "listen," she said. "we have known each other only three weeks. since you joined our wagon-train, and have been so kind to me and so helpful to make that long, rough ride endurable, you have won my regard. i--i cannot say more, even if i would. you told me you ran away from your virginian home to seek adventure on the frontier, and that you knew no one in all this wild country. you even said you could not, or would not, work at farming. perhaps my sister and i are as unfitted as you for this life; but we must cling to our uncle because he is the only relative we have. he has come out here to join the moravians, and to preach the gospel to these indians. we shall share his life, and help him all we can. you have been telling me you--you cared for me, and now that we are about to part i--i don't know what to say to you--unless it is: give up this intention of yours to seek adventure, and come with us. it seems to me you need not hunt for excitement here; it will come unsought." "i wish i were jim," said he, suddenly. "who is jim?" "my brother." "tell me of him." "there's nothing much to tell. he and i are all that are left of our people, as are you and kate of yours. jim's a preacher, and the best fellow--oh! i cared a lot for jim." "then, why did you leave him?" "i was tired of williamsburg--i quarreled with a fellow, and hurt him. besides, i wanted to see the west; i'd like to hunt deer and bear and fight indians. oh, i'm not much good." "was jim the only one you cared for?" asked nell, smiling. she was surprised to find him grave. "yes, except my horse and dog, and i had to leave them behind," answered joe, bowing his head a little. "you'd like to be jim because he's a preacher, and could help uncle convert the indians?" "yes, partly that, but mostly because--somehow--something you've said or done has made me care for you in a different way, and i'd like to be worthy of you." "i don't think i can believe it, when you say you are 'no good,'" she replied. "nell," he cried, and suddenly grasped her hand. she wrenched herself free, and leaped away from him. her face was bright now, and the promise of smiles was made good. "behave yourself, sir." she tossed her head with a familiar backward motion to throw the chestnut hair from her face, and looked at him with eyes veiled slightly under their lashes. "you will go with kate and me?" before he could answer, a cry from some one on the plain below attracted their attention. they turned and saw another wagon-train pulling into the settlement. the children were shooting and running alongside the weary oxen; men and women went forward expectantly. "that must be the train uncle expected. let us go down," said nell. joe did not answer; but followed her down the path. when they gained a clump of willows near the cabins he bent forward and took her hand. she saw the reckless gleam in his eyes. "don't. they'll see," she whispered. "if that's the only reason you have, i reckon i don't care," said joe. "what do you mean? i didn't say--i didn't tell--oh! let me go!" implored nell. she tried to release the hand joe had grasped in his broad palm, but in vain; the more she struggled the firmer was his hold. a frown wrinkled her brow and her eyes sparkled with spirit. she saw the fur-trader's wife looking out of the window, and remembered laughing and telling the good woman she did not like this young man; it was, perhaps, because she feared those sharp eyes that she resented his audacity. she opened her mouth to rebuke him; but no words came. joe had bent his head and softly closed her lips with his own. for the single instant during which nell stood transfixed, as if with surprise, and looking up at joe, she was dumb. usually the girl was ready with sharp or saucy words and impulsive in her movements; but now the bewilderment of being kissed, particularly within view of the trader's wife, confused her. then she heard voices, and as joe turned away with a smile on his face, the unusual warmth in her heart was followed by an angry throbbing. joe's tall figure stood out distinctly as he leisurely strolled toward the incoming wagon-train without looking backward. flashing after him a glance that boded wordy trouble in the future, she ran into the cabin. as she entered the door it seemed certain the grizzled frontiersman sitting on the bench outside had grinned knowingly at her, and winked as if to say he would keep her secret. mrs. wentz, the fur-trader's wife, was seated by the open window which faced the fort; she was a large woman, strong of feature, and with that calm placidity of expression common to people who have lived long in sparsely populated districts. nell glanced furtively at her and thought she detected the shadow of a smile in the gray eyes. "i saw you and your sweetheart makin' love behind the willow," mrs. wentz said in a matter-of-fact voice. "i don't see why you need hide to do it. we folks out here like to see the young people sparkin'. your young man is a fine-appearin' chap. i felt certain you was sweethearts, for all you allowed you'd known him only a few days. lize davis said she saw he was sweet on you. i like his face. jake, my man, says as how he'll make a good husband for you, and he'll take to the frontier like a duck does to water. i'm sorry you'll not tarry here awhile. we don't see many lasses, especially any as pretty as you, and you'll find it more quiet and lonesome the farther west you get. jake knows all about fort henry, and jeff lynn, the hunter outside, he knows eb and jack zane, and wetzel, and all those fort henry men. you'll be gettin' married out there, won't you?" "you are--quite wrong," said nell, who all the while mrs. wentz was speaking grew rosier and rosier. "we're not anything---" then nell hesitated and finally ceased speaking. she saw that denials or explanations were futile; the simple woman had seen the kiss, and formed her own conclusions. during the few days nell had spent at fort pitt, she had come to understand that the dwellers on the frontier took everything as a matter of course. she had seen them manifest a certain pleasure; but neither surprise, concern, nor any of the quick impulses so common among other people. and this was another lesson nell took to heart. she realized that she was entering upon a life absolutely different from her former one, and the thought caused her to shrink from the ordeal. yet all the suggestions regarding her future home; the stories told about indians, renegades, and of the wild border-life, fascinated her. these people who had settled in this wild region were simple, honest and brave; they accepted what came as facts not to be questioned, and believed what looked true. evidently the fur-trader's wife and her female neighbors had settled in their minds the relation in which the girl stood to joe. this latter reflection heightened nell's resentment toward her lover. she stood with her face turned away from mrs. wentz; the little frown deepened, and she nervously tapped her foot on the floor. "where is my sister?" she presently asked. "she went to see the wagon-train come in. everybody's out there." nell deliberated a moment and then went into the open air. she saw a number of canvas-covered wagons drawn up in front of the cabins; the vehicles were dusty and the wheels encrusted with yellow mud. the grizzled frontiersman who had smiled at nell stood leaning on his gun, talking to three men, whose travel-stained and worn homespun clothes suggested a long and toilsome journey. there was the bustle of excitement incident to the arrival of strangers; to the quick exchange of greetings, the unloading of wagons and unharnessing of horses and oxen. nell looked here and there for her sister. finally she saw her standing near her uncle while he conversed with one of the teamsters. the girl did not approach them; but glanced quickly around in search of some one else. at length she saw joe unloading goods from one of the wagons; his back was turned toward her, but she at once recognized the challenge conveyed by the broad shoulders. she saw no other person; gave heed to nothing save what was to her, righteous indignation. hearing her footsteps, the young man turned, glancing at her admiringly, said: "good evening, miss." nell had not expected such a matter-of-fact greeting from joe. there was not the slightest trace of repentance in his calm face, and he placidly continued his labor. "aren't you sorry you--you treated me so?" burst out nell. his coolness was exasperating. instead of the contrition and apology she had expected, and which was her due, he evidently intended to tease her, as he had done so often. the young man dropped a blanket and stared. "i don't understand," he said, gravely. "i never saw you before." this was too much for quick-tempered nell. she had had some vague idea of forgiving him, after he had sued sufficiently for pardon; but now, forgetting her good intentions in the belief that he was making sport of her when he should have pleaded for forgiveness, she swiftly raised her hand and slapped him smartly. the red blood flamed to the young man's face; as he staggered backward with his hand to his cheek, she heard a smothered exclamation behind her, and then the quick, joyous barking of a dog. when nell turned she was amazed to see joe standing beside the wagon, while a big white dog was leaping upon him. suddenly she felt faint. bewildered, she looked from joe to the man she had just struck; but could not say which was the man who professed to love her. "jim! so you followed me!" cried joe, starting forward and flinging his arms around the other. "yes, joe, and right glad i am to find you," answered the young man, while a peculiar expression of pleasure came over his face. "it's good to see you again! and here's my old dog mose! but how on earth did you know? where did you strike my trail? what are you going to do out here on the frontier? tell me all. what happened after i left---" then joe saw nell standing nearby, pale and distressed, and he felt something was amiss. he glanced quickly from her to his brother; she seemed to be dazed, and jim looked grave. "what the deuce--? nell, this is my brother jim, the one i told you about. jim, this is my friend, miss wells." "i am happy to meet miss wells," said jim, with a smile, "even though she did slap my face for nothing." "slapped you? what for?" then the truth dawned on joe, and he laughed until the tears came into his eyes. "she took you for me! ha, ha, ha! oh, this is great!" nell's face was now rosy red and moisture glistened in her eyes; but she tried bravely to stand her ground. humiliation had taken the place of anger. "i--i--am sorry, mr. downs. i did take you for him. he--he has insulted me." then she turned and ran into the cabin. chapter ii. joe and jim were singularly alike. they were nearly the same size, very tall, but so heavily built as to appear of medium height, while their grey eyes and, indeed, every feature of their clean-cut faces corresponded so exactly as to proclaim them brothers. "already up to your old tricks?" asked jim, with his hand on joe's shoulder, as they both watched nell's flight. "i'm really fond of her, jim, and didn't mean to hurt her feelings. but tell me about yourself; what made you come west?" "to teach the indians, and i was, no doubt, strongly influenced by your being here." "you're going to do as you ever have--make some sacrifice. you are always devoting yourself; if not to me, to some other. now it's your life you're giving up. to try to convert the redskins and influence me for good is in both cases impossible. how often have i said there wasn't any good in me! my desire is to kill indians, not preach to them, jim. i'm glad to see you; but i wish you hadn't come. this wild frontier is no place for a preacher." "i think it is," said jim, quietly. "what of rose--the girl you were to marry?" joe glanced quickly at his brother. jim's face paled slightly as he turned away. "i'll speak once more of her, and then, never again," he answered. "you knew rose better than i did. once you tried to tell me she was too fond of admiration, and i rebuked you; but now i see that your wider experience of women had taught you things i could not then understand. she was untrue. when you left williamsburg, apparently because you had gambled with jewett and afterward fought him, i was not misled. you made the game of cards a pretense; you sought it simply as an opportunity to wreak your vengeance on him for his villainy toward me. well, it's all over now. though you cruelly beat and left him disfigured for life, he will live, and you are saved from murder, thank god! when i learned of your departure i yearned to follow. then i met a preacher who spoke of having intended to go west with a mr. wells, of the moravian mission. i immediately said i would go in his place, and here i am. i'm fortunate in that i have found both him and you." "i'm sorry i didn't kill jewett; i certainly meant to. anyway, there's some comfort in knowing i left my mark on him. he was a sneaking, cold-blooded fellow, with his white hair and pale face, and always fawning round the girls. i hated him, and gave it to him good." joe spoke musingly and complacently as though it was a trivial thing to compass the killing of a man. "well, jim, you're here now, and there's no help for it. we'll go along with this moravian preacher and his nieces. if you haven't any great regrets for the past, why, all may be well yet. i can see that the border is the place for me. but now, jim, for once in your life take a word of advice from me. we're out on the frontier, where every man looks after himself. your being a minister won't protect you here where every man wears a knife and a tomahawk, and where most of them are desperadoes. cut out that soft voice and most of your gentle ways, and be a little more like your brother. be as kind as you like, and preach all you want to; but when some of these buckskin-legged frontiermen try to walk all over you, as they will, take your own part in a way you have never taken it before. i had my lesson the first few days out with that wagon-train. it was a case of four fights; but i'm all right now." "joe, i won't run, if that's what you mean," answered jim, with a laugh. "yes, i understand that a new life begins here, and i am content. if i can find my work in it, and remain with you, i shall be happy." "ah! old mose! i'm glad to see you," joe cried to the big dog who came nosing round him. "you've brought this old fellow; did you bring the horses?" "look behind the wagon." with the dog bounding before him, joe did as he was directed, and there found two horses tethered side by side. little wonder that his eyes gleamed with delight. one was jet-black; the other iron-gray and in every line the clean-limbed animals showed the thoroughbred. the black threw up his slim head and whinnied, with affection clearly shining in his soft, dark eyes as he recognized his master. "lance, old fellow, how did i ever leave you!" murmured joe, as he threw his arm over the arched neck. mose stood by looking up, and wagging his tail in token of happiness at the reunion of the three old friends. there were tears in joe's eyes when, with a last affectionate caress, he turned away from his pet. "come, jim, i'll take you to mr. wells." they stated across the little square, while mose went back under the wagon; but at a word from joe he bounded after them, trotting contentedly at their heels. half way to the cabins a big, raw-boned teamster, singing in a drunken voice, came staggering toward them. evidently he had just left the group of people who had gathered near the indians. "i didn't expect to see drunkenness out here," said jim, in a low tone. "there's lots of it. i saw that fellow yesterday when he couldn't walk. wentz told me he was a bad customer." the teamster, his red face bathed in perspiration, and his sleeves rolled up, showing brown, knotty arms, lurched toward them. as they met he aimed a kick at the dog; but mose leaped nimbly aside, avoiding the heavy boot. he did not growl, nor show his teeth; but the great white head sank forward a little, and the lithe body crouched for a spring. "don't touch that dog; he'll tear your leg off!" joe cried sharply. "say, pard, cum an' hev' a drink," replied the teamster, with a friendly leer. "i don't drink," answered joe, curtly, and moved on. the teamster growled something of which only the word "parson" was intelligible to the brothers. joe stopped and looked back. his gray eyes seemed to contract; they did not flash, but shaded and lost their warmth. jim saw the change, and, knowing what it signified, took joe's arm as he gently urged him away. the teamster's shrill voice could be heard until they entered the fur-trader's cabin. an old man with long, white hair flowing from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, sat near the door holding one of mrs. wentz's children on his knee. his face was deep-lined and serious; but kindness shone from his mild blue eyes. "mr. wells, this is my brother james. he is a preacher, and has come in place of the man you expected from williamsburg." the old minister arose, and extended his hand, gazing earnestly at the new-comer meanwhile. evidently he approved of what he saw in his quick scrutiny of the other's face, for his lips were wreathed with a smile of welcome. "mr. downs, i am glad to meet you, and to know you will go with me. i thank god i shall take into the wilderness one who is young enough to carry on the work when my days are done." "i will make it my duty to help you in whatsoever way lies in my power," answered jim, earnestly. "we have a great work before us. i have heard many scoffers who claim that it is worse than folly to try to teach these fierce savages christianity; but i know it can be done, and my heart is in the work. i have no fear; yet i would not conceal from you, young man, that the danger of going among these hostile indians must be great." "i will not hesitate because of that. my sympathy is with the redman. i have had an opportunity of studying indian nature and believe the race inherently noble. he has been driven to make war, and i want to help him into other paths." joe left the two ministers talking earnestly and turned toward mrs. wentz. the fur-trader's wife was glowing with pleasure. she held in her hand several rude trinkets, and was explaining to her listener, a young woman, that the toys were for the children, having been brought all the way from williamsburg. "kate, where's nell?" joe asked of the girl. "she went on an errand for mrs. wentz." kate wells was the opposite of her sister. her motions were slow, easy and consistent with her large, full, form. her brown eyes and hair contrasted sharply with nell's. the greatest difference in the sisters lay in that nell's face was sparkling and full of the fire of her eager young life, while kate's was calm, like the unruffled surface of a deep lake. "that's jim, my brother. we're going with you," said joe. "are you? i'm glad," answered the girl, looking at the handsome earnest face of the young minister. "your brother's like you for all the world," whispered mrs. wentz. "he does look like you," said kate, with her slow smile. "which means you think, or hope, that that is all," retorted joe laughingly. "well, kate, there the resemblance ends, thank god for jim!" he spoke in a sad, bitter tone which caused both women to look at him wonderingly. joe had to them ever been full of surprises; never until then had they seen evidences of sadness in his face. a moment's silence ensued. mrs. wentz gazed lovingly at the children who were playing with the trinkets; while kate mused over the young man's remark, and began studying his, half-averted face. she felt warmly drawn to him by the strange expression in the glance he had given his brother. the tenderness in his eyes did not harmonize with much of this wild and reckless boy's behavior. to kate he had always seemed so bold, so cold, so different from other men, and yet here was proof that master joe loved his brother. the murmured conversation of the two ministers was interrupted by a low cry from outside the cabin. a loud, coarse laugh followed, and then a husky voice: "hol' on, my purty lass."' joe took two long strides, and was on the door-step. he saw nell struggling violently in the grasp of the half-drunken teamster. "i'll jes' hev' to kiss this lassie fer luck," he said in a tone of good humor. at the same instant joe saw three loungers laughing, and a fourth, the grizzled frontiersman, starting forward with a yell. "let me go!" cried nell. just when the teamster had pulled her close to him, and was bending his red, moist face to hers, two brown, sinewy hands grasped his neck with an angry clutch. deprived thus of breath, his mouth opened, his tongue protruded; his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and his arms beat the air. then he was lifted and flung with a crash against the cabin wall. falling, he lay in a heap on the grass, while the blood flowed from a cut on his temple. "what's this?" cried a man, authoritatively. he had come swiftly up, and arrived at the scene where stood the grizzled frontiersman. "it was purty handy, wentz. i couldn't hev' did better myself, and i was comin' for that purpose," said the frontiersman. "leffler was tryin' to kiss the lass. he's been drunk fer two days. that little girl's sweetheart kin handle himself some, now you take my word on it." "i'll agree leff's bad when he's drinkin'," answered the fur-trader, and to joe he added, "he's liable to look you up when he comes around." "tell him if i am here when he gets sober, i'll kill him," joe cried in a sharp voice. his gaze rested once more on the fallen teamster, and again an odd contraction of his eyes was noticeable. the glance was cutting, as if with the flash of cold gray steel. "nell, i'm sorry i wasn't round sooner," he said, apologetically, as if it was owing to his neglect the affair had happened. as they entered the cabin nell stole a glance at him. this was the third time he had injured a man because of her. she had on several occasions seen that cold, steely glare in his eyes, and it had always frightened her. it was gone, however, before they were inside the building. he said something which she did not hear distinctly, and his calm voice allayed her excitement. she had been angry with him; but now she realized that her resentment had disappeared. he had spoken so kindly after the outburst. had he not shown that he considered himself her protector and lover? a strange emotion, sweet and subtle as the taste of wine, thrilled her, while a sense of fear because of his strength was mingled with her pride in it. any other girl would have been only too glad to have such a champion; she would, too, hereafter, for he was a man of whom to be proud. "look here, nell, you haven't spoken to me," joe cried suddenly, seeming to understand that she had not even heard what he said, so engrossed had she been with her reflections. "are you mad with me yet?" he continued. "why, nell, i'm in--i love you!" evidently joe thought such fact a sufficient reason for any act on his part. his tender tone conquered nell, and she turned to him with flushed cheeks and glad eyes. "i wasn't angry at all," she whispered, and then, eluding the arm he extended, she ran into the other room. chapter iii. joe lounged in the doorway of the cabin, thoughtfully contemplating two quiet figures that were lying in the shade of a maple tree. one he recognized as the indian with whom jim had spent an earnest hour that morning; the red son of the woods was wrapped in slumber. he had placed under his head a many-hued homespun shirt which the young preacher had given him; but while asleep his head had rolled off this improvised pillow, and the bright garment lay free, attracting the eye. certainly it had led to the train of thought which had found lodgment in joe's fertile brain. the other sleeper was a short, stout man whom joe had seen several times before. this last fellow did not appear to be well-balanced in his mind, and was the butt of the settlers' jokes, while the children called him "loorey." he, like the indian, was sleeping off the effects of the previous night's dissipation. during a few moments joe regarded the recumbent figures with an expression on his face which told that he thought in them were great possibilities for sport. with one quick glance around he disappeared within the cabin, and when he showed himself at the door, surveying the village square with mirthful eyes, he held in his hand a small basket of indian design. it was made of twisted grass, and simply contained several bits of soft, chalky stone such as the indians used for painting, which collection joe had discovered among the fur-trader's wares. he glanced around once more, and saw that all those in sight were busy with their work. he gave the short man a push, and chuckled when there was no response other than a lazy grunt. joe took the indians' gaudy shirt, and, lifting loorey, slipped it around him, shoved the latter's arms through the sleeves, and buttoned it in front. he streaked the round face with red and white paint, and then, dexterously extracting the eagle plume from the indian's head-dress, stuck it in loorey's thick shock of hair. it was all done in a moment, after which joe replaced the basket, and went down to the river. several times that morning he had visited the rude wharf where jeff lynn, the grizzled old frontiersman, busied himself with preparations for the raft-journey down the ohio. lynn had been employed to guide the missionary's party to fort henry, and, as the brothers had acquainted him with their intention of accompanying the travelers, he had constructed a raft for them and their horses. joe laughed when he saw the dozen two-foot logs fastened together, upon which a rude shack had been erected for shelter. this slight protection from sun and storm was all the brothers would have on their long journey. joe noted, however, that the larger raft had been prepared with some thought for the comfort of the girls. the floor of the little hut was raised so that the waves which broke over the logs could not reach it. taking a peep into the structure, joe was pleased to see that nell and kate would be comfortable, even during a storm. a buffalo robe and two red blankets gave to the interior a cozy, warm look. he observed that some of the girls' luggage was already on board. "when'll we be off?" he inquired. "sun-up," answered lynn, briefly. "i'm glad of that. i like to be on the go in the early morning," said joe, cheerfully. "most folks from over eastways ain't in a hurry to tackle the river," replied lynn, eyeing joe sharply. "it's a beautiful river, and i'd like to sail on it from here to where it ends, and then come back to go again," joe replied, warmly. "in a hurry to be a-goin'? i'll allow you'll see some slim red devils, with feathers in their hair, slipping among the trees along the bank, and mebbe you'll hear the ping which's made when whistlin' lead hits. perhaps you'll want to be back here by termorrer sundown." "not i," said joe, with his short, cool laugh. the old frontiersman slowly finished his task of coiling up a rope of wet cowhide, and then, producing a dirty pipe, he took a live ember from the fire and placed it on the bowl. he sucked slowly at the pipe-stem, and soon puffed out a great cloud of smoke. sitting on a log, he deliberately surveyed the robust shoulders and long, heavy limbs of the young man, with a keen appreciation of their symmetry and strength. agility, endurance and courage were more to a borderman than all else; a new-comer on the frontier was always "sized-up" with reference to these "points," and respected in proportion to the measure in which he possessed them. old jeff lynn, riverman, hunter, frontiersman, puffed slowly at his pipe while he mused thus to himself: "mebbe i'm wrong in takin' a likin' to this youngster so sudden. mebbe it's because i'm fond of his sunny-haired lass, an' ag'in mebbe it's because i'm gettin' old an' likes young folks better'n i onct did. anyway, i'm kinder thinkin, if this young feller gits worked out, say fer about twenty pounds less, he'll lick a whole raft-load of wild-cats." joe walked to and fro on the logs, ascertained how the raft was put together, and took a pull on the long, clumsy steering-oar. at length he seated himself beside lynn. he was eager to ask questions; to know about the rafts, the river, the forest, the indians--everything in connection with this wild life; but already he had learned that questioning these frontiersmen is a sure means of closing their lips. "ever handle the long rifle?" asked lynn, after a silence. "yes," answered joe, simply. "ever shoot anythin'?" the frontiersman questioned, when he had taken four or five puffs at his pipe. "squirrels." "good practice, shootin' squirrels," observed jeff, after another silence, long enough to allow joe to talk if he was so inclined. "kin ye hit one--say, a hundred yards?" "yes, but not every time in the head," returned joe. there was an apologetic tone in his answer. another interval followed in which neither spoke. jeff was slowly pursuing his line of thought. after joe's last remark he returned his pipe to his pocket and brought out a tobacco-pouch. he tore off a large portion of the weed and thrust it into his mouth. then he held out the little buckskin sack to joe. "hev' a chaw," he said. to offer tobacco to anyone was absolutely a borderman's guarantee of friendliness toward that person. jeff expectorated half a dozen times, each time coming a little nearer the stone he was aiming at, some five yards distant. possibly this was the borderman's way of oiling up his conversational machinery. at all events, he commenced to talk. "yer brother's goin' to preach out here, ain't he? preachin' is all right, i'll allow; but i'm kinder doubtful about preachin' to redskins. howsumever, i've knowed injuns who are good fellows, and there's no tellin'. what are ye goin' in fer--farmin'?" "no, i wouldn't make a good farmer." "jest cum out kinder wild like, eh?" rejoined jeff, knowingly. "i wanted to come west because i was tired of tame life. i love the forest; i want to fish and hunt; and i think i'd like to--to see indians." "i kinder thought so," said the old frontiersman, nodding his head as though he perfectly understood joe's case. "well, lad, where you're goin' seein' injuns ain't a matter of choice. you has to see 'em, and fight 'em, too. we've had bad times for years out here on the border, and i'm thinkin' wuss is comin'. did ye ever hear the name girty?" "yes; he's a renegade." "he's a traitor, and jim and george girty, his brothers, are p'isin rattlesnake injuns. simon girty's bad enough; but jim's the wust. he's now wusser'n a full-blooded delaware. he's all the time on the lookout to capture white wimen to take to his injun teepee. simon girty and his pals, mckee and elliott, deserted from that thar fort right afore yer eyes. they're now livin' among the redskins down fort henry way, raisin' as much hell fer the settlers as they kin." "is fort henry near the indian towns?" asked joe. "there's delawares, shawnees and hurons all along the ohio below fort henry." "where is the moravian mission located?" "why, lad, the village of peace, as the injuns call it, is right in the midst of that injun country. i 'spect it's a matter of a hundred miles below and cross-country a little from fort henry." "the fort must be an important point, is it not?" "wal, i guess so. it's the last place on the river," answered lynn, with a grim smile. "there's only a stockade there, an' a handful of men. the injuns hev swarmed down on it time and ag'in, but they hev never burned it. only such men as colonel zane, his brother jack, and wetzel could hev kept that fort standin' all these bloody years. eb zane's got but a few men, yet he kin handle 'em some, an' with such scouts as jack zane and wetzel, he allus knows what's goin' on among the injuns." "i've heard of colonel zane. he was an officer under lord dunmore. the hunters here speak often of jack zane and wetzel. what are they?" "jack zane is a hunter an' guide. i knowed him well a few years back. he's a quiet, mild chap; but a streak of chain-lightnin' when he's riled. wetzel is an injun-killer. some people say as how he's crazy over scalp-huntin'; but i reckon that's not so. i've seen him a few times. he don't hang round the settlement 'cept when the injuns are up, an' nobody sees him much. at home he sets round silent-like, an' then mebbe next mornin' he'll be gone, an' won't show up fer days or weeks. but all the frontier knows of his deeds. fer instance, i've hearn of settlers gettin' up in the mornin' an' findin' a couple of dead and scalped injuns right in front of their cabins. no one knowed who killed 'em, but everybody says 'wetzel.' he's allus warnin' the settlers when they need to flee to the fort, and sure he's right every time, because when these men go back to their cabins they find nothin' but ashes. there couldn't be any farmin' done out there but fer wetzel." "what does he look like?" questioned joe, much interested. "wetzel stands straight as the oak over thar. he'd hev' to go sideways to git his shoulders in that door, but he's as light of foot an' fast as a deer. an' his eyes--why, lad, ye kin hardly look into 'em. if you ever see wetzel you'll know him to onct." "i want to see him," joe spoke quickly, his eyes lighting with an eager flash. "he must be a great fighter." "is he? lew wetzel is the heftiest of 'em all, an' we hev some as kin fight out here. i was down the river a few years ago and joined a party to go out an' hunt up some redskins as had been reported. wetzel was with us. we soon struck injun sign, and then come on to a lot of the pesky varmints. we was all fer goin' home, because we had a small force. when we started to go we finds wetzel sittin' calm-like on a log. we said: 'ain't ye goin' home?' and he replied, 'i cum out to find redskins, an' now as we've found 'em, i'm not goin' to run away.' an' we left him settin' thar. oh, wetzel is a fighter!" "i hope i shall see him," said joe once more, the warm light, which made him look so boyish, still glowing in his face. "mebbe ye'll git to; and sure ye'll see redskins, an' not tame ones, nuther." at this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke in on the conversation. joe saw several persons run toward the large cabin and disappear behind it. he smiled as he thought perhaps the commotion had been caused by the awakening of the indian brave. rising to his feet, joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw the cause of the excitement. a small crowd of men and women, all laughing and talking, surrounded the indian brave and the little stout fellow. joe heard some one groan, and then a deep, guttural voice: "paleface--big steal--ugh! injun mad--heap mad--kill paleface." after elbowing his way into the group, joe saw the indian holding loorey with one hand, while he poked him on the ribs with the other. the captive's face was the picture of dismay; even the streaks of paint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment. the poor half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan. "silvertip scalp paleface. ugh!" growled the savage, giving loorey another blow on the side. this time he bent over in pain. the bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women murmured sympathetically. "this's not a bit funny," muttered joe, as he pushed his way nearly to the middle of the crowd. then he stretched out a long arm that, bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been a blacksmith's, and grasped the indian's sinewy wrist with a force that made him loosen his hold on loorey instantly. "i stole the shirt--fun--joke," said joe. "scalp me if you want to scalp anyone." the indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. with a twist he slipped his arm from joe's grasp. "big paleface heap fun--all squaw play," he said, scornfully. there was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the group. "i'm afraid you've made an enemy," said jake wentz to joe. "an indian never forgets an insult, and that's how he regarded your joke. silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us his pelts. he's a shawnee chief. there he goes through the willows!" by this time jim and mr. wells, mrs. wentz and the girls had joined the group. they all watched silvertip get into his canoe and paddle away. "a bad sign," said wentz, and then, turning to jeff lynn, who joined the party at that moment, he briefly explained the circumstances. "never did like silver. he's a crafty redskin, an' not to be trusted," replied jeff. "he has turned round and is looking back," nell said quickly. "so he has," observed the fur-trader. the indian was now several hundred yards down the swift river, and for an instant had ceased paddling. the sun shone brightly on his eagle plumes. he remained motionless for a moment, and even at such a distance the dark, changeless face could be discerned. he lifted his hand and shook it menacingly. "if ye don't hear from that redskin ag'in jeff lynn don't know nothin'," calmly said the old frontiersman. chapter iv. as the rafts drifted with the current the voyagers saw the settlers on the landing-place diminish until they had faded from indistinct figures to mere black specks against the green background. then came the last wave of a white scarf, faintly in the distance, and at length the dark outline of the fort was all that remained to their regretful gaze. quickly that, too, disappeared behind the green hill, which, with its bold front, forces the river to take a wide turn. the ohio, winding in its course between high, wooded bluffs, rolled on and on into the wilderness. beautiful as was the ever-changing scenery, rugged gray-faced cliffs on one side contrasting with green-clad hills on the other, there hovered over land and water something more striking than beauty. above all hung a still atmosphere of calmness--of loneliness. and this penetrating solitude marred somewhat the pleasure which might have been found in the picturesque scenery, and caused the voyagers, to whom this country was new, to take less interest in the gaily-feathered birds and stealthy animals that were to be seen on the way. by the forms of wild life along the banks of the river, this strange intruder on their peace was regarded with attention. the birds and beasts evinced little fear of the floating rafts. the sandhill crane, stalking along the shore, lifted his long neck as the unfamiliar thing came floating by, and then stood still and silent as a statue until the rafts disappeared from view. blue-herons feeding along the bars, saw the unusual spectacle, and, uttering surprised "booms," they spread wide wings and lumbered away along the shore. the crows circled above the voyagers, cawing in not unfriendly excitement. smaller birds alighted on the raised poles, and several--a robin, a catbird and a little brown wren--ventured with hesitating boldness to peck at the crumbs the girls threw to them. deer waded knee-deep in the shallow water, and, lifting their heads, instantly became motionless and absorbed. occasionally a buffalo appeared on a level stretch of bank, and, tossing his huge head, seemed inclined to resent the coming of this stranger into his domain. all day the rafts drifted steadily and swiftly down the river, presenting to the little party ever-varying pictures of densely wooded hills, of jutting, broken cliffs with scant evergreen growth; of long reaches of sandy bar that glistened golden in the sunlight, and over all the flight and call of wildfowl, the flitting of woodland songsters, and now and then the whistle and bellow of the horned watchers in the forest. the intense blue of the vault above began to pale, and low down in the west a few fleecy clouds, gorgeously golden for a fleeting instant, then crimson-crowned for another, shaded and darkened as the setting sun sank behind the hills. presently the red rays disappeared, a pink glow suffused the heavens, and at last, as gray twilight stole down over the hill-tops, the crescent moon peeped above the wooded fringe of the western bluffs. "hard an' fast she is," sang out jeff lynn, as he fastened the rope to a tree at the head of a small island. "all off now, and' we'll hev' supper. thar's a fine spring under yon curly birch, an' i fetched along a leg of deer-meat. hungry, little 'un?" he had worked hard all day steering the rafts, yet nell had seen him smiling at her many times during the journey, and he had found time before the early start to arrange for her a comfortable seat. there was now a solicitude in the frontiersman's voice that touched her. "i am famished," she replied, with her bright smile. "i am afraid i could eat a whole deer." they all climbed the sandy slope, and found themselves on the summit of an oval island, with a pretty glade in the middle surrounded by birches. bill, the second raftsman, a stolid, silent man, at once swung his axe upon a log of driftwood. mr. wells and jim walked to and fro under the birches, and kate and nell sat on the grass watching with great interest the old helmsman as he came up from the river, his brown hands and face shining from the scrubbing he had given them. soon he had a fire cheerfully blazing, and after laying out the few utensils, he addressed himself to joe: "i'll tell ye right here, lad, good venison kin be spoiled by bad cuttin' and cookin'. you're slicin' it too thick. see--thar! now salt good, an' keep outen the flame; on the red coals is best." with a sharpened stick jeff held the thin slices over the fire for a few moments. then he laid them aside on some clean white-oak chips bill's axe had provided. the simple meal of meat, bread, and afterward a drink of the cold spring water, was keenly relished by the hungry voyagers. when it had been eaten, jeff threw a log on the fire and remarked: "seein' as how we won't be in redskin territory fer awhile yit, we kin hev a fire. i'll allow ye'll all be chilly and damp from river-mist afore long, so toast yerselves good." "how far have we come to-day?" inquired mr. wells, his mind always intent on reaching the scene of his cherished undertaking. "'bout thirty-odd mile, i reckon. not much on a trip, thet's sartin, but we'll pick up termorrer. we've some quicker water, an' the rafts hev to go separate." "how quiet!" exclaimed kate, suddenly breaking the silence that followed the frontiersman's answer. "beautiful!" impetuously said nell, looking up at joe. a quick flash from his gray eyes answered her; he did not speak; indeed he had said little to her since the start, but his glance showed her how glad he was that she felt the sweetness and content of this wild land. "i was never in a wilderness before," broke in the earnest voice of the young minister. "i feel an almost overpowering sense of loneliness. i want to get near to you all; i feel lost. yet it is grand, sublime!" "here is the promised land--the fruitful life--nature as it was created by god," replied the old minister, impressively. "tell us a story," said nell to the old frontiersman, as he once more joined the circle round the fire. "so, little 'un, ye want a story?" queried jeff, taking up a live coal and placing it in the bowl of his pipe. he took off his coon-skin cap and carefully laid it aside. his weather-beaten face beamed in answer to the girl's request. he drew a long and audible pull at his black pipe, and send forth slowly a cloud of white smoke. deliberately poking the fire with a stick, as if stirring into life dead embers of the past, he sucked again at his pipe, and emitted a great puff of smoke that completely enveloped the grizzled head. from out that white cloud came his drawling voice. "ye've seen thet big curly birch over thar--thet 'un as bends kind of sorrowful like. wal, it used to stand straight an' proud. i've knowed thet tree all the years i've navigated this river, an' it seems natural like to me thet it now droops dyin', fer it shades the grave of as young, an' sweet, an' purty a lass as yerself, miss nell. rivermen called this island george's island, 'cause washington onct camped here; but of late years the name's got changed, an' the men say suthin' like this: 'we'll try an' make milly's birch afore sundown,' jest as bill and me hev done to-day. some years agone i was comin' up from fort henry, an' had on board my slow old scow a lass named milly--we never learned her other name. she come to me at the fort, an' tells as how her folks hed been killed by injuns, an' she wanted to git back to pitt to meet her sweetheart. i was ag'in her comin' all along, an' fust off i said 'no.' but when i seen tears in her blue eyes, an' she puts her little hand on mine, i jest wilted, an' says to jim blair, 'she goes.' wal, jest as might hev been expected--an' fact is i looked fer it--we wus tackled by redskins. somehow, jim girty got wind of us hevin' a lass aboard, an' he ketched up with us jest below here. it's a bad place, called shawnee rock, an' i'll show it to ye termorrer. the renegade, with his red devils, attacked us thar, an' we had a time gittin' away. milly wus shot. she lived fer awhile, a couple of days, an' all the time wus so patient, an' sweet, an' brave with thet renegade's bullet in her--fer he shot her when he seen he couldn't capture her--thet thar wusn't a blame man of us who wouldn't hev died to grant her prayer, which wus that she could live to onct more see her lover." there was a long silence, during which the old frontiersman sat gazing into the fire with sad eyes. "we couldn't do nuthin', an' we buried her thar under thet birch, where she smiled her last sad, sweet smile, an' died. ever since then the river has been eatn' away at this island. it's only half as big as it wus onct, an' another flood will take away this sand-bar, these few birches--an' milly's grave." the old frontiersman's story affected all his listeners. the elder minister bowed his head and prayed that no such fate might overtake his nieces. the young minister looked again, as he had many times that day, at nell's winsome face. the girls cast grave glances at the drooping birch, and their bright tears glistened in the fire-glow. once more joe's eyes glinted with that steely flash, and as he gazed out over the wide, darkening expanse of water his face grew cold and rigid. "i'll allow i might hev told a more cheerful story, an' i'll do so next time; but i wanted ye all, particular the lasses, to know somethin' of the kind of country ye're goin' into. the frontier needs women; but jist yit it deals hard with them. an' jim girty, with more of his kind, ain't dead yit." "why don't some one kill him?" was joe's sharp question. "easier said than done, lad. jim girty is a white traitor, but he's a cunnin' an' fierce redskin in his ways an' life. he knows the woods as a crow does, an' keeps outer sight 'cept when he's least expected. then ag'in, he's got simon girty, his brother, an' almost the whole redskin tribe behind him. injuns stick close to a white man that has turned ag'inst his own people, an' jim girty hain't ever been ketched. howsumever, i heard last trip thet he'd been tryin' some of his tricks round fort henry, an' thet wetzel is on his trail. wal, if it's so thet lew wetzel is arter him, i wouldn't give a pinch o' powder fer the white-redskin's chances of a long life." no one spoke, and jeff, after knocking the ashes from his pipe, went down to the raft, returning shortly afterward with his blanket. this he laid down and rolled himself in it. presently from under his coon-skin cap came the words: "wal, i've turned in, an' i advise ye all to do the same." all save joe and nell acted on jeff's suggestion. for a long time the young couple sat close together on the bank, gazing at the moonlight on the river. the night was perfect. a cool wind fanned the dying embers of the fire and softly stirred the leaves. earlier in the evening a single frog had voiced his protest against the loneliness; but now his dismal croak was no longer heard. a snipe, belated in his feeding, ran along the sandy shore uttering his tweet-tweet, and his little cry, breaking in so softly on the silence, seemed only to make more deeply felt the great vast stillness of the night. joe's arm was around nell. she had demurred at first, but he gave no heed to her slight resistance, and finally her head rested against his shoulder. there was no need of words. joe had a pleasurable sense of her nearness, and there was a delight in the fragrance of her hair as it waved against his cheek; but just then love was not uppermost in his mind. all day he had been silent under the force of an emotion which he could not analyze. some power, some feeling in which the thought of nell had no share, was drawing him with irresistible strength. nell had just begun to surrender to him in the sweetness of her passion; and yet even with that knowledge knocking reproachfully at his heart, he could not help being absorbed in the shimmering water, in the dark reflection of the trees, the gloom and shadow of the forest. presently he felt her form relax in his arms; then her soft regular breathing told him she had fallen asleep and he laughed low to himself. how she would pout on the morrow when he teased her about it! then, realizing that she was tired with her long day's journey, he reproached himself for keeping her from the needed rest, and instantly decided to carry her to the raft. yet such was the novelty of the situation that he yielded to its charm, and did not go at once. the moonlight found bright threads in her wavy hair; it shone caressingly on her quiet face, and tried to steal under the downcast lashes. joe made a movement to rise with her, when she muttered indistinctly as if speaking to some one. he remembered then she had once told him that she talked in her sleep, and how greatly it annoyed her. he might hear something more with which to tease her; so he listened. "yes--uncle--i will go--kate, we must--go. . ." another interval of silence, then more murmurings. he distinguished his own name, and presently she called clearly, as if answering some inward questioner. "i--love him--yes--i love joe--he has mastered me. yet i wish he were--like jim--jim who looked at me--so--with his deep eyes--and i. . . ." joe lifted her as if she were a baby, and carrying her down to the raft, gently laid her by her sleeping sister. the innocent words which he should not have heard were like a blow. what she would never have acknowledged in her waking hours had been revealed in her dreams. he recalled the glance of jim's eyes as it had rested on nell many times that day, and now these things were most significant. he found at the end of the island a great, mossy stone. on this he climbed, and sat where the moonlight streamed upon him. gradually that cold bitterness died out from his face, as it passed from his heart, and once more he became engrossed in the silver sheen on the water, the lapping of the waves on the pebbly beach, and in that speaking, mysterious silence of the woods. * * * when the first faint rays of red streaked over the eastern hill-tops, and the river mist arose from the water in a vapory cloud, jeff lynn rolled out of his blanket, stretched his long limbs, and gave a hearty call to the morning. his cheerful welcome awakened all the voyagers except joe, who had spent the night in watching and the early morning in fishing. "wal, i'll be darned," ejaculated jeff as he saw joe. "up afore me, an' ketched a string of fish." "what are they?" asked joe, holding up several bronze-backed fish. "bass--black bass, an' thet big feller is a lammin' hefty 'un. how'd ye ketch 'em?" "i fished for them." "wal, so it 'pears," growled jeff, once more reluctantly yielding to his admiration for the lad. "how'd ye wake up so early?" "i stayed up all night. i saw three deer swim from the mainland, but nothing else came around." "try yer hand at cleanin' 'em fer breakfast," continued jeff, beginning to busy himself with preparations for that meal. "wal, wal, if he ain't surprisin'! he'll do somethin' out here on the frontier, sure as i'm a born sinner," he muttered to himself, wagging his head in his quaint manner. breakfast over, jeff transferred the horses to the smaller raft, which he had cut loose from his own, and, giving a few directions to bill, started down-stream with mr. wells and the girls. the rafts remained close together for a while, but as the current quickened and was more skillfully taken advantage of by jeff, the larger raft gained considerable headway, gradually widening the gap between the two. all day they drifted. from time to time joe and jim waved their hands to the girls; but the greater portion of their attention was given to quieting the horses. mose, joe's big white dog, retired in disgust to the hut, where he watched and dozed by turns. he did not fancy this kind of voyaging. bill strained his sturdy arms all day on the steering-oar. about the middle of the afternoon joe observed that the hills grew more rugged and precipitous, and the river ran faster. he kept a constant lookout for the wall of rock which marked the point of danger. when the sun had disappeared behind the hills, he saw ahead a gray rock protruding from the green foliage. it was ponderous, overhanging, and seemed to frown down on the river. this was shawnee rock. joe looked long at the cliff, and wondered if there was now an indian scout hidden behind the pines that skirted the edge. prominent on the top of the bluff a large, dead tree projected its hoary, twisted branches. bill evidently saw the landmark, for he stopped in his monotonous walk to and fro across the raft, and pushing his oar amidships he looked ahead for the other raft. the figure of the tall frontiersman could be plainly seen as he labored at the helm. the raft disappeared round a bend, and as it did so joe saw a white scarf waved by nell. bill worked the clumsy craft over toward the right shore where the current was more rapid. he pushed with all his strength, and when the oar had reached its widest sweep, he lifted it and ran back across the raft for another push. joe scanned the river ahead. he saw no rapids; only rougher water whirling over some rocks. they were where the channel narrowed and ran close to the right-hand bank. under a willow-flanked ledge was a sand-bar. to joe there seemed nothing hazardous in drifting through this pass. "bad place ahead," said bill, observing joe's survey of the river. "it doesn't look so," replied joe. "a raft ain't a boat. we could pole a boat. you has to hev water to float logs, an' the river's run out considerable. i'm only afeerd fer the horses. if we hit or drag, they might plunge around a bit." when the raft passed into the head of the bend it struck the rocks several times, but finally gained the channel safely, and everything seemed propitious for an easy passage. but, greatly to bill's surprise, the wide craft was caught directly in the channel, and swung round so that the steering-oar pointed toward the opposite shore. the water roared a foot deep over the logs. "hold hard on the horses!" yelled bill. "somethin's wrong. i never seen a snag here." the straining mass of logs, insecurely fastened together, rolled and then pitched loose again, but the short delay had been fatal to the steering apparatus. joe would have found keen enjoyment in the situation, had it not been for his horse, lance. the thoroughbred was difficult to hold. as bill was making strenuous efforts to get in a lucky stroke of the oar, he failed to see a long length of grapevine floating like a brown snake of the water below. in the excitement they heeded not the barking of mose. nor did they see the grapevine straighten and become taut just as they drifted upon it; but they felt the raft strike and hold on some submerged object. it creaked and groaned and the foamy water surged, gurgling, between the logs. jim's mare snorted with terror, and rearing high, pulled her halter loose and plunged into the river. but jim still held her, at risk of being drawn overboard. "let go! she'll drag you in!" yelled joe, grasping him with his free hand. lance trembled violently and strained at the rope, which his master held with a strong grip. crack! the stinging report of a rifle rang out above the splashing of the water. without a cry, bill's grasp on the oar loosened; he fell over it limply, his head striking the almost submerged log. a dark-red fluid colored the water; then his body slipped over the oar and into the river, where it sank. "my god! shot!" cried jim, in horrified tones. he saw a puff of white smoke rising above the willows. then the branches parted, revealing the dark forms of several indian warriors. from the rifle in the foremost savage's hand a slight veil of smoke rose. with the leap of a panther the redskin sprang from the strip of sand to the raft. "hold, jim! drop that ax! we're caught!" cried joe. "it's that indian from the fort!" gasped jim. the stalwart warrior was indeed silvertip. but how changed! stripped of the blanket he had worn at the settlement, now standing naked but for his buckskin breech-cloth, with his perfectly proportioned form disclosed in all its sinewy beauty, and on his swarthy, evil face an expression of savage scorn, he surely looked a warrior and a chief. he drew his tomahawk and flashed a dark glance at joe. for a moment he steadily regarded the young man; but if he expected to see fear in the latter's face he was mistaken, for the look was returned coolly. "paleface steal shirt," he said in his deep voice. "fool paleface play--silvertip no forget." chapter v. silvertip turned to his braves, and giving a brief command, sprang from the raft. the warriors closed in around the brothers; two grasping each by the arms, and the remaining indian taking care of the horse. the captives were then led ashore, where silvertip awaited them. when the horse was clear of the raft, which task necessitated considerable labor on the part of the indians, the chief seized the grapevine, that was now plainly in sight, and severed it with one blow of his tomahawk. the raft dashed forward with a lurch and drifted downstream. in the clear water joe could see the cunning trap which had caused the death of bill, and insured the captivity of himself and his brother. the crafty savages had trimmed a six-inch sapling and anchored it under the water. they weighted the heavy end, leaving the other pointing upstream. to this last had been tied the grapevine. when the drifting raft reached the sapling, the indians concealed in the willows pulled hard on the improvised rope; the end of the sapling stuck up like a hook, and the aft was caught and held. the killing of the helmsman showed the indians' foresight; even had the raft drifted on downstream the brothers would have been helpless on a craft they could not manage. after all, joe thought, he had not been so far wrong when he half fancied that an indian lay behind shawnee rock, and he marveled at this clever trick which had so easily effected their capture. but he had little time to look around at the scene of action. there was a moment only in which to study the river to learn if the unfortunate raftsman's body had appeared. it was not to be seen. the river ran swiftly and hid all evidence of the tragedy under its smooth surface. when the brave who had gone back to the raft for the goods joined his companion the two hurried joe up the bank after the others. once upon level ground joe saw before him an open forest. on the border of this the indians stopped long enough to bind the prisoners' wrists with thongs of deerhide. while two of the braves performed this office, silvertip leaned against a tree and took no notice of the brothers. when they were thus securely tied one of their captors addressed the chief, who at once led the way westward through the forest. the savages followed in single file, with joe and jim in the middle of the line. the last indian tried to mount lance; but the thoroughbred would have none of him, and after several efforts the savage was compelled to desist. mose trotted reluctantly along behind the horse. although the chief preserved a dignified mien, his braves were disposed to be gay. they were in high glee over their feat of capturing the palefaces, and kept up an incessant jabbering. one indian, who walked directly behind joe, continually prodded him with the stock of a rifle; and whenever joe turned, the brawny redskin grinned as he grunted, "ugh!" joe observed that this huge savage had a broad face of rather a lighter shade of red than his companions. perhaps he intended those rifle-prods in friendliness, for although they certainly amused him, he would allow no one else to touch joe; but it would have been more pleasing had he shown his friendship in a gentle manner. this indian carried joe's pack, much to his own delight, especially as his companions evinced an envious curiosity. the big fellow would not, however, allow them to touch it. "he's a cheerful brute," remarked joe to jim. "ugh!" grunted the big indian, jamming joe with his rifle-stock. joe took heed to the warning and spoke no more. he gave all his attention to the course over which he was being taken. here was his first opportunity to learn something of indians and their woodcraft. it occurred to him that his captors would not have been so gay and careless had they not believed themselves safe from pursuit, and he concluded they were leisurely conducting him to one of the indian towns. he watched the supple figure before him, wondering at the quick step, light as the fall of a leaf, and tried to walk as softly. he found, however, that where the indian readily avoided the sticks and brush, he was unable to move without snapping twigs. now and then he would look up and study the lay of the land ahead; and as he came nearer to certain rocks and trees he scrutinized them closely, in order to remember their shape and general appearance. he believed he was blazing out in his mind this woodland trail, so that should fortune favor him and he contrive to escape, he would be able to find his way back to the river. also, he was enjoying the wild scenery. this forest would have appeared beautiful, even to one indifferent to such charms, and joe was far from that. every moment he felt steal stronger over him a subtle influence which he could not define. half unconsciously he tried to analyze it, but it baffled him. he could no more explain what fascinated him than he could understand what caused the melancholy quiet which hung over the glades and hollows. he had pictured a real forest so differently from this. here was a long lane paved with springy moss and fenced by bright-green sassafras; there a secluded dale, dotted with pale-blue blossoms, over which the giant cottonwoods leaned their heads, jealously guarding the delicate flowers from the sun. beech trees, growing close in clanny groups, spread their straight limbs gracefully; the white birches gleamed like silver wherever a stray sunbeam stole through the foliage, and the oaks, monarchs of the forest, rose over all, dark, rugged, and kingly. joe soon understood why the party traveled through such open forest. the chief, seeming hardly to deviate from his direct course, kept clear of broken ground, matted thickets and tangled windfalls. joe got a glimpse of dark ravines and heard the music of tumbling waters; he saw gray cliffs grown over with vines, and full of holes and crevices; steep ridges, covered with dense patches of briar and hazel, rising in the way. yet the shawnee always found an easy path. the sun went down behind the foliage in the west, and shadows appeared low in the glens; then the trees faded into an indistinct mass; a purple shade settled down over the forest, and night brought the party to a halt. the indians selected a sheltered spot under the lee of a knoll, at the base of which ran a little brook. here in this inclosed space were the remains of a camp-fire. evidently the indians had halted there that same day, for the logs still smouldered. while one brave fanned the embers, another took from a neighboring branch a haunch of deer meat. a blaze was soon coaxed from the dull coals, more fuel was added, and presently a cheerful fire shone on the circle of dusky forms. it was a picture which joe had seen in many a boyish dream; now that he was a part of it he did not dwell on the hopelessness of the situation, nor of the hostile chief whose enmity he had incurred. almost, it seemed, he was glad of this chance to watch the indians and listen to them. he had been kept apart from jim, and it appeared to joe that their captors treated his brother with a contempt which they did not show him. silvertip had, no doubt, informed them that jim had been on his way to teach the indians of the white man's god. jim sat with drooping head; his face was sad, and evidently he took the most disheartening view of his capture. when he had eaten the slice of venison given him he lay down with his back to the fire. silvertip, in these surroundings, showed his real character. he had appeared friendly in the settlement; but now he was the relentless savage, a son of the wilds, free as an eagle. his dignity as a chief kept him aloof from his braves. he had taken no notice of the prisoners since the capture. he remained silent, steadily regarding the fire with his somber eyes. at length, glancing at the big indian, he motioned toward the prisoners and with a single word stretched himself on the leaves. joe noted the same changelessness of expression in the other dark faces as he had seen in silvertip's. it struck him forcibly. when they spoke in their soft, guttural tones, or burst into a low, not unmusical laughter, or sat gazing stolidly into the fire, their faces seemed always the same, inscrutable, like the depths of the forest now hidden in night. one thing joe felt rather than saw--these savages were fierce and untamable. he was sorry for jim, because, as he believed, it would be as easy to teach the panther gentleness toward his prey as to instill into one of these wild creatures a belief in christ. the braves manifested keen pleasure in anticipation as to what they would get out of the pack, which the indian now opened. time and again the big brave placed his broad hand on the shoulder of a comrade indian and pushed him backward. finally the pack was opened. it contained a few articles of wearing apparel, a pair of boots, and a pipe and pouch of tobacco. the big indian kept the latter articles, grunting with satisfaction, and threw the boots and clothes to the others. immediately there was a scramble. one brave, after a struggle with another, got possession of both boots. he at once slipped off his moccasins and drew on the white man's foot-coverings. he strutted around in them a few moments, but his proud manner soon changed to disgust. cowhide had none of the soft, yielding qualities of buckskin, and hurt the indian's feet. sitting down, he pulled one off, not without difficulty, for the boots were wet; but he could not remove the other. he hesitated a moment, being aware of the subdued merriment of his comrades, and then held up his foot to the nearest one. this chanced to be the big indian, who evidently had a keen sense of humor. taking hold of the boot with both hands, he dragged the luckless brave entirely around the camp-fire. the fun, however, was not to be all one-sided. the big indian gave a more strenuous pull, and the boot came off suddenly. unprepared for this, he lost his balance and fell down the bank almost into the creek. he held on to the boot, nevertheless, and getting up, threw it into the fire. the braves quieted down after that, and soon lapsed into slumber, leaving the big fellow, to whom the chief had addressed his brief command, acting, as guard. observing joe watching him as he puffed on his new pipe, he grinned, and spoke in broken english that was intelligible, and much of a surprise to the young man. "paleface--tobac'--heap good." then, seeing that joe made no effort to follow his brother's initiative, for jim was fast asleep, he pointed to the recumbent figures and spoke again. "ugh! paleface sleep--injun wigwams--near setting sun." on the following morning joe was awakened by the pain in his legs, which had been bound all night. he was glad when the bonds were cut and the party took up its westward march. the indians, though somewhat quieter, displayed the same carelessness: they did not hurry, nor use particular caution, but selected the most open paths through the forest. they even halted while one of their number crept up on a herd of browsing deer. about noon the leader stopped to drink from a spring; his braves followed suit and permitted the white prisoners to quench their thirst. when they were about to start again the single note of a bird far away in the woods sounded clearly on the quiet air. joe would not have given heed to it had he been less attentive. he instantly associated this peculiar bird-note with the sudden stiffening of silvertip's body and his attitude of intense listening. low exclamations came from the braves as they bent to catch the lightest sound. presently, above the murmur of the gentle fall of water over the stones, rose that musical note once more. it was made by a bird, joe thought, and yet, judged by the actions of the indians, how potent with meaning beyond that of the simple melody of the woodland songster! he turned, half expecting to see somewhere in the tree-tops the bird which had wrought so sudden a change in his captors. as he did so from close at hand came the same call, now louder, but identical with the one that had deceived him. it was an answering signal, and had been given by silvertip. it flashed into joe's mind that other savages were in the forest; they had run across the shawnees' trail, and were thus communicating with them. soon dark figures could be discerned against the patches of green thicket; they came nearer and nearer, and now entered the open glade where silvertip stood with his warriors. joe counted twelve, and noted that they differed from his captors. he had only time to see that this difference consisted in the head-dress, and in the color and quantity of paint on their bodies, when his gaze was attracted and riveted to the foremost figures. the first was that of a very tall and stately chief, toward whom silvertip now advanced with every show of respect. in this indian's commanding stature, in his reddish-bronze face, stern and powerful, there were readable the characteristics of a king. in his deep-set eyes, gleaming from under a ponderous brow; in his mastiff-like jaw; in every feature of his haughty face were visible all the high intelligence, the consciousness of past valor, and the power and authority that denote a great chieftain. the second figure was equally striking for the remarkable contrast it afforded to the chief's. despite the gaudy garments, the paint, the fringed and beaded buckskin leggins--all the indian accouterments and garments which bedecked this person, he would have been known anywhere as a white man. his skin was burned to a dark bronze, but it had not the red tinge which characterizes the indian. this white man had, indeed, a strange physiognomy. the forehead was narrow and sloped backward from the brow, denoting animal instincts. the eyes were close together, yellowish-brown in color, and had a peculiar vibrating movement, as though they were hung on a pivot, like a compass-needle. the nose was long and hooked, and the mouth set in a thin, cruel line. there was in the man's aspect an extraordinary combination of ignorance, vanity, cunning and ferocity. while the two chiefs held a short consultation, this savage-appearing white man addressed the brothers. "who're you, an' where you goin'?" he asked gruffly, confronting jim. "my name is downs. i am a preacher, and was on my way to the moravian mission to preach to the indians. you are a white man; will you help us?" if jim expected the information would please his interrogator, he was mistaken. "so you're one of 'em? yes, i'll do suthin' fer you when i git back from this hunt. i'll cut your heart out, chop it up, an' feed it to the buzzards," he said fiercely, concluding his threat by striking jim a cruel blow on the head. joe paled deathly white at this cowardly action, and his eyes, as they met the gaze of the ruffian, contracted with their characteristic steely glow, as if some powerful force within the depths of his being were at white heat and only this pale flash came to the surface. "you ain't a preacher?" questioned the man, meeting something in joe's glance that had been absent from jim's. joe made no answer, and regarded questioner steadily. "ever see me afore? ever hear of jim girty?" he asked boastfully. "before you spoke i knew you were girty," answered joe quietly. "how d'you know? ain't you afeared?" "of what?" "me--me?" joe laughed in the renegades face. "how'd you knew me?" growled girty. "i'll see thet you hev cause to remember me after this." "i figured there was only one so-called white man in these woods who is coward enough to strike a man whose hands are tied." "boy, ye're too free with your tongue. i'll shet off your wind." girty's hand was raised, but it never reached joe's neck. the big indian had an hour or more previous cut joe's bonds, but he still retained the thong which was left attached to joe's left wrist. this allowed the young man free use of his right arm, which, badly swollen or not, he brought into quick action. when the renegade reached toward him joe knocked up the hand, and, instead of striking, he grasped the hooked nose with all the powerful grip of his fingers. girty uttered a frightful curse; he writhed with pain, but could not free himself from the vise-like clutch. he drew his tomahawk and with a scream aimed a vicious blow at joe. he missed his aim, however, for silvertip had intervened and turned the course of the keen hatchet. but the weapon struck joe a glancing blow, inflicting a painful, though not dangerous wound. the renegade's nose was skinned and bleeding profusely. he was frantic with fury, and tried to get at joe; but silvertip remained in front of his captive until some of the braves led girty into the forest, where the tall chief had already disappeared. the nose-pulling incident added to the gayety of the shawnees, who evidently were pleased with girty's discomfiture. they jabbered among themselves and nodded approvingly at joe, until a few words spoken by silvertip produced a sudden change. what the words were joe could not understand, but to him they sounded like french. he smiled at the absurdity of imagining he had heard a savage speak a foreign language. at any rate, whatever had been said was trenchant with meaning. the indians changed from gay to grave; they picked up their weapons and looked keenly on every side; the big indian at once retied joe, and then all crowded round the chief. "did you hear what silvertip said, and did you notice the effect it had?" whispered jim, taking advantage of the moment. "it sounded like french, but of course it wasn't," replied joe. "it was french. 'le vent de la mort.'" "by jove, that's it. what does it mean?" asked joe, who was not a scholar. "the wind of death." "that's english, but i can't apply it here. can you?" "no doubt it is some indian omen." the hurried consultation over, silvertip tied joe's horse and dog to the trees, and once more led the way; this time he avoided the open forest and kept on low ground. for a long time he traveled in the bed of the brook, wading when the water was shallow, and always stepping where there was the least possibility of leaving a footprint. not a word was spoken. if either of the brothers made the lightest splash in the water, or tumbled a stone into the brook, the indian behind rapped him on the head with a tomahawk handle. at certain places, indicated by the care which silvertip exercised in walking, the indian in front of the captives turned and pointed where they were to step. they were hiding the trail. silvertip hurried them over the stony places; went more slowly through the water, and picked his way carefully over the soft ground it became necessary to cross. at times he stopped, remaining motionless many seconds. this vigilance continued all the afternoon. the sun sank; twilight spread its gray mantle, and soon black night enveloped the forest. the indians halted, but made no fire; they sat close together on a stony ridge, silent and watchful. joe pondered deeply over this behavior. did the shawnees fear pursuit? what had that indian chief told silvertip? to joe it seemed that they acted as if believing foes were on all sides. though they hid their tracks, it was, apparently, not the fear of pursuit alone which made them cautious. joe reviewed the afternoon's march and dwelt upon the possible meaning of the cat-like steps, the careful brushing aside of branches, the roving eyes, suspicious and gloomy, the eager watchfulness of the advance as well as to the rear, and always the strained effort to listen, all of which gave him the impression of some grave, unseen danger. and now as he lay on the hard ground, nearly exhausted by the long march and suffering from the throbbing wound, his courage lessened somewhat, and he shivered with dread. the quiet and gloom of the forest; these fierce, wild creatures, free in the heart of their own wilderness yet menaced by a foe, and that strange french phrase which kept recurring in his mind--all had the effect of conjuring up giant shadows in joe's fanciful mind. during all his life, until this moment, he had never feared anything; now he was afraid of the darkness. the spectral trees spread long arms overhead, and phantom forms stalked abroad; somewhere out in that dense gloom stirred this mysterious foe--the "wind of death." nevertheless, he finally slept. in the dull-gray light of early morning the indians once more took up the line of march toward the west. they marched all that day, and at dark halted to eat and rest. silvertip and another indian stood watch. some time before morning joe suddenly awoke. the night was dark, yet it was lighter than when he had fallen asleep. a pale, crescent moon shown dimly through the murky clouds. there was neither movement of the air nor the chirp of an insect. absolute silence prevailed. joe saw the indian guard leaning against a tree, asleep. silvertip was gone. the captive raised his head and looked around for the chief. there were only four indians left, three on the ground and one against the tree. he saw something shining near him. he looked more closely, and made out the object to be an eagle plume silvertip had worn, in his head-dress. it lay on the ground near the tree. joe made some slight noise which awakened the guard. the indian never moved a muscle; but his eyes roved everywhere. he, too, noticed the absence of the chief. at this moment from out of the depths of the woods came a swelling sigh, like the moan of the night wind. it rose and died away, leaving the silence apparently all the deeper. a shudder ran over joe's frame. fascinated, he watched the guard. the indian uttered a low gasp; his eyes started and glared wildly; he rose very slowly to his full height and stood waiting, listening. the dark hand which held the tomahawk trembled so that little glints of moonlight glanced from the bright steel. from far back in the forest-deeps came that same low moaning: "um-m-mm-woo-o-o-o!" it rose from a faint murmur and swelled to a deep moan, soft but clear, and ended in a wail like that of a lost soul. the break it made in that dead silence was awful. joe's blood seemed to have curdled and frozen; a cold sweat oozed from his skin, and it was as if a clammy hand clutched at his heart. he tried to persuade himself that the fear displayed by the savage was only superstition, and that that moan was but the sigh of the night wind. the indian sentinel stood as if paralyzed an instant after that weird cry, and then, swift as a flash, and as noiseless, he was gone into the gloomy forest. he had fled without awakening his companions. once more the moaning cry arose and swelled mournfully on the still night air. it was close at hand! "the wind of death," whispered joe. he was shaken and unnerved by the events of the past two days, and dazed from his wound. his strength deserted him, and he lost consciousness. chapter vi. one evening, several day previous to the capture of the brothers, a solitary hunter stopped before a deserted log cabin which stood on the bank of a stream fifty miles or more inland from the ohio river. it was rapidly growing dark; a fine, drizzling rain had set in, and a rising wind gave promise of a stormy night. although the hunter seemed familiar with his surroundings, he moved cautiously, and hesitated as if debating whether he should seek the protection of this lonely hut, or remain all night under dripping trees. feeling of his hunting frock, he found that it was damp and slippery. this fact evidently decided him in favor of the cabin, for he stooped his tall figure and went in. it was pitch dark inside; but having been there before, the absence of a light did not trouble him. he readily found the ladder leading to the loft, ascended it, and lay down to sleep. during the night a noise awakened him. for a moment he heard nothing except the fall of the rain. then came the hum of voices, followed by the soft tread of moccasined feet. he knew there was an indian town ten miles across the country, and believed some warriors, belated on a hunting trip, had sought the cabin for shelter. the hunter lay perfectly quiet, awaiting developments. if the indians had flint and steel, and struck a light, he was almost certain to be discovered. he listened to their low conversation, and understood from the language that they were delawares. a moment later he heard the rustling of leaves and twigs, accompanied by the metallic click of steel against some hard substance. the noise was repeated, and then followed by a hissing sound, which he knew to be the burning of a powder on a piece of dry wood, after which rays of light filtered through cracks of the unstable floor of the loft. the man placed his eye to one of these crevices, and counted eleven indians, all young braves, with the exception of the chief. the indians had been hunting; they had haunches of deer and buffalo tongues, together with several packs of hides. some of them busied themselves drying their weapons; others sat down listlessly, plainly showing their weariness, and two worked over the smouldering fire. the damp leaves and twigs burned faintly, yet there was enough to cause the hunter fear that he might be discovered. he believed he had not much to worry about from the young braves, but the hawk-eyed chief was dangerous. and he was right. presently the stalwart chief heard, or saw, a drop of water fall from the loft. it came from the hunter's wet coat. almost any one save an indian scout would have fancied this came from the roof. as the chief's gaze roamed everywhere over the interior of the cabin his expression was plainly distrustful. his eye searched the wet clay floor, but hardly could have discovered anything there, because the hunter's moccasined tracks had been obliterated by the footprints of the indians. the chief's suspicions seemed to be allayed. but in truth this chief, with the wonderful sagacity natural to indians, had observed matters which totally escaped the young braves, and, like a wily old fox, he waited to see which cub would prove the keenest. not one of them, however, noted anything unusual. they sat around the fire, ate their meat and parched corn, and chatted volubly. the chief arose and, walking to the ladder, ran his hand along one of the rungs. "ugh!" he exclaimed. instantly he was surrounded by ten eager, bright-eyed braves. he extended his open palm; it was smeared with wet clay like that under his feet. simultaneously with their muttered exclamations the braves grasped their weapons. they knew there was a foe above them. it was a paleface, for an indian would have revealed himself. the hunter, seeing he was discovered, acted with the unerring judgment and lightning-like rapidity of one long accustomed to perilous situations. drawing his tomahawk and noiselessly stepping to the hole in the loft, he leaped into the midst of the astounded indians. rising from the floor like the rebound of a rubber ball, his long arm with the glittering hatchet made a wide sweep, and the young braves scattered like frightened sheep. he made a dash for the door and, incredible as it may seem, his movements were so quick he would have escaped from their very midst without a scratch but for one unforeseen circumstance. the clay floor was wet and slippery; his feet were hardly in motion before they slipped from under him and he fell headlong. with loud yells of triumph the band jumped upon him. there was a convulsive, heaving motion of the struggling mass, one frightful cry of agony, and then hoarse commands. three of the braves ran to their packs, from which they took cords of buckskin. so exceedingly powerful was the hunter that six indians were required to hold him while the others tied his hands and feet. then, with grunts and chuckles of satisfaction, they threw him into a corner of the cabin. two of the braves had been hurt in the brief struggle, one having a badly wrenched shoulder and the other a broken arm. so much for the hunter's power in that single moment of action. the loft was searched, and found to be empty. then the excitement died away, and the braves settled themselves down for the night. the injured ones bore their hurts with characteristic stoicism; if they did not sleep, both remained quiet and not a sigh escaped them. the wind changed during the night, the storm abated, and when daylight came the sky was cloudless. the first rays of the sun shone in the open door, lighting up the interior of the cabin. a sleepy indian who had acted as guard stretched his limbs and yawned. he looked for the prisoner, and saw him sitting up in the corner. one arm was free, and the other nearly so. he had almost untied the thongs which bound him; a few moments more and he would have been free. "ugh!" exclaimed the young brave, awakening his chief and pointing to the hunter. the chief glanced at his prisoner; then looked more closely, and with one spring was on his feet, a drawn tomahawk in his hand. a short, shrill yell issued from his lips. roused by that clarion call, the young braves jumped up, trembling in eager excitement. the chief's summons had been the sharp war-cry of the delawares. he manifested as intense emotion as could possibly have been betrayed by a matured, experienced chieftain, and pointing to the hunter, he spoke a single word. * * * at noonday the indians entered the fields of corn which marked the outskirts of the delaware encampment. "kol-loo--kol-loo--kol-loo." the long signal, heralding the return of the party with important news, pealed throughout the quiet valley; and scarcely had the echoes died away when from the village came answering shouts. once beyond the aisles of waving corn the hunter saw over the shoulders of his captors the home of the redmen. a grassy plain, sloping gradually from the woody hill to a winding stream, was brightly beautiful with chestnut trees and long, well-formed lines of lodges. many-hued blankets hung fluttering in the sun, and rising lazily were curling columns of blue smoke. the scene was picturesque and reposeful; the vivid hues suggesting the indians love of color and ornament; the absence of life and stir, his languorous habit of sleeping away the hot noonday hours. the loud whoops, however, changed the quiet encampment into a scene of animation. children ran from the wigwams, maidens and braves dashed here and there, squaws awakened from their slumber, and many a doughty warrior rose from his rest in the shade. french fur traders came curiously from their lodges, and renegades hurriedly left their blankets, roused to instant action by the well-known summons. the hunter, led down the lane toward the approaching crowd, presented a calm and fearless demeanor. when the indians surrounded him one prolonged, furious yell rent the air, and then followed an extraordinary demonstration of fierce delight. the young brave's staccato yell, the maiden's scream, the old squaw's screech, and the deep war-cry of the warriors intermingled in a fearful discordance. often had this hunter heard the name which the indian called him; he had been there before, a prisoner; he had run the gauntlet down the lane; he had been bound to a stake in front of the lodge where his captors were now leading him. he knew the chief, wingenund, sachem of the delawares. since that time, now five years ago, when wingenund had tortured him, they had been bitterest foes. if the hunter heard the hoarse cries, or the words hissed into his ears; if he saw the fiery glances of hatred, and sudden giving way to ungovernable rage, unusual to the indian nature; if he felt in their fierce exultation the hopelessness of succor or mercy, he gave not the slightest sign. "atelang! atelang! atelang!" rang out the strange indian name. the french traders, like real savages, ran along with the procession, their feathers waving, their paint shining, their faces expressive of as much excitement as the indians' as they cried aloud in their native tongue: "le vent de la mort! le vent de la mort! la vent de la mort!" the hunter, while yet some paces distant, saw the lofty figure of the chieftain standing in front of his principal men. well he knew them all. there were the crafty pipe, and his savage comrade, the half king; there was shingiss, who wore on his forehead a scar--the mark of the hunter's bullet; there were kotoxen, the lynx, and misseppa, the source, and winstonah, the war-cloud, chiefs of sagacity and renown. three renegades completed the circle; and these three traitors represented a power which had for ten years left an awful, bloody trail over the country. simon girty, the so-called white indian, with his keen, authoritative face turned expectantly; elliott, the tory deserter, from fort pitt, a wiry, spider-like little man; and last, the gaunt and gaudily arrayed form of the demon of the frontier--jim girty. the procession halted before this group, and two brawny braves pushed the hunter forward. simon girty's face betrayed satisfaction; elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of the other girty exhibited an exultant joy. these desperadoes had feared this hunter. wingenund, with a majestic wave of his arm, silenced the yelling horde of frenzied savages and stepped before the captive. the deadly foes were once again face to face. the chieftain's lofty figure and dark, sleek head, now bare of plumes, towered over the other indians, but he was not obliged to lower his gaze in order to look straight into the hunter's eyes. verily this hunter merited the respect which shone in the great chieftain's glance. like a mountain-ash he stood, straight and strong, his magnificent frame tapering wedge-like from his broad shoulders. the bulging line of his thick neck, the deep chest, the knotty contour of his bared forearm, and the full curves of his legs--all denoted a wonderful muscular development. the power expressed in this man's body seemed intensified in his features. his face was white and cold, his jaw square and set; his coal-black eyes glittered with almost a superhuman fire. and his hair, darker than the wing of a crow, fell far below his shoulders; matted and tangled as it was, still it hung to his waist, and had it been combed out, must have reached his knees. one long moment wingenund stood facing his foe, and then over the multitude and through the valley rolled his sonorous voice: "deathwind dies at dawn!" the hunter was tied to a tree and left in view of the indian populace. the children ran fearfully by; the braves gazed long at the great foe of their race; the warriors passed in gloomy silence. the savages' tricks of torture, all their diabolical ingenuity of inflicting pain was suppressed, awaiting the hour of sunrise when this hated long knife was to die. only one person offered an insult to the prisoner; he was a man of his own color. jim girty stopped before him, his yellowish eyes lighted by a tigerish glare, his lips curled in a snarl, and from between them issuing the odor of the fir traders' vile rum. "you'll soon be feed fer the buzzards," he croaked, in his hoarse voice. he had so often strewed the plains with human flesh for the carrion birds that the thought had a deep fascination for him. "d'ye hear, scalp-hunter? feed for buzzards!" he deliberately spat in the hunter's face. "d'ye hear?" he repeated. there was no answer save that which glittered in the hunter's eye. but the renegade could not read it because he did not meet that flaming glance. wild horses could not have dragged him to face this man had he been free. even now a chill crept over girty. for a moment he was enthralled by a mysterious fear, half paralyzed by a foreshadowing of what would be this hunter's vengeance. then he shook off his craven fear. he was free; the hunter's doom was sure. his sharp face was again wreathed in a savage leer, and he spat once more on the prisoner. his fierce impetuosity took him a step too far. the hunter's arms and waist were fastened, but his feet were free. his powerful leg was raised suddenly; his foot struck girty in the pit of the stomach. the renegade dropped limp and gasping. the braves carried him away, his gaudy feathers trailing, his long arms hanging inertly, and his face distorted with agony. the maidens of the tribe, however, showed for the prisoner an interest that had in it something of veiled sympathy. indian girls were always fascinated by white men. many records of indian maidens' kindness, of love, of heroism for white prisoners brighten the dark pages of frontier history. these girls walked past the hunter, averting their eyes when within his range of vision, but stealing many a sidelong glance at his impressive face and noble proportions. one of them, particularly, attracted the hunter's eye. this was because, as she came by with her companions, while they all turned away, she looked at him with her soft, dark eyes. she was a young girl, whose delicate beauty bloomed fresh and sweet as that of a wild rose. her costume, fringed, beaded, and exquisitely wrought with fanciful design, betrayed her rank, she was wingenund's daughter. the hunter had seen her when she was a child, and he recognized her now. he knew that the beauty of aola, of whispering winds among the leaves, had been sung from the ohio to the great lakes. often she passed him that afternoon. at sunset, as the braves untied him and led him away, he once more caught the full, intense gaze of her lovely eyes. that night as he lay securely bound in the corner of a lodge, and the long hours wore slowly away, he strained at his stout bonds, and in his mind revolved different plans of escape. it was not in this man's nature to despair; while he had life he would fight. from time to time he expanded his muscles, striving to loosen the wet buckskin thongs. the dark hours slowly passed, no sound coming to him save the distant bark of a dog and the monotonous tread of his guard; a dim grayness pervaded the lodge. dawn was close at hand--his hour was nearly come. suddenly his hearing, trained to a most acute sensibility, caught a faint sound, almost inaudible. it came from without on the other side of the lodge. there it was again, a slight tearing sound, such as is caused by a knife when it cuts through soft material. some one was slitting the wall of the lodge. the hunter rolled noiselessly over and over until he lay against the skins. in the dim grayness he saw a bright blade moving carefully upward through the deer-hide. then a long knife was pushed into the opening; a small, brown hand grasped the hilt. another little hand followed and felt of the wall and floor, reaching out with groping fingers. the, hunter rolled again so that his back was against the wall and his wrists in front of the opening. he felt the little hand on his arm; then it slipped down to his wrists. the contact of cold steel set a tremor of joy through his heart. the pressure of his bonds relaxed, ceased; his arms were free. he turned to find the long-bladed knife on the ground. the little hands were gone. in a tinkling he rose unbound, armed, desperate. in another second an indian warrior lay upon the ground in his death-throes, while a fleeing form vanished in the gray morning mist. chapter vii. joe felt the heavy lethargy rise from him like the removal of a blanket; his eyes became clear, and he saw the trees and the forest gloom; slowly he realized his actual position. he was a prisoner, lying helpless among his sleeping captors. silvertip and the guard had fled into the woods, frightened by the appalling moan which they believed sounded their death-knell. and joe believed he might have fled himself had he been free. what could have caused that sound? he fought off the numbing chill that once again began to creep over him. he was wide-awake now; his head was clear, and he resolved to retain his senses. he told himself there could be nothing supernatural in that wind, or wail, or whatever it was, which had risen murmuring from out the forest-depths. yet, despite his reasoning, joe could not allay his fears. that thrilling cry haunted him. the frantic flight of an indian brave--nay, of a cunning, experienced chief--was not to be lightly considered. the savages were at home in these untracked wilds. trained from infancy to scent danger and to fight when they had an equal chance they surely would not run without good cause. joe knew that something moved under those dark trees. he had no idea what. it might be the fretting night wind, or a stealthy, prowling, soft-footed beast, or a savage alien to these wild indians, and wilder than they by far. the chirp of a bird awoke the stillness. night had given way to morning. welcoming the light that was chasing away the gloom, joe raised his head with a deep sigh of relief. as he did so he saw a bush move; then a shadow seemed to sink into the ground. he had seen an object lighter than the trees, darker than the gray background. again, that strange sense of the nearness of something thrilled him. moments, passed--to him long as hours. he saw a tall fern waver and tremble. a rabbit, or perhaps a snake, had brushed it. other ferns moved, their tops agitated, perhaps, by a faint breeze. no; that wavering line came straight toward him; it could not be the wind; it marked the course of a creeping, noiseless thing. it must be a panther crawling nearer and nearer. joe opened his lips to awaken his captors, but could not speak; it was as if his heart had stopped beating. twenty feet away the ferns were parted to disclose a white, gleaming face, with eyes that seemingly glittered. brawny shoulders were upraised, and then a tall, powerful man stood revealed. lightly he stepped over the leaves into the little glade. he bent over the sleeping indians. once, twice, three times a long blade swung high. one brave shuddered another gave a sobbing gasp, and the third moved two fingers--thus they passed from life to death. "wetzel!" cried joe. "i reckon so," said the deliverer, his deep, calm voice contrasting strangely with what might have been expected from his aspect. then, seeing joe's head covered with blood, he continued: "able to get up?" "i'm not hurt," answered joe, rising when his bonds had been cut. "brothers, i reckon?" wetzel said, bending over jim. "yes, we're brothers. wake up, jim, wake up! we're saved!" "what? who's that?" cried jim, sitting up and staring at wetzel. "this man has saved our lives! see, jim, the indians are dead! and, jim, it's wetzel, the hunter. you remember, jeff lynn said i'd know him if i ever saw him and---" "what happened to jeff?" inquired wetzel, interrupting. he had turned from jim's grateful face. "jeff was on the first raft, and for all we know he is now safe at fort henry. our steersman was shot, and we were captured." "has the shawnee anythin' ag'inst you boys?" "why, yes, i guess so. i played a joke on him--took his shirt and put it on another fellow." "might jes' as well kick an' injun. what has he ag'in you?" "i don't know. perhaps he did not like my talk to him," answered jim. "i am a preacher, and have come west to teach the gospel to the indians." "they're good injuns now," said wetzel, pointing to the prostrate figures. "how did you find us?" eagerly asked joe. "run acrost yer trail two days back." "and you've been following us?" the hunter nodded. "did you see anything of another band of indians? a tall chief and jim girty were among them." "they've been arter me fer two days. i was followin' you when silvertip got wind of girty an' his delawares. the big chief was wingenund. i seen you pull girty's nose. arter the delawares went i turned loose yer dog an' horse an' lit out on yer trail.'' "where are the delawares now?" "i reckon there nosin' my back trail. we must be gittin'. silvertip'll soon hev a lot of injuns here." joe intended to ask the hunter about what had frightened the indians, but despite his eager desire for information, he refrained from doing so. "girty nigh did fer you," remarked wetzel, examining joe's wound. "he's in a bad humor. he got kicked a few days back, and then hed the skin pulled offen his nose. somebody'll hev to suffer. wal, you fellers grab yer rifles, an' we'll be startin' fer the fort." joe shuddered as he leaned over one of the dusky forms to detach powder and bullet horn. he had never seen a dead indian, and the tense face, the sightless, vacant eyes made him shrink. he shuddered again when he saw the hunter scalp his victims. he shuddered the third time when he saw wetzel pick up silvertip's beautiful white eagle plume, dabble it in a pool of blood, and stick it in the bark of a tree. bereft of its graceful beauty, drooping with its gory burden, the long leather was a deadly message. it had been silvertip's pride; it was now a challenge, a menace to the shawnee chief. "come," said wetzel, leading the way into the forest. * * * shortly after daylight on the second day following the release of the downs brothers the hunter brushed through a thicket of alder and said: "thar's fort henry." the boys were on the summit of a mountain from which the land sloped in a long incline of rolling ridges and gentle valleys like a green, billowy sea, until it rose again abruptly into a peak higher still than the one upon which they stood. the broad ohio, glistening in the sun, lay at the base of the mountain. upon the bluff overlooking the river, and under the brow of the mountain, lay the frontier fort. in the clear atmosphere it stood out in bold relief. a small, low structure surrounded by a high stockade fence was all, and yet it did not seem unworthy of its fame. those watchful, forbidding loopholes, the blackened walls and timbers, told the history of ten long, bloody years. the whole effect was one of menace, as if the fort sent out a defiance to the wilderness, and meant to protect the few dozen log cabins clustered on the hillside. "how will we ever get across that big river?" asked jim, practically. "wade--swim," answered the hunter, laconically, and began the descent of the ridge. an hour's rapid walking brought the three to the river. depositing his rifle in a clump of willows, and directing the boys to do the same with their guns, the hunter splashed into the water. his companions followed him into the shallow water, and waded a hundred yards, which brought them near the island that they now perceived hid the fort. the hunter swam the remaining distance, and, climbing the bank, looked back for the boys. they were close behind him. then he strode across the island, perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. "we've a long swim here," said wetzel, waving his hand toward the main channel of the river. "good fer it?" he inquired of joe, since jim had not received any injuries during the short captivity and consequently showed more endurance. "good for anything," answered joe, with that coolness wetzel had been quick to observe in him. the hunter cast a sharp glance at the lad's haggard face, his bruised temple, and his hair matted with blood. in that look he read joe thoroughly. had the young man known the result of that scrutiny, he would have been pleased as well as puzzled, for the hunter had said to himself: "a brave lad, an' the border fever's on him." "swim close to me," said wetzel, and he plunged into the river. the task was accomplished without accident. "see the big cabin, thar, on the hillside? thar's colonel zane in the door," said wetzel. as they neared the building several men joined the one who had been pointed out as the colonel. it was evident the boys were the subject of their conversation. presently zane left the group and came toward them. the brothers saw a handsome, stalwart man, in the prime of life. "well, lew, what luck?" he said to wetzel. "not much. i treed five injuns, an' two got away," answered the hunter as he walked toward the fort. "lads, welcome to fort henry," said colonel zane, a smile lighting his dark face. "the others of your party arrived safely. they certainly will be overjoyed to see you." "colonel zane, i had a letter from my uncle to you," replied jim; "but the indians took that and everything else we had with us." "never mind the letter. i knew your uncle, and your father, too. come into the house and change those wet clothes. and you, my lad, have got an ugly knock on the head. who gave you that?" "jim girty." "what?" exclaimed the colonel. "jim girty did that. he was with a party of delawares who ran across us. they were searching for wetzel." "girty with the delawares! the devil's to pay now. and you say hunting wetzel? i must learn more about this. it looks bad. but tell me, how did girty come to strike you?" "i pulled his nose." "you did? good! good!" cried colonel zane, heartily. "by george, that's great! tell me--but wait until you are more comfortable. your packs came safely on jeff's raft, and you will find them inside." as joe followed the colonel he heard one of the other men say: "like as two peas in a pod." farther on he saw an indian standing a little apart from the others. hearing joe's slight exclamation of surprise, he turned, disclosing a fine, manly countenance, characterized by calm dignity. the indian read the boy's thought. "ugh! me friend," he said in english. "that's my shawnee guide, tomepomehala. he's a good fellow, although jonathan and wetzel declare the only good indian is a dead one. come right in here. there are your packs, and you'll find water outside the door." thus saying, colonel zane led the brothers into a small room, brought out their packs, and left them. he came back presently with a couple of soft towels. "now you lads fix up a bit; then come out and meet my family and tell us all about your adventure. by that time dinner will be ready." "geminy! don't that towel remind you of home?" said joe, when the colonel had gone. "from the looks of things, colonel zane means to have comfort here in the wilderness. he struck me as being a fine man." the boys were indeed glad to change the few articles of clothing the indians had left them, and when they were shaved and dressed they presented an entirely different appearance. once more they were twin brothers, in costume and feature. joe contrived, by brushing his hair down on his forehead, to conceal the discolored bump. "i think i saw a charming girl," observed joe. "suppose you did--what then?" asked jim, severely. "why--nothing--see here, mayn't i admire a pretty girl if i want?" "no, you may not. joe, will nothing ever cure you? i should think the thought of miss wells---" "look here, jim; she don't care--at least, it's very little she cares. and i'm--i'm not worthy of her." "turn around here and face me," said the young minister sharply. joe turned and looked in his brother's eyes. "have you trifled with her, as you have with so many others? tell me. i know you don't lie." "no." "then what do you mean?" "nothing much, jim, except i'm really not worthy of her. i'm no good, you know, and she ought to get a fellow like--like you." "absurd! you ought to be ashamed of yourself." "never mind me. see here; don't you admire her?" "why--why, yes," stammered jim, flushing a dark, guilty red at the direct question. "who could help admiring her?" "that's what i thought. and i know she admires you for qualities which i lack. nell's like a tender vine just beginning to creep around and cling to something strong. she cares for me; but her love is like the vine. it may hurt her a little to tear that love away, but it won't kill her; and in the end it will be best for her. you need a good wife. what could i do with a woman? go in and win her, jim." "joe, you're sacrificing yourself again for me," cried jim, white to the lips. "it's wrong to yourself and wrong to her. i tell you---" "enough!" joe's voice cut in cold and sharp. "usually you influence me; but sometimes you can't; i say this: nell will drift into your arms as surely as the leaf falls. it will not hurt her--will be best for her. remember, she is yours for the winning." "you do not say whether that will hurt you," whispered jim. "come--we'll find colonel zane," said joe, opening the door. they went out in the hallway which opened into the yard as well as the larger room through which the colonel had first conducted them. as jim, who was in advance, passed into this apartment a trim figure entered from the yard. it was nell, and she ran directly against him. her face was flushed, her eyes were beaming with gladness, and she seemed the incarnation of girlish joy. "oh, joe," was all she whispered. but the happiness and welcome in that whisper could never have been better expressed in longer speech. then slightly, ever so slightly, she tilted her sweet face up to his. it all happened with the quickness of thought. in a single instant jim saw the radiant face, the outstretched hands, and heard the glad whisper. he knew that she had a again mistaken him for joe; but for his life he could not draw back his head. he had kissed her, and even as his lips thrilled with her tremulous caress he flushed with the shame of his deceit. "you're mistaken again--i'm jim," he whispered. for a moment they stood staring into each other's eyes, slowly awakening to what had really happened, slowly conscious of a sweet, alluring power. then colonel zane's cheery voice rang in their ears. "ah, here's nellie and your brother! now, lads, tell me which is which?' "that's jim, and i'm joe," answered the latter. he appeared not to notice his brother, and his greeting to nell was natural and hearty. for the moment she drew the attention of the others from them. joe found himself listening to the congratulations of a number of people. among the many names he remembered were those of mrs. zane, silas zane, and major mccolloch. then he found himself gazing at the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. "my only sister, mrs. alfred clarke--once betty zane, and the heroine of fort henry," said colonel zane proudly, with his arm around the slender, dark-eyed girl. "i would brave the indians and the wilderness again for this pleasure," replied joe gallantly, as he bowed low over the little hand she cordially extended. "bess, is dinner ready?" inquired colonel zane of his comely wife. she nodded her head, and the colonel led the way into the adjoining room. "i know you boys must be hungry as bears." during the meal colonel zane questioned his guests about their journey, and as to the treatment they had received at the hands of the indians. he smiled at the young minister's earnestness in regard to the conversion of the redmen, and he laughed outright when joe said "he guessed he came to the frontier because it was too slow at home." "i am sure your desire for excitement will soon be satisfied, if indeed it be not so already," remarked the colonel. "but as to the realization of your brother's hopes i am not so sanguine. undoubtedly the moravian missionaries have accomplished wonders with the indians. not long ago i visited the village of peace--the indian name for the mission--and was struck by the friendliness and industry which prevailed there. truly it was a village of peace. yet it is almost to early to be certain of permanent success of this work. the indian's nature is one hard to understand. he is naturally roving and restless, which, however, may be owing to his habit of moving from place to place in search of good hunting grounds. i believe--though i must confess i haven't seen any pioneers who share my belief--that the savage has a beautiful side to his character. i know of many noble deeds done by them, and i believe, if they are honestly dealt with, they will return good for good. there are bad ones, of course; but the french traders, and men like the girtys, have caused most of this long war. jonathan and wetzel tell me the shawnees and chippewas have taken the warpath again. then the fact that the girtys are with the delawares is reason for alarm. we have been comparatively quiet here of late. did you boys learn to what tribe your captors belong? did wetzel say?" "he did not; he spoke little, but i will say he was exceedingly active," answered joe, with a smile. "to have seen wetzel fight indians is something you are not likely to forget," said colonel zane grimly. "now, tell me, how did those indians wear their scalp-lock?" "their heads were shaved closely, with the exception of a little place on top. the remaining hair was twisted into a tuft, tied tightly, and into this had been thrust a couple of painted pins. when wetzel scalped the indians the pins fell out. i picked one up, and found it to be bone." "you will make a woodsman, that's certain," replied colonel zane. "the indians were shawnee on the warpath. well, we will not borrow trouble, for when it comes in the shape of redskins it usually comes quickly. mr. wells seemed anxious to resume the journey down the river; but i shall try to persuade him to remain with us awhile. indeed, i am sorry i cannot keep you all here at fort henry, and more especially the girls. on the border we need young people, and, while i do not want to frighten the women, i fear there will be more than indians fighting for them." "i hope not; but we have come prepared for anything," said kate, with a quiet smile. "our home was with uncle, and when he announced his intention of going west we decided our duty was to go with him." "you were right, and i hope you will find a happy home," rejoined colonel zane. "if life among the indians, proves to be too hard, we shall welcome you here. betty, show the girls your pets and indian trinkets. i am going to take the boys to silas' cabin to see mr. wells, and then show them over the fort." as they went out joe saw the indian guide standing in exactly the same position as when they entered the building. "can't that indian move?" he asked curiously. "he can cover one hundred miles in a day, when he wants to," replied colonel zane. "he is resting now. an indian will often stand or sit in one position for many hours." "he's a fine-looking chap," remarked joe, and then to himself: "but i don't like him. i guess i'm prejudiced." "you'll learn to like tome, as we call him." "colonel zane, i want a light for my pipe. i haven't had a smoke since the day we were captured. that blamed redskin took my tobacco. it's lucky i had some in my other pack. i'd like to meet him again; also silvertip and that brute girty." "my lad, don't make such wishes," said colonel zane, earnestly. "you were indeed fortunate to escape, and i can well understand your feelings. there is nothing i should like better than to see girty over the sights of my rifle; but i never hunt after danger, and to look for girty is to court death." "but wetzel---" "ah, my lad, i know wetzel goes alone in the woods; but then, he is different from other men. before you leave i will tell you all about him." colonel zane went around the corner of the cabin and returned with a live coal on a chip of wood, which joe placed in the bowl of his pipe, and because of the strong breeze stepped close to the cabin wall. being a keen observer, he noticed many small, round holes in the logs. they were so near together that the timbers had an odd, speckled appearance, and there was hardly a place where he could have put his thumb without covering a hole. at first he thought they were made by a worm or bird peculiar to that region; but finally lie concluded that they were bullet-holes. he thrust his knife blade into one, and out rolled a leaden ball. "i'd like to have been here when these were made," he said. "well, at the time i wished i was back on the potomac," replied colonel zane. they found the old missionary on the doorstep of the adjacent cabin. he appeared discouraged when colonel zane interrogated him, and said that he was impatient because of the delay. "mr. wells, is it not possible that you underrate the danger of your enterprise?" "i fear naught but the lord," answered the old man. "do you not fear for those with you?" went on the colonel earnestly. "i am heart and soul with you in your work, but want to impress upon you that the time is not propitious. it is a long journey to the village, and the way is beset with dangers of which you have no idea. will you not remain here with me for a few weeks, or, at least, until my scouts report?" "i thank you; but go i will." "then let me entreat you to remain here a few days, so that i may send my brother jonathan and wetzel with you. if any can guide you safely to the village of peace it will be they." at this moment joe saw two men approaching from the fort, and recognized one of them as wetzel. he doubted not that the other was lord dunmore's famous guide and hunter, jonathan zane. in features he resembled the colonel, and was as tall as wetzel, although not so muscular or wide of chest. joe felt the same thrill he had experienced while watching the frontiersmen at fort pitt. wetzel and jonathan spoke a word to colonel zane and then stepped aside. the hunters stood lithe and erect, with the easy, graceful poise of indians. "we'll take two canoes, day after to-morrow," said jonathan, decisively, to colonel zane. "have you a rifle for wetzel? the delawares got his." colonel zane pondered over the question; rifles were not scarce at the fort, but a weapon that wetzel would use was hard to find. "the hunter may have my rifle," said the old missionary. "i have no use for a weapon with which to destroy god's creatures. my brother was a frontiersman; he left this rifle to me. i remember hearing him say once that if a man knew exactly the weight of lead and powder needed, it would shoot absolutely true." he went into the cabin, and presently came out with a long object wrapped in linsey cloths. unwinding the coverings, he brought to view a rifle, the proportions of which caused jonathan's eyes to glisten, and brought an exclamation from colonel zane. wetzel balanced the gun in his hands. it was fully six feet long; the barrel was large, and the dark steel finely polished; the stock was black walnut, ornamented with silver trimmings. using jonathan's powder-flask and bullet-pouch, wetzel proceeded to load the weapon. he poured out a quantity of powder into the palm of his hand, performing the action quickly and dexterously, but was so slow while measuring it that joe wondered if he were counting the grains. next he selected a bullet out of a dozen which jonathan held toward him. he examined it carefully and tried it in the muzzle of the rifle. evidently it did not please him, for he took another. finally he scraped a bullet with his knife, and placing it in the center of a small linsey rag, deftly forced it down. he adjusted the flint, dropped a few grains of powder in the pan, and then looked around for a mark at which to shoot. joe observed that the hunters and colonel zane were as serious regarding the work as if at that moment some important issue depended upon the accuracy of the rifle. "there, lew; there's a good shot. it's pretty far, even for you, when you don't know the gun," said colonel zane, pointing toward the river. joe saw the end of a log, about the size of a man's head, sticking out of the water, perhaps an hundred and fifty yards distant. he thought to hit it would be a fine shot; but was amazed when he heard colonel zane say to several men who had joined the group that wetzel intended to shoot at a turtle on the log. by straining his eyes joe succeeded in distinguishing a small lump, which he concluded was the turtle. wetzel took a step forward; the long, black rifle was raised with a stately sweep. the instant it reached a level a thread of flame burst forth, followed by a peculiarly clear, ringing report. "did he hit?" asked colonel zane, eagerly as a boy. "i allow he did," answered jonathan. "i'll go and see," said joe. he ran down the bank, along the beach, and stepped on the log. he saw a turtle about the size of an ordinary saucer. picking it up, he saw a bullet-hole in the shell near the middle. the bullet had gone through the turtle, and it was quite dead. joe carried it to the waiting group. "i allowed so," declared jonathan. wetzel examined the turtle, and turning to the old missionary, said: "your brother spoke the truth, an' i thank you fer the rifle." chapter viii. "so you want to know all about wetzel?" inquired colonel zane of joe, when, having left jim and mr. wells, they returned to the cabin. "i am immensely interested in him," replied joe. "well, i don't think there's anything singular in that. i know wetzel better, perhaps, than any man living; but have seldom talked about him. he doesn't like it. he is by birth a virginian; i should say, forty years old. we were boys together, and and i am a little beyond that age. he was like any of the lads, except that he excelled us all in strength and agility. when he was nearly eighteen years old a band if indians--delawares, i think--crossed the border on a marauding expedition far into virginia. they burned the old wetzel homestead and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a baby brother. the terrible shock nearly killed lewis, who for a time was very ill. when he recovered he went in search of his brothers, martin and john wetzel, who were hunting, and brought them back to their desolated home. over the ashes of the home and the graves of the loved ones the brothers swore sleepless and eternal vengeance. the elder brothers have been devoted all these twenty years and more to the killing of indians; but lewis has been the great foe of the redman. you have already seen an example of his deeds, and will hear of more. his name is a household word on the border. scores of times he has saved, actually saved, this fort and settlement. his knowledge of savage ways surpasses by far boone's, major mccolloch's, jonathan's, or any of the hunters'." "then hunting indians is his sole occupation?" "he lives for that purpose alone. he is very seldom in the settlement. sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he is needed; but usually he roams the forests." "what did jeff lynn mean when he said that some people think wetzel is crazy?" "there are many who think the man mad; but i do not. when the passion for indian hunting comes upon him he is fierce, almost frenzied, yet perfectly sane. while here he is quiet, seldom speaks except when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers. he often comes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours. i think he finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends. he is fond of the children, and would do anything for my sister betty." "his life must be lonely and sad," remarked joe. "the life of any borderman is that; but wetzel's is particularly so." "what is he called by the indians?" "they call him atelang, or, in english, deathwind." "by george! that's what silvertip said in french--'le vent de la mort.'" "yes; you have it right. a french fur trader gave wetzel that name years ago, and it has clung to him. the indians say the deathwind blows through the forest whenever wetzel stalks on their trail." "colonel zane, don't you think me superstitious," whispered joe, leaning toward the colonel, "but i heard that wind blow through the forest." "what!" ejaculated colonel zane. he saw that joe was in earnest, for the remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek and caused beads of perspiration to collect on his brow. joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of his narrative colonel zane sat silent and thoughtful. "you don't really think it was wetzel who moaned?" he asked, at length. "no, i don't," replied joe quickly; "but, colonel zane, i heard that moan as plainly as i can hear your voice. i heard it twice. now, what was it?" "jonathan said the same thing to me once. he had been out hunting with wetzel; they separated, and during the night jonathan heard the wind. the next day he ran across a dead indian. he believes wetzel makes the noise, and so do the hunters; but i think it is simply the moan of the night wind through the trees. i have heard it at times, when my very blood seemingly ran cold." "i tried to think it was the wind soughing through the pines, but am afraid i didn't succeed very well. anyhow, i knew wetzel instantly, just as jeff lynn said i would. he killed those indians in an instant, and he must have an iron arm." "wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on the frontier. he can run away from jonathan, who is as swift as an indian. he's stronger than any of the other men. i remember one day old hugh bennet's wagon wheels stuck in a bog down by the creek. hugh tried, as several others did, to move the wheels; but they couldn't be made to budge. along came wetzel, pushed away the men, and lifted the wagon unaided. it would take hours to tell you about him. in brief, among all the border scouts and hunters wetzel stands alone. no wonder the indians fear him. he is as swift as an eagle, strong as mountain-ash, keen as a fox, and absolutely tireless and implacable." "how long have you been here, colonel zane?" "more than twelve years, and it has been one long fight." "i'm afraid i'm too late for the fun," said joe, with his quiet laugh. "not by about twelve more years," answered colonel zane, studying the expression on joe's face. "when i came out here years ago i had the same adventurous spirit which i see in you. it has been considerably quelled, however. i have seen many a daring young fellow get the border fever, and with it his death. let me advise you to learn the ways of the hunters; to watch some one skilled in woodcraft. perhaps wetzel himself will take you in hand. i don't mind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone i never heard lew use before." "he did?" questioned joe, eagerly, flushing with pleasure. "do you think he'd take me out? dare i ask him?" "don't be impatient. perhaps i can arrange it. come over here now to metzar's place. i want to make you acquainted with him. these boys have all been cutting timber; they've just come in for dinner. be easy and quiet with them; then you'll get on." colonel zane introduced joe to five sturdy boys and left him in their company. joe sat down on a log outside a cabin and leisurely surveyed the young men. they all looked about the same: strong without being heavy, light-haired and bronze-faced. in their turn they carefully judged joe. a newcomer from the east was always regarded with some doubt. if they expected to hear joe talk much they were mistaken. he appeared good-natured, but not too friendly. "fine weather we're havin'," said dick metzar. "fine," agreed joe, laconically. "like frontier life?" "sure." a silence ensued after this breaking of the ice. the boys were awaiting their turn at a little wooden bench upon which stood a bucket of water and a basin. "hear ye got ketched by some shawnees?" remarked another youth, as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves. they all looked at joe now. it was not improbably their estimate of him would be greatly influenced by the way he answered this question. "yes; was captive for three days." "did ye knock any redskins over?" this question was artfully put to draw joe out. above all things, the bordermen detested boastfulness; tried on joe the ruse failed signally. "i was scared speechless most of the time," answered joe, with his pleasant smile. "by gosh, i don't blame ye!" burst out will metzar. "i hed that experience onct, an' onct's enough." the boys laughed and looked in a more friendly manner at joe. though he said he had been frightened, his cool and careless manner belied his words. in joe's low voice and clear, gray eye there was something potent and magnetic, which subtly influenced those with whom he came in contact. while his new friends were at dinner joe strolled over to where colonel zane sat on the doorstep of his home. "how did you get on with the boys?" inquired the colonel. "all right, i hope. say, colonel zane, i'd like to talk to your indian guide." colonel zane spoke a few words in the indian language to the guide, who left his post and came over to them. the colonel then had a short conversation with him, at the conclusion of which he pointed toward joe. "how do--shake," said tome, extending his hand. joe smiled, and returned the friendly hand-pressure. "shawnee--ketch'um?" asked the indian, in his fairly intelligible english. joe nodded his head, while colonel zane spoke once more in shawnee, explaining the cause of silvertip's emnity. "shawnee--chief--one--bad--injun," replied tome, seriously. "silvertip--mad--thunder-mad. ketch'um paleface--scalp'um sure." after giving this warning the chief returned to his former position near the corner of the cabin. "he can talk in english fairly well, much better than the shawnee brave who talked with me the other day," observed joe. "some of the indians speak the language almost fluently," said colonel zane. "you could hardly have distinguished logan's speech from a white man's. corn-planter uses good english, as also does my brother's wife, a wyandot girl." "did your brother marry an indian?" and joe plainly showed his surprise. "indeed he did, and a most beautiful girl she is. i'll tell you isaac's story some time. he was a captive among the wyandots for ten years. the chief's daughter, myeerah, loved him, kept him from being tortured, and finally saved him from the stake." "well, that floors me," said joe; "yet i don't see why it should. i'm just surprised. where is your brother now?" "he lives with the tribe. he and myeerah are working hard for peace. we are now on more friendly terms with the great wyandots, or hurons, as we call them, than ever before." "who is this big man coming from the the fort?" asked joe, suddenly observing a stalwart frontiersman approaching. "major sam mccolloch. you have met him. he's the man who jumped his horse from yonder bluff." "jonathan and he have the same look, the same swing," observed joe, as he ran his eye over the major. his faded buckskin costume, beaded, fringed, and laced, was similar to that of the colonel's brother. powder-flask and bullet-pouch were made from cow-horns and slung around his neck on deerhide strings. the hunting coat was unlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed borders, a tunic of the same well-tanned, but finer and softer, material. as he walked, the flaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two knives, sheathed in heavy buckskin, and a bright tomahawk. he carried a long rifle in the hollow of his arm. "these hunters have the same kind of buckskin suits," continued joe; "still, it doesn't seem to me the clothes make the resemblance to each other. the way these men stand, walk and act is what strikes me particularly, as in the case of wetzel." "i know what you mean. the flashing eye, the erect poise of expectation, and the springy step--those, my lad, come from a life spent in the woods. well, it's a grand way to live." "colonel, my horse is laid up," said major mccolloch, coming to the steps. he bowed pleasantly to joe. "so you are going to short creek? you can have one of my horses; but first come inside and we'll talk over you expedition." the afternoon passed uneventfully for joe. his brother and mr. wells were absorbed in plans for their future work, and nell and kate were resting; therefore he was forced to find such amusement or occupation as was possible in or near the stockade. chapter ix. joe went to bed that night with a promise to himself to rise early next morning, for he had been invited to take part in a "raising," which term meant that a new cabin was to be erected, and such task was ever an event in the lives of the settlers. the following morning joe rose early, dressing himself in a complete buckskin suit, for which he had exchanged his good garments of cloth. never before had he felt so comfortable. he wanted to hop, skip and jump. the soft, undressed buckskin was as warm and smooth as silk-plush; the weight so light, the moccasins so well-fitting and springy, that he had to put himself under considerable restraint to keep from capering about like a frolicsome colt. the possession of this buckskin outfit, and the rifle and accouterments which went with the bargain, marked the last stage in joe's surrender to the border fever. the silent, shaded glens, the mystery of the woods, the breath of this wild, free life claimed him from this moment entirely and forever. he met the others, however, with a serene face, showing no trace of the emotion which welled up strongly from his heart. nell glanced shyly at him; kate playfully voiced her admiration; jim met him with a brotherly ridicule which bespoke his affection as well as his amusement; but colonel zane, having once yielded to the same burning, riotous craving for freedom which now stirred in the boy's heart, understood, and felt warmly drawn toward the lad. he said nothing, though as he watched joe his eyes were grave and kind. in his long frontier life, where many a day measured the life and fire of ordinary years, he had seen lad after lad go down before this forest fever. it was well, he thought, because the freedom of the soil depended on these wild, light-footed boys; yet it always made him sad. how many youths, his brother among them, lay under the fragrant pine-needle carpet of the forest, in their last earthly sleep! the "raising" brought out all the settlement--the women to look on and gossip, while the children played; the men to bend their backs in the moving of the heavy timbers. they celebrated the erection of a new cabin as a noteworthy event. as a social function it had a prominent place in the settlers' short list of pleasures. joe watched the proceeding with the same pleasure and surprise he had felt in everything pertaining to border life. to him this log-raising appeared the hardest kind of labor. yet it was plain these hardy men, these low-voiced women, and merry children regarded the work as something far more significant than the mere building of a cabin. after a while he understood the meaning of the scene. a kindred spirit, the spirit of the pioneer, drew them all into one large family. this was another cabin; another home; another advance toward the conquering of the wilderness, for which these brave men and women were giving their lives. in the bright-eyed children's glee, when they clapped their little hands at the mounting logs, joe saw the progress, the march of civilization. "well, i'm sorry you're to leave us to-night," remarked colonel zane to joe, as the young man came over to where he, his wife, and sister watched the work. "jonathan said all was ready for your departure at sundown." "do we travel by night?" "indeed, yes, my lad. there are indians everywhere on the river. i think, however, with jack and lew handling the paddles, you will slip by safely. the plan is to keep along the south shore all night; then cross over at a place called girty's point, where you are to remain in hiding during daylight. from there you paddle up yellow creek; then portage across country to the head of the tuscarwawas. another night's journey will then bring you to the village of peace." jim and mr. wells, with his nieces, joined the party now, and all stood watching as the last logs were put in place. "colonel zane, my first log-raising is an education to me," said the young minister, in his earnest manner. "this scene is so full of life. i never saw such goodwill among laboring men. look at that brawny-armed giant standing on the topmost log. how he whistles as he swings his ax! mr. wells, does it not impress you?" "the pioneers must be brothers because of their isolation and peril; to be brothers means to love one another; to love one another is to love god. what you see in this fraternity is god. and i want to see this same beautiful feeling among the indians." "i have seen it," said colonel zane, to the old missionary. "when i came out here alone twelve years ago the indians were peaceable. if the pioneers had paid for land, as i paid cornplanter, there would never have been a border war. but no; the settlers must grasp every acre they could. then the indians rebelled; then the girtys and their allies spread discontent, and now the border is a bloody warpath." "have the jesuit missionaries accomplished anything with these war tribes?" inquired jim. "no; their work has been chiefly among the indians near detroit and northward. the hurons, delawares, shawnees and other western tribes have been demoralized by the french traders' rum, and incited to fierce hatred by girty and his renegades. your work at gnaddenhutten must be among these hostile tribes, and it is surely a hazardous undertaking." "my life is god's," murmured the old minister. no fear could assail his steadfast faith. "jim, it strikes me you'd be more likely to impress these indians colonel zane spoke of if you'd get a suit like mine and wear a knife and tomahawk," interposed joe, cheerfully. "then, if you couldn't convert, you could scalp them." "well, well, let us hope for the best," said colonel zane, when the laughter had subsided. "we'll go over to dinner now. come, all of you. jonathan, bring wetzel. betty, make him come, if you can." as the party slowly wended its way toward the colonel's cabin jim and nell found themselves side by side. they had not exchanged a word since the evening previous, when jim had kissed her. unable to look at each other now, and finding speech difficult, they walked in embarrassed silence. "doesn't joe look splendid in his hunting suit?" asked jim, presently. "i hadn't noticed. yes; he looks well," replied nell, carelessly. she was too indifferent to be natural. "are you angry with him?" "certainly not." jim was always simple and frank in his relations with women. he had none of his brother's fluency of speech, with neither confidence, boldness nor understanding of the intricate mazes of a woman's moods. "but--you are angry with--me?" he whispered. nell flushed to her temples, yet she did not raise her eyes nor reply. "it was a terrible thing for me to do," went on jim, hesitatingly. "i don't know why i took advantage--of--of your mistaking me for joe. if you only hadn't held up your mouth. no--i don't mean that--of course you didn't. but--well, i couldn't help it. i'm guilty. i have thought of little else. some wonderful feeling has possessed me ever since--since---" "what has joe been saying about me?" demanded nell, her eyes burning like opals. "why, hardly anything," answered jim, haltingly. "i took him to task about--about what i considered might be wrong to you. joe has never been very careful of young ladies' feelings, and i thought--well, it was none of my business. he said he honestly cared for you, that you had taught him how unworthy he was of a good woman. but he's wrong there. joe is wild and reckless, yet his heart is a well of gold. he is a diamond in the rough. just now he is possessed by wild notions of hunting indians and roaming through the forests; but he'll come round all right. i wish i could tell you how much he has done for me, how much i love him, how i know him! he can be made worthy of any woman. he will outgrow this fiery, daring spirit, and then--won't you help him?" "i will, if he will let me," softly whispered nell, irresistibly drawn by the strong, earnest love thrilling in his voice. chapter x. once more out under the blue-black vault of heaven, with its myriads of twinkling stars, the voyagers resumed their westward journey. whispered farewells of new but sincere friends lingered in their ears. now the great looming bulk of the fort above them faded into the obscure darkness, leaving a feeling as if a protector had gone--perhaps forever. admonished to absolute silence by the stern guides, who seemed indeed to have embarked upon a dark and deadly mission, the voyagers lay back in the canoes and thought and listened. the water eddied with soft gurgles in the wake of the racing canoes; but that musical sound was all they heard. the paddles might have been shadows, for all the splash they made; they cut the water swiftly and noiselessly. onward the frail barks glided into black space, side by side, close under the overhanging willows. long moments passed into long hours, as the guides paddled tirelessly as if their sinews were cords of steel. with gray dawn came the careful landing of the canoes, a cold breakfast eaten under cover of a willow thicket, and the beginning of a long day while they were lying hidden from the keen eyes of indian scouts, waiting for the friendly mantle of night. the hours dragged until once more the canoes were launched, this time not on the broad ohio, but on a stream that mirrored no shining stars as it flowed still and somber under the dense foliage. the voyagers spoke not, nor whispered, nor scarcely moved, so menacing had become the slow, listening caution of wetzel and zane. snapping of twigs somewhere in the inscrutable darkness delayed them for long moments. any movement the air might resound with the horrible indian war-whoop. every second was heavy with fear. how marvelous that these scouts, penetrating the wilderness of gloom, glided on surely, silently, safely! instinct, or the eyes of the lynx, guide their course. but another dark night wore on to the tardy dawn, and each of its fearful hours numbered miles past and gone. the sun was rising in ruddy glory when wetzel ran his canoe into the bank just ahead of a sharp bend in the stream. "do we get out here?" asked jim, seeing jonathan turn his canoe toward wetzel's. "the village lies yonder, around the bend," answered the guide. "wetzel cannot go there, so i'll take you all in my canoe." "there's no room; i'll wait," replied joe, quietly. jim noted his look--a strange, steady glance it was--and then saw him fix his eyes upon nell, watching her until the canoe passed around the green-bordered bend in the stream. unmistakable signs of an indian town were now evident. dozens of graceful birchen canoes lay upon the well-cleared banks; a log bridge spanned the stream; above the slight ridge of rising ground could be seen the poles of indian teepees. as the canoe grated upon the sandy beach a little indian boy, who was playing in the shallow water, raised his head and smiled. "that's an indian boy," whispered kate. "the dear little fellow!" exclaimed nell. the boy came running up to them, when they were landed, with pleasure and confidence shining in his dusky eyes. save for tiny buckskin breeches, he was naked, and his shiny skin gleamed gold-bronze in the sunlight. he was a singularly handsome child. "me--benny," he lisped in english, holding up his little hand to nell. the action was as loving and trusting as any that could have been manifested by a white child. jonathan zane stared with a curious light in his dark eyes; mr. wells and jim looked as though they doubted the evidence of their own sight. here, even in an indian boy, was incontestable proof that the savage nature could be tamed and civilized. with a tender exclamation nell bent over the child and kissed him. jonathan zane swung his canoe up-stream for the purpose of bringing joe. the trim little bark slipped out of sight round the bend. presently its gray, curved nose peeped from behind the willows; then the canoe swept into view again. there was only one person in it, and that the guide. "where is my brother?" asked jim, in amazement. "gone," answered zane, quietly. "gone! what do you mean? gone? perhaps you have missed the spot where you left him." "they're both gone." nell and jim gazed at each other with slowly whitening faces. "come, i'll take you up to the village," said zane, getting out of his canoe. all noticed that he was careful to take his weapons with him. "can't you tell us what it means--this disappearance?" asked jim, his voice low and anxious. "they're gone, canoe and all. i knew wetzel was going, but i didn't calkilate on the lad. mebbe he followed wetzel, mebbe he didn't," answered the taciturn guide, and he spoke no more. in his keen expectation and wonder as to what the village would be like, jim momentarily forgot his brother's disappearance, and when he arrived at the top of the bank he surveyed the scene with eagerness. what he saw was more imposing than the village of peace which he had conjured up in his imagination. confronting him was a level plain, in the center of which stood a wide, low structure surrounded by log cabins, and these in turn encircled by indian teepees. a number of large trees, mostly full-foliaged maples, shaded the clearing. the settlement swarmed with indians. a few shrill halloes uttered by the first observers of the newcomers brought braves, maidens and children trooping toward the party with friendly curiosity. jonathan zane stepped before a cabin adjoining the large structure, and called in at the open door. a short, stoop-shouldered white man, clad in faded linsey, appeared on the threshold. his serious, lined face had the unmistakable benevolent aspect peculiar to most teachers of the gospel. "mr. zeisberger, i've fetched a party from fort henry," said zane, indicating those he had guided. then, without another word, never turning his dark face to the right or left, he hurried down the lane through the throng of indians. jim remembered, as he saw the guide vanish over the bank of the creek, that he had heard colonel zane say that jonathan, as well as wetzel, hated the sight of an indian. no doubt long years of war and bloodshed had rendered these two great hunters callous. to them there could be no discrimination--an indian was an indian. "mr. wells, welcome to the village of peace!" exclaimed mr. zeisberger, wringing the old missionary's hand. "the years have not been so long but that i remember you." "happy, indeed, am i to get here, after all these dark, dangerous journeys," returned mr. wells. "i have brought my nieces, nell and kate, who were children when you left williamsburg, and this young man, james downs, a minister of god, and earnest in his hope for our work." "a glorious work it is! welcome, young ladies, to our peaceful village. and, young man, i greet you with heartfelt thankfulness. we need young men. come in, all of your, and share my cabin. i'll have your luggage brought up. i have lived in this hut alone. with some little labor, and the magic touch women bring to the making of a home, we can be most comfortable here." mr. zeisberger gave his own room to the girls, assuring them with a smile that it was the most luxurious in the village. the apartment contained a chair, a table, and a bed of indian blankets and buffalo robes. a few pegs driven in the chinks between the logs completed the furnishings. sparse as were the comforts, they appealed warmly to the girls, who, weary from their voyage, lay down to rest. "i am not fatigued," said mr. wells, to his old friend. "i want to hear all about your work, what you have done, and what you hope to do." "we have met with wonderful success, far beyond our wildest dreams," responded mr. zeisberger. "certainly we have been blessed of god." then the missionary began a long, detailed account of the moravian mission's efforts among the western tribes. the work lay chiefly among the delawares, a noble nation of redmen, intelligent, and wonderfully susceptible to the teaching of the gospel. among the eastern delawares, living on the other side of the allegheny mountains, the missionaries had succeeded in converting many; and it was chiefly through the western explorations of frederick post that his church decided the indians of the west could as well be taught to lead christian lives. the first attempt to convert the western redmen took place upon the upper allegheny, where many indians, including allemewi, a blind delaware chief, accepted the faith. the mission decided, however, it would be best to move farther west, where the delawares had migrated and were more numerous. in april, , more than ten years before, sixteen canoes, filled with converted indians and missionaries, drifted down the allegheny to fort pitt; thence down the ohio to the big beaver; up that stream and far into the ohio wilderness. upon a tributary of the muskingong, called the tuscarwawas, a settlement was founded. near and far the news was circulated. redmen from all tribes came flocking to the new colony. chiefs and warriors, squaws and maidens, were attracted by the new doctrine of the converted indians. they were astonished at the missionaries' teachings. many doubted, some were converted, all listened. great excitement prevailed when old glickhican, one of the wisest chiefs of the turtle tribe of the delawares, became a convert to the palefaces' religion. the interest widened, and in a few years a beautiful, prosperous town arose, which was called village of peace. the indians of the warlike tribes bestowed the appropriate name. the vast forests were rich in every variety of game; the deep, swift streams were teeming with fish. meat and grain in abundance, buckskin for clothing, and soft furs for winter garments were to be had for little labor. at first only a few wigwams were erected. soon a large log structure was thrown up and used as a church. then followed a school, a mill, and a workshop. the verdant fields were cultivated and surrounded by rail fences. horses and cattle grazed with the timid deer on the grassy plains. the village of peace blossomed as a rose. the reports of the love and happiness existing in this converted community spread from mouth to mouth, from town to town, with the result that inquisitive savages journeyed from all points to see this haven. peaceful and hostile indians were alike amazed at the change in their brethren. the good-fellowship and industry of the converts had a widespread and wonderful influence. more, perhaps, than any other thing, the great fields of waving corn, the hills covered with horses and cattle, those evidences of abundance, impressed the visitors with the well-being of the christians. bands of traveling indians, whether friendly or otherwise, were treated with hospitality, and never sent away empty-handed. they were asked to partake of the abundance and solicited to come again. a feature by no means insignificant in the popularity of the village was the church bell. the indians loved music, and this bell charmed them. on still nights the savages in distant towns could hear at dusk the deep-toned, mellow notes of the bell summoning the worshipers to the evening service. its ringing clang, so strange, so sweet, so solemn, breaking the vast dead wilderness quiet, haunted the savage ear as though it were a call from a woodland god. "you have arrived most opportunely," continued mr. zeisberger. "mr. edwards and mr. young are working to establish other missionary posts. heckewelder is here now in the interest of this branching out." "how long will it take me to learn the delaware language?" inquired jim. "not long. you do not, however, need to speak the indian tongue, for we have excellent interpreters." "we heard much at fort pitt and fort henry about the danger, as well as uselessness, of our venture," jim continued. "the frontiersmen declared that every rod of the way was beset with savage foes, and that, even in the unlikely event of our arriving safely at the village of peace, we would then be hemmed in by fierce, vengeful tribes." "hostile savages abound here, of course; but we do not fear them. we invite them. our work is to convert the wicked, to teach them to lead good, useful lives. we will succeed." jim could not help warming to the minister for his unswervable faith, his earnest belief that the work of god could not fail; nevertheless, while he felt no fear and intended to put all his heart in the work, he remembered with disquietude colonel zane's warnings. he thought of the wonderful precaution and eternal vigilance of jonathan and wetzel--men of all men who most understood indian craft and cunning. it might well be possible that these good missionaries, wrapped up in saving the souls of these children of the forest, so full of god's teachings as to have little mind for aught else, had no knowledge of the indian nature beyond what the narrow scope of their work invited. if what these frontiersmen asserted was true, then the ministers' zeal had struck them blind. jim had a growing idea of the way in which the savages could be best taught. he resolved to go slowly; to study the redmen's natures; not to preach one word of the gospel to them until he had mastered their language and could convey to their simple minds the real truth. he would make christianity as clear to them as were the deer-trails on the moss and leaves of the forest. "ah, here you are. i hope you have rested well," said mr. zeisberger, when at the conclusion of this long recital nell and kate came into the room. "thank you, we feel much better," answered kate. the girls certainly looked refreshed. the substitution of clean gowns for their former travel-stained garments made a change that called forth the minister's surprise and admiration. "my! my! won't edwards and young beg me to keep them here now!" he exclaimed, his pleased eyes resting on nell's piquant beauty and kate's noble proportions and rich coloring. "come; i will show you over the village of peace." "are all these indians christians?" asked jim. "no, indeed. these indians you see here, and out yonder under the shade, though they are friendly, are not christians. our converts employ themselves in the fields or shops. come; take a peep in here. this is where we preach in the evenings and during inclement weather. on pleasant days we use the maple grove yonder." jim and the others looked in at the door of the large log structure. they saw an immense room, the floor covered with benches, and a raised platform at one end. a few windows let in the light. spacious and barn-like was this apartment; but undoubtedly, seen through the beaming eyes of the missionary, it was a grand amphitheater for worship. the hard-packed clay floor was velvet carpet; the rude seats soft as eiderdown; the platform with its white-oak cross, an altar of marble and gold. "this is one of our shops," said mr. zeisberger, leading them to a cabin. "here we make brooms, harness for the horses, farming implements--everything useful that we can. we have a forge here. behold an indian blacksmith!" the interior of the large cabin presented a scene of bustling activity. twenty or more indians bent their backs in earnest employment. in one corner a savage stood holding a piece of red-hot iron on an anvil, while a brawny brave wielded a sledge-hammer. the sparks flew; the anvil rang. in another corner a circle of braves sat around a pile of dried grass and flags. they were twisting and fashioning these materials into baskets. at a bench three indian carpenters were pounding and sawing. young braves ran back and forth, carrying pails, rough-hewn boards and blocks of wood. instantly struck by two things, jim voiced his curiosity: "why do these indians all wear long hair, smooth and shiny, without adornment?" "they are christians. they wear neither headdress, war-bonnet, nor scalp-lock," replied mr. zeisberger, with unconscious pride. "i did not expect to see a blacksmith's anvil out here in the wilderness. where did you procure these tools?" "we have been years getting them here. some came by way of the ohio river; others overland from detroit. that anvil has a history. it was lost once, and lay for years in the woods, until some indians found it again. it is called the ringing stone, and indians come from miles around to see and hear it." the missionary pointed out wide fields of corn, now growing yellow, and hillsides doted with browsing cattle, droves of sturdy-limbed horses, and pens of fat, grunting pigs--all of which attested to the growing prosperity of the village of peace. on the way back to the cabin, while the others listened to and questioned mr. zeisberger, jim was silent and thoughtful, for his thoughts reverted to his brother. later, as he walked with nell by the golden-fringed stream, he spoke of joe. "joe wanted so much to hunt with wetzel. he will come back; surely he will return to us when he has satisfied his wild craving for adventure. do you not think so?" there was an eagerness that was almost pleading in jim's voice. what he so much hoped for--that no harm had befallen joe, and that he would return--he doubted. he needed the encouragement of his hope. "never," answered nell, solemnly. "oh, why--why do you say that?" "i saw him look at you--a strange, intent glance. he gazed long at me as we separated. oh! i can feel his eyes. no; he will never come back." "nell, nell, you do not mean he went away deliberately--because, oh! i cannot say it." "for no reason, except that the wilderness called him more than love for you or--me." "no, no," returned jim, his face white. "you do not understand. he really loved you--i know it. he loved me, too. ah, how well! he has gone because--i can't tell you." "oh, jim, i hope--he loved--me," sobbed nell, bursting into tears. "his coldness--his neglect those--last few days--hurt me--so. if he cared--as you say--i won't be--so--miserable." "we are both right--you when you say he will never return, and i when i say he loved us both," said jim sadly, as the bitter certainty forced itself into his mind. as she sobbed softly, and he gazed with set, stern face into the darkening forest, the deep, mellow notes of the church bell pealed out. so thrilled, so startled were they by this melody wondrously breaking the twilight stillness, that they gazed mutely at each other. then they remembered. it was the missionary's bell summoning the christian indians to the evening service. chapter xi. the, sultry, drowsy, summer days passed with no untoward event to mar their slumbering tranquillity. life for the newcomers to the village of peace brought a content, the like of which they had never dreamed of. mr. wells at once began active work among the indians, preaching to them through an interpreter; nell and kate, in hours apart from household duties, busied themselves brightening their new abode, and jim entered upon the task of acquainting himself with the modes and habits of the redmen. truly, the young people might have found perfect happiness in this new and novel life, if only joe had returned. his disappearance and subsequent absence furnished a theme for many talks and many a quiet hour of dreamy sadness. the fascination of his personality had been so impelling that long after it was withdrawn a charm lingered around everything which reminded them of him; a subtle and sweet memory, with perverse and half bitter persistence, returned hauntingly. no trace of joe had been seen by any of the friendly indian runners. he was gone into the mazes of deep-shadowed forests, where to hunt for him would be like striving to trail the flight of a swallow. two of those he had left behind always remembered him, and in their thoughts followed him in his wanderings. jim settled down to his study of indians with single-heartedness of purpose. he spent part of every morning with the interpreters, with whose assistance he rapidly acquired the delaware language. he went freely among the indians, endeavoring to win their good-will. there were always fifty to an hundred visiting indians at the village; sometimes, when the missionaries had advertised a special meeting, there were assembled in the shady maple grove as many as five hundred savages. jim had, therefore, opportunities to practice his offices of friendliness. fortunately for him, he at once succeeded in establishing himself in the good graces of glickhican, the converted delaware chief. the wise old indian was of inestimable value to jim. early in their acquaintance he evinced an earnest regard for the young minister, and talked with him for hours. from glickhican jim learned the real nature of the redmen. the indian's love of freedom and honor, his hatred of subjection and deceit, as explained by the good old man, recalled to jim colonel zane's estimate of the savage character. surely, as the colonel had said, the indians had reason for their hatred of the pioneers. truly, they were a blighted race. seldom had the rights of the redmen been thought of. the settler pushed onward, plodding, as it were, behind his plow with a rifle. he regarded the indian as little better than a beast; he was easier to kill than to tame. how little the settler knew the proud independence, the wisdom, the stainless chastity of honor, which belonged so truly to many indian chiefs! the redmen were driven like hounded deer into the untrodden wilds. from freemen of the forests, from owners of the great boundless plains, they passed to stern, enduring fugitives on their own lands. small wonder that they became cruel where once they had been gentle! stratagem and cunning, the night assault, the daylight ambush took the place of their one-time open warfare. their chivalrous courage, that sublime inheritance from ancestors who had never known the paleface foe, degenerated into a savage ferocity. interesting as was this history to jim, he cared more for glickhican's rich portrayal of the redmen's domestic life, for the beautiful poetry of his tradition and legends. he heard with delight the exquisite fanciful indian lore. from these romantic legends, beautiful poems, and marvelous myths he hoped to get ideas of the indian's religion. sweet and simple as childless dreams were these quaint tales--tales of how the woodland fairies dwelt in fern-carpeted dells; how at sunrise they came out to kiss open the flowers; how the forest walks were spirit-haunted paths; how the leaves whispered poetry to the winds; how the rocks harbored indian gods and masters who watched over their chosen ones. glickhican wound up his long discourses by declaring he had never lied in the whole course of his seventy years, had never stolen, never betrayed, never murdered, never killed, save in self-defence. gazing at the chief's fine features, now calm, yet showing traces of past storms, jim believed he spoke the truth. when the young minister came, however, to study the hostile indians that flocked to the village, any conclusive delineation of character, or any satisfactory analysis of their mental state in regard to the paleface religion, eluded him. their passive, silent, sphinx-like secretiveness was baffling. glickhican had taught him how to propitiate the friendly braves, and with these he was successful. little he learned, however, from the unfriendly ones. when making gifts to these redmen he could never be certain that his offerings were appreciated. the jewels and gold he had brought west with him went to the french traders, who in exchange gave him trinkets, baubles, bracelets and weapons. jim made hundreds of presents. boldly going up to befeathered and befringed chieftains, he offered them knives, hatchets, or strings of silvery beads. sometimes his kindly offerings were repelled with a haughty stare; at other times they would be accepted coldly, suspiciously, as if the gifts brought some unknown obligation. for a white man it was a never-to-be-forgotten experience to see eight or ten of these grim, slowly stepping forest kings, arrayed in all the rich splendor of their costume, stalking among the teepees of the village of peace. somehow, such a procession always made jim shiver. the singing, praying and preaching they heard unmoved. no emotion was visible on their bronzed faces; nothing changed their unalterable mien. had they not moved, or gazed with burning eyes, they would have been statues. when these chieftains looked at the converted indians, some of whom were braves of their nations, the contempt in their glances betrayed that they now regarded these christian indians as belonging to an alien race. among the chiefs glickhican pointed out to jim were wingenund, the delaware; tellane, the half-king; shingiss and kotoxen--all of the wolf tribe of the delawares. glickhican was careful to explain that the delaware nation had been divided into the wolf and turtle tribes, the former warlike people, and the latter peaceable. few of the wolf tribe had gone over to the new faith, and those who had were scorned. wingenund, the great power of the delawares--indeed, the greatest of all the western tribes--maintained a neutral attitude toward the village of peace. but it was well known that his right-hand war-chiefs, pipe and wishtonah, remained coldly opposed. jim turned all he had learned over and over in his mind, trying to construct part of it to fit into a sermon that would be different from any the indians had ever heard. he did not want to preach far over their heads. if possible, he desired to keep to their ideals--for he deemed them more beautiful than his own--and to conduct his teaching along the simple lines of their belief, so that when he stimulated and developed their minds he could pass from what they knew to the unknown christianity of the white man. his first address to the indians was made one day during the indisposition of mr. wells--who had been over-working himself--and the absence of the other missionaries. he did not consider himself at all ready for preaching, and confined his efforts to simple, earnest talk, a recital of the thoughts he had assimilated while living here among the indians. amazement would not have described the state of his feelings when he learned that he had made a powerful impression. the converts were loud in his praise; the unbelievers silent and thoughtful. in spite of himself, long before he had been prepared, he was launched on his teaching. every day he was called upon to speak; every day one savage, at least, was convinced; every day the throng of interested indians was augmented. the elder missionaries were quite overcome with joy; they pressed him day after day to speak, until at length he alone preached during the afternoon service. the news flew apace; the village of peace entertained more redmen than ever before. day by day the faith gained a stronger foothold. a kind of religious trance affected some of the converted indians, and this greatly influenced the doubting ones. many of them half believed the great manitou had come. heckewelder, the acknowledged leader of the western moravian mission, visited the village at this time, and, struck by the young missionary's success, arranged a three days' religious festival. indian runners were employed to carry invitations to all the tribes. the wyandots in the west, the shawnees in the south, and the delawares in the north were especially requested to come. no deception was practiced to lure the distant savages to the village of peace. they were asked to come, partake of the feasts, and listen to the white man's teaching. chapter xii. "the groves were god's first temples." from dawn until noon on sunday bands of indians arrived at the village of peace. hundreds of canoes glided down the swift stream and bumped their prows into the pebbly beach. groups of mounted warriors rode out of the forests into the clearing; squaws with papooses, maidens carrying wicker baskets, and children playing with rude toys, came trooping along the bridle-paths. gifts were presented during the morning, after which the visitors were feasted. in the afternoon all assembled in the grove to hear the preaching. the maple grove wherein the service was to be conducted might have been intended by nature for just such a purpose as it now fulfilled. these trees were large, spreading, and situated far apart. mossy stones and the thick carpet of grass afforded seats for the congregation. heckewelder--a tall, spare, and kindly appearing man--directed the arranging of the congregation. he placed the converted indians just behind the knoll upon which the presiding minister was to stand. in a half circle facing the knoll he seated the chieftains and important personages of the various tribes. he then made a short address in the indian language, speaking of the work of the mission, what wonders it had accomplished, what more good work it hoped to do, and concluded by introducing the young missionary. while heckewelder spoke, jim, who stood just behind, employed the few moments in running his eye over the multitude. the sight which met his gaze was one he thought he would never forget. an involuntary word escaped him. "magnificent!" he exclaimed. the shady glade had been transformed into a theater, from which gazed a thousand dark, still faces. a thousand eagle plumes waved, and ten thousand bright-hued feathers quivered in the soft breeze. the fantastically dressed scalps presented a contrast to the smooth, unadorned heads of the converted redmen. these proud plumes and defiant feathers told the difference between savage and christian. in front of the knoll sat fifty chiefs, attentive and dignified. representatives of every tribe as far west as the scioto river were numbered in that circle. there were chiefs renowned for war, for cunning, for valor, for wisdom. their stately presence gave the meeting tenfold importance. could these chiefs be interested, moved, the whole western world of indians might be civilized. hepote, a maumee chief, of whom it was said he had never listened to words of the paleface, had the central position in this circle. on his right and left, respectively, sat shaushoto and pipe, implacable foes of all white men. the latter's aspect did not belie his reputation. his copper-colored, repulsive visage compelled fear; it breathed vindictiveness and malignity. a singular action of his was that he always, in what must have been his arrogant vanity, turned his profile to those who watched him, and it was a remarkable one; it sloped in an oblique line from the top of his forehead to his protruding chin, resembling somewhat the carved bowl of his pipe, which was of flint and a famed inheritance from his ancestors. from it he took his name. one solitary eagle plume, its tip stained vermilion, stuck from his scalp-lock. it slated backward on a line with his profile. among all these chiefs, striking as they were, the figure of wingenund, the delaware, stood out alone. his position was at the extreme left of the circle, where he leaned against a maple. a long, black mantle, trimmed with spotless white, enveloped him. one bronzed arm, circled by a heavy bracelet of gold, held the mantle close about his lofty form. his headdress, which trailed to the ground, was exceedingly beautiful. the eagle plumes were of uniform length and pure white, except the black-pointed tips. at his feet sat his daughter, whispering winds. her maidens were gathered round her. she raised her soft, black eyes, shining with a wondrous light of surprise and expectation, to the young missionary's face. beyond the circle the indians were massed together, even beyond the limits of the glade. under the trees on every side sat warriors astride their steeds; some lounged on the green turf; many reclined in the branches of low-spreading maples. as jim looked out over the sea of faces he started in surprise. the sudden glance of fiery eyes had impelled his gaze. he recognized silvertip, the shawnee chief. the indian sat motionless on a powerful black horse. jim started again, for the horse was joe's thoroughbred, lance. but jim had no further time to think of joe's enemy, for heckewelder stepped back. jim took the vacated seat, and, with a far-reaching, resonant voice began his discourse to the indians. "chieftains, warriors, maidens, children of the forest, listen, and your ears shall hear no lie. i am come from where the sun rises to tell you of the great spirit of the white man. "many, many moons ago, as many as blades of grass grow on yonder plain, the great spirit of whom i shall speak created the world. he made the sparkling lakes and swift rivers, the boundless plains and tangled forests, over which he caused the sun to shine and the rain to fall. he gave life to the kingly elk, the graceful deer, the rolling bison, the bear, the fox--all the beasts and birds and fishes. but he was not content; for nothing he made was perfect in his sight. he created the white man in his own image, and from this first man's rib he created his mate--a woman. he turned them free in a beautiful forest. "life was fair in the beautiful forest. the sun shone always, the birds sang, the waters flowed with music, the flowers cast sweet fragrance on the air. in this forest, where fruit bloomed always, was one tree, the tree of life, the apple of which they must not eat. in all this beautiful forest of abundance this apple alone was forbidden them. "now evil was born with woman. a serpent tempted her to eat of the apple of life, and she tempted the man to eat. for their sin the great spirit commanded the serpent to crawl forever on his belly, and he drove them from the beautiful forest. the punishment for their sin was to be visited on their children's children, always, until the end of time. the two went afar into the dark forest, to learn to live as best they might. from them all tribes descended. the world is wide. a warrior might run all his days and not reach the setting sun, where tribes of yellow-skins live. he might travel half his days toward the south-wind, where tribes of black-skins abound. people of all colors inhabited the world. they lived in hatred toward one another. they shed each other's blood; they stole each other's lands, gold, and women. they sinned. "many moons ago the great spirit sorrowed to see his chosen tribe, the palefaces, living in ignorance and sin. he sent his only son to redeem them, and said if they would listen and believe, and teach the other tribes, he would forgive their sin and welcome them to the beautiful forest. "that was moons and moons ago, when the paleface killed his brother for gold and lands, and beat his women slaves to make them plant his corn. the son of the great spirit lifted the cloud from the palefaces' eyes, and they saw and learned. so pleased was the great spirit that he made the palefaces wiser and wiser, and master of the world. he bid them go afar to teach the ignorant tribes. "to teach you is why the young paleface journeyed from the rising sun. he wants no lands or power. he has given all that he had. he walks among you without gun or knife. he can gain nothing but the happiness of opening the redmen's eyes. "the great spirit of whom i teach and the great manitou, your idol, are the same; the happy hunting ground of the indian and the beautiful forest of the paleface are the same; the paleface and the redman are the same. there is but one great spirit, that is god; but one eternal home, that is heaven; but one human being, that is man. "the indian knows the habits of the beaver; he can follow the paths of the forests; he can guide his canoe through the foaming rapids; he is honest, he is brave, he is great; but he is not wise. his wisdom is clouded with the original sin. he lives in idleness; he paints his face; he makes his squaw labor for him, instead of laboring for her; he kills his brothers. he worships the trees and rocks. if he were wise he would not make gods of the swift arrow and bounding canoe; of the flowering ash and the flaming flint. for these things have not life. in his dreams he sees his arrow speed to the reeling deer; in his dreams he sees his canoe shoot over the crest of shining waves; and in his mind he gives them life. when his eyes are opened he will see they have no spirit. the spirit is in his own heart. it guides the arrow to the running deer, and steers the canoe over the swirling current. the spirit makes him find the untrodden paths, and do brave deeds, and love his children and his honor. it makes him meet his foe face to face, and if he is to die it gives him strength to die--a man. the spirit is what makes him different from the arrow, the canoe, the mountain, and all the birds and beasts. for it is born of the great spirit, the creator of all. him you must worship. "redmen, this worship is understanding your spirit and teaching it to do good deeds. it is called christianity. christianity is love. if you will love the great spirit you will love your wives, your children, your brothers, your friends, your foes--you will love the palefaces. no more will you idle in winter and wage wars in summer. you will wear your knife and tomahawk only when you hunt for meat. you will be kind, gentle, loving, virtuous--you will have grown wise. when your days are done you will meet all your loved ones in the beautiful forest. there, where the flowers bloom, the fruits ripen always, where the pleasant water glides and the summer winds whisper sweetly, there peace will dwell forever. "comrades, be wise, think earnestly. forget the wicked paleface; for there are many wicked palefaces. they sell the serpent firewater; they lie and steal and kill. these palefaces' eyes are still clouded. if they do not open they will never see the beautiful forest. you have much to forgive, but those who forgive please the great spirit; you must give yourselves to love, but those who love are loved; you must work, but those who work are happy. "behold the village of peace! once it contained few; now there are many. where once the dark forest shaded the land, see the cabins, the farms, the horses, the cattle! field on field of waving, golden grain shine there under your eyes. the earth has blossomed abundance. idling and fighting made not these rich harvests. belief made love; love made wise eyes; wise eyes saw, and lo! there came plenty. "the proof of love is happiness. these christian indians are happy. they are at peace with the redman and the paleface. they till the fields and work in the shops. in days to come cabins and farms and fields of corn will be theirs. they will bring up their children, not to hide in the forest to slay, but to walk hand in hand with the palefaces as equals. "oh, open your ears! god speaks to you; peace awaits you! cast the bitterness from your hearts; it is the serpent-poison. while you hate, god shuts his eyes. you are great on the trail, in the council, in war; now be great in forgiveness. forgive the palefaces who have robbed you of your lands. then will come peace. if you do not forgive, the war will go on; you will lose lands and homes, to find unmarked graves under the forest leaves. revenge is sweet; but it is not wise. the price of revenge is blood and life. root it out of your hearts. love these christian indians; love the missionaries as they love you; love all living creatures. your days are but few; therefore, cease the the strife. let us say, 'brothers, that is god's word, his law; that is love; that is christianity!' if you will say from your heart, brother, you are a christian. "brothers, the paleface teacher beseeches you. think not of this long, bloody war, of your dishonored dead, of your silenced wigwams, of your nameless graves, of your homeless children. think of the future. one word from you will make peace over all this broad land. the paleface must honor a christian. he can steal no christian's land. all the palefaces, as many as the stars of the great white path, dare not invade the village of peace. for god smiles here. listen to his words: 'come unto me all that are weary and heavy laden, and i will give you rest.'" over the multitude brooded an impressive, solemn silence. then an aged delaware chief rose, with a mien of profound thought, and slowly paced before the circle of chiefs. presently he stopped, turned to the awaiting indians, and spoke: "netawatwees is almost persuaded to be a christian." he resumed his seat. another interval of penetrating quiet ensued. at length a venerable-looking chieftain got up: "white eyes hears the rumbling thunder in his ears. the smoke blows from his eyes. white eyes is the oldest chief of the lenni-lenape. his days are many; they are full; they draw near the evening of his life; he rejoices that wisdom is come before his sun is set. "white eyes believes the young white father. the ways of the great spirit are many as the fluttering leaves; they are strange and secret as the flight of a loon; white eyes believes the redman's happy hunting grounds need not be forgotten to love the palefaces' god. as a young brave pants and puzzles over his first trail, so the grown warrior feels in his understanding of his god. he gropes blindly through dark ravines. "white eyes speaks few words to-day, for he is learning wisdom; he bids his people hearken to the voice of the white father. war is wrong; peace is best. love is the way to peace. the paleface advances one step nearer his god. he labors for his home; he keeps the peace; he asks but little; he frees his women. that is well. white eyes has spoken." the old chief slowly advanced toward the christian indians. he laid aside his knife and tomahawk, and then his eagle plumes and war-bonnet. bareheaded, he seated himself among the converted redmen. they began chanting in low, murmuring tones. amid the breathless silence that followed this act of such great significance, wingenund advanced toward the knoll with slow, stately step. his dark eye swept the glade with lightning scorn; his glance alone revealed the passion that swayed him. "wingenund's ears are keen; they have heard a feather fall in the storm; now they hear a soft-voiced thrush. wingenund thunders to his people, to his friends, to the chiefs of other tribes: 'do not bury the hatchet!' the young white father's tongue runs smooth like the gliding brook; it sings as the thrush calls its mate. listen; but wait, wait! let time prove his beautiful tale; let the moons go by over the village of peace. "wingenund does not flaunt his wisdom. he has grown old among his warriors; he loves them; he fears for them. the dream of the palefaces' beautiful forest glimmers as the rainbow glows over the laughing falls of the river. the dream of the paleface is too beautiful to come true. in the days of long ago, when wingenund's forefathers heard not the paleface's ax, they lived in love and happiness such as the young white father dreams may come again. they waged no wars. a white dove sat in every wigwam. the lands were theirs and they were rich. the paleface came with his leaden death, his burning firewater, his ringing ax, and the glory of the redmen faded forever. "wingenund seeks not to inflame his braves to anger. he is sick of blood-spilling--not from fear; for wingenund cannot feel fear. but he asks his people to wait. remember, the gifts of the paleface ever contained a poisoned arrow. wingenund's heart is sore. the day of the redman is gone. his sun is setting. wingenund feels already the gray shades of evening." he stopped one long moment as if to gather breath for his final charge to his listeners. then with a magnificent gesture he thundered: "is the delaware a fool? when wingenund can cross unarmed to the big water he shall change his mind. when deathwind ceases to blow his bloody trail over the fallen leaves wingenund will believe." chapter xiii. as the summer waned, each succeeding day, with its melancholy calm, its changing lights and shades, its cool, damp evening winds, growing more and more suggestive of autumn, the little colony of white people in the village of peace led busy, eventful lives. upwards of fifty indians, several of them important chiefs, had become converted since the young missionary began preaching. heckewelder declared that this was a wonderful showing, and if it could be kept up would result in gaining a hold on the indian tribes which might not be shaken. heckewelder had succeeded in interesting the savages west of the village of peace to the extent of permitting him to establish missionary posts in two other localities--one near goshhocking, a delaware town; and one on the muskingong, the principal river running through central ohio. he had, with his helpers, young and edwards, journeyed from time to time to these points, preaching, making gifts, and soliciting help from chiefs. the most interesting feature, perhaps, of the varied life of the missionary party was a rivalry between young and edwards for the elder miss wells. usually nell's attractiveness appealed more to men than kate's; however, in this instance, although the sober teachers of the gospel admired nell's winsome beauty, they fell in love with kate. the missionaries were both under forty, and good, honest men, devoted to the work which had engrossed them for years. although they were ardent lovers, certainly they were not picturesque. two homelier men could hardly have been found. moreover, the sacrifice of their lives to missionary work had taken them far from the companionship of women of their own race, so that they lacked the ease of manner which women like to see in men. young and edwards were awkward, almost uncouth. embarrassment would not have done justice to their state of feeling while basking in the shine of kate's quiet smile. they were happy, foolish, and speechless. if kate shared in the merriment of the others--heckewelder could not conceal his, and nell did not try very hard to hide hers--she never allowed a suspicion of it to escape. she kept the easy, even tenor of her life, always kind and gracious in her quaint way, and precisely the same to both her lovers. no doubt she well knew that each possessed, under all his rough exterior, a heart of gold. one day the genial heckewelder lost, or pretended to lose, his patience. "say, you worthy gentlemen are becoming ornamental instead of useful. all this changing of coats, trimming of mustaches, and eloquent sighing doesn't seem to have affected the young lady. i've a notion to send you both to maumee town, one hundred miles away. this young lady is charming, i admit, but if she is to keep on seriously hindering the work of the moravian mission i must object. as for that matter, i might try conclusions myself. i'm as young as either of you, and, i flatter myself, much handsomer. you'll have a dangerous rival presently. settle it! you can't both have her; settle it!" this outburst from their usually kind leader placed the earnest but awkward gentlemen in a terrible plight. on the afternoon following the crisis heckewelder took mr. wells to one of the indian shops, and jim and nell went canoeing. young and edwards, after conferring for one long, trying hour, determined on settling the question. young was a pale, slight man, very homely except when he smiled. his smile not only broke up the plainness of his face, but seemed to chase away a serious shadow, allowing his kindly, gentle spirit to shine through. he was nervous, and had a timid manner. edwards was his opposite, being a man of robust frame, with a heavy face, and a manner that would have suggested self-confidence in another man. they were true and tried friends. "dave, i couldn't ask her," said young, trembling at the very thought. "besides, there's no hope for me. i know it. that's why i'm afraid, why i don't want to ask her. what'd such a glorious creature see in a poor, puny little thing like me?" "george, you're not over-handsome," admitted dave, shaking his head. "but you can never tell about women. sometimes they like even little, insignificant fellows. don't be too scared about asking her. besides, it will make it easier for me. you might tell her about me--you know, sort of feel her out, so i'd---" dave's voice failed him here; but he had said enough, and that was most discouraging to poor george. dave was so busy screwing up his courage that he forgot all about his friend. "no; i couldn't," gasped george, falling into a chair. he was ghastly pale. "i couldn't ask her to accept me, let alone do another man's wooing. she thinks more of you. she'll accept you." "you really think so?" whispered dave, nervously. "i know she will. you're such a fine, big figure of a man. she'll take you, and i'll be glad. this fever and fretting has about finished me. when she's yours i'll not be so bad. i'll be happy in your happiness. but, dave, you'll let me see her occasionally, won't you? go! hurry--get it over!" "yes; we must have it over," replied dave, getting up with a brave, effort. truly, if he carried that determined front to his lady-love he would look like a masterful lover. but when he got to the door he did not at all resemble a conqueror. "you're sure she--cares for me?" asked dave, for the hundredth time. this time, as always, his friend was faithful and convincing. "i know she does. go--hurry. i tell you i can't stand this any longer," cried george, pushing dave out of the door. "you won't go--first?" whispered dave, clinging to the door. "i won't go at all. i couldn't ask her--i don't want her--go! get out!" dave started reluctantly toward the adjoining cabin, from the open window of which came the song of the young woman who was responsible for all this trouble. george flung himself on his bed. what a relief to feel it was all over! he lay there with eves shut for hours, as it seemed. after a time dave came in. george leaped to his feet and saw his friend stumbling over a chair. somehow, dave did not look as usual. he seemed changed, or shrunken, and his face wore a discomfited, miserable expression. "well?" cried george, sharply. even to his highly excited imagination this did not seem the proper condition for a victorious lover. "she refused--refused me," faltered dave. "she was very sweet and kind; said something about being my sister--i don't remember just what--but she wouldn't have me." "what did you say to her?" whispered george, a paralyzing hope almost rendering him speechless. "i--i told her everything i could think of," replied dave, despondently; "even what you said." "what i said? dave, what did you tell her i said?" "why, you know--about she cared for me--that you were sure of it, and that you didn't want her---" "jackass!" roared george, rising out of his meekness like a lion roused from slumber. "didn't you--say so?" inquired dave, weakly. "no! no! no! idiot!" as one possessed, george rushed out of the cabin, and a moment later stood disheveled and frantic before kate. "did that fool say i didn't love you?" he demanded. kate looked up, startled; but as an understanding of george's wild aspect and wilder words dawned upon her, she resumed her usual calm demeanor. looking again to see if this passionate young man was indeed george, she turned her face as she said: "if you mean mr. edwards, yes; i believe he did say as much. indeed, from his manner, he seemed to have monopolized all the love near the village of peace." "but it's not true. i do love you. i love you to distraction. i have loved you ever since i first saw you. i told dave that. heckewelder knows it; even the indians know it," cried george, protesting vehemently against the disparaging allusion to his affections. he did not realize he was making a most impassioned declaration of love. when he was quite out of breath he sat down and wiped his moist brow. a pink bloom tinged kate's cheeks, and her eyes glowed with a happy light; but george never saw these womanly evidences of pleasure. "of course i know you don't care for me---" "did mr. edwards tell you so?" asked kate, glancing up quickly. "why, yes, he has often said he thought that. indeed, he always seemed to regard himself as the fortunate object of your affections. i always believed he was." "but it wasn't true." "what?" "it's not true." "what's not true?" "oh--about my--not caring." "kate!" cried george, quite overcome with rapture. he fell over two chairs getting to her; but he succeeded, and fell on his knees to kiss her hand. "foolish boy! it has been you all the time," whispered kate, with her quiet smile. * * * "look here, downs; come to the door. see there," said heckewelder to jim. somewhat surprised at heckewelder's grave tone, jim got up from the supper-table and looked out of the door. he saw two tall indians pacing to and fro under the maples. it was still early twilight and light enough to see clearly. one indian was almost naked; the lithe, graceful symmetry of his dark figure standing out in sharp contrast to the gaunt, gaudily-costumed form of the other. "silvertip! girty!" exclaimed jim, in a low voice. "girty i knew, of course; but i was not sure the other was the shawnee who captured you and your brother," replied heckewelder, drawing jim into another room. "what do they mean by loitering around the village? inquired jim, apprehensively. whenever he heard girty's name mentioned, or even thought of him, he remembered with a shudder the renegade's allusion to the buzzards. jim never saw one of these carrion birds soaring overhead but his thoughts instantly reverted to the frontier ruffian and his horrible craving. "i don't know," answered heckewelder. "girty has been here several times of late. i saw him conferring with pipe at goshhocking. i hope there's no deviltry afoot. pipe is a relentless enemy of all christians, and girty is a fiend, a hyena. i think, perhaps, it will be well for you and the girls to stay indoors while girty and silvertip are in the village." that evening the entire missionary party were gathered in mr. wells' room. heckewelder told stories of indian life; nell sang several songs, and kate told many amusing things said and done by the little indian boys in her class at the school. thus the evening passed pleasantly for all. "so next wednesday i am to perform the great ceremony," remarked heckewelder, laying his hand kindly on young's knee. "we'll celebrate the first white wedding in the village of peace." young looked shyly down at his boots; edwards crossed one leg over the other, and coughed loudly to hide his embarrassment. kate wore, as usual, her pensive smile; nell's eyes twinkled, and she was about to speak, when heckewelder's quizzical glance in her direction made her lips mute. "i hope i'll have another wedding on my hands soon," he said placidly. this ordinary remark had an extraordinary effect. nell turned with burning cheeks and looked out of the window. jim frowned fiercely and bit his lips. edwards began to laugh, and even mr. wells' serious face lapsed into a smile. "i mean i've picked out a nice little delaware squaw for dave," said heckewelder, seeing his badinage had somehow gone amiss. "oh-h!" suddenly cried nell, in shuddering tones. they all gazed at her in amazement. every vestige of color had receded from her face, leaving it marblelike. her eves were fixed in startled horror. suddenly she relaxed her grasp on the windowsill and fell back limp and senseless. heckewelder ran to the door to look out, while the others bent over the unconscious girl, endeavoring to revive her. presently a fluttering breath and a quivering of her dark lashes noted a return of suspended life. then her beautiful eyes opened wide to gaze with wonder and fear into the grave faces bent so anxiously over her. "nell, dearest, you are safe. what was it? what frightened you so?" said kate, tenderly. "oh, it was fearful!" gasped nell, sitting up. she clung to her sister with one hand, while the other grasped jim's sleeve. "i was looking out into the dark, when suddenly i beheld a face, a terrible face!" cried nell. those who watched her marveled at the shrinking, awful fear in her eyes. "it was right by the window. i could have touched it. such a greedy, wolfish face, with a long, hooked nose! the eyes, oh! the eyes! i'll never forget them. they made me sick; they paralyzed me. it wasn't an indian's face. it belonged to that white man, that awful white man! i never saw him before; but i knew him." "girty!" said heckewelder, who had come in with his quiet step. "he looked in at the window. calm yourself, nellie. the renegade has gone." the incident worried them all at the time, and made nell nervous for several days; but as girty had disappeared, and nothing more was heard of him, gradually they forgot. kate's wedding day dawned with all the little party well and happy. early in the afternoon jim and nell, accompanied by kate and her lover, started out into the woods just beyond the clearing for the purpose of gathering wild flowers to decorate the cabin. "we are both thinking of--him," jim said, after he and nell had walked some little way in silence. "yes," answered nell, simply. "i hope--i pray joe comes back, but if he doesn't--nell--won't you care a little for me?" he received no answer. but nell turned her face away. "we both loved him. if he's gone forever our very love for him should bring us together. i know--i know he would have wished that." "jim, don't speak of love to me now," she whispered. then she turned to the others. "come quickly; here are great clusters of wild clematis and goldenrod. how lovely! let us gather a quantity." the young men had almost buried the girls under huge masses of the beautiful flowers, when the soft tread of moccasined feet caused them all to turn in surprise. six savages stood waist-deep in the bushes, where they had lain concealed. fierce, painted visages scowled from behind leveled rifles. "don't yell!" cried a hoarse voice in english. following the voice came a snapping of twigs, and then two other figures came into view. they were girty and silvertip. "don't yell, er i'll leave you layin' here fer the buzzards," said the renegade. he stepped forward and grasped young, at the same time speaking in the indian language and pointing to a nearby tree. strange to relate, the renegade apparently wanted no bloodshed. while one of the savages began to tie young to the tree, girty turned his gaze on the girls. his little, yellow eyes glinted; he stroked his chin with a bony hand, and his dark, repulsive face was wreathed in a terrible, meaning smile. "i've been layin' fer you," he croaked, eyeing nell. "ye're the purtiest lass, 'ceptin' mebbe bet zane, i ever seed on the border. i got cheated outen her, but i've got you; arter i feed yer injun preacher to ther buzzards mebbe ye'll larn to love me." nell gazed one instant into the monster's face. her terror-stricken eyes were piteous to behold. she tried to speak; but her voice failed. then, like stricken bird, she fell on the grass. chapter xiv. not many miles from the village of peace rose an irregular chain of hills, the first faint indications of the grand appalachian mountain system. these ridges were thickly wooded with white oak, poplar and hickory, among which a sentinel pine reared here and there its evergreen head. there were clefts in the hills, passes lined by gray-stoned cliffs, below which ran clear brooks, tumbling over rocks in a hurry to meet their majestic father, the ohio. one of these valleys, so narrow that the sun seldom brightened the merry brook, made a deep cut in the rocks. the head of this valley tapered until the walls nearly met; it seemed to lose itself in the shade of fern-faced cliffs, shadowed as they were by fir trees leaning over the brink, as though to search for secrets of the ravine. so deep and dark and cool was this sequestered nook that here late summer had not dislodged early spring. everywhere was a soft, fresh, bright green. the old gray cliffs were festooned with ferns, lichens and moss. under a great, shelving rock, damp and stained by the copper-colored water dripping down its side, was a dewy dell into which the sunshine had never peeped. here the swift brook tarried lovingly, making a wide turn under the cliff, as though loth to leave this quiet nook, and then leaped once more to enthusiasm in its murmuring flight. life abounded in this wild, beautiful, almost inaccessible spot. little brown and yellow birds flitted among the trees; thrushes ran along the leaf-strewn ground; orioles sang their melancholy notes; robins and flickers darted beneath the spreading branches. squirrels scurried over the leaves like little whirlwinds, and leaped daringly from the swinging branches or barked noisily from woody perches. rabbits hopped inquisitively here and there while nibbling at the tender shoots of sassafras and laurel. along this flower-skirted stream a tall young man, carrying a rifle cautiously stepped, peering into the branches overhead. a gray flash shot along a limb of a white oak; then the bushy tail of a squirrel flitted into a well-protected notch, from whence, no doubt, a keen little eye watched the hunter's every movement. the rifle was raised; then lowered. the hunter walked around the tree. presently up in the tree top, snug under a knotty limb, he spied a little ball of gray fur. grasping a branch of underbush, he shook it vigorously. the thrashing sound worried the gray squirrel, for he slipped from his retreat and stuck his nose over the limb. crack! with a scratching and tearing of bark the squirrel loosened his hold and then fell; alighting with a thump. as the hunter picked up his quarry a streak of sunshine glinting through the tree top brightened his face. the hunter was joe. he was satisfied now, for after stowing the squirrel in the pocket of his hunting coat he shouldered his rifle and went back up the ravine. presently a dull roar sounded above the babble of the brook. it grew louder as he threaded his way carefully over the stones. spots of white foam flecked the brook. passing under the gray, stained cliff, joe turned around a rocky corner, and came to an abrupt end of the ravine. a waterfall marked the spot where the brook entered. the water was brown as it took the leap, light green when it thinned out; and below, as it dashed on the stones, it became a beautiful, sheeny white. upon a flat rock, so near the cascade that spray flew over him, sat another hunter. the roaring falls drowned all other sounds, yet the man roused from his dreamy contemplation of the waterfall when joe rounded the corner. "i heerd four shots," he said, as joe came up. "yes; i got a squirrel for every shot." wetzel led the way along a narrow foot trail which gradually wound toward the top of the ravine. this path emerged presently, some distance above the falls, on the brink of a bluff. it ran along the edge of the precipice a few yards, then took a course back into densely wooded thickets. just before stepping out on the open cliff wetzel paused and peered keenly on all sides. there was no living thing to be seen; the silence was the deep, unbroken calm of the wilderness. wetzel stepped to the bluff and looked over. the stony wall opposite was only thirty feet away, and somewhat lower. from wetzel's action it appeared as if he intended to leap the fissure. in truth, many a band of indians pursuing the hunter into this rocky fastness had come out on the bluff, and, marveling at what they thought wetzel's prowess, believed he had made a wonderful leap, thus eluding them. but he had never attempted that leap, first, because he knew it was well-nigh impossible, and secondly, there had never been any necessity for such risk. any one leaning over this cliff would have observed, perhaps ten feet below, a narrow ledge projecting from the face of the rock. he would have imagined if he were to drop on that ledge there would be no way to get off and he would be in a worse predicament. without a moment's hesitation wetzel swung himself over the ledge. joe followed suit. at one end of this lower ledge grew a hardy shrub of the ironwood species, and above it a scrub pine leaned horizontally out over the ravine. laying his rifle down, wetzel grasped a strong root and cautiously slid over the side. when all of his body had disappeared, with the exception of his sinewy fingers, they loosened their hold on the root, grasped the rifle, and dragged it down out of sight. quietly, with similar caution, joe took hold of the same root, let himself down, and when at full length swung himself in under the ledge. his feet found a pocket in the cliff. letting go of the root, he took his rifle, and in another second was safe. of all wetzel's retreats--for he had many--he considered this one the safest. the cavern under the ledge he had discovered by accident. one day, being hotly pursued by shawnees, he had been headed off on this cliff, and had let himself down on the ledge, intending to drop from it to the tops of the trees below. taking advantage of every little aid, he hung over by means of the shrub, and was in the act of leaping when he saw that the cliff shelved under the ledge, while within reach of his feet was the entrance to a cavern. he found the cave to be small with an opening at the back into a split in the rock. evidently the place had been entered from the rear by bears, who used the hole for winter sleeping quarters. by crawling on his hands and knees, wetzel found the rear opening. thus he had established a hiding place where it was almost impossible to locate him. he provisioned his retreat, which he always entered by the cliff and left by the rear. an evidence of wetzel's strange nature, and of his love for this wild home, manifested itself when he bound joe to secrecy. it was unlikely, even if the young man ever did get safely out of the wilderness, that any stories he might relate would reveal the hunter's favorite rendezvous. but wetzel seriously demanded this secrecy, as earnestly as if the forest were full of indians and white men, all prowling in search of his burrow. joe was in the seventh heaven of delight, and took to the free life as a wild gosling takes to the water. no place had ever appealed to him as did this dark, silent hole far up on the side of a steep cliff. his interest in wetzel soon passed into a great admiration, and from that deepened to love. this afternoon, when they were satisfied that all was well within their refuge, joe laid aside his rifle, and, whistling softly, began to prepare supper. the back part of the cave permitted him to stand erect, and was large enough for comparative comfort. there was a neat, little stone fireplace, and several cooking utensils and gourds. from time to time wetzel had brought these things. a pile of wood and a bundle of pine cones lay in one corner. haunches of dried beef, bear and buffalo meat hung from pegs; a bag of parched corn, another of dried apples lay on a rocky shelf. nearby hung a powder-horn filled with salt and pepper. in the cleft back of the cave was a spring of clear, cold water. the wants of woodsmen are few and simple. joe and wetzel, with appetites whetted by their stirring outdoor life, relished the frugal fare as they could never have enjoyed a feast. as the shadows of evening entered the cave, they lighted their pipes to partake of the hunter's sweetest solace, a quiet smoke. strange as it may appear, this lonely, stern indian-hunter and the reckless, impulsive boy were admirably suited for companionship. wetzel had taken a liking to the young man when he led the brothers to fort henry. subsequent events strengthened his liking, and now, many days after, joe having followed him into the forest, a strong attachment had been insensibly forged between them. wetzel understood joe's burning desire to roam the forests; but he half expected the lad would soon grow tired of this roving life, but exactly the opposite symptoms were displayed. the hunter had intended to take his comrade on a hunting trip, and to return with him, after that was over, to fort henry. they had now been in the woods for weeks and every day in some way had joe showed his mettle. wetzel finally admitted him into the secrets of his most cherished hiding place. he did not want to hurt the lad's feelings by taking him back to the settlement; he could not send him back. so the days wore on swiftly; full of heart-satisfying incident and life, with man and boy growing closer in an intimacy that was as warm as it was unusual. two reasons might account for this: first, there is no sane human being who is not better off for companionship. an exile would find something of happiness in one who shared his misery. and, secondly, joe was a most acceptable comrade, even for a slayer of indians. wedded as wetzel was to the forest trails, to his lonely life, to the nemesis-pursuit he had followed for eighteen long years, he was still a white man, kind and gentle in his quiet hours, and because of this, though he knew it not, still capable of affection. he had never known youth; his manhood had been one pitiless warfare against his sworn foes; but once in all those years had his sore, cold heart warmed; and that was toward a woman who was not for him. his life had held only one purpose--a bloody one. yet the man had a heart, and he could not prevent it from responding to another. in his simple ignorance he rebelled against this affection for anything other than his forest homes. man is weak against hate; what can he avail against love? the dark caverns of wetzel's great heart opened, admitting to their gloomy depths this stranger. so now a new love was born in that cheerless heart, where for so long a lonely inmate, the ghost of old love, had dwelt in chill seclusion. the feeling of comradeship which wetzel had for joe was something altogether new in the hunter's life. true he had hunted with jonathan zane, and accompanied expeditions where he was forced to sleep with another scout; but a companion, not to say friend, he had never known. joe was a boy, wilder than an eagle, yet he was a man. he was happy and enthusiastic, still his good spirits never jarred on the hunter; they were restrained. he never asked questions, as would seem the case in any eager lad; he waited until he was spoken to. he was apt; he never forgot anything; he had the eye of a born woodsman, and lastly, perhaps what went far with wetzel, he was as strong and supple as a young lynx, and absolutely fearless. on this evening wetzel and joe followed their usual custom; they smoked a while before lying down to sleep. tonight the hunter was even more silent than usual, and the lad, tired out with his day's tramp, lay down on a bed of fragrant boughs. wetzel sat there in the gathering gloom while he pulled slowly on his pipe. the evening was very quiet; the birds had ceased their twittering; the wind had died away; it was too early for the bay of a wolf, the wail of a panther, or hoot of an owl; there was simply perfect silence. the lad's deep, even breathing caught wetzel's ear, and he found himself meditating, as he had often of late, on this new something that had crept into his life. for joe loved him; he could not fail to see that. the lad had preferred to roam with the lonely indian-hunter through the forests, to encounter the perils and hardships of a wild life, rather than accept the smile of fortune and of love. wetzel knew that colonel zane had taken a liking to the boy, and had offered him work and a home; and, also, the hunter remembered the warm light he had seen in nell's hazel eyes. musing thus, the man felt stir in his heart an emotion so long absent that it was unfamiliar. the avenger forgot, for a moment his brooding plans. he felt strangely softened. when he laid his head on the rude pillow it was with some sense of gladness that, although he had always desired a lonely life, and wanted to pass it in the fulfillment of his vow, his loneliness was now shared by a lad who loved him. joe was awakened by the merry chirp of a chipmunk that every morning ran along the seamy side of the opposite wall of the gorge. getting up, he went to the back of the cave, where he found wetzel combing out his long hair. the lad thrust his hands into the cold pool, and bathed his face. the water was icy cold, and sent an invigorating thrill through him. then he laughed as he took a rude comb wetzel handed to him. "my scalp is nothing to make an indian very covetous, is it?" said he, eyeing in admiration the magnificent black hair that fell over the hunter's shoulders. "it'll grow," answered wetzel. joe did not wonder at the care wetzel took of his hair, nor did he misunderstand the hunter's simple pride. wetzel was very careful of his rifle, he was neat and clean about his person, he brushed his buckskin costume, he polished his knife and tomahawk; but his hair received more attention than all else. it required much care. when combed out it reached fully to his knees. joe had seen him, after he returned from a long hunt, work patiently for an hour with his wooden comb, and not stop until every little burr was gone, or tangle smoothed out. then he would comb it again in the morning--this, of course, when time permitted--and twist and tie it up so as to offer small resistance to his slipping through the underbush. joe knew the hunter's simplicity was such, that if he cut off his hair it would seem he feared the indians--for that streaming black hair the indians had long coveted and sworn to take. it would make any brave a famous chief, and was the theme of many a savage war tale. after breakfast wetzel said to joe: "you stay here, an' i'll look round some; mebbe i'll come back soon, and we'll go out an' kill a buffalo. injuns sometimes foller up a buffalo trail, an' i want to be sure none of the varlets are chasin' that herd we saw to-day." wetzel left the cave by the rear. it took him fifteen minutes to crawl to the head of the tortuous, stony passage. lifting the stone which closed up the aperture, he looked out and listened. then, rising, he replaced the stone, and passed down the wooded hillside. it was a beautiful morning; the dew glistened on the green leaves, the sun shone bright and warm, the birds warbled in the trees. the hunter's moccasins pressed so gently on the moss and leaves that they made no more sound than the soft foot of a panther. his trained ear was alert to catch any unfamiliar noise; his keen eyes sought first the remoter open glades and glens, then bent their gaze on the mossy bluff beneath his feet. fox squirrels dashed from before him into bushy retreats; grouse whirred away into the thickets; startled deer whistled, and loped off with their white-flags upraised. wetzel knew from the action of these denizens of the woods that he was the only creature, not native to these haunts, who had disturbed them this morning. otherwise the deer would not have been grazing, but lying low in some close thicket; fox squirrels seldom or never were disturbed by a hunter twice in one day, for after being frightened these little animals, wilder and shyer than gray squirrels, remained hidden for hours, and grouse that have been flushed a little while before, always get up unusually quick, and fly very far before alighting. wetzel circled back over the hill, took a long survey from a rocky eminence, and then reconnoitered the lowland for several miles. he located the herd of buffalo, and satisfying himself there were no indians near--for the bison were grazing quietly--he returned to the cave. a soft whistle into the back door of the rocky home told joe that the hunter was waiting. "coast clear?" whispered the lad, thrusting his head out of the entrance. his gray eyes gleamed brightly, showing his eager spirit. the hunter nodded, and, throwing his rifle in the hollow of his arm, proceeded down the hill. joe followed closely, endeavoring, as wetzel had trained him, to make each step precisely in the hunter's footprints. the lad had soon learned to step nimbly and softly as a cat. when half way down the bill wetzel paused. "see anythin'?" he whispered. joe glanced on all sides. many mistakes had taught him to be cautious. he had learned from experience that for every woodland creature he saw, there were ten watching his every move. just now he could not see even a little red squirrel. everywhere were sturdy hickory and oak trees, thickets and hazelnuts, slender ash saplings, and, in the open glades, patches of sumach. rotting trees lay on the ground, while ferns nodded long, slender heads over the fallen monarchs. joe could make out nothing but the colors of the woods, the gray of the tree trunks, and, in the openings through the forest-green, the dead purple haze of forests farther on. he smiled, and, shaking his head at the hunter, by his action admitted failure. "try again. dead ahead," whispered wetzel. joe bent a direct gaze on the clump of sassafras one hundred feet ahead. he searched the open places, the shadows--even the branches. then he turned his eyes slowly to the right. whatever was discernible to human vision he studied intently. suddenly his eye became fixed on a small object protruding from behind a beech tree. it was pointed, and in color darker than the gray bark of the beech. it had been a very easy matter to pass over this little thing; but now that the lad saw it, he knew to what it belonged. "that's a buck's ear," he replied. hardly had he finished speaking when wetzel intentionally snapped a twig. there was a crash and commotion in the thicket; branches moved and small saplings waved; then out into the open glade bounded a large buck with a whistle of alarm. throwing his rifle to a level, joe was trying to cover the bounding deer, when the hunter struck up his piece. "lad, don't kill fer the sake of killin," he said, quietly. "we have plenty of venison. we'll go arter a buffalo. i hev a hankerin' fer a good rump steak." half an hour later, the hunters emerged from the forest into a wide plain of waving grass. it was a kind of oval valley, encircled by hills, and had been at one time, perhaps, covered with water. joe saw a herd of large animals browsing, like cattle, in a meadow. his heart beat high, for until that moment the only buffalo he had seen were the few which stood on the river banks as the raft passed down the ohio. he would surely get a shot at one of these huge fellows. wetzel bade joe do exactly as he did, whereupon he dropped on his hands and knees and began to crawl through the long grass. this was easy for the hunter, but very hard for the lad to accomplish. still, he managed to keep his comrade in sight, which was a matter for congratulation, because the man crawled as fast as he walked. at length, after what to joe seemed a very long time, the hunter paused. "are we near enough?" whispered joe, breathlessly. "nope. we're just circlin' on 'em. the wind's not right, an' i'm afeered they'll get our scent." wetzel rose carefully and peeped over the top of the grass; then, dropping on all fours, he resumed the advance. he paused again, presently and waited for joe to come up. "see here, young fellar, remember, never hurry unless the bizness calls fer speed, an' then act like lightnin'." thus admonishing the eager lad, wetzel continued to crawl. it was easy for him. joe wondered how those wide shoulders got between the weeds and grasses without breaking, or, at least, shaking them. but so it was. "flat now," whispered wetzel, putting his broad hand on joe's back and pressing him down. "now's yer time fer good practice. trail yer rifle over yer back--if yer careful it won't slide off--an' reach out far with one arm an' dig yer fingers in deep. then pull yerself forrard." wetzel slipped through the grass like a huge buckskin snake. his long, lithe body wormed its way among the reeds. but for joe, even with the advantage of having the hunter's trail to follow, it was difficult work. the dry reeds broke under him, and the stalks of saw-grass shook. he worked persistently at it, learning all the while, and improving with every rod. he was surprised to hear a swish, followed by a dull blow on the ground. raising his head, he looked forward. he saw the hunter wipe his tomahawk on the grass. "snake," whispered wetzel. joe saw a huge blacksnake squirming in the grass. its head had been severed. he caught glimpses of other snakes gliding away, and glossy round moles darting into their holes. a gray rabbit started off with a leap. "we're near enough," whispered wetzel, stopping behind a bush. he rose and surveyed the plain; then motioned joe to look. joe raised himself on his knees. as his gaze reached the level of the grassy plain his heart leaped. not fifty yards away was a great, shaggy, black buffalo. he was the king of the herd; but ill at ease, for he pawed the grass and shook his huge head. near him were several cows and a half-grown calf. beyond was the main herd, extending as far as joe could see--a great sea of black humps! the lad breathed hard as he took in the grand sight. "pick out the little fellar--the reddish-brown one--an' plug him behind the shoulder. shoot close now, fer if we miss, mebbe i can't hit one, because i'm not used to shootin' at sich small marks." wetzel's rare smile lighted up his dark face. probably he could have shot a fly off the horn of the bull, if one of the big flies or bees, plainly visible as they swirled around the huge head, had alighted there. joe slowly raised his rifle. he had covered the calf, and was about to pull the trigger, when, with a sagacity far beyond his experience as hunter, he whispered to wetzel: "if i fire they may run toward us." "nope; they'll run away," answered wetzel, thinking the lad was as keen as an indian. joe quickly covered the calf again, and pulled the trigger. bellowing loud the big bull dashed off. the herd swung around toward the west, and soon were galloping off with a lumbering roar. the shaggy humps bobbed up and down like hot, angry waves on a storm-blackened sea. upon going forward, wetzel and joe found the calf lying dead in the grass. "you might hev did better'n that," remarked the hunter, as he saw where the bullet had struck. "you went a little too fer back, but mebbe thet was 'cause the calf stepped as you shot." chapter xv. so the days passed swiftly, dreamily, each one bringing joe a keener delight. in a single month he was as good a woodsman as many pioneers who had passed years on the border, for he had the advantage of a teacher whose woodcraft was incomparable. besides, he was naturally quick in learning, and with all his interest centered upon forest lore, it was no wonder he assimilated much of wetzel's knowledge. he was ever willing to undertake anything whereby he might learn. often when they were miles away in the dense forest, far from their cave, he asked wetzel to let him try to lead the way back to camp. and he never failed once, though many times he got off a straight course, thereby missing the easy travelling. joe did wonderfully well, but he lacked, as nearly all white men do, the subtler, intuitive forest-instinct, which makes the indian as much at home in the woods as in his teepee. wetzel had this developed to a high degree. it was born in him. years of training, years of passionate, unrelenting search for indians, had given him a knowledge of the wilds that was incomprehensible to white men, and appalling to his red foes. joe saw how wetzel used this ability, but what it really was baffled him. he realized that words were not adequate to explain fully this great art. its possession required a marvelously keen vision, an eye perfectly familiar with every creature, tree, rock, shrub and thing belonging in the forest; an eye so quick in flight as to detect instantly the slightest change in nature, or anything unnatural to that environment. the hearing must be delicate, like that of a deer, and the finer it is, the keener will be the woodsman. lastly, there is the feeling that prompts the old hunter to say: "no game to-day." it is something in him that speaks when, as he sees a night-hawk circling low near the ground, he says: "a storm to-morrow." it is what makes an indian at home in any wilderness. the clouds may hide the guiding star; the northing may be lost; there may be no moss on the trees, or difference in their bark; the ridges may be flat or lost altogether, and there may be no water-courses; yet the indian brave always goes for his teepee, straight as a crow flies. it was this voice which rightly bade wetzel, when he was baffled by an indian's trail fading among the rocks, to cross, or circle, or advance in the direction taken by his wily foe. joe had practiced trailing deer and other hoofed game, until he was true as a hound. then he began to perfect himself in the art of following a human being through the forest. except a few old indian trails, which the rain had half obliterated, he had no tracks to discover save wetzel's, and these were as hard to find as the airy course of a grosbeak. on soft ground or marshy grass, which wetzel avoided where he could, he left a faint trail, but on a hard surface, for all the traces he left, he might as well not have gone over the ground at all. joe's persistence stood him in good stead; he hung on, and the more he failed, the harder he tried. often he would slip out of the cave after wetzel had gone, and try to find which way he had taken. in brief, the lad became a fine marksman, a good hunter, and a close, persevering student of the wilderness. he loved the woods, and all they contained. he learned the habits of the wild creatures. each deer, each squirrel, each grouse that he killed, taught him some lesson. he was always up with the lark to watch the sun rise red and grand over the eastern hills, and chase away the white mist from the valleys. even if he was not hunting, or roaming the woods, if it was necessary for him to lie low in camp awaiting wetzel's return, he was always content. many hours he idled away lying on his back, with the west wind blowing softly over him, his eye on the distant hills, where the cloud shadows swept across with slow, majestic movement, like huge ships at sea. if wetzel and joe were far distant from the cave, as was often the case, they made camp in the open woods, and it was here that joe's contentment was fullest. twilight shades stealing down over the camp-fire; the cheery glow of red embers; the crackling of dry stocks; the sweet smell of wood smoke, all had for the lad a subtle, potent charm. the hunter would broil a venison steak, or a partridge, on the coals. then they would light their pipes and smoke while twilight deepened. the oppressive stillness of the early evening hour always brought to the younger man a sensation of awe. at first he attributed this to the fact that he was new to this life; however, as the days passed and the emotion remained, nay, grew stronger, he concluded it was imparted by this close communion with nature. deep solemn, tranquil, the gloaming hour brought him no ordinary fullness of joy and clearness of perception. "do you ever feel this stillness?" he asked wetzel one evening, as they sat near their flickering fire. the hunter puffed his pipe, and, like an indian, seemed to let the question take deep root. "i've scalped redskins every hour in the day, 'ceptin' twilight," he replied. joe wondered no longer whether the hunter was too hardened to feel this beautiful tranquillity. that hour which wooed wetzel from his implacable pursuit was indeed a bewitching one. there was never a time, when joe lay alone in camp waiting for wetzel, that he did not hope the hunter would return with information of indians. the man never talked about the savages, and if he spoke at all it was to tell of some incident of his day's travel. one evening he came back with a large black fox that he had killed. "what beautiful, glossy fur!" said joe. "i never saw a black fox before." "i've been layin' fer this fellar some time," replied wetzel, as he began his first evening task, that of combing his hair. "jest back here in a clump of cottonwoods there's a holler log full of leaves. happenin' to see a blacksnake sneakin' round, i thought mebbe he was up to somethin', so i investigated, an' found a nest full of young rabbits. i killed the snake, an' arter that took an interest in 'em. every time i passed i'd look in at the bunnies, an' each time i seen signs that some tarnal varmint had been prowlin' round. one day i missed a bunny, an' next day another; so on until only one was left, a peart white and gray little scamp. somethin' was stealin' of 'em, an' it made me mad. so yistidday an' to-day i watched, an' finally i plugged this black thief. yes, he's got a glossy coat; but he's a bad un fer all his fine looks. these black foxes are bigger, stronger an' cunniner than red ones. in every litter you'll find a dark one, the black sheep of the family. because he grows so much faster, an' steals all the food from the others, the mother jest takes him by the nape of the neck an' chucks him out in the world to shift fer hisself. an' it's a good thing." the next day wetzel told joe they would go across country to seek new game fields. accordingly the two set out, and tramped industriously until evening. they came upon a country no less beautiful than the one they had left, though the picturesque cliffs and rugged hills had given way to a rolling land, the luxuriance of which was explained by the abundant springs and streams. forests and fields were thickly interspersed with bubbling springs, narrow and deep streams, and here and there a small lake with a running outlet. wetzel had said little concerning this region, but that little was enough to rouse all joe's eagerness, for it was to the effect that they were now in a country much traversed by indians, especially runners and hunting parties travelling from north to south. the hunter explained that through the center of this tract ran a buffalo road; that the buffalo always picked out the straightest, lowest and dryest path from one range to another, and the indians followed these first pathfinders. joe and wetzel made camp on the bank of a stream that night, and as the lad watched the hunter build a hidden camp-fire, he peered furtively around half expecting to see dark forms scurrying through the forest. wetzel was extremely cautious. he stripped pieces of bark from fallen trees and built a little hut over his firewood. he rubbed some powder on a piece of punk, and then with flint and steel dropped two or three sparks on the inflammable substance. soon he had a blaze. he arranged the covering so that not a ray of light escaped. when the flames had subsided, and the wood had burned down to a glowing bed of red, he threw aside the bark, and broiled the strips of venison they had brought with them. they rested on a bed of boughs which they had cut and arranged alongside a huge log. for hours joe lay awake, he could not sleep. he listened to the breeze rustling the leaves, and shivered at the thought of the sighing wind he had once heard moan through the forest. presently he turned over. the slight noise instantly awakened wetzel who lifted his dark face while he listened intently. he spoke one word: "sleep," and lay back again on the leaves. joe forced himself to be quiet, relaxed all his muscles and soon slumbered. on the morrow wetzel went out to look over the hunting prospects. about noon he returned. joe was surprised to find some slight change in the hunter. he could not tell what it was. "i seen injun sign," said wetzel. "there's no tellin' how soon we may run agin the sneaks. we can't hunt here. like as not there's hurons and delawares skulkin' round. i think i'd better take you back to the village." "it's all on my account you say that," said joe. "sure," wetzel replied. "if you were alone what would you do?" "i calkilate i'd hunt fer some red-skinned game." the supreme moment had come. joe's heart beat hard. he could not miss this opportunity; he must stay with the hunter. he looked closely at wetzel. "i won't go back to the village," he said. the hunter stood in his favorite position, leaning on his long rifle, and made no response. "i won't go," continued joe, earnestly. "let me stay with you. if at any time i hamper you, or can not keep the pace, then leave me to shift for myself; but don't make me go until i weaken. let me stay." fire and fearlessness spoke in joe's every word, and his gray eyes contracted with their peculiar steely flash. plain it was that, while he might fail to keep pace with wetzel, he did not fear this dangerous country, and, if it must be, would face it alone. wetzel extended his broad hand and gave his comrade's a viselike squeeze. to allow the lad to remain with him was more than he would have done for any other person in the world. far better to keep the lad under his protection while it was possible, for joe was taking that war-trail which had for every hunter, somewhere along its bloody course, a bullet, a knife, or a tomahawk. wetzel knew that joe was conscious of this inevitable conclusion, for it showed in his white face, and in the resolve in his big, gray eyes. so there, in the shade of a towering oak, the indian-killer admitted the boy into his friendship, and into a life which would no longer be play, but eventful, stirring, hazardous. "wal, lad, stay," he said, with that rare smile which brightened his dark face like a ray of stray sunshine. "we'll hang round these diggins a few days. first off, we'll take in the lay of the land. you go down stream a ways an' scout round some, while i go up, an' then circle down. move slow, now, an' don't miss nothin'." joe followed the stream a mile or more. he kept close in the shade of willows, and never walked across an open glade without first waiting and watching. he listened to all sounds; but none were unfamiliar. he closely examined the sand along the stream, and the moss and leaves under the trees. when he had been separated from wetzel several hours, and concluded he would slowly return to camp, he ran across a well-beaten path winding through the forest. this was, perhaps, one of the bridle-trails wetzel had referred to. he bent over the worn grass with keen scrutiny. crack! the loud report of a heavily charged rifle rang out. joe felt the zip of a bullet as it fanned his cheek. with an agile leap he gained the shelter of a tree, from behind which he peeped to see who had shot at him. he was just in time to detect the dark form of an indian dart behind the foliage an hundred yards down the path. joe expected to see other indians, and to hear more shots, but he was mistaken. evidently the savage was alone, for the tree joe had taken refuge behind was scarcely large enough to screen his body, which disadvantage the other indians would have been quick to note. joe closely watched the place where his assailant had disappeared, and presently saw a dark hand, then a naked elbow, and finally the ramrod of a rifle. the savage was reloading. soon a rifle-barrel protruded from behind the tree. with his heart beating like a trip-hammer, and the skin tightening on his face, joe screened his body as best he might. the tree was small, but it served as a partial protection. rapidly he revolved in his mind plans to outwit the enemy. the indian was behind a large oak with a low limb over which he could fire without exposing his own person to danger. "bang!" the indian's rifle bellowed; the bullet crumbled the bark close to joe's face. the lad yelled loudly, staggered to his knees, and then fell into the path, where he lay quiet. the redskin gave an exultant shout. seeing that the fallen figure remained quite motionless he stepped forward, drawing his knife as he came. he was a young brave, quick and eager in his movements, and came nimbly up the path to gain his coveted trophy, the paleface's scalp. suddenly joe sat up, raised his rifle quickly as thought, and fired point-blank at the indian. but he missed. the redskin stopped aghast when he saw the lad thus seemingly come back to life. then, realizing that joe's aim had been futile, he bounded forward, brandishing his knife, and uttering infuriated yells. joe rose to his feet with rifle swung high above his head. when the savage was within twenty feet, so near that his dark face, swollen with fierce passion, could be plainly discerned, a peculiar whistling noise sounded over joe's shoulder. it was accompanied, rather than followed, by a clear, ringing rifleshot. the indian stopped as if he had encountered a heavy shock from a tree or stone barring his way. clutching at his breast, he uttered a weird cry, and sank slowly on the grass. joe ran forward to bend over the prostrate figure. the indian, a slender, handsome young brave, had been shot through the breast. he held his hand tightly over the wound, while bright red blood trickled between his fingers, flowed down his side, and stained the grass. the brave looked steadily up at joe. shot as he was, dying as he knew himself to be, there was no yielding in the dark eye--only an unquenchable hatred. then the eyes glazed; the fingers ceased twitching. joe was bending over a dead indian. it flashed into his mind, of course, that wetzel had come up in time to save his life, but he did not dwell on the thought; he shrank from this violent death of a human being. but it was from the aspect of the dead, not from remorse for the deed. his heart beat fast, his fingers trembled, yet he felt only a strange coldness in all his being. the savage had tried to kill him, perhaps, even now, had it not been for the hunter's unerring aim, would have been gloating over a bloody scalp. joe felt, rather than heard, the approach of some one, and he turned to see wetzel coming down the path. "he's a lone shawnee runner," said the hunter, gazing down at the dead indian. "he was tryin' to win his eagle plumes. i seen you both from the hillside." "you did!" exclaimed joe. then he laughed. "it was lucky for me. i tried the dodge you taught me, but in my eagerness i missed." "wal, you hadn't no call fer hurry. you worked the trick clever, but you missed him when there was plenty of time. i had to shoot over your shoulder, or i'd hev plugged him sooner." "where were you?" asked joe. "up there by that bit of sumach!" and wetzel pointed to an open ridge on a hillside not less than one hundred and fifty yards distant. joe wondered which of the two bullets, the death-seeking one fired by the savage, or the life-saving missile from wetzel's fatal weapon, had passed nearest to him. "come," said the hunter, after he had scalped the indian. "what's to be done with this savage?" inquired joe, as wetzel started up the path. "let him lay." they returned to camp without further incident. while the hunter busied himself reinforcing their temporary shelter--for the clouds looked threatening--joe cut up some buffalo meat, and then went down to the brook for a gourd of water. he came hurriedly back to where wetzel was working, and spoke in a voice which he vainly endeavors to hold steady: "come quickly. i have seen something which may mean a good deal." he led the way down to the brookside. "look!" joe said, pointing at the water. here the steam was about two feet deep, perhaps twenty wide, and had just a noticeable current. shortly before, it had been as clear as a bright summer sky; it was now tinged with yellow clouds that slowly floated downstream, each one enlarging and becoming fainter as the clear water permeated and stained. grains of sand glided along with the current, little pieces of bark floated on the surface, and minnows darted to and fro nibbling at these drifting particles. "deer wouldn't roil the water like that. what does it mean?" asked joe. "injuns, an' not fer away." wetzel returned to the shelter and tore it down. then he bent the branch of a beech tree low over the place. he pulled down another branch over the remains of the camp-fire. these precautions made the spot less striking. wetzel knew that an indian scout never glances casually; his roving eyes survey the forest, perhaps quickly, but thoroughly. an unnatural position of bush or log always leads to an examination. this done, the hunter grasped joe's hand and led him up the knoll. making his way behind a well-screened tree, which had been uprooted, he selected a position where, hidden themselves, they could see the creek. hardly had wetzel, admonished joe to lie perfectly still, when from a short distance up the stream came the sound of splashing water; but nothing could be seen above the open glade, as in that direction willows lined the creek in dense thickets. the noise grew more audible. suddenly joe felt a muscular contraction pass over the powerful frame lying close beside him. it was a convulsive thrill such as passes through a tiger when he is about to spring upon his quarry. so subtle and strong was its meaning, so clearly did it convey to the lad what was coming, that he felt it himself; save that in his case it was a cold, chill shudder. breathless suspense followed. then into the open space along the creek glided a tall indian warrior. he was knee-deep in the water, where he waded with low, cautious steps. his garish, befrilled costume seemed familiar to joe. he carried a rifle at a low trail, and passed slowly ahead with evident distrust. the lad believed he recognized that head, with its tangled black hair, and when he saw the swarthy, villainous countenance turned full toward him, he exclaimed: "girty! by---" wetzel's powerful arm forced him so hard against the log that he could not complete the exclamation; but he could still see. girty had not heard that stifled cry, for he continued his slow wading, and presently his tall, gaudily decorated form passed out of sight. another savage appeared in the open space, and then another. close between them walked a white man, with hands bound behind him. the prisoner and guards disappeared down stream among the willows. the splashing continued--grew even louder than before. a warrior came into view, then another, and another. they walked close together. two more followed. they were wading by the side of a raft made of several logs, upon which were two prostrate figures that closely resembled human beings. joe was so intent upon the lithe forms of the indians that he barely got a glimpse of their floating prize, whatever it might have been. bringing up the rear was an athletic warrior, whose broad shoulders, sinewy arms, and shaved, polished head joe remembered well. it was the shawnee chief, silvertip. when he, too, passed out of sight in the curve of willows, joe found himself trembling. he turned eagerly to wetzel; but instantly recoiled. terrible, indeed, had been the hunter's transformation. all calmness of facial expression was gone; he was now stern, somber. an intense emotion was visible in his white face; his eyes seemed reduced to two dark shining points, and they emitted so fierce, so piercing a flash, so deadly a light, that joe could not bear their glittering gaze. "three white captives, two of 'em women," uttered the hunter, as if weighing in his mind the importance of this fact. "were those women on the raft?" questioned joe, and as wetzel only nodded, he continued, "a white man and two women, six warriors, silvertip, and that renegade, jim girty!" wetzel deigned not to answer joe's passionate outburst, but maintained silence and his rigid posture. joe glanced once more at the stern face. "considering we'd go after girty and his redskins if they were alone, we're pretty likely to go quicker now that they've got white women prisoners, eh?" and joe laughed fiercely between his teeth. the lad's heart expanded, while along every nerve tingled an exquisite thrill of excitement. he had yearned for wild, border life. here he was in it, with the hunter whose name alone was to the savages a symbol for all that was terrible. wetzel evidently decided quickly on what was to be done, for in few words he directed joe to cut up so much of the buffalo meat as they could stow in their pockets. then, bidding the lad to follow, he turned into the woods, walking rapidly, and stopping now and then for a brief instant. soon they emerged from the forest into more open country. they faced a wide plain skirted on the right by a long, winding strip of bright green willows which marked the course of the stream. on the edge of this plain wetzel broke into a run. he kept this pace for a distance of an hundred yards, then stopped to listen intently as he glanced sharply on all sides, after which he was off again. half way across this plain joe's wind began to fail, and his breathing became labored; but he kept close to the hunter's heels. once he looked back to see a great wide expanse of waving grass. they had covered perhaps four miles at a rapid pace, and were nearing the other side of the plain. the lad felt as if his head was about to burst; a sharp pain seized upon his side; a blood-red film obscured his sight. he kept doggedly on, and when utterly exhausted fell to the ground. when, a few minutes later, having recovered his breath, he got up, they had crossed the plain and were in a grove of beeches. directly in front of him ran a swift stream, which was divided at the rocky head of what appeared to be a wooded island. there was only a slight ripple and fall of the water, and, after a second glance, it was evident that the point of land was not an island, but a portion of the mainland which divided the stream. the branches took almost opposite courses. joe wondered if they had headed off the indians. certainly they had run fast enough. he was wet with perspiration. he glanced at wetzel, who was standing near. the man's broad breast rose and fell a little faster; that was the only evidence of exertion. the lad had a painful feeling that he could never keep pace with the hunter, if this five-mile run was a sample of the speed he would be forced to maintain. "they've got ahead of us, but which crick did they take?" queried wetzel, as though debating the question with himself. "how do you know they've passed?" "we circled," answered wetzel, as he shook his head and pointed into the bushes. joe stepped over and looked into the thicket. he found a quantity of dead leaves, sticks, and litter thrown aside, exposing to light a long, hollowed place on the ground. it was what would be seen after rolling over a log that had lain for a long time. little furrows in the ground, holes, mounds, and curious winding passages showed where grubs and crickets had made their homes. the frightened insects were now running round wildly. "what was here? a log?" "a twenty-foot canoe was hid under thet stuff. the injuns has taken one of these streams." "how can we tell which one?" "mebbe we can't; but we'll try. grab up a few of them bugs, go below thet rocky point, an' crawl close to the bank so you can jest peep over. be keerful not to show the tip of your head, an' don't knock nothin' off'en the bank into the water. watch fer trout. look everywheres, an' drop in a bug now and then. i'll do the same fer the other stream. then we'll come back here an' talk over what the fish has to say about the injuns." joe walked down stream a few paces, and, dropping on his knees, crawled carefully to the edge of the bank. he slightly parted the grass so he could peep through, and found himself directly over a pool with a narrow shoal running out from the opposite bank. the water was so clear he could see the pebbly bottom in all parts, except a dark hole near a bend in the shore close by. he did not see a living thing in the water, not a crawfish, turtle, nor even a frog. he peered round closely, then flipped in one of the bugs he had brought along. a shiny yellow fish flared up from the depths of the deep hole and disappeared with the cricket; but it was a bass or a pike, not a trout. wetzel had said there were a few trout living near the cool springs of these streams. the lad tried again to coax one to the surface. this time the more fortunate cricket swam and hopped across the stream to safety. when joe's eyes were thoroughly accustomed to the clear water, with its deceiving lights and shades, he saw a fish lying snug under the side of a stone. the lad thought he recognized the snub-nose, the hooked, wolfish jaw, but he could not get sufficient of a view to classify him. he crawled to a more advantageous position farther down stream, and then he peered again through the woods. yes, sure enough, he had espied a trout. he well knew those spotted silver sides, that broad, square tail. such a monster! in his admiration for the fellow, and his wish for a hook and line to try conclusions with him, joe momentarily forgot his object. remembering, he tossed out a big, fat cricket, which alighted on the water just above the fish. the trout never moved, nor even blinked. the lad tried again, with no better success. the fish would not rise. thereupon joe returned to the point where he had left wetzel. "i couldn't see nothin' over there," said the hunter, who was waiting. "did you see any?' "one, and a big fellow." "did he see you?" "no." "did he rise to a bug?" "no, he didn't; but then maybe he wasn't hungry" answered joe, who could not understand what wetzel was driving at. "tell me exactly what he did." "that's just the trouble; he didn't do anything," replied joe, thoughtfully. "he just lay low, stifflike, under a stone. he never batted an eye. but his side-fins quivered like an aspen leaf." "them side-fins tell us the story. girty, an' his redskins hev took this branch," said wetzel, positively. "the other leads to the huron towns. girty's got a place near the delaware camp somewheres. i've tried to find it a good many times. he's took more'n one white lass there, an' nobody ever seen her agin." "fiend! to think of a white woman, maybe a girl like nell wells, at the mercy of those red devils!" "young fellar, don't go wrong. i'll allow injuns is bad enough; but i never hearn tell of one abusin' a white woman, as mayhap you mean. injuns marry white women sometimes; kill an' scalp 'em often, but that's all. it's men of our own color, renegades like this girty, as do worse'n murder." here was the amazing circumstance of lewis wetzel, the acknowledged unsatiable foe of all redmen, speaking a good word for his enemies. joe was so astonished he did not attempt to answer. "here's where they got in the canoe. one more look, an' then we're off," said wetzel. he strode up and down the sandy beach; examined the willows, and scrutinized the sand. suddenly he bent over and picked up an object from the water. his sharp eyes had caught the glint of something white, which, upon being examined, proved to be a small ivory or bone buckle with a piece broken out. he showed it to joe. "by heavens! wetzel, that's a buckle off nell well's shoe. i've seen it too many times to mistake it." "i was afeared girty hed your friends, the sisters, an' mebbe your brother, too. jack zane said the renegade was hangin' round the village, an' that couldn't be fer no good." "come on. let's kill the fiend!" cried joe, white to the lips. "i calkilate they're about a mile down stream, makin' camp fer the night. i know the place. there's a fine spring, an, look! d'ye see them crows flyin' round thet big oak with the bleached top? hear them cawin'? you might think they was chasin' a hawk, or king-birds were arter 'em, but thet fuss they're makin' is because they see injuns." "well?" asked joe, impatiently. "it'll be moonlight a while arter midnight. we'll lay low an' wait, an' then---" the sharp click of his teeth, like the snap of a steel trap, completed the sentence. joe said no more, but followed the hunter into the woods. stopping near a fallen tree, wetzel raked up a bundle of leaves and spread them on the ground. then he cut a few spreading branches from a beech, and leaned them against a log. bidding the lad crawl in before he took one last look around and then made his way under the shelter. it was yet daylight, which seemed a strange time to creep into this little nook; but, joe thought, it was not to sleep, only to wait, wait, wait for the long hours to pass. he was amazed once more, because, by the time twilight had given place to darkness, wetzel was asleep. the lad said then to himself that he would never again be surprised at the hunter. he assumed once and for all that wetzel was capable of anything. yet how could he lose himself in slumber? feeling, as he must, over the capture of the girls; eager to draw a bead on the black-hearted renegade; hating indians with all his soul and strength, and lying there but a few hours before what he knew would be a bloody battle, wetzel calmly went to sleep. knowing the hunter to be as bloodthirsty as a tiger, joe had expected he would rush to a combat with his foes; but, no, this man, with his keen sagacity, knew when to creep upon his enemy; he bided that time, and, while he waited, slept. joe could not close his eyes in slumber. through the interstices in the branches he saw the stars come out one by one, the darkness deepened, and the dim outline of tall trees over the dark hill came out sharply. the moments dragged, each one an hour. he heard a whippoorwill call, lonely and dismal; then an owl hoot monotonously. a stealthy footed animal ran along the log, sniffed at the boughs, and then scurried away over the dry leaves. by and by the dead silence of night fell over all. still joe lay there wide awake, listening--his heart on fire. he was about to rescue nell; to kill that hawk-nosed renegade; to fight silvertip to the death. the hours passed, but not joe's passionate eagerness. when at last he saw the crescent moon gleam silver-white over the black hilltop he knew the time was nigh, and over him ran thrill on thrill. chapter xvi. when the waning moon rose high enough to shed a pale light over forest and field, two dark figures, moving silently from the shade of the trees, crossed the moonlit patches of ground, out to the open plain where low on the grass hung silver mists. a timber wolf, gray and gaunt, came loping along with lowered nose. a new scent brought the animal to a standstill. his nose went up, his fiery eyes scanned the plain. two men had invaded his domain, and, with a short, dismal bark, he dashed away. like spectres, gliding swiftly with noiseless tread, the two vanished. the long grass had swallowed them. deserted once again seemed the plain. it became unutterably lonely. no stir, no sound, no life; nothing but a wide expanse bathed in sad, gray light. the moon shone steadily; the silver radiance mellowed; the stars paled before this brighter glory. slowly the night hours wore away. on the other side of the plain, near where the adjoining forest loomed darkling, the tall grass parted to disclose a black form. was it only a deceiving shade cast by a leafy branch--only a shadow? slowly it sank, and was lost. once more the gray, unwavering line of silver-crested grass tufts was unbroken. only the night breeze, wandering caressingly over the grass, might have told of two dark forms gliding, gliding, gliding so softly, so surely, so surely toward the forest. only the moon and the pale stars had eyes to see these creeping figures. like avengers they moved, on a mission to slay and to save! on over the dark line where plain merged into forest they crawled. no whispering, no hesitating; but a silent, slow, certain progress showed their purpose. in single file they slipped over the moss, the leader clearing the path. inch by inch they advanced. tedious was this slow movement, difficult and painful this journey which must end in lightninglike speed. they rustled no leaf, nor snapped a twig, nor shook a fern, but passed onward slowly, like the approach of death. the seconds passed as minutes; minutes as hours; an entire hour was spent in advancing twenty feet! at last the top of the knoll was reached. the avenger placed his hand on his follower's shoulder. the strong pressure was meant to remind, to warn, to reassure. then, like a huge snake, the first glided away. he who was left behind raised his head to look into the open place called the glade of the beautiful spring. an oval space lay before him, exceedingly lovely in the moonlight; a spring, as if a pearl, gemmed the center. an indian guard stood statuelike against a stone. other savages lay in a row, their polished heads shining. one slumbering form was bedecked with feathers and frills. near him lay an indian blanket, from the border of which peered two faces, gleaming white and sad in the pitying moonlight. the watcher quivered at the sight of those pale faces; but he must wait while long moments passed. he must wait for the avenger to creep up, silently kill the guard, and release the prisoners without awakening the savages. if that plan failed, he was to rush into the glade, and in the excitement make off with one of the captives. he lay there waiting, listening, wrought up to the intensest pitch of fierce passion. every nerve was alert, every tendon strung, and every muscle strained ready for the leap. only the faint rustling of leaves, the low swish of swaying branches, the soft murmur of falling water, and over all the sigh of the night wind, proved to him that this picture was not an evil dream. his gaze sought the quiet figures, lingered hopefully on the captives, menacingly on the sleeping savages, and glowered over the gaudily arrayed form. his glance sought the upright guard, as he stood a dark blot against the gray stone. he saw the indian's plume, a single feather waving silver-white. then it became riveted on the bubbling, refulgent spring. the pool was round, perhaps five feet across, and shone like a burnished shield. it mirrored the moon, the twinkling stars, the spectre trees. an unaccountable horror suddenly swept over the watching man. his hair stood straight up; a sensation as of cold stole chillingly over him. whether it was the climax of this long night's excitement, or anticipation of the bloody struggle soon to come, he knew not. did this boiling spring, shimmering in the sliver moon-rays, hold in its murky depths a secret? did these lonesome, shadowing trees, with their sad drooping branches, harbor a mystery? if a future tragedy was to be enacted here in this quiet glade, could the murmuring water or leaves whisper its portent? no; they were only silent, only unintelligible with nature's mystery. the waiting man cursed himself for a craven coward; he fought back the benumbing sense; he steeled his heart. was this his vaunted willingness to share the avenger's danger? his strong spirit rose up in arms; once more he was brave and fierce. he fastened a piercing gaze on the plumed guard. the indian's lounging posture against the rock was the same as it had been before, yet now it seemed to have a kind of strained attention. the savage's head was poised, like that of a listening deer. the wary indian scented danger. a faint moan breathed low above the sound of gently splashing water somewhere beyond the glade. "woo-o-oo." the guard's figure stiffened, and became rigidly erect; his blanket slowly slid to his feet. "ah-oo-o," sighed the soft breeze in the tree tops. louder then, with a deep wail, a moan arose out of the dark gray shadows, swelled thrilling on the still air, and died away mournfully. "um-m-mmwoo-o-o-o!" the sentinel's form melted into the shade. he was gone like a phantom. another indian rose quickly, and glanced furtively around the glade. he bent over a comrade and shook him. instantly the second indian was on his feet. scarcely had he gained a standing posture when an object, bounding like a dark ball, shot out of the thicket and hurled both warriors to the earth. a moonbeam glinted upon something bright. it flashed again on a swift, sweeping circle. a short, choking yell aroused the other savages. up they sprang, alarmed, confused. the shadow-form darted among them. it moved with inconceivable rapidity; it became a monster. terrible was the convulsive conflict. dull blows, the click of steel, angry shouts, agonized yells, and thrashing, wrestling sounds mingled together and half drowned by an awful roar like that of a mad bull. the strife ceased as suddenly as it had begun. warriors lay still on the grass; others writhed in agony. for an instant a fleeting shadow crossed the open lane leading out of the glade; then it vanished. three savages had sprung toward their rifles. a blinding flash, a loud report burst from the thicket overhead. the foremost savage sank lifelessly. the others were intercepted by a giant shadow with brandished rifle. the watcher on the knoll had entered the glade. he stood before the stacked rifles and swung his heavy gun. crash! an indian went down before that sweep, but rose again. the savages backed away from this threatening figure, and circled around it. the noise of the other conflict ceased. more savages joined the three who glided to and fro before their desperate foe. they closed in upon him, only to be beaten back. one savage threw a glittering knife, another hurled a stone, a third flung his tomahawk, which struck fire from the swinging rifle. he held them at bay. while they had no firearms he was master of the situation. with every sweep of his arms he brought the long rifle down and knocked a flint from the firelock of an enemy's weapon. soon the indians' guns were useless. slowly then he began to edge away from the stone, toward the opening where he had seen the fleeting form vanish. his intention was to make a dash for life, for he had heard a noise behind the rock, and remembered the guard. he saw the savages glance behind him, and anticipated danger from that direction, but he must not turn. a second there might be fatal. he backed defiantly along the rock until he gained its outer edge. but too late! the indians glided before him, now behind him; he was surrounded. he turned around and around, with the ever-circling rifle whirling in the faces of the baffled foe. once opposite the lane leading from the glade he changed his tactics, and plunged with fierce impetuosity into the midst of the painted throng. then began a fearful conflict. the indians fell before the sweep of his powerful arms; but grappled with him from the ground. he literally plowed his way through the struggling mass, warding off an hundred vicious blows. savage after savage he flung off, until at last he had a clear path before him. freedom lay beyond that shiny path. into it he bounded. as he left the glade the plumed guard stepped from behind a tree near the entrance of the path, and cast his tomahawk. a white, glittering flash, it flew after the fleeing runner; its aim was true. suddenly the moonlight path darkened in the runner's sight; he saw a million flashing stars; a terrible pain assailed him; he sank slowly, slowly down; then all was darkness. chapter xvii. joe awoke as from a fearsome nightmare. returning consciousness brought a vague idea that he had been dreaming of clashing weapons, of yelling savages, of a conflict in which he had been clutched by sinewy fingers. an acute pain pulsed through his temples; a bloody mist glazed his eyes; a sore pressure cramped his arms and legs. surely he dreamed this distress, as well as the fight. the red film cleared from his eyes. his wandering gaze showed the stern reality. the bright sun, making the dewdrops glisten on the leaves, lighted up a tragedy. near him lay an indian whose vacant, sightless eyes were fixed in death. beyond lay four more savages, the peculiar, inert position of whose limbs, the formlessness, as it were, as if they had been thrown from a great height and never moved again, attested that here, too, life had been extinguished. joe took in only one detail--the cloven skull of the nearest--when he turned away sickened. he remembered it all now. the advance, the rush, the fight--all returned. he saw again wetzel's shadowy form darting like a demon into the whirl of conflict; he heard again that hoarse, booming roar with which the avenger accompanied his blows. joe's gaze swept the glade, but found no trace of the hunter. he saw silvertip and another indian bathing a wound on girty's head. the renegade groaned and writhed in pain. near him lay kate, with white face and closed eyes. she was unconscious, or dead. jim sat crouched under a tree to which he was tied. "joe, are you badly hurt?" asked the latter, in deep solicitude. "no, i guess not; i don't know," answered joe. "is poor kate dead?" "no, she has fainted." "where's nell?" "gone," replied jim, lowering his voice, and glancing at the indians. they were too busy trying to bandage girty's head to pay any attention to their prisoners. "that whirlwind was wetzel, wasn't it?" "yes; how'd you know?" "i was awake last night. i had an oppressive feeling, perhaps a presentiment. anyway, i couldn't sleep. i heard that wind blow through the forest, and thought my blood would freeze. the moan is the same as the night wind, the same soft sigh, only louder and somehow pregnant with superhuman power. to speak of it in broad daylight one seems superstitious, but to hear it in the darkness of this lonely forest, it is fearful! i hope i am not a coward; i certainly know i was deathly frightened. no wonder i was scared! look at these dead indians, all killed in a moment. i heard the moan; i saw silvertip disappear, and the other two savages rise. then something huge dropped from the rock; a bright object seemed to circle round the savages; they uttered one short yell, and sank to rise no more. somehow at once i suspected that this shadowy form, with its lightninglike movements, its glittering hatchet, was wetzel. when he plunged into the midst of the other savages i distinctly recognized him, and saw that he had a bundle, possibly his coat, wrapped round his left arm, and his right hand held the glittering tomahawk. i saw him strike that big indian there, the one lying with split skull. his wonderful daring and quickness seemed to make the savages turn at random. he broke through the circle, swung nell under his arm, slashed at my bonds as he passed by, and then was gone as he had come. not until after you were struck, and silvertip came up to me, was i aware my bonds were cut. wetzel's hatchet had severed them; it even cut my side, which was bleeding. i was free to help, to fight, and i did not know it. fool that i am!" "i made an awful mess of my part of the rescue," groaned joe. "i wonder if the savages know it was wetzel." "do they? well, i rather think so. did you not hear them scream that french name? as far as i am able to judge, only two indians were killed instantly. the others died during the night. i had to sit here, tied and helpless, listening as they groaned and called the name of their slayer, even in their death-throes. deathwind! they have named him well." "i guess he nearly killed girty." "evidently, but surely the evil one protects the renegade." "jim girty's doomed," whispered joe, earnestly. "he's as good as dead already. i've lived with wetzel, and know him. he told me girty had murdered a settler, a feeble old man, who lived near fort henry with his son. the hunter has sworn to kill the renegade; but, mind you, he did not tell me that. i saw it in his eyes. it wouldn't surprise me to see him jump out of these bushes at any moment. i'm looking for it. if he knows there are only three left, he'll be after them like a hound on a trail. girty must hurry. where's he taking you?" "to the delaware town." "i don't suppose the chiefs will let any harm befall you; but kate and i would be better off dead. if we can only delay the march, wetzel will surely return." "hush! girty's up." the renegade staggered to an upright position, and leaned on the shawnee's arm. evidently he had not been seriously injured, only stunned. covered with blood from a swollen, gashed lump on his temple, he certainly presented a savage appearance. "where's the yellow-haired lass?" he demanded, pushing away silvertip's friendly arm. he glared around the glade. the shawnee addressed him briefly, whereupon he raged to and fro under the tree, cursing with foam-flecked lips, and actually howling with baffled rage. his fury was so great that he became suddenly weak, and was compelled to sit down. "she's safe, you villainous renegade!" cried joe. "hush, joe! do not anger him. it can do no good," interposed jim. "why not? we couldn't be worse off," answered joe. "i'll git her, i'll git her agin," panted girty. "i'll keep her, an' she'll love me." the spectacle of this perverted wretch speaking as if he had been cheated out of love was so remarkable, so pitiful, so monstrous, that for a moment joe was dumbfounded. "bah! you white-livered murderer!" joe hissed. he well knew it was not wise to give way to his passion; but he could not help it. this beast in human guise, whining for love, maddened him. "any white woman on earth would die a thousand deaths and burn for a million years afterward rather than love you!" "i'll see you killed at the stake, beggin' fer mercy, an' be feed fer buzzards," croaked the renegade. "then kill me now, or you may slip up on one of your cherished buzzard-feasts," cried joe, with glinting eye and taunting voice. "then go sneaking back to your hole like a hyena, and stay there. wetzel is on your trail! he missed you last night; but it was because of the girl. he's after you, girty; he'll get you one of these days, and when he does--my god!---" nothing could be more revolting than that swarthy, evil face turned pale with fear. girty's visage was a ghastly, livid white. so earnest, so intense was joe's voice, that it seemed to all as if wetzel was about to dart into the glade, with his avenging tomahawk uplifted to wreak an awful vengeance on the abductor. the renegade's white, craven heart contained no such thing as courage. if he ever fought it was like a wolf, backed by numbers. the resemblance ceased here, for even a cornered wolf will show his teeth, and girty, driven to bay, would have cringed and cowered. even now at the mention of wetzel's enmity he trembled. "i'll shet yer wind," he cried, catching up his tomahawk and making for joe. silvertip intervened, and prevented the assault. he led girty back to his seat and spoke low, evidently trying to soothe the renegade's feelings. "silvertip, give me a tomahawk, and let me fight him," implored joe. "paleface brave--like injun chief. paleface shawnee's prisoner--no speak more," answered silvertip, with respect in his voice. "oh, where's nellie?" a grief-stricken whisper caught jim's ear. he turned to see kate's wide, questioning eyes fixed upon him. "nell was rescued." "thank god!" murmured the girl. "come along," shouted girty, in his harsh voice, as, grasping kate's arm, he pulled the girl violently to her feet. then, picking up his rifle, he led her into the forest. silvertip followed with joe, while the remaining indian guarded jim. * * * the great council-lodge of the delawares rang with savage and fiery eloquence. wingenund paced slowly before the orators. wise as he was, he wanted advice before deciding what was to be done with the missionary. the brothers had been taken to the chief, who immediately called a council. the indians sat in a half circle around the lodge. the prisoners, with hands bound, guarded by two brawny braves, stood in one corner gazing with curiosity and apprehension at this formidable array. jim knew some of the braves, but the majority of those who spoke bitterly against the palefaces had never frequented the village of peace. nearly all were of the wolf tribe of delawares. jim whispered to joe, interpreting that part of the speeches bearing upon the disposal to be made of them. two white men, dressed in indian garb, held prominent positions before wingenund. the boys saw a resemblance between one of these men and jim girty, and accordingly concluded he was the famous renegade, or so-called white indian, simon girty. the other man was probably elliott, the tory, with whom girty had deserted from fort pitt. jim girty was not present. upon nearing the encampment he had taken his captive and disappeared in a ravine. shingiss, seldom in favor of drastic measures with prisoners, eloquently urged initiating the brothers into the tribe. several other chiefs were favorably inclined, though not so positive as shingiss. kotoxen was for the death penalty; the implacable pipe for nothing less than burning at the stake. not one was for returning the missionary to his christian indians. girty and elliott, though requested to speak, maintained an ominous silence. wingenund strode with thoughtful mien before his council. he had heard all his wise chiefs and his fiery warriors. supreme was his power. freedom or death for the captives awaited the wave of his hand. his impassive face gave not the slightest inkling of what to expect. therefore the prisoners were forced to stand there with throbbing hearts while the chieftain waited the customary dignified interval before addressing the council. "wingenund has heard the delaware wise men and warriors. the white indian opens not his lips; his silence broods evil for the palefaces. pipe wants the blood of the white men; the shawnee chief demands the stake. wingenund says free the white father who harms no indian. wingenund hears no evil in the music of his voice. the white father's brother should die. kill the companion of deathwind!" a plaintive murmur, remarkable when coming from an assembly of stern-browed chiefs, ran round the circle at the mention of the dread appellation. "the white father is free," continued wingenund. "let one of my runners conduct him to the village of peace." a brave entered and touched jim on the shoulder. jim shook his head and pointed to joe. the runner touched joe. "no, no. i am not the missionary," cried joe, staring aghast at his brother. "jim, have you lost your senses?" jim sadly shook his head, and turning to wingenund made known in a broken indian dialect that his brother was the missionary, and would sacrifice himself, taking this opportunity to practice the christianity he had taught. "the white father is brave, but he is known," broke in wingenund's deep voice, while he pointed to the door of the lodge. "let him go back to his christian indians." the indian runner cut joe's bonds, and once more attempted to lead him from the lodge. rage and misery shown in the lad's face. he pushed the runner aside. he exhausted himself trying to explain, to think of indian words enough to show he was not the missionary. he even implored girty to speak for him. when the renegade sat there stolidly silent joe's rage burst out. "curse you all for a lot of ignorant redskins. i am not a missionary. i am deathwind's friend. i killed a delaware. i was the companion of le vent de la mort!" joe's passionate vehemence, and the truth that spoke from his flashing eyes compelled the respect, if not the absolute belief of the indians. the savages slowly shook their heads. they beheld the spectacle of two brothers, one a friend, the other an enemy of all indians, each willing to go to the stake, to suffer an awful agony, for love of the other. chivalrous deeds always stir an indian's heart. it was like a redman to die for his brother. the indifference, the contempt for death, won their admiration. "let the white father stand forth," sternly called wingenund. a hundred somber eyes turned on the prisoners. except that one wore a buckskin coat, the other a linsey one, there was no difference. the strong figures were the same, the white faces alike, the stern resolve in the gray eyes identical--they were twin brothers. wingenund once more paced before his silent chiefs. to deal rightly with this situation perplexed him. to kill both palefaces did not suit him. suddenly he thought of a way to decide. "let wingenund's daughter come," he ordered. a slight, girlish figure entered. it was whispering winds. her beautiful face glowed while she listened to her father. "wingenund's daughter has her mother's eyes, that were beautiful as a doe's, keen as a hawk's, far-seeing as an eagle's. let the delaware maiden show her blood. let her point out the white father." shyly but unhesitatingly whispering winds laid her hand jim's arm. "missionary, begone!" came the chieftain's command. "thank wingenund's daughter for your life, not the god of your christians!" he waved his hand to the runner. the brave grasped jim's arm. "good-by, joe," brokenly said jim. "old fellow, good-by," came the answer. they took one last, long look into each others' eyes. jim's glance betrayed his fear--he would never see his brother again. the light in joe's eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable spirit--while there was life there was hope. "let the shawnee chief paint his prisoner black," commanded wingenund. when the missionary left the lodge with the runner, whispering winds had smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but the dread command that followed paled her cheek. black paint meant hideous death. she saw this man so like the white father. her piteous gaze tried to turn from that white face; but the cold, steely eyes fascinated her. she had saved one only to be the other's doom! she had always been drawn toward white men. many prisoners had she rescued. she had even befriended her nation's bitter foe, deathwind. she had listened to the young missionary with rapture; she had been his savior. and now when she looked into the eyes of this young giant, whose fate had rested on her all unwitting words, she resolved to save him. she had been a shy, shrinking creature, fearing to lift her eyes to a paleface's, but now they were raised clear and steadfast. as she stepped toward the captive and took his hand, her whole person radiated with conscious pride in her power. it was the knowledge that she could save. when she kissed his hand, and knelt before him, she expressed a tender humility. she had claimed questionable right of an indian maiden; she asked what no indian dared refuse a chief's daughter; she took the paleface for her husband. her action was followed by an impressive silence. she remained kneeling. wingenund resumed his slow march to and fro. silvertip retired to his corner with gloomy face. the others bowed their heads as if the maiden's decree was irrevocable. once more the chieftain's sonorous command rang out. an old indian, wrinkled and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the lodge and waved his wampum wand. he mumbled strange words, and departed chanting a long song. whispering winds arose, a soft, radiant smile playing over her face, and, still holding joe's hand, she led him out of the lodge, through long rows of silent indians, down a land bordered by teepees, he following like one in a dream. he expected to awaken at any minute to see the stars shining through the leaves. yet he felt the warm, soft pressure of a little hand. surely this slender, graceful figure was real. she bade him enter a lodge of imposing proportions. still silent, in amazement and gratitude, he obeyed. the maiden turned to joe. though traces of pride still lingered, all her fire had vanished. her bosom rose with each quick-panting breath; her lips quivered, she trembled like a trapped doe. but at last the fluttering lashes rose. joe saw two velvety eyes dark with timid fear, yet veiling in their lustrous depths an unuttered hope and love. "whispering winds--save--paleface," she said, in a voice low and tremulous. "fear--father. fear--tell--wingenund--she--christian." * * * indian summer, that enchanted time, unfolded its golden, dreamy haze over the delaware village. the forests blazed with autumn fire, the meadows boomed in rich luxuriance. all day low down in the valleys hung a purple smoke which changed, as the cool evening shades crept out of the woodland, into a cloud of white mist. all day the asters along the brooks lifted golden-brown faces to the sun as if to catch the warning warmth of his smile. all day the plains and forests lay in melancholy repose. the sad swish of the west wind over the tall grass told that he was slowly dying away before his enemy, the north wind. the sound of dropping nuts was heard under the motionless trees. for joe the days were days of enchantment. his wild heart had found its mate. a willing captive he was now. all his fancy for other women, all his memories faded into love for his indian bride. whispering winds charmed the eye, mind, and heart. every day her beauty seemed renewed. she was as apt to learn as she was quick to turn her black-crowned head, but her supreme beauty was her loving, innocent soul. untainted as the clearest spring, it mirrored the purity and simplicity of her life. indian she might be, one of a race whose morals and manners were alien to the man she loved, yet she would have added honor to the proudest name. when whispering winds raised her dark eyes they showed radiant as a lone star; when she spoke low her voice made music. "beloved," she whispered one day to him, "teach the indian maiden more love for you, and truth, and god. whispering winds yearns to go to the christians, but she fears her stern father. wingenund would burn the village of peace. the indian tribes tremble before the thunder of his wrath. be patient, my chief. time changes the leaves, so it will the anger of the warriors. whispering winds will set you free, and be free herself to go far with you toward the rising sun, where dwell your people. she will love, and be constant, as the northern star. her love will be an eternal spring where blossoms bloom ever anew, and fresh, and sweet. she will love your people, and raise christian children, and sit ever in the door of your home praying for the west wind to blow. or, if my chief wills, we shall live the indian life, free as two eagles on their lonely crag." although joe gave himself up completely to his love for his bride, he did not forget that kate was in the power of the renegade, and that he must rescue her. knowing girty had the unfortunate girls somewhere near the delaware encampment, he resolved to find the place. plans of all kinds he resolved in his mind. the best one he believed lay through whispering winds. first to find the whereabouts of girty; kill him if possible, or at least free kate, and then get away with her and his indian bride. sanguine as he invariably was, he could not but realize the peril of this undertaking. if whispering winds betrayed her people, it meant death to her as well as to him. he would far rather spend the remaining days of his life in the indian village, than doom the maiden whose love had saved him. yet he thought he might succeed in getting away with her, and planned to that end. his natural spirit, daring, reckless, had gained while he was associated with wetzel. meanwhile he mingled freely with the indians, and here, as elsewhere, his winning personality, combined with his athletic prowess, soon made him well liked. he was even on friendly terms with pipe. the swarthy war chief liked joe because, despite the animosity he had aroused in some former lovers of whispering winds, he actually played jokes on them. in fact, joe's pranks raised many a storm; but the young braves who had been suitors for wingenund's lovely daughter, feared the muscular paleface, and the tribe's ridicule more; so he continued his trickery unmolested. joe's idea was to lead the savages to believe he was thoroughly happy in his new life, and so he was, but it suited him better to be free. he succeeded in misleading the savages. at first he was closely watched, the the vigilance relaxed, and finally ceased. this last circumstance was owing, no doubt, to a ferment of excitement that had suddenly possessed the delawares. council after council was held in the big lodge. the encampment was visited by runner after runner. some important crisis was pending. joe could not learn what it all meant, and the fact that whispering winds suddenly lost her gladsome spirit and became sad caused him further anxiety. when he asked her the reason for her unhappiness, she was silent. moreover, he was surprised to learn, when he questioned her upon the subject of their fleeing together, that she was eager to go immediately. while all this mystery puzzled joe, it did not make any difference to him or in his plans. it rather favored the latter. he understood that the presence of simon girty and elliott, with several other renegades unknown to him, was significant of unrest among the indians. these presagers of evil were accustomed to go from village to village, exciting the savages to acts of war. peace meant the downfall and death of these men. they were busy all day and far into the night. often joe heard girty's hoarse voice lifted in the council lodge. pipe thundered incessantly for war. but joe could not learn against whom. elliott's suave, oily oratory exhorted the indians to vengeance. but joe could not guess upon whom. he was, however, destined to learn. the third day of the councils a horseman stopped before whispering winds' lodge, and called out. stepping to the door, joe saw a white man, whose dark, keen, handsome face seemed familiar. yet joe knew he had never seen this stalwart man. "a word with you," said the stranger. his tone was curt, authoritative, as that of a man used to power. "as many as you like. who are you?" "i am isaac zane. are you wetzel's companion, or the renegade deering?" "i am not a renegade any more than you are. i was rescued by the indian girl, who took me as her husband," said joe coldly. he was surprised, and did not know what to make of zane's manner. "good! i'm glad to meet you," instantly replied zane, his tone and expression changing. he extended his hand to joe. "i wanted to be sure. i never saw the renegade deering. he is here now. i am on my way to the wyandot town. i have been to fort henry, where my brother told me of you and the missionaries. when i arrived here i heard your story from simon girty. if you can, you must get away from here. if i dared i'd take you to the huron village, but it's impossible. go, while you have a chance." "zane, i thank you. i've suspected something was wrong. what is it?" "couldn't be worse," whispered zane, glancing round to see if they were overheard. "girty and elliott, backed by this deering, are growing jealous of the influence of christianity on the indians. they are plotting against the village of peace. tarhe, the huron chief, has been approached, and asked to join in a concerted movement against religion. seemingly it is not so much the missionaries as the converted indians, that the renegades are fuming over. they know if the christian savages are killed, the strength of the missionaries' hold will be forever broken. pipe is wild for blood. these renegades are slowly poisoning the minds of the few chiefs who are favorably disposed. the outlook is bad! bad!" "what can i do?" "cut out for yourself. get away, if you can, with a gun. take the creek below, follow the current down to the ohio, and then make east for fort henry. "but i want to rescue the white girl jim girty has concealed here somewhere." "impossible! don't attempt it unless you want to throw your life away. buzzard jim, as we call girty, is a butcher; he has probably murdered the girl." "i won't leave without trying. and there's my wife, the indian girl who saved me. zane, she's a christian. she wants to go with me. i can't leave her." "i am warning you, that's all. if i were you i'd never leave without a try to find the white girl, and i'd never forsake my indian bride. i've been through the same thing. you must be a good woodsman, or wetzel wouldn't have let you stay with him. pick out a favorable time and make the attempt. i suggest you make your indian girl show you where girty is. she knows, but is afraid to tell you, for she fears girty. get your dog and horse from the shawnee. that's a fine horse. he can carry you both to safety. take him away from silvertip." "how?" "go right up and demand your horse and dog. most of these delawares are honest, for all their blood-shedding and cruelty. with them might is right. the delawares won't try to get your horse for you; but they'll stick to you when you assert your rights. they don't like the shawnee, anyhow. if silvertip refuses to give you the horse, grab him before he can draw a weapon, and beat him good. you're big enough to do it. the delawares will be tickled to see you pound him. he's thick with girty; that's why he lays round here. take my word, it's the best way. do it openly, and no one will interfere." "by heavens, zane, i'll give him a drubbing. i owe him one, and am itching to get hold of him." "i must go now. i shall send a wyandot runner to your brother at the village. they shall be warned. good-by. good luck. may we meet again." joe watched zane ride swiftly down the land and disappear in the shrubbery. whispering winds came to the door of the lodge. she looked anxiously at him. he went within, drawing her along with him, and quickly informed her that he had learned the cause of the council, that he had resolved to get away, and she must find out girty's hiding place. whispering winds threw herself into his arms, declaring with an energy and passion unusual to her, that she would risk anything for him. she informed joe that she knew the direction from which girty always returned to the village. no doubt she could find his retreat. with a cunning that showed her indian nature, she suggested a plan which joe at once saw was excellent. after joe got his horse, she would ride around the village, then off into the woods, where she could leave the horse and return to say he had run away from her. as was their custom during afternoons, they would walk leisurely along the brook, and, trusting to the excitement created by the councils, get away unobserved. find the horse, if possible rescue the prisoner, and then travel east with all speed. joe left the lodge at once to begin the working out of the plan. luck favored him at the outset, for he met silvertip before the council lodge. the shawnee was leading lance, and the dog followed at his heels. the spirit of mose had been broken. poor dog, joe thought, he had been beaten until he was afraid to wag his tail at his old master. joe's resentment blazed into fury, but he kept cool outwardly. right before a crowd of indians waiting for the council to begin, joe planted himself in front of the shawnee, barring his way. "silvertip has the paleface's horse and dog," said joe, in a loud voice. the chief stared haughtily while the other indians sauntered nearer. they all knew how the shawnee had got the animals, and now awaited the outcome of the white man's challenge. "paleface--heap--liar," growled the indian. his dark eyes glowed craftily, while his hand dropped, apparently in careless habit, to the haft of his tomahawk. joe swung his long arm; his big fist caught the shawnee on the jaw, sending him to the ground. uttering a frightful yell, silvertip drew his weapon and attempted to rise, but the moment's delay in seizing the hatchet, was fatal to his design. joe was upon him with tigerlike suddenness. one kick sent the tomahawk spinning, another landed the shawnee again on the ground. blind with rage, silvertip leaped up, and without a weapon rushed at his antagonist; but the indian was not a boxer, and he failed to get his hands on joe. shifty and elusive, the lad dodged around the struggling savage. one, two, three hard blows staggered silvertip, and a fourth, delivered with the force of joe's powerful arm, caught the indian when he was off his balance, and felled him, battered and bloody, on the grass. the surrounding indians looked down at the vanquished shawnee, expressing their approval in characteristic grunts. with lance prancing proudly, and mose leaping lovingly beside him, joe walked back to his lodge. whispering winds sprang to meet him with joyful face. she had feared the outcome of trouble with the shawnee, but no queen ever bestowed upon returning victorious lord a loftier look of pride, a sweeter glance of love, than the indian maiden bent upon her lover. whispering winds informed joe that an important council was to be held that afternoon. it would be wise for them to make the attempt to get away immediately after the convening of the chiefs. accordingly she got upon lance and rode him up and down the village lane, much to the pleasure of the watching indians. she scattered the idle crowds on the grass plots, she dashed through the side streets, and let every one in the encampment see her clinging to the black stallion. then she rode him out along the creek. accustomed to her imperious will, the indians thought nothing unusual. when she returned an hour later, with flying hair and disheveled costume, no one paid particular attention to her. that afternoon joe and his bride were the favored of fortune. with mose running before them, they got clear of the encampment and into the woods. once in the forest whispering winds rapidly led the way east. when they climbed to the top of a rocky ridge she pointed down into a thicket before her, saying that somewhere in this dense hollow was girty's hut. joe hesitated about taking mose. he wanted the dog, but in case he had to run it was necessary whispering winds should find his trail, and for this he left the dog with her. he started down the ridge, and had not gone a hundred paces when over some gray boulders he saw the thatched roof of a hut. so wild and secluded was the spot, that he would never have discovered the cabin from any other point than this, which he had been so fortunate as to find. his study and practice under wetzel now stood him in good stead. he picked out the best path over the rough stones and through the brambles, always keeping under cover. he stepped as carefully as if the hunter was behind him. soon he reached level ground. a dense laurel thicket hid the cabin, but he knew the direction in which it lay. throwing himself flat on the ground, he wormed his way through the thicket, carefully, yet swiftly, because he knew there was no time to lose. finally the rear of the cabin stood in front of him. it was made of logs, rudely hewn, and as rudely thrown together. in several places clay had fallen from chinks between the timbers, leaving small holes. like a snake joe slipped close to the hut. raising his head he looked through one of the cracks. instantly he shrank back into the grass, shivering with horror. he almost choked in his attempt to prevent an outcry. chapter xviii. the sight which joe had seen horrified him, for several moments, into helpless inaction. he lay breathing heavily, impotent, in an awful rage. as he remained there stunned by the shock, he gazed up through the open space in the leaves, trying to still his fury, to realize the situation, to make no hasty move. the soft blue of the sky, the fleecy clouds drifting eastward, the fluttering leaves and the twittering birds--all assured him he was wide awake. he had found girty's den where so many white women had been hidden, to see friends and home no more. he had seen the renegade sleeping, calmly sleeping like any other man. how could the wretch sleep! he had seen kate. it had been the sight of her that had paralyzed him. to make a certainty of his fears, he again raised himself to peep into the hole. as he did so a faint cry came from within. girty lay on a buffalo robe near a barred door. beyond him sat kate, huddled in one corner of the cabin. a long buckskin thong was knotted round her waist, and tied to a log. her hair was matted and tangled, and on her face and arms were many discolored bruises. worse still, in her plaintive moaning, in the meaningless movement of her head, in her vacant expression, was proof that her mind had gone. she was mad. even as an agonizing pity came over joe, to be followed by the surging fire of rage, blazing up in his breast, he could not but thank god that she was mad! it was merciful that kate was no longer conscious of her suffering. like leaves in a storm wavered joe's hands as he clenched them until the nails brought blood. "be calm, be cool," whispered his monitor, wetzel, ever with him in spirit. but god! could he be cool? bounding with lion-spring he hurled his heavy frame against the door. crash! the door was burst from its fastenings. girty leaped up with startled yell, drawing his knife as he rose. it had not time to descend before joe's second spring, more fierce even than the other, carried him directly on top of the renegade. as the two went down joe caught the villain's wrist with a grip that literally cracked the bones. the knife fell and rolled away from the struggling men. for an instant they tumbled about on the floor, clasped in a crushing embrace. the renegade was strong, supple, slippery as an eel. twice he wriggled from his foe. gnashing his teeth, he fought like a hyena. he was fighting for life--life, which is never so dear as to a coward and a murderer. doom glared from joe's big eyes, and scream after scream issued from the renegade's white lips. terrible was this struggle, but brief. joe seemingly had the strength of ten men. twice he pulled girty down as a wolf drags a deer. he dashed him against the wall, throwing him nearing and nearer the knife. once within reach of the blade joe struck the renegade a severe blow on the temple and the villain's wrestling became weaker. planting his heavy knee on girty's breast, joe reached for the knife, and swung it high. exultantly he cried, mad with lust for the brute's blood. but the slight delay saved girty's life. the knife was knocked from joe's hand and he leaped erect to find himself confronted by silvertip. the chief held a tomahawk with which he had struck the weapon from the young man's grasp, and, to judge from his burning eyes and malignant smile, he meant to brain the now defenseless paleface. in a single fleeting instant joe saw that girty was helpless for the moment, that silvertip was confident of his revenge, and that the situation called for wetzel's characteristic advice, "act like lightnin'." swifter than the thought was the leap he made past silvertip. it carried him to a wooden bar which lay on the floor. escape was easy, for the door was before him and the shawnee behind, but joe did not flee! he seized the bar and rushed at the indian. then began a duel in which the savage's quickness and cunning matched the white man's strength and fury. silvertip dodged the vicious swings joe aimed at him; he parried many blows, any one of which would have crushed his skull. nimble as a cat, he avoided every rush, while his dark eyes watched for an opening. he fought wholly on the defensive, craftily reserving his strength until his opponent should tire. at last, catching the bar on his hatchet, he broke the force of the blow, and then, with agile movement, dropped to the ground and grappled joe's legs. long before this he had drawn his knife, and now he used it, plunging the blade into the young man's side. cunning and successful as was the savage's ruse, it failed signally, for to get hold of the shawnee was all joe wanted. feeling the sharp pain as they fell together, he reached his hand behind him and caught silvertip's wrist. exerting all his power, he wrenched the indian's arm so that it was not only dislocated, but the bones cracked. silvertip saw his fatal mistake, but he uttered no sound. crippled, though he was, he yet made a supreme effort, but it was as if he had been in the hands of a giant. the lad handled him with remorseless and resistless fury. suddenly he grasped the knife, which silvertip had been unable to hold with his crippled hand, and thrust it deeply into the indian's side. all silvertip's muscles relaxed as if a strong tension had been removed. slowly his legs straightened, his arms dropped, and from his side gushed a dark flood. a shadow crept over his face, not dark nor white, but just a shadow. his eyes lost their hate; they no longer saw the foe, they looked beyond with gloomy question, and then were fixed cold in death. silvertip died as he had lived--a chief. joe glared round for girty. he was gone, having slipped away during the fight. the lad turned to release the poor prisoner, when he started back with a cry of fear. kate lay bathed in a pool of blood--dead. the renegade, fearing she might be rescued, had murdered her, and then fled from the cabin. almost blinded by horror, and staggering with weakness, joe turned to leave the cabin. realizing that he was seriously, perhaps dangerously, wounded he wisely thought he must not leave the place without weapons. he had marked the pegs where the renegade's rifle hung, and had been careful to keep between that and his enemies. he took down the gun and horns, which were attached to it, and, with one last shuddering glance at poor kate, left the place. he was conscious of a queer lightness in his head, but he suffered no pain. his garments were dripping with blood. he did not know how much of it was his, or the indian's. instinct rather than sight was his guide. he grew weaker and weaker; his head began to whirl, yet he kept on, knowing that life and freedom were his if he found whispering winds. he gained the top of the ridge; his eyes were blurred, his strength gone. he called aloud, and then plunged forward on his face. he heard dimly, as though the sound were afar off, the whine of a dog. he felt something soft and wet on his face. then consciousness left him. when he regained his senses he was lying on a bed of ferns under a projecting rock. he heard the gurgle of running water mingling with the song of birds. near him lay mose, and beyond rose a wall of green thicket. neither whispering winds nor his horse was visible. he felt a dreamy lassitude. he was tired, but had no pain. finding he could move without difficulty, he concluded his weakness was more from loss of blood than a dangerous wound. he put his hand on the place where he had been stabbed, and felt a soft, warm compress such as might have been made by a bunch of wet leaves. some one had unlaced his hunting-shirt--for he saw the strings were not as he usually tied them--and had dressed the wound. joe decided, after some deliberation, that whispering winds had found him, made him as comfortable as possible, and, leaving mose on guard, had gone out to hunt for food, or perhaps back to the indian encampment. the rifle and horns he had taken from girty's hut, together with silvertip's knife, lay beside him. as joe lay there hoping for whispering winds' return, his reflections were not pleasant. fortunate, indeed, he was to be alive; but he had no hope he could continue to be favored by fortune. odds were now against his escape. girty would have the delawares on his trail like a pack of hungry wolves. he could not understand the absence of whispering winds. she would have died sooner than desert him. girty had, perhaps, captured her, and was now scouring the woods for him. "i'll get him next time, or he'll get me," muttered joe, in bitter wrath. he could never forgive himself for his failure to kill the renegade. the recollection of how nearly he had forever ended girty's brutal career brought before joe's mind the scene of the fight. he saw again buzzard jim's face, revolting, unlike anything human. there stretched silvertip's dark figure, lying still and stark, and there was kate's white form in its winding, crimson wreath of blood. hauntingly her face returned, sad, stern in its cold rigidity. "poor girl, better for her to be dead," he murmured. "not long will she be unavenged!" his thoughts drifted to the future. he had no fear of starvation, for mose could catch a rabbit or woodchuck at any time. when the strips of meat he had hidden in his coat were gone, he could start a fire and roast more. what concerned him most was pursuit. his trail from the cabin had been a bloody one, which would render it easily followed. he dared not risk exertion until he had given his wound time to heal. then, if he did escape from girty and the delawares, his future was not bright. his experiences of the last few days had not only sobered, but brought home to him this real border life. with all his fire and daring he new he was no fool. he had eagerly embraced a career which, at the present stage of his training, was beyond his scope--not that he did not know how to act in sudden crises, but because he had not had the necessary practice to quickly and surely use his knowledge. bitter, indeed, was his self-scorn when he recalled that of the several critical positions he had been in since his acquaintance with wetzel, he had failed in all but one. the exception was the killing of silvertip. here his fury had made him fight as wetzel fought with only his every day incentive. he realized that the border was no place for any save the boldest and most experienced hunters--men who had become inured to hardship, callous as to death, keen as indians. fear was not in joe nor lack of confidence; but he had good sense, and realized he would have done a wiser thing had he stayed at fort henry. colonel zane was right. the indians were tigers, the renegades vultures, the vast untrammeled forests and plains their covert. ten years of war had rendered this wilderness a place where those few white men who had survived were hardened to the spilling of blood, stern even in those few quiet hours which peril allowed them, strong in their sacrifice of all for future generations. a low growl from mose broke into joe's reflections. the dog had raised his nose from his paws and sniffed suspiciously at the air. the lad heard a slight rustling outside, and in another moment was overjoyed at seeing whispering winds. she came swiftly, with a lithe, graceful motion, and flying to him like a rush of wind, knelt beside him. she kissed him and murmured words of endearment. "winds, where have you been?" he asked her, in the mixed english and indian dialect in which they conversed. she told him the dog had led her to him two evenings before. he was insensible. she had bathed and bandaged his wound, and remained with him all that night. the next day, finding he was ill and delirious, she decided to risk returning to the village. if any questions arose, she could say he had left her. then she would find a way to get back to him, bringing healing herbs for his wound and a soothing drink. as it turned out girty had returned to the camp. he was battered and bruised, and in a white heat of passion. going at once to wingenund, the renegade openly accused whispering winds of aiding her paleface lover to escape. wingenund called his daughter before him, and questioned her. she confessed all to her father. "why is the daughter of wingenund a traitor to her race?" demanded the chief. "whispering winds is a christian." wingenund received this intelligence as a blow. he dismissed girty and sent his braves from his lodge, facing his daughter alone. gloomy and stern, he paced before her. "wingenund's blood might change, but would never betray. wingenund is the delaware chief," he said. "go. darken no more the door of wingenund's wigwam. let the flower of the delawares fade in alien pastures. go. whispering winds is free!" tears shone brightly in the indian girl's eyes while she told joe her story. she loved her father, and she would see him no more. "winds is free," she whispered. "when strength returns to her master she can follow him to the white villages. winds will live her life for him." "then we have no one to fear?" asked joe. "no redman, now that the shawnee chief is dead." "will girty follow us? he is a coward; he will fear to come alone." "the white savage is a snake in the grass." two long days followed, during which the lovers lay quietly in hiding. on the morning of the third day joe felt that he might risk the start for the village of peace. whispering winds led the horse below a stone upon which the invalid stood, thus enabling him to mount. then she got on behind him. the sun was just gilding the horizon when they rode out of the woods into a wide plain. no living thing could be seen. along the edge of the forest the ground was level, and the horse traveled easily. several times during the morning joe dismounted beside a pile of stones or a fallen tree. the miles were traversed without serious inconvenience to the invalid, except that he grew tired. toward the middle of the afternoon, when they had ridden perhaps twenty-five miles, they crossed a swift, narrow brook. the water was a beautiful clear brown. joe made note of this, as it was an unusual circumstance. nearly all the streams, when not flooded, were green in color. he remembered that during his wanderings with wetzel they had found one stream of this brown, copper-colored water. the lad knew he must take a roundabout way to the village so that he might avoid indian runners or scouts, and he hoped this stream would prove to be the one he had once camped upon. as they were riding toward a gentle swell or knoll covered with trees and shrubbery, whispering winds felt something warm on her hand, and, looking, was horrified to find it covered with blood. joe's wound had opened. she told him they must dismount here, and remain until he was stronger. the invalid himself thought this conclusion was wise. they would be practically safe now, since they must be out of the indian path, and many miles from the encampment. accordingly he got off the horse, and sat down on a log, while whispering winds searched for a suitable place in which to erect a temporary shelter. joe's wandering gaze was arrested by a tree with a huge knotty formation near the ground. it was like many trees, but this peculiarity was not what struck joe. he had seen it before. he never forgot anything in the woods that once attracted his attention. he looked around on all sides. just behind him was an opening in the clump of trees. within this was a perpendicular stone covered with moss and lichens; above it a beech tree spread long, graceful branches. he thrilled with the remembrance these familiar marks brought. this was beautiful spring, the place where wetzel rescued nell, where he had killed the indians in that night attack he would never forget. chapter xix. one evening a week or more after the disappearance of jim and the girls, george young and david edwards, the missionaries, sat on the cabin steps, gazing disconsolately upon the forest scenery. hard as had been the ten years of their labor among the indians, nothing had shaken them as the loss of their young friends. "dave, i tell you your theory about seeing them again is absurd," asserted george. "i'll never forget that wretch, girty, as he spoke to nell. why, she just wilted like a flower blasted by fire. i can't understand why he let me go, and kept jim, unless the shawnee had something to do with it. i never wished until now that i was a hunter. i'd go after girty. you've heard as well as i of his many atrocities. i'd rather have seen kate and nell dead than have them fall into his power. i'd rather have killed them myself!" young had aged perceptibly in these last few days. the blue veins showed at his temples; his face had become thinner and paler, his eyes had a look of pain. the former expression of patience, which had sat so well on him, was gone. "george, i can't account for my fancies or feelings, else, perhaps, i'd be easier in mind," answered dave. his face, too, showed the ravages of grief. "i've had queer thoughts lately, and dreams such as i never had before. perhaps it's this trouble which has made me so nervous. i don't seem able to pull myself together. i can neither preach nor work." "neither can i! this trouble has hit you as hard as it has me. but, dave, we've still our duty. to endure, to endure--that is our life. because a beam of sunshine brightened, for a brief time, the gray of our lives, and then faded away, we must not shirk nor grow sour and discontented." "but how cruel is this border life!" "nature itself is brutal." "yes, i know, and we have elected to spend our lives here in the midst of this ceaseless strife, to fare poorly, to have no pleasure, never to feel the comfort of a woman's smiles, nor the joy of a child's caress, all because out in the woods are ten or twenty or a hundred savages we may convert." "that is why, and it is enough. it is hard to give up the women you love to a black-souled renegade, but that is not for my thought. what kills me is the horror for her--for her." "i, too, suffer with that thought; more than that, i am morbid and depressed. i feel as if some calamity awaited us here. i have never been superstitious, nor have i had presentiments, but of late there are strange fears in my mind." at this juncture mr. wells and heckewelder came out of the adjoining cabin. "i had word from a trustworthy runner to-day. girty and his captives have not been seen in the delaware towns," said heckewelder. "it is most unlikely that he will take them to the towns," replied edwards. "what do you make of his capturing jim?" "for pipe, perhaps. the delaware wolf is snapping his teeth. pipe is particularly opposed to christianity, and--what's that?" a low whistle from the bushes near the creek bank attracted the attention of all. the younger men got up to investigate, but heckewelder detained them. "wait," he added. "there is no telling what that signal may mean." they waited with breathless interest. presently the whistle was repeated, and an instant later the tall figure of a man stepped from behind a thicket. he was a white man, but not recognizable at that distance, even if a friend. the stranger waved his hand as if asking them to be cautious, and come to him. they went toward the thicket, and when within a few paces of the man mr. wells exclaimed: "it's the man who guided my party to the village. it is wetzel!" the other missionaries had never seen the hunter though, of course, they were familiar with his name, and looked at him with great curiosity. the hunter's buckskin garments were wet, torn, and covered with burrs. dark spots, evidently blood stains, showed on his hunting-shirt. "wetzel?" interrogated heckewelder. the hunter nodded, and took a step behind the bush. bending over he lifted something from the ground. it was a girl. it was nell! she was very white--but alive. a faint, glad smile lighted up her features. not a word was spoken. with an expression of tender compassion mr. wells received her into his arms. the four missionaries turned fearful, questioning eyes upon the hunter, but they could not speak. "she's well, an' unharmed," said wetzel, reading their thoughts, "only worn out. i've carried her these ten miles." "god bless you, wetzel!" exclaimed the old missionary. "nellie, nellie, can you speak?" "uncle dear--i'm--all right," came the faint answer. "kate? what--of her?" whispered george young with lips as dry as corn husks. "i did my best," said the hunter with a simple dignity. nothing but the agonized appeal in the young man's eyes could have made wetzel speak of his achievement. "tell us," broke in heckewelder, seeing that fear had stricken george dumb. "we trailed 'em an' got away with the golden-haired lass. the last i saw of joe he was braced up agin a rock fightin' like a wildcat. i tried to cut jim loose as i was goin' by. i s'pect the wust fer the brothers an' the other lass." "can we do nothing?" asked mr. wells. "nothin'!" "wetzel, has the capturing of james downs any significance to you?" inquired heckewelder. "i reckon so." "what?" "pipe an' his white-redskin allies are agin christianity." "do you think we are in danger?" "i reckon so." "what do you advise?" "pack up a few of your traps, take the lass, an' come with me. i'll see you back in fort henry." heckewelder nervously walked up to the tree and back again. young and edwards looked blankly at one another. they both remembered edward's presentiment. mr. wells uttered an angry exclamation. "you ask us to fail in our duty? no, never! to go back to the white settlements and acknowledge we were afraid to continue teaching the gospel to the indians! you can not understand christianity if you advise that. you have no religion. you are a killer of indians." a shadow that might have been one of pain flitted over the hunter's face. "no, i ain't a christian, an' i am a killer of injuns," said wetzel, and his deep voice had a strange tremor. "i don't know nothin' much 'cept the woods an' fields, an' if there's a god fer me he's out thar under the trees an' grass. mr. wells, you're the first man as ever called me a coward, an' i overlook it because of your callin'. i advise you to go back to fort henry, because if you don't go now the chances are aginst your ever goin'. christianity or no christianity, such men as you hev no bisness in these woods." "i thank you for your advice, and bless you for your rescue of this child; but i can not leave my work, nor can i understand why all this good work we have done should be called useless. we have converted indians, saved their souls. is that not being of some use, of some good here?" "it's accordin' to how you look at it. now i know the bark of an oak is different accordin' to the side we see from. i'll allow, hatin' injuns as i do, is no reason you oughtn't to try an' convert 'em. but you're bringin' on a war. these injuns won't allow this village of peace here with its big fields of corn, an' shops an' workin' redskins. it's agin their nature. you're only sacrificin' your christian injuns." "what do you mean?" asked mr. wells, startled by wetzel's words. "enough. i'm ready to guide you to fort henry." "i'll never go." wetzel looked at the other men. no one would have doubted him. no one could have failed to see he knew that some terrible anger hovered over the village of peace. "i believe you, wetzel, but i can not go," said heckewelder, with white face. "i will stay," said george, steadily. "and i," said dave. wetzel nodded, and turned to depart when george grasped his arm. the young missionary's face was drawn and haggard; he fixed an intense gaze upon the hunter. "wetzel, listen;" his voice was low and shaken with deep feeling. "i am a teacher of god's word, and i am as earnest in that purpose as you are in your life-work. i shall die here; i shall fill an unmarked grave; but i shall have done the best i could. this is the life destiny has marked out for me, and i will live it as best i may; but in this moment, preacher as i am, i would give all i have or hope to have, all the little good i may have done, all my life, to be such a man as you. for i would avenge the woman i loved. to torture, to kill girty! i am only a poor, weak fellow who would be lost a mile from this village, and if not, would fall before the youngest brave. but you with your glorious strength, your incomparable woodcraft, you are the man to kill girty. rid the frontier of this fiend. kill him! wetzel, kill him! i beseech you for the sake of some sweet girl who even now may be on her way to this terrible country, and who may fall into girty's power--for her sake, wetzel, kill him. trail him like a bloodhound, and when you find him remember my broken heart, remember nell, remember, oh, god! remember poor kate!" young's voice broke into dry sobs. he had completely exhausted himself, so that he was forced to lean against the tree for support. wetzel spoke never a word. he stretched out his long, brawny arm and gripped the young missionary's shoulder. his fingers clasped hard. simple, without words as the action was, it could not have been more potent. and then, as he stood, the softer look faded slowly from his face. a ripple seemed to run over his features, which froze, as it subsided, into a cold, stone rigidity. his arm dropped; he stepped past the tree, and, bounding lightly as a deer, cleared the creek and disappeared in the bushes. mr. wells carried nell to his cabin where she lay for hours with wan face and listless languor. she swallowed the nourishing drink an old indian nurse forced between her teeth; she even smiled weakly when the missionaries spoke to her; but she said nothing nor seemed to rally from her terrible shock. a dark shadow lay always before her, conscious of nothing present, living over again her frightful experience. again she seemed sunk in dull apathy. "dave, we're going to loose nell. she's fading slowly," said george, one evening, several days after the girl's return. "wetzel said she was unharmed, yet she seems to have received a hurt more fatal than a physical one. it's her mind--her mind. if we cannot brighten her up to make her forget, she'll die." "we've done all within our power. if she could only be brought out of this trance! she lies there all day long with those staring eyes. i can't look into them. they are the eyes of a child who has seen murder." "we must try in some way to get her out of this stupor, and i have an idea. have you noticed that mr. wells has failed very much in the last few weeks?" "indeed i have, and i'm afraid he's breaking down. he has grown so thin, eats very little, and doesn't sleep. he is old, you know, and, despite his zeal, this border life is telling on him." "dave, i believe he knows it. poor, earnest old man! he never says a word about himself, yet he must know he is going down hill. well, we all begin, sooner or later, that descent which ends in the grave. i believe we might stir nellie by telling her mr. wells' health is breaking." "let us try." a hurried knock on the door interrupted their conversation. "come in," said edwards. the door opened to admit a man, who entered eagerly. "jim! jim!" exclaimed both missionaries, throwing themselves upon the newcomer. it was, indeed, jim, but no answering smile lighted his worn, distressed face while he wrung his friends' hands. "you're not hurt?" asked dave. "no, i'm uninjured." "tell us all. did you escape? did you see your brother? did you know wetzel rescued nell?" "wingenund set me free in spite of many demands for my death. he kept joe a prisoner, and intends to kill him, for the lad was wetzel's companion. i saw the hunter come into the glade where we camped, break through the line of fighting indians and carry nell off." "kate?" faltered young, with ashen face. "george, i wish to god i could tell you she is dead," answered jim, nervously pacing the room. "but she was well when i last saw her. she endured the hard journey better than either nell or i. girty did not carry her into the encampment, as silvertip did joe and me, but the renegade left us on the outskirts of the delaware town. there was a rocky ravine with dense undergrowth where he disappeared with his captive. i suppose he has his den somewhere in that ravine." george sank down and buried his face in his arms; neither movement nor sound betokened consciousness. "has wetzel come in with nell? joe said he had a cave where he might have taken her in case of illness or accident." "yes, he brought her back," answered edwards, slowly. "i want to see her," said jim, his haggard face expressing a keen anxiety. "she's not wounded? hurt? ill?" "no, nothing like that. it's a shock which she can't get over, can't forget." "i must see her," cried jim, moving toward the door. "don't go," replied dave, detaining him. "wait. we must see what's best to be done. wait till heckewelder comes. he'll be here soon. nell thinks you're dead, and the surprise might be bad for her." heckewelder came in at that moment, and shook hands warmly with jim. "the delaware runner told me you were here. i am overjoyed that wingenund freed you," said the missionary. "it is a most favorable sign. i have heard rumors from goshocking and sandusky that have worried me. this good news more than offsets the bad. i am sorry about your brother. are you well?" "well, but miserable. i want to see nell. dave tells me she is not exactly ill, but something is wrong with her. perhaps i ought not to see her just yet." "it'll be exactly the tonic for her," replied heckewelder. "she'll be surprised out of herself. she is morbid, apathetic, and, try as we may, we can't interest her. come at once." heckewelder had taken jim's arm and started for the door when he caught sight of young, sitting bowed and motionless. turning to jim he whispered: "kate?" "girty did not take her into the encampment," answered jim, in a low voice. "i hoped he would, because the indians are kind, but he didn't. he took her to his den." just then young raised his face. the despair in it would have melted a heart of stone. it had become the face of an old man. "if only you'd told me she had died," he said to jim, "i'd have been man enough to stand it, but--this--this kills me--i can't breathe!" he staggered into the adjoining room, where he flung himself upon a bed. "it's hard, and he won't be able to stand up under it, for he's not strong," whispered jim. heckewelder was a mild, pious man, in whom no one would ever expect strong passion; but now depths were stirred within his heart that had ever been tranquil. he became livid, and his face was distorted with rage. "it's bad enough to have these renegades plotting and working against our religion; to have them sow discontent, spread lies, make the indians think we have axes to grind, to plant the only obstacle in our path--all this is bad; but to doom an innocent white woman to worse than death! what can i call it!" "what can we do?" asked jim. "do? that's the worst of it. we can do nothing, nothing. we dare not move." "is there no hope of getting kate back?" "hope? none. that villain is surrounded by his savages. he'll lie low now for a while. i've heard of such deeds many a time, but it never before came so close home. kate wells was a pure, loving christian woman. she'll live an hour, a day, a week, perhaps, in that snake's clutches, and then she'll die. thank god!" "wetzel has gone on girty's trail. i know that from his manner when he left us," said edwards. "wetzel may avenge her, but he can never save her. it's too late. hello---" the exclamation was called forth by the appearance of young, who entered with a rifle in his hands. "george, where are you going with that gun?" asked edwards, grasping his friend by the arm. "i'm going after her," answered george wildly. he tottered as he spoke, but wrenched himself free from dave. "come, george, listen, listen to reason," interposed heckewelder, laying hold of young. "you are frantic with grief now. so are all of us. but calm yourself. why, man, you're a preacher, not a hunter. you'd be lost, you'd starve in the woods before getting half way to the indian town. this is terrible enough; don't make it worse by throwing your life away. think of us, your friends; think of your indian pupils who rely so much on you. think of the village of peace. we can pray, but we can't prevent these border crimes. with civilization, with the spread of christianity, they will pass away. bear up under this blow for the sake of your work. remember we alone can check such barbarity. but we must not fight. we must sacrifice all that men hold dear, for the sake of the future." he took the rifle away from george, and led him back into the little, dark room. closing the door he turned to jim and dave. "he is in a bad way, and we must carefully watch him for a few days." "think of george starting out to kill girty!" exclaimed dave. "i never fired a gun, but yet i'd go too." "so would we all, if we did as our hearts dictate," retorted heckewelder, turning fiercely upon dave as if stung. "man! we have a village full of christians to look after. what would become of them? i tell you we've all we can do here to outwit these border ruffians. simon girty is plotting our ruin. i heard it to-day from the delaware runner who is my friend. he is jealous of our influence, when all we desire is to save these poor indians. and, jim, girty has killed our happiness. can we ever recover from the misery brought upon us by poor kate's fate?" the missionary raised his hand as if to exhort some power above. "curse the girty's!" he exclaimed in a sudden burst of uncontrollable passion. "having conquered all other obstacles, must we fail because of wicked men of our own race? oh, curse them!" "come," he said, presently, in a voice which trembled with the effort he made to be calm. "we'll go in to nellie." the three men entered mr. wells' cabin. the old missionary, with bowed head and hands clasped behind his back, was pacing to and fro. he greeted jim with glad surprise. "we want nellie to see him," whispered heckewelder. "we think the surprise will do her good." "i trust it may," said mr. wells. "leave it to me." they followed heckewelder into an adjoining room. a torch flickered over the rude mantle-shelf, lighting up the room with fitful flare. it was a warm night, and the soft breeze coming in the window alternately paled and brightened the flame. jim saw nell lying on the bed. her eyes were closed, and her long, dark lashes seemed black against the marble paleness of her skin. "stand behind me," whispered heckewelder to jim. "nellie," he called softly, but only a faint flickering of her lashes answered him. "nellie, nellie," repeated heckewelder, his deep, strong voice thrilling. her eyes opened. they gazed at mr. wells on one side, at edwards standing at the foot of the bed, at heckewelder leaning over her, but there was no recognition or interest in her look. "nellie, can you understand me?" asked heckewelder, putting into his voice all the power and intensity of feeling of which he was capable. an almost imperceptible shadow of understanding shone in her eyes. "listen. you have had a terrible shock, and it has affected your mind. you are mistaken in what you think, what you dream of all the time. do you understand? you are wrong!" nell's eyes quickened with a puzzled, questioning doubt. the minister's magnetic, penetrating voice had pierced her dulled brain. "see, i have brought you jim!" heckewelder stepped aside as jim fell on his knees by the bed. he took her cold hands in his and bent over her. for the moment his voice failed. the doubt in nell's eyes changed to a wondrous gladness. it was like the rekindling of a smoldering fire. "jim?" she whispered. "yes, nellie, it's jim alive and well. it's jim come back to you." a soft flush stained her white face. she slipped her arm tenderly around his neck, and held her cheek close to his. "jim," she murmured. "nellie, don't you know me?" asked mr. wells, trembling, excited. this was the first word she had spoken in four days. "uncle!" she exclaimed, suddenly loosening her hold on jim, and sitting up in bed, then she gazed wildly at the others. "was it all a horrible dream?" mr. wells took her hand soothingly, but he did not attempt to answer her question. he looked helplessly at heckewelder, but that missionary was intently studying the expression on nell's face. "part of it was a dream," he answered,impressively. "then that horrible man did take us away?" "yes." "oh-h! but we're free now? this is my room. oh, tell me?" "yes, nellie, you're safe at home now." "tell--tell me," she cried, shudderingly, as she leaned close to jim and raised a white, imploring face to his. "where is kate?--oh! jim--say, say she wasn't left with girty?" "kate is dead," answered jim, quickly. he could not endure the horror in her eyes. he deliberately intended to lie, as had heckewelder. it was as if the tension of nell's nerves was suddenly relaxed. the relief from her worst fear was so great that her mind took in only the one impression. then, presently, a choking cry escaped her, to be followed by a paroxysm of sobs. chapter xx. early on the following day heckewelder, astride his horse, appeared at the door of edwards' cabin. "how is george?" he inquired of dave, when the latter had opened the door. "he had a bad night, but is sleeping now. i think he'll be all right after a time," answered dave. "that's well. nevertheless keep a watch on him for a few days." "i'll do so." "dave, i leave matters here to your good judgment. i'm off to goshocking to join zeisberger. affairs there demand our immediate attention, and we must make haste." "how long do you intend to be absent?" "a few days; possibly a week. in case of any unusual disturbance among the indians, the appearance of pipe and his tribe, or any of the opposing factions, send a fleet runner at once to warn me. most of my fears have been allayed by wingenund's attitude toward us. his freeing jim in face of the opposition of his chiefs is a sure sign of friendliness. more than once i have suspected that he was interested in christianity. his daughter, whispering winds, exhibited the same intense fervor in religion as has been manifested by all our converts. it may be that we have not appealed in vain to wingenund and his daughter; but their high position in the delaware tribe makes it impolitic for them to reveal a change of heart. if we could win over those two we'd have every chance to convert the whole tribe. well, as it is we must be thankful for wingenund's friendship. we have two powerful allies now. tarhe, the wyandot chieftain, remains neutral, to be sure, but that's almost as helpful as his friendship." "i, too, take a hopeful view of the situation," replied edwards. "we'll trust in providence, and do our best," said heckewelder, as he turned his horse. "good-by." "godspeed!" called edwards, as his chief rode away. the missionary resumed his work of getting breakfast. he remained in doors all that day, except for the few moments when he ran over to mr. wells' cabin to inquire regarding nell's condition. he was relieved to learn she was so much better that she had declared her intention of moving about the house. dave kept a close watch on young. he, himself, was suffering from the same blow which had prostrated his friend, but his physical strength and fortitude were such that he did not weaken. he was overjoyed to see that george rallied, and showed no further indications of breaking down. true it was, perhaps, that heckewelder's earnest prayer on behalf of the converted indians had sunk deeply into george's heart and thus kept it from breaking. no stronger plea could have been made than the allusion to those gentle, dependent christians. no one but a missionary could realize the sweetness, the simplicity, the faith, the eager hope for a good, true life which had been implanted in the hearts of these indians. to bear it in mind, to think of what he, as a missionary and teacher, was to them, relieved him of half his burden, and for strength to bear the remainder he went to god. for all worry there is a sovereign cure, for all suffering there is a healing balm; it is religious faith. happiness had suddenly flashed with a meteor-like radiance into young's life only to be snuffed out like a candle in a windy gloom, but his work, his duty remained. so in his trial he learned the necessity of resignation. he chaffed no more at the mysterious, seemingly brutal methods of nature; he questioned no more. he wondered no more at the apparent indifference of providence. he had one hope, which was to be true to his faith, and teach it to the end. nell mastered her grief by an astonishing reserve of strength. undoubtedly it was that marvelously merciful power which enables a person, for the love of others, to bear up under a cross, or even to fight death himself. as young had his bright-eyed indian boys and girls, who had learned christianity from him, and whose future depended on him, so nell had her aged and weakening uncle to care for and cherish. jim's attentions to her before the deep affliction had not been slight, but now they were so marked as to be unmistakable. in some way jim seemed changed since he had returned from the delaware encampment. although he went back to the work with his old aggressiveness, he was not nearly so successful as he had been before. whether or not this was his fault, he took his failure deeply to heart. there was that in his tenderness which caused nell to regard him, in one sense, as she did her uncle. jim, too, leaned upon her, and she accepted his devotion where once she had repelled it. she had unconsciously betrayed a great deal when she had turned so tenderly to him in the first moments after her recognition, and he remembered it. he did not speak of love to her; he let a thousand little acts of kindness, a constant thoughtfulness of her plead his cause. the days succeeding heckewelder's departure were remarkable for several reasons. although the weather was enticing, the number of visiting indians gradually decreased. not a runner from any tribe came into the village, and finally the day dawned when not a single indian from the outlying towns was present to hear the preaching. jim spoke, as usual. after several days had passed and none but converted indians made up the congregation, the young man began to be uneasy in mind. young and edwards were unable to account for the unusual absence from worship, yet they did not see in it anything to cause especial concern. often there had been days without visitation to the village of peace. finally jim went to consult glickhican. he found the delaware at work in the potato patch. the old indian dropped his hoe and bowed to the missionary. a reverential and stately courtesy always characterized the attitude of the indians toward the young white father. "glickhican, can you tell me why no indians have come here lately?" the old chief shook his head. "does their absence signify ill to the village of peace?" "glickhican saw a blackbird flitting in the shadow of the moon. the bird hovered above the village of peace, but sang no song." the old delaware vouchsafed no other than this strange reply. jim returned to his cabin decidedly worried. he did not at all like glickhican's answer. the purport of it seemed to be that a cloud was rising on the bright horizon of the christian village. he confided his fears to young and edwards. after discussing the situation, the three missionaries decided to send for heckewelder. he was the leader of the mission; he knew more of indian craft than any of them, and how to meet it. if this calm in the heretofore busy life of the mission was the lull before a storm, heckewelder should be there with his experience and influence. "for nearly ten years heckewelder has anticipated trouble from hostile savages," said edwards, "but so far he has always averted it. as you know, he has confined himself mostly to propitiating the indians, and persuading them to be friendly, and listen to us. we'll send for him." accordingly they dispatched a runner to goshocking. in due time the indian returned with the startling news that heckewelder had left the indian village days before, as had, in fact, all the savages except the few converted ones. the same held true in the case of sandusky, the adjoining town. moreover, it had been impossible to obtain any news in regard to zeisberger. the missionaries were now thoroughly alarmed, and knew not what to do. they concealed the real state of affairs from nell and her uncle, desiring to keep them from anxiety as long as possible. that night the three teachers went to bed with heavy hearts. the following morning at daybreak, jim was awakened from a sound sleep by some one calling at his window. he got up to learn who it was, and, in the gray light, saw edwards standing outside. "what's the matter?" questioned jim, hurriedly. "matter enough. hurry. get into your clothes," replied edwards. "as soon as you are dressed, quietly awaken mr. wells and nellie, but do not frighten them." "but what's the trouble?" queried jim, as he began to dress. "the indians are pouring into the village as thickly as flying leaves in autumn." edwards' exaggerated assertion proved to be almost literally true. no sooner had the rising sun dispelled the mist, than it shone on long lines of marching braves, mounted warriors, hundreds of packhorses approaching from the forests. the orderly procession was proof of a concerted plan on the part of the invaders. from their windows the missionaries watched with bated breath; with wonder and fear they saw the long lines of dusky forms. when they were in the clearing the savages busied themselves with their packs. long rows of teepees sprung up as if by magic. the savages had come to stay! the number of incoming visitors did not lessen until noon, when a few straggling groups marked the end of the invading host. most significant of all was the fact that neither child, maiden, nor squaw accompanied this army. jim appraised the number at six or seven hundred, more than had ever before visited the village at one time. they were mostly delawares, with many shawnees, and a few hurons among them. it was soon evident, however, that for the present, at least, the indians did not intend any hostile demonstration. they were quiet in manner, and busy about their teepees and camp-fires, but there was an absence of the curiosity that had characterized the former sojourns of indians at the peaceful village. after a brief consultation with his brother missionaries, who all were opposed to his preaching that afternoon, jim decided he would not deviate from his usual custom. he held the afternoon service, and spoke to the largest congregation that had ever sat before him. he was surprised to find that the sermon, which heretofore so strongly impressed the savages, did not now arouse the slightest enthusiasm. it was followed by a brooding silence of a boding, ominous import. four white men, dressed in indian garb, had been the most attentive listeners to jim's sermon. he recognized three as simon girty, elliott and deering, the renegades, and he learned from edwards that the other was the notorious mckee. these men went through the village, stalking into the shops and cabins, and acting as do men who are on a tour of inspection. so intrusive was their curiosity that jim hurried back to mr. well's cabin and remained there in seclusion. of course, by this time nell and her uncle knew of the presence of the hostile savages. they were frightened, and barely regained their composure when the young man assured them he was certain they had no real cause for fear. jim was sitting at the doorstep with mr. wells and edwards when girty, with his comrades, came toward them. the renegade leader was a tall, athletic man, with a dark, strong face. there was in it none of the brutality and ferocity which marked his brother's visage. simon girty appeared keen, forceful, authoritative, as, indeed, he must have been to have attained the power he held in the confederated tribes. his companions presented wide contrasts. elliott was a small, spare man of cunning, vindictive aspect; mckee looked, as might have been supposed from his reputation, and deering was a fit mate for the absent girty. simon appeared to be a man of some intelligence, who had used all his power to make that position a great one. the other renegades were desperadoes. "where's heckewelder?" asked girty, curtly, as he stopped before the missionaries. "he started out for the indian towns on the muskingong," answered edwards. "but we have had no word from either him or zeisberger." "when d'ye expect him?" "i can't say. perhaps to-morrow, and then, again, maybe not for a week." "he is in authority here, ain't he?" "yes; but he left me in charge of the mission. can i serve you in any way?" "i reckon not," said the renegade, turning to his companions. they conversed in low tones for a moment. presently mckee, elliott and deering went toward the newly erected teepees. "girty, do you mean us any ill will?" earnestly asked edwards. he had met the man on more than one occasion, and had no hesitation about questioning him. "i can't say as i do," answered the renegade, and those who heard him believed him. "but i'm agin this redskin preachin', an' hev been all along. the injuns are mad clear through, an' i ain't sayin' i've tried to quiet 'em any. this missionary work has got to be stopped, one way or another. now what i waited here to say is this: i ain't quite forgot i was white once, an' believe you fellars are honest. i'm willin' to go outer my way to help you git away from here." "go away?" echoed edwards. "that's it," answered girty, shouldering his rifle. "but why? we are perfectly harmless; we are only doing good and hurt no one. why should we go?" "'cause there's liable to be trouble," said the renegade, significantly. edwards turned slowly to mr. wells and jim. the old missionary was trembling visibly. jim was pale; but more with anger than fear. "thank you, girty, but we'll stay," and jim's voice rang clear. chapter xxi. "jim, come out here," called edwards at the window of mr. wells' cabin. the young man arose from the breakfast table, and when outside found edwards standing by the door with an indian brave. he was a wyandot lightly built, lithe and wiry, easily recognizable as an indian runner. when jim appeared the man handed him a small packet. he unwound a few folds of some oily skin to find a square piece of birch bark, upon which were scratched the following words: "rev. j. downs. greeting. "your brother is alive and safe. whispering winds rescued him by taking him as her husband. leave the village of peace. pipe and half king have been influenced by girty. "zane." "now, what do you think of that?" exclaimed jim, handing the message to edwards. "thank heaven, joe was saved!" "zane? that must be the zane who married tarhe's daughter," answered edwards, when he had read the note. "i'm rejoiced to hear of your brother." "joe married to that beautiful indian maiden! well, of all wonderful things," mused jim. "what will nell say?" "we're getting warnings enough. do you appreciate that?" asked edwards. "'pipe and half king have been influenced by girty.' evidently the writer deemed that brief sentence of sufficient meaning." "edwards, we're preachers. we can't understand such things. i am learning, at least something every day. colonel zane advised us not to come here. wetzel said, 'go back to fort henry.' girty warned us, and now comes this peremptory order from isaac zane." "well?" "it means that these border men see what we will not admit. we ministers have such hope and trust in god that we can not realize the dangers of this life. i fear that our work has been in vain." "never. we have already saved many souls. do not be discouraged." all this time the runner had stood near at hand straight as an arrow. presently edwards suggested that the wyandot was waiting to be questioned, and accordingly he asked the indian if he had anything further to communicate. "huron--go by--paleface." here he held up both hands and shut his fists several times, evidently enumerating how many white men he had seen. "here--when--high--sun." with that he bounded lightly past them, and loped off with an even, swinging stride. "what did he mean?" asked jim, almost sure he had not heard the runner aright. "he meant that a party of white men are approaching, and will be here by noon. i never knew an indian runner to carry unreliable information. we have joyful news, both in regard to your brother, and the village of peace. let us go in to tell the others." the huron runner's report proved to be correct. shortly before noon signals from indian scouts proclaimed the approach of a band of white men. evidently girty's forces had knowledge beforehand of the proximity of this band, for the signals created no excitement. the indians expressed only a lazy curiosity. soon several delaware scouts appeared, escorting a large party of frontiersmen. these men turned out to be captain williamson's force, which had been out on an expedition after a marauding tribe of chippewas. this last named tribe had recently harried the remote settlers, and committed depredations on the outskirts of the white settlements eastward. the company was composed of men who had served in the garrison at fort pitt, and hunters and backwoodsmen from yellow creek and fort henry. the captain himself was a typical borderman, rough and bluff, hardened by long years of border life, and, like most pioneers, having no more use for an indian than for a snake. he had led his party after the marauders, and surprised and slaughtered nearly all of them. returning eastward he had passed through goshocking, where he learned of the muttering storm rising over the village of peace, and had come more out of curiosity than hope to avert misfortune. the advent of so many frontiersmen seemed a godsend to the perplexed and worried missionaries. they welcomed the newcomers most heartily. beds were made in several of the newly erected cabins; the village was given over for the comfort of the frontiersmen. edwards conducted captain williamson through the shops and schools, and the old borderman's weather-beaten face expressed a comical surprise. "wal, i'll be durned if i ever expected to see a redskin work," was his only comment on the industries. "we are greatly alarmed by the presence of girty and his followers," said edwards. "we have been warned to leave, but have not been actually threatened. what do you infer from the appearance here of these hostile savages?" "it hardly 'pears to me they'll bother you preachers. they're agin the christian redskins, that's plain." "why have we been warned to go?" "that's natural, seein' they're agin the preachin'." "what will they do with the converted indians?" "mighty onsartin. they might let them go back to the tribes, but 'pears to me these good injuns won't go. another thing, girty is afeered of the spread of christianity." "then you think our christians will be made prisoners?" "'pears likely." "and you, also, think we'd do well to leave here." "i do, sartin. we're startin' for fort henry soon. you'd better come along with us." "captain williamson, we're going to stick it out, girty or no girty." "you can't do no good stayin' here. pipe and half king won't stand for the singin', prayin' redskins, especially when they've got all these cattle and fields of grain." "wetzel said the same." "hev you seen wetzel?" "yes; he rescued a girl from jim girty, and returned her to us." "that so? i met wetzel and jack zane back a few miles in the woods. they're layin' for somebody, because when i asked them to come along they refused, sayin' they had work as must be done. they looked like it, too. i never hern tell of wetzel advisin' any one before; but i'll say if he told me to do a thing, by gosh! i'd do it." "as men, we might very well take the advice given us, but as preachers we must stay here to do all we can for these christian indians. one thing more: will you help us?" "i reckon i'll stay here to see the thing out," answered williamson. edwards made a mental note of the frontiersman's evasive answer. jim had, meanwhile, made the acquaintance of a young minister, john christy by name, who had lost his sweetheart in one of the chippewa raids, and had accompanied the williamson expedition in the hope he might rescue her. "how long have you been out?" asked jim. "about four weeks now," answered christy. "my betrothed was captured five weeks ago yesterday. i joined williamson's band, which made up at short creek to take the trail of the flying chippewas, in the hope i might find her. but not a trace! the expedition fell upon a band of redskins over on the walhonding, and killed nearly all of them. i learned from a wounded indian that a renegade had made off with a white girl about a week previous. perhaps it was poor lucy." jim related the circumstances of his own capture by jim girty, the rescue of nell, and kate's sad fate. "could jim girty have gotten your girl?" inquired jim, in conclusion. "it's fairly probable. the description doesn't tally with girty's. this renegade was short and heavy, and noted especially for his strength. of course, an indian would first speak of some such distinguishing feature. there are, however, ten or twelve renegades on the border, and, excepting jim girty, one's as bad as another." "then it's a common occurrence, this abducting girls from the settlements?" "yes, and the strange thing is that one never hears of such doings until he gets out on the frontier." "for that matter, you don't hear much of anything, except of the wonderful richness and promise of the western country." "you're right. rumors of fat, fertile lands induce the colonist to become a pioneer. he comes west with his family; two out of every ten lose their scalps, and in some places the average is much greater. the wives, daughters and children are carried off into captivity. i have been on the border two years, and know that the rescue of any captive, as wetzel rescued your friend, is a remarkable exception." "if you have so little hope of recovering your sweetheart, what then is your motive for accompanying this band of hunters?" "revenge!" "and you are a preacher?" jim's voice did not disguise his astonishment. "i was a preacher, and now i am thirsting for vengeance," answered christy, his face clouding darkly. "wait until you learn what frontier life means. you are young here yet; you are flushed with the success of your teaching; you have lived a short time in this quiet village, where, until the last few days, all has been serene. you know nothing of the strife, of the necessity of fighting, of the cruelty which makes up this border existence. only two years have hardened me so that i actually pant for the blood of the renegade who has robbed me. a frontiersman must take his choice of succumbing or cutting his way through flesh and bone. blood will be spilled; if not yours, then your foe's. the pioneers run from the plow to the fight; they halt in the cutting of corn to defend themselves, and in winter must battle against cold and hardship, which would be less cruel if there was time in summer to prepare for winter, for the savages leave them hardly an opportunity to plant crops. how many pioneers have given up, and gone back east? find me any who would not return home to-morrow, if they could. all that brings them out here is the chance for a home, and all that keeps them out here is the poor hope of finally attaining their object. always there is a possibility of future prosperity. but this generation, if it survives, will never see prosperity and happiness. what does this border life engender in a pioneer who holds his own in it? of all things, not christianity. he becomes a fighter, keen as the redskin who steals through the coverts." * * * the serene days of the village of peace had passed into history. soon that depraved vagabond, the french trader, with cheap trinkets and vile whisky, made his appearance. this was all that was needed to inflame the visitors. where they had been only bold and impudent, they became insulting and abusive. they execrated the christian indians for their neutrality; scorned them for worshiping this unknown god, and denounced a religion which made women of strong men. the slaughtering of cattle commenced; the despoiling of maize fields, and robbing of corn-cribs began with the drunkenness. all this time it was seen that girty and elliott consulted often with pipe and half king. the latter was the only huron chief opposed to neutrality toward the village of peace, and he was, if possible, more fierce in his hatred than pipe. the future of the christian settlement rested with these two chiefs. girty and elliott, evidently, were the designing schemers, and they worked diligently on the passions of these simple-minded, but fierce, warlike chiefs. greatly to the relief of the distracted missionaries, heckewelder returned to the village. jaded and haggard, he presented a travel-worn appearance. he made the astonishing assertions that he had been thrice waylaid and assaulted on his way to goshocking; then detained by a roving band of chippewas, and soon after his arrival at their camping ground a renegade had run off with a white woman captive, while the indians west of the village were in an uproar. zeisberger, however, was safe in the moravian town of salem, some miles west of goshocking. heckewelder had expected to find the same condition of affairs as existed in the village of peace; but he was bewildered by the great array of hostile indians. chiefs who had once extended friendly hands to him, now drew back coldly, as they said: "washington is dead. the american armies are cut to pieces. the few thousands who had escaped the british are collecting at fort pitt to steal the indian's land." heckewelder vigorously denied all these assertions, knowing they had been invented by girty and elliott. he exhausted all his skill and patience in the vain endeavor to show pipe where he was wrong. half king had been so well coached by the renegades that he refused to listen. the other chiefs maintained a cold reserve that was baffling and exasperating. wingenund took no active part in the councils; but his presence apparently denoted that he had sided with the others. the outlook was altogether discouraging. "i'm completely fagged out," declared heckewelder, that night when he returned to edwards' cabin. he dropped into a chair as one whose strength is entirely spent, whose indomitable spirit has at last been broken. "lie down to rest," said edwards. "oh, i can't. matters look so black." "you're tired out and discouraged. you'll feel better to-morrow. the situation is not, perhaps, so hopeless. the presence of these frontiersmen should encourage us." "what will they do? what can they do?" cried heckewelder, bitterly. "i tell you never before have i encountered such gloomy, stony indians. it seems to me that they are in no vacillating state. they act like men whose course is already decided upon, and who are only waiting." "for what?" asked jim, after a long silence. "god only knows! perhaps for a time; possibly for a final decision, and, it may be, for a reason, the very thought of which makes me faint." "tell us," said edwards, speaking quietly, for he had ever been the calmest of the missionaries. "never mind. perhaps it's only my nerves. i'm all unstrung, and could suspect anything to-night." "heckewelder, tell us?" jim asked, earnestly. "my friends, i pray i am wrong. god help us if my fears are correct. i believe the indians are waiting for jim girty." chapter xxii. simon girty lolled on a blanket in half king's teepee. he was alone, awaiting his allies. rings of white smoke curled lazily from his lips as he puffed on a long indian pipe, and gazed out over the clearing that contained the village of peace. still water has something in its placid surface significant of deep channels, of hidden depths; the dim outline of the forest is dark with meaning, suggestive of its wild internal character. so simon girty's hard, bronzed face betrayed the man. his degenerate brother's features were revolting; but his own were striking, and fell short of being handsome only because of their craggy hardness. years of revolt, of bitterness, of consciousness of wasted life, had graven their stern lines on that copper, masklike face. yet despite the cruelty there, the forbidding shade on it, as if a reflection from a dark soul, it was not wholly a bad countenance. traces still lingered, faintly, of a man in whom kindlier feelings had once predominated. in a moment of pique girty had deserted his military post at fort pitt, and become an outlaw of his own volition. previous to that time he had been an able soldier, and a good fellow. when he realized that his step was irrevocable, that even his best friends condemned him, he plunged, with anger and despair in his heart, into a war upon his own race. both of his brothers had long been border ruffians, whose only protection from the outraged pioneers lay in the faraway camps of hostile tribes. george girty had so sunk his individuality into the savage's that he was no longer a white man. jim girty stalked over the borderland with a bloody tomahawk, his long arm outstretched to clutch some unfortunate white woman, and with his hideous smile of death. both of these men were far lower than the worst savages, and it was almost wholly to their deeds of darkness that simon girty owed his infamous name. to-day white chief, as girty was called, awaited his men. a slight tremor of the ground caused him to turn his gaze. the huron chief, half king, resplendent in his magnificent array, had entered the teepee. he squatted in a corner, rested the bowl of his great pipe on his knee, and smoked in silence. the habitual frown of his black brow, like a shaded, overhanging cliff; the fire flashing from his eyes, as a shining light is reflected from a dark pool; his closely-shut, bulging jaw, all bespoke a nature, lofty in its indian pride and arrogance, but more cruel than death. another chief stalked into the teepee and seated himself. it was pipe. his countenance denoted none of the intelligence that made wingenund's face so noble; it was even coarser than half king's, and his eyes, resembling live coals in the dark; the long, cruel lines of his jaw; the thin, tightly-closed lips, which looked as if they could relax only to utter a savage command, expressed fierce cunning and brutality. "white chief is idle to-day," said half king, speaking in the indian tongue. "king, i am waiting. girty is slow, but sure," answered the renegade. "the eagle sails slowly round and round, up and up," replied half king, with majestic gestures, "until his eye sees all, until he knows his time; then he folds his wings and swoops down from the blue sky like the forked fire. so does white chief. but half king is impatient." "to-day decides the fate of the village of peace," answered girty, imperturbably. "ugh!" grunted pipe. half king vented his approval in the same meaning exclamation. an hour passed; the renegade smoked in silence; the chiefs did likewise. a horseman rode up to the door of the teepee, dismounted, and came in. it was elliott. he had been absent twenty hours. his buckskin suit showed the effect of hard riding through the thickets. "hullo, bill, any sign of jim?" was girty's greeting to his lieutenant. "nary. he's not been seen near the delaware camp. he's after that chap who married winds." "i thought so. jim's roundin' up a tenderfoot who will be a bad man to handle if he has half a chance. i saw as much the day he took his horse away from silver. he finally did fer the shawnee, an' almost put jim out. my brother oughtn't to give rein to personal revenge at a time like this." girty's face did not change, but his tone was one of annoyance. "jim said he'd be here to-day, didn't he?" "to-day is as long as we allowed to wait." "he'll come. where's jake and mac?" "they're here somewhere, drinkin' like fish, an' raisin' hell." two more renegades appeared at the door, and, entering the teepee, squatted down in indian fashion. the little wiry man with the wizened face was mckee; the other was the latest acquisition to the renegade force, jake deering, deserter, thief, murderer--everything that is bad. in appearance he was of medium height, but very heavily, compactly built, and evidently as strong as an ox. he had a tangled shock of red hair, a broad, bloated face; big, dull eyes, like the openings of empty furnaces, and an expression of beastliness. deering and mckee were intoxicated. "bad time fer drinkin'," said girty, with disapproval in his glance. "what's that ter you?" growled deering. "i'm here ter do your work, an' i reckon it'll be done better if i'm drunk." "don't git careless," replied girty, with that cool tone and dark look such as dangerous men use. "i'm only sayin' it's a bad time fer you, because if this bunch of frontiersmen happen to git onto you bein' the renegade that was with the chippewas an' got thet young feller's girl, there's liable to be trouble." "they ain't agoin' ter find out." "where is she?" "back there in the woods." "mebbe it's as well. now, don't git so drunk you'll blab all you know. we've lots of work to do without havin' to clean up williamson's bunch," rejoined girty. "bill, tie up the tent flaps an' we'll git to council." elliott arose to carry out the order, and had pulled in the deer-hide flaps, when one of them was jerked outward to disclose the befrilled person of jim girty. except for a discoloration over his eye, he appeared as usual. "ugh!" grunted pipe, who was glad to see his renegade friend. half king evinced the same feeling. "hullo," was simon girty's greeting. "'pears i'm on time fer the picnic," said jim girty, with his ghastly leer. bill elliott closed the flaps, after giving orders to the guard to prevent any indians from loitering near the teepee. "listen," said simon girty, speaking low in the delaware language. "the time is ripe. we have come here to break forever the influence of the white man's religion. our councils have been held; we shall drive away the missionaries, and burn the village of peace." he paused, leaning forward in his exceeding earnestness, with his bronzed face lined by swelling veins, his whole person made rigid by the murderous thought. then he hissed between his teeth: "what shall we do with these christian indians?" pipe raised his war-club, struck it upon the ground; then handed it to half king. half king took the club and repeated the action. both chiefs favored the death penalty. "feed 'em to ther buzzards," croaked jim girty. simon girty knitted his brow in thought. the question of what to do with the converted indians had long perplexed him. "no," said he; "let us drive away the missionaries, burn the village, and take the indians back to camp. we'll keep them there; they'll soon forget." "pipe does not want them," declared the delaware. "christian indians shall never sit round half king's fire," cried the huron. simon girty knew the crisis had come; that but few moments were left him to decide as to the disposition of the christians; and he thought seriously. certainly he did not want the christians murdered. however cruel his life, and great his misdeeds, he was still a man. if possible, he desired to burn the village and ruin the religious influence, but without shedding blood. yet, with all his power, he was handicapped, and that by the very chiefs most nearly under his control. he could not subdue this growing christian influence without the help of pipe and half king. to these savages a thing was either right or wrong. he had sown the seed of unrest and jealousy in the savage breasts, and the fruit was the decree of death. as far as these indians were concerned, this decision was unalterable. on the other hand, if he did not spread ruin over the village of peace, the missionaries would soon get such a grasp on the tribes that their hold would never be broken. he could not allow that, even if he was forced to sacrifice the missionaries along with their converts, for he saw in the growth of this religion his own downfall. the border must be hostile to the whites, or it could no longer be his home. to be sure, he had aided the british in the revolution, and could find a refuge among them; but this did not suit him. he became an outcast because of failure to win the military promotion which he had so much coveted. he had failed among his own people. he had won a great position in an alien race, and he loved his power. to sway men--indians, if not others--to his will; to avenge himself for the fancied wrong done him; to be great, had been his unrelenting purpose. he knew he must sacrifice the christians, or eventually lose his own power. he had no false ideas about the converted indians. he knew they were innocent; that they were a thousand times better off than the pagan indians; that they had never harmed him, nor would they ever do so; but if he allowed them to spread their religion there was an end of simon girty. his decision was characteristic of the man. he would sacrifice any one, or all, to retain his supremacy. he knew the fulfillment of the decree as laid down by pipe and half king would be known as his work. his name, infamous now, would have an additional horror, and ever be remembered by posterity in unspeakable loathing, in unsoftening wrath. he knew this, and deep down in his heart awoke a numbed chord of humanity that twinged with strange pain. what awful work he must sanction to keep his vaunted power! more bitter than all was the knowledge that to retain this hold over the indians he must commit a deed which, so far as the whites were concerned, would take away his great name, and brand him a coward. he briefly reviewed his stirring life. singularly fitted for a leader, in a few years he had risen to the most powerful position on the border. he wielded more influence than any chief. he had been opposed to the invasion of the pioneers, and this alone, without his sagacity or his generalship, would have given him control of many tribes. but hatred for his own people, coupled with unerring judgment, a remarkable ability to lead expeditions, and his invariable success, had raised him higher and higher until he stood alone. he was the most powerful man west of the alleghenies. his fame was such that the british had importuned him to help them, and had actually, in more than one instance, given him command over british subjects. all of which meant that he had a great, even though an infamous name. no matter what he was blamed for; no matter how many dastardly deeds had been committed by his depraved brothers and laid to his door, he knew he had never done a cowardly act. that which he had committed while he was drunk he considered as having been done by the liquor, and not by the man. he loved his power, and he loved his name. in all girty's eventful, ignoble life, neither the alienation from his people, the horror they ascribed to his power, nor the sacrifice of his life to stand high among the savage races, nor any of the cruel deeds committed while at war, hurt him a tithe as much as did this sanctioning the massacre of the christians. although he was a vengeful, unscrupulous, evil man, he had never acted the coward. half king waited long for girty to speak; since he remained silent, the wily huron suggested they take a vote on the question. "let us burn the village of peace, drive away the missionaries, and take the christians back to the delaware towns--all without spilling blood," said girty, determined to carry his point, if possible. "i say the same," added elliott, refusing the war-club held out to him by half king. "me, too," voted mckee, not so drunk but that he understood the lightninglike glance girty shot at him. "kill 'em all; kill everybody," cried deering in drunken glee. he took the club and pounded with it on the ground. pipe repeated his former performance, as also did half king, after which he handed the black, knotted symbol of death to jim girty. three had declared for saving the christians, and three for the death penalty. six pairs of burning eyes were fastened on the deaths-head. pipe and half king were coldly relentless; deering awoke to a brutal earnestness; mckee and elliott watched with bated breath. these men had formed themselves into a tribunal to decide on the life or death of many, and the situation, if not the greatest in their lives, certainly was one of vital importance. simon girty cursed all the fates. he dared not openly oppose the voting, and he could not, before those cruel but just chiefs, try to influence his brother's vote. as jim girty took the war-club, simon read in his brother's face the doom of the converted indians and he muttered to himself: "now tremble an' shrink, all you christians!" jim was not in a hurry. slowly he poised the war-club. he was playing as a cat plays with a mouse; he was glorying in his power. the silence was that of death. it signified the silence of death. the war-club descended with violence. "feed the christians to ther buzzards!" chapter xxiii. "i have been here before," said joe to whispering winds. "i remember that vine-covered stone. we crawled over it to get at girty and silvertip. there's the little knoll; here's the very spot where i was hit by a flying tomahawk. yes, and there's the spring. let me see, what did wetzel call this spot?" "beautiful spring," answered the indian girl. "that's it, and it's well named. what a lovely place!" nature had been lavish in the beautifying of this inclosed dell. it was about fifty yards wide, and nestled among little, wooded knolls and walls of gray, lichen-covered stone. though the sun shone brightly into the opening, and the rain had free access to the mossy ground, no stormy winds ever entered this well protected glade. joe reveled in the beauty of the scene, even while he was too weak to stand erect. he suffered no pain from his wound, although he had gradually grown dizzy, and felt as if the ground was rising before him. he was glad to lie upon the mossy ground in the little cavern under the cliff. upon examination his wound was found to have opened, and was bleeding. his hunting coat was saturated with blood. whispering winds washed the cut, and dressed it with cooling leaves. then she rebandaged it tightly with joe's linsey handkerchiefs, and while he rested comfortable she gathered bundles of ferns, carrying them to the little cavern. when she had a large quantity of these she sat down near joe, and began to weave the long stems into a kind of screen. the fern stalks were four feet long and half a foot wide; these she deftly laced together, making broad screens which would serve to ward off the night dews. this done, she next built a fireplace with flat stones. she found wild apples, plums and turnips on the knoll above the glade. then she cooked strips of meat which had been brought with them. lance grazed on the long grass just without the glade, and mose caught two rabbits. when darkness settled down whispering winds called the dog within the cavern, and hung the screens before the opening. several days passed. joe rested quietly, and began to recover strength. besides the work of preparing their meals, whispering winds had nothing to do save sit near the invalid and amuse or interest him so that he would not fret or grow impatient, while his wound was healing. they talked about their future prospects. after visiting the village of peace, they would go to fort henry, where joe could find employment. they dwelt upon the cabin they would build, and passed many happy moments planning a new home. joe's love of the wilderness had in no wise diminished; but a blow on his head from a heavy tomahawk, and a vicious stab in the back, had lessened his zeal so far that he understood it was not wise to sacrifice life for the pleasures of the pathless woods. he could have the last without the danger of being shot at from behind every tree. he reasoned that it would be best for him to take his wife to fort henry, there find employment, and devote his leisure time to roaming in the forest. "will the palefaces be kind to an indian who has learned to love them?" whispering winds asked wistfully of joe. "indeed they will," answered joe, and he told her the story of isaac zane; how he took his indian bride home; how her beauty and sweetness soon won all the white people's love. "it will be so with you, my wife." "whispering winds knows so little," she murmured. "why, you are learning every day, and even if such was not the case, you know enough for me." "whispering winds will be afraid; she fears a little to go." "i'll be glad when we can be on the move," said joe, with his old impatient desire for action. "how soon, winds, can we set off?" "as many days," answered the indian girl, holding up five fingers. "so long? i want to leave this place." "leave beautiful spring?" "yes, even this sweet place. it has a horror for me. i'll never forget the night i first saw that spring shining in the moonlight. it was right above the rock that i looked into the glade. the moon was reflected in the dark pool, and as i gazed into the shadowy depths of the dark water i suddenly felt an unaccountable terror; but i oughtn't to have the same feeling now. we are safe, are we not?" "we are safe," murmured whispering winds. "yet i have the same chill of fear whenever i look at the beautiful spring, and at night as i awake to hear the soft babble of running water, i freeze until my heart feels like cold lead. winds, i'm not a coward; but i can't help this feeling. perhaps, it's only the memory of that awful night with wetzel." "an indian feels so when he passes to his unmarked grave," answered winds, gazing solemnly at him. "whispering winds does not like this fancy of yours. let us leave beautiful spring. you are almost well. ah! if whispering winds should lose you! i love you!" "and i love you, my beautiful wild flower," answered joe, stroking the dark head so near his own. a tender smile shone on his face. he heard a slight noise without the cave, and, looking up, saw that which caused the smile to fade quickly. "mose!" he called, sharply. the dog was away chasing rabbits. whispering winds glanced over her shoulder with a startled cry, which ended in a scream. not two yards behind her stood jim girty. hideous was his face in its triumphant ferocity. he held a long knife in his hand, and, snarling like a mad wolf, he made a forward lunge. joe raised himself quickly; but almost before he could lift his hand in defense, the long blade was sheathed in his breast. slowly he sank back, his gray eyes contracting with the old steely flash. the will to do was there, but the power was gone forever. "remember, girty, murderer! i am wetzel's friend," he cried, gazing at his slayer with unutterable scorn. then the gray eyes softened, and sought the blanched face of the stricken maiden. "winds," he whispered faintly. she was as one frozen with horror. the gray eyes gazed into hers with lingering tenderness; then the film of death came upon them. the renegade raised his bloody knife, and bent over the prostrate form. whispering winds threw herself upon girty with the blind fury of a maddened lioness. cursing fiercely, he stabbed her once, twice, three times. she fell across the body of her lover, and clasped it convulsively. girty gave one glance at his victims; deliberately wiped the gory knife on wind's leggins, and, with another glance, hurried and fearful, around the glade, he plunged into the thicket. an hour passed. a dark stream crept from the quiet figures toward the spring. it dyed the moss and the green violet leaves. slowly it wound its way to the clear water, dripping between the pale blue flowers. the little fall below the spring was no longer snowy white; blood had tinged it red. a dog came bounding into the glade. he leaped the brook, hesitated on the bank, and lowered his nose to sniff at the water. he bounded up the bank to the cavern. a long, mournful howl broke the wilderness's quiet. another hour passed. the birds were silent; the insects still. the sun sank behind the trees, and the shades of evening gathered. the ferns on the other side of the glade trembled. a slight rustle of dead leaves disturbed the stillness. the dog whined, then barked. the tall form of a hunter rose out of the thicket, and stepped into the glade with his eyes bent upon moccasin tracks in the soft moss. the trail he had been following led him to this bloody spring. "i might hev knowed it," he muttered. wetzel, for it was he, leaned upon his long rifle while his keen eyes took in the details of the tragedy. the whining dog, the bloody water, the motionless figures lying in a last embrace, told the sad story. "joe an' winds," he muttered. only a moment did he remain lost in sad reflection. a familiar moccasin-print in the sand on the bank pointed westward. he examined it carefully. "two hours gone," he muttered. "i might overtake him." then his motions became swift. with two blows of his tomahawk he secured a long piece of grapevine. he took a heavy stone from the bed of the brook. he carried joe to the spring, and, returning for winds, placed her beside her lover. this done, he tied one end of the grapevine around the stone, and wound the other about the dead bodies. he pushed them off the bank into the spring. as the lovers sank into the deep pool they turned, exposing first winds' sad face, and then joe's. then they sank out of sight. little waves splashed on the shore of the pool; the ripple disappeared, and the surface of the spring became tranquil. wetzel stood one moment over the watery grave of the maiden who had saved him, and the boy who had loved him. in the gathering gloom his stalwart form assumed gigantic proportions, and when he raised his long arm and shook his clenched fist toward the west, he resembled a magnificent statue of dark menace. with a single bound he cleared the pool, and then sped out of the glade. he urged the dog on girty's trail, and followed the eager beast toward the west. as he disappeared, a long, low sound like the sigh of the night wind swelled and moaned through the gloom. chapter xxiv. when the first ruddy rays of the rising sun crimsoned the eastern sky, wetzel slowly wound his way down a rugged hill far west of beautiful spring. a white dog, weary and footsore, limped by his side. both man and beast showed evidence of severe exertion. the hunter stopped in a little cave under a projecting stone, and, laying aside his rifle, began to gather twigs and sticks. he was particular about selecting the wood, and threw aside many pieces which would have burned well; but when he did kindle a flame it blazed hotly, yet made no smoke. he sharpened a green stick, and, taking some strips of meat from his pocket, roasted them over the hot flame. he fed the dog first. mose had crouched close on the ground with his head on his paws, and his brown eyes fastened upon the hunter. "he had too big a start fer us," said wetzel, speaking as if the dog were human. it seemed that wetzel's words were a protest against the meaning in those large, sad eyes. then the hunter put out the fire, and, searching for a more secluded spot, finally found one on top of the ledge, where he commanded a good view of his surroundings. the weary dog was asleep. wetzel settled himself to rest, and was soon wrapped in slumber. about noon he awoke. he arose, stretched his limbs, and then took an easy position on the front of the ledge, where he could look below. evidently the hunter was waiting for something. the dog slept on. it was the noonday hour, when the stillness of the forest almost matched that of midnight. the birds were more quiet than at any other time during daylight. wetzel reclined there with his head against the stone, and his rifle resting across his knees. he listened now to the sounds of the forest. the soft breeze fluttering among the leaves, the rain-call of the tree frog, the caw of crows from distant hilltops, the sweet songs of the thrush and oriole, were blended together naturally, harmoniously. but suddenly the hunter raised his head. a note, deeper than the others, a little too strong, came from far down the shaded hollow. to wetzel's trained ear it was a discord. he manifested no more than this attention, for the birdcall was the signal he had been awaiting. he whistled a note in answer that was as deep and clear as the one which had roused him. moments passed. there was no repetition of the sound. the songs of the other birds had ceased. besides wetzel there was another intruder in the woods. mose lifted his shaggy head and growled. the hunter patted the dog. in a few minutes the figure of a tall man appeared among the laurels down the slope. he stopped while gazing up at the ledge. then, with noiseless step, he ascended the ridge, climbed the rocky ledge, and turned the corner of the stone to face wetzel. the newcomer was jonathan zane. "jack, i expected you afore this," was wetzel's greeting. "i couldn't make it sooner," answered zane. "after we left williamson and separated, i got turned around by a band of several hundred redskins makin' for the village of peace. i went back again, but couldn't find any sign of the trail we're huntin'. then i makes for this meetin' place. i've been goin' for some ten hours, and am hungry." "i've got some bar ready cooked," said wetzel, handing zane several strips of meat. "what luck did you have?" "i found girty's trail, an old one, over here some eighteen or twenty miles, an' follered it until i went almost into the delaware town. it led to a hut in a deep ravine. i ain't often surprised, but i wus then. i found the dead body of that girl, kate wells, we fetched over from fort henry. thet's sad, but it ain't the surprisin' part. i also found silvertip, the shawnee i've been lookin' fer. he was all knocked an' cut up, deader'n a stone. there'd been somethin' of a scrap in the hut. i calkilate girty murdered kate, but i couldn't think then who did fer silver, though i allowed the renegade might hev done thet, too. i watched round an' seen girty come back to the hut. he had ten injuns with him, an' presently they all made fer the west. i trailed them, but didn't calkilate it'd be wise to tackle the bunch single-handed, so laid back. a mile or so from the hut i came across hoss tracks minglin' with the moccasin-prints. about fifteen mile or from the delaware town, girty left his buckskins, an' they went west, while he stuck to the hoss tracks. i was onto his game in a minute. i cut across country fer beautiful spring, but i got there too late. i found the warm bodies of joe and thet injun girl, winds. the snake hed murdered them." "i allow joe won over winds, got away from the delaware town with her, tried to rescue kate, and killed silver in the fight. girty probably was surprised, an' run after he had knifed the girl." "'pears so to me. joe had two knife cuts, an' one was an old wound." "you say it was a bad fight?" "must hev been. the hut was all knocked in, an' stuff scattered about. wal, joe could go some if he onct got started." "i'll bet he could. he was the likeliest lad i've seen for many a day." "if he'd lasted, he'd been somethin' of a hunter an' fighter." "too bad. but lord! you couldn't keep him down, no more than you can lots of these wild young chaps that drift out here." "i'll allow he had the fever bad." "did you hev time to bury them?" "i hedn't time fer much. i sunk them in the spring." "it's a pretty deep hole," said zane, reflectively. "then, you and the dog took girty's trail, but couldn't catch up with him. he's now with the renegade cutthroats and hundreds of riled indians over there in the village of peace." "i reckon you're right." a long silence ensued. jonathan finished his simple repast, drank from the little spring that trickled under the stone, and, sitting down by the dog, smoothed out his long silken hair. "lew, we're pretty good friends, ain't we?" he asked, thoughtfully. "jack, you an' the colonel are all the friends i ever hed, 'ceptin' that boy lyin' quiet back there in the woods." "i know you pretty well, and ain't sayin' a word about your runnin' off from me on many a hunt, but i want to speak plain about this fellow girty." "wal?" said wetzel, as zane hesitated. "twice in the last few years you and i have had it in for the same men, both white-livered traitors. you remember? first it was miller, who tried to ruin my sister betty, and next it was jim girty, who murdered our old friend, as good an old man as ever wore moccasins. wal, after miller ran off from the fort, we trailed him down to the river, and i points across and says, 'you or me?' and you says, 'me.' you was betty's friend, and i knew she'd be avenged. miller is lyin' quiet in the woods, and violets have blossomed twice over his grave, though you never said a word; but i know it's true because i know you." zane looked eagerly into the dark face of his friend, hoping perhaps to get some verbal assurance there that his belief was true. but wetzel did not speak, and he continued: "another day not so long ago we both looked down at an old friend, and saw his white hair matted with blood. he'd been murdered for nothin'. again you and me trailed a coward and found him to be jim girty. i knew you'd been huntin' him for years, and so i says, 'lew, you or me?' and you says, 'me.' i give in to you, for i knew you're a better man than me, and because i wanted you to have the satisfaction. wal, the months have gone by, and jim girty's still livin' and carryin' on. now he's over there after them poor preachers. i ain't sayin', lew, that you haven't more agin him than me, but i do say, let me in on it with you. he always has a gang of redskins with him; he's afraid to travel alone, else you'd had him long ago. two of us'll have more chance to get him. let me go with you. when it comes to a finish, i'll stand aside while you give it to him. i'd enjoy seein' you cut him from shoulder to hip. after he leaves the village of peace we'll hit his trail, camp on it, and stick to it until it ends in his grave." the earnest voice of the backwoodsman ceased. both men rose and stood facing each other. zane's bronzed face was hard and tense, expressive of an indomitable will; wetzel's was coldly dark, with fateful resolve, as if his decree of vengeance, once given, was as immutable as destiny. the big, horny hands gripped in a viselike clasp born of fierce passion, but no word was spoken. far to the west somewhere, a befrilled and bedizened renegade pursued the wild tenor of his ways; perhaps, even now steeping his soul in more crime, or staining his hands a deeper red, but sleeping or waking, he dreamed not of this deadly compact that meant his doom. the two hunters turned their stern faces toward the west, and passed silently down the ridge into the depths of the forest. darkness found them within rifle-shot of the village of peace. with the dog creeping between them, they crawled to a position which would, in daylight, command a view of the clearing. then, while one stood guard, the other slept. when morning dawned they shifted their position to the top of a low, fern-covered cliff, from which they could see every movement in the village. all the morning they watched with that wonderful patience of men who knew how to wait. the visiting savages were quiet, the missionaries moved about in and out of the shops and cabins; the christian indians worked industriously in the fields, while the renegades lolled before a prominent teepee. "this quiet looks bad," whispered jonathan to wetzel. no shouts were heard; not a hostile indian was seen to move. "they've come to a decision," whispered jonathan, and wetzel answered him: "if they hev, the christians don't know it." an hour later the deep pealing of the church bell broke the silence. the entire band of christian indians gathered near the large log structure, and then marched in orderly form toward the maple grove where the service was always held in pleasant weather. this movement brought the indians within several hundred yards of the cliff where zane and wetzel lay concealed. "there's heckewelder walking with old man wells," whispered jonathan. "there's young and edwards, and, yes, there's the young missionary, brother of joe. 'pears to me they're foolish to hold service in the face of all those riled injuns." "wuss'n foolish," answered wetzel. "look! by gum! as i'm a livin' sinner there comes the whole crowd of hostile redskins. they've got their guns, and--by gum! they're painted. looks bad, bad! not much friendliness about that bunch!" "they ain't intendin' to be peaceable." "by gum! you're right. there ain't one of them settin' down. 'pears to me i know some of them redskins. there's pipe, sure enough, and kotoxen. by gum! if there ain't shingiss; he was friendly once." "none of them's friendly." "look! lew, look! right behind pipe. see that long war-bonnet. as i'm a born sinner, that's your old friend, wingenund. 'pears to me we've rounded up all our acquaintances." the two bordermen lay close under the tall ferns and watched the proceedings with sharp eyes. they saw the converted indians seat themselves before the platform. the crowd of hostile indians surrounded the glade on all sides, except on, which, singularly enough, was next to the woods. "look thar!" exclaimed wetzel, under his breath. he pointed off to the right of the maple glade. jonathan gazed in the direction indicated, and saw two savages stealthily slipping through the bushes, and behind trees. presently these suspicious acting spies, or scouts, stopped on a little knoll perhaps an hundred yards from the glade. wetzel groaned. "this ain't comfortable," growled zane, in a low whisper. "them red devils are up to somethin' bad. they'd better not move round over here." the hunters, satisfied that the two isolated savages meant mischief, turned their gaze once more toward the maple grove. "ah! simon you white traitor! see him, lew, comin' with his precious gang," said jonathan. "he's got the whole thing fixed, you can plainly see that. bill elliott, mckee; and who's that renegade with jim girty? i'll allow he must be the fellar we heard was with the chippewas. tough lookin' customer; a good mate fer jim girty! a fine lot of border-hawks!" "somethin' comin' off," whispered wetzel, as zane's low growl grew unintelligible. jonathan felt, rather than saw, wetzel tremble. "the missionaries are consultin'. ah! there comes one! which? i guess it's edwards. by gum! who's that injun stalkin' over from the hostile bunch. big chief, whoever he is. blest if it ain't half king!" the watchers saw the chief wave his arm and speak with evident arrogance to edwards, who, however, advanced to the platform and raised his hand to address the christians. "crack!" a shot rang out from the thicket. clutching wildly at his breast, the missionary reeled back, staggered, and fell. "one of those skulkin' redskins has killed edwards," said zane. "but, no; he's not dead! he's gettin' up. mebbe he ain't hurt bad. by gum! there's young comin' forward. of all the fools!" it was indeed true that young had faced the indians. half king addressed him as he had the other; but young raised his hand and began speaking. "crack!" another shot rang out. young threw up his hands and fell heavily. the missionaries rushed toward him. mr. wells ran round the group, wringing his hands as if distracted. "he's hard hit," hissed zane, between his teeth. "you can tell that by the way he fell." wetzel did not answer. he lay silent and motionless, his long body rigid, and his face like marble. "there comes the other young fellar--joe's brother. he'll get plugged, too," continued zane, whispering rather to himself than to his companion. "oh, i hoped they'd show some sense! it's noble for them to die for christianity, but it won't do no good. by gum! heckewelder has pulled him back. now, that's good judgment!" half king stepped before the christians and addressed them. he held in his hand a black war-club, which he wielded as he spoke. jonathan's attention was now directed from the maple grove to the hunter beside him. he had heard a slight metallic click, as wetzel cocked his rifle. then he saw the black barrel slowly rise. "listen, lew. mebbe it ain't good sense. we're after girty, you remember; and it's a long shot from here--full three hundred yards." "you're right, jack, you're right," answered wetzel, breathing hard. "let's wait, and see what comes off." "jack, i can't do it. it'll make our job harder; but i can't help it. i can put a bullet just over the huron's left eye, an' i'm goin' to do it." "you can't do it, lew; you can't! it's too far for any gun. wait! wait!" whispered jonathan, laying his hand on wetzel's shoulder. "wait? man, can't you see what the unnamable villain is doin'?" "what?" asked zane, turning his eyes again to the glade. the converted indians sat with bowed heads. half king raised his war-club, and threw it on the ground in front of them. "he's announcin' the death decree!" hissed wetzel. "well! if he ain't!" jonathan looked at wetzel's face. then he rose to his knees, as had wetzel, and tightened his belt. he knew that in another instant they would be speeding away through the forest. "lew, my rifle's no good fer that distance. but mebbe yours is. you ought to know. it's not sense, because there's simon girty, and there's jim, the men we're after. if you can hit one, you can another. but go ahead, lew. plug that cowardly redskin!" wetzel knelt on one knee, and thrust the black rifle forward through the fern leaves. slowly the fatal barrel rose to a level, and became as motionless as the immovable stones. jonathan fixed his keen gaze on the haughty countenance of half king as he stood with folded arms and scornful mien in front of the christians he had just condemned. even as the short, stinging crack of wetzel's rifle broke the silence, jonathan saw the fierce expression of half king's dark face change to one of vacant wildness. his arms never relaxed from their folded position. he fell, as falls a monarch of the forest trees, a dead weight. chapter xxv. "please do not preach to-day," said nell, raising her eyes imploringly to jim's face. "nellie, i must conduct the services as usual. i can not shirk my duty, nor let these renegades see i fear to face them." "i have such a queer feeling. i am afraid. i don't want to be left alone. please do not leave me." jim strode nervously up and down the length of the room. nell's worn face, her beseeching eyes and trembling hands touched his heart. rather than almost anything else, he desired to please her, to strengthen her; yet how could he shirk his duty? "nellie, what is it you fear?" he asked, holding her hands tightly. "oh, i don't know what--everything. uncle is growing weaker every day. look at mr. young; he is only a shadow of his former self, and this anxiety is wearing mr. heckewelder out. he is more concerned than he dares admit. you needn't shake your head, for i know it. then those indians who are waiting, waiting--for god only knows what! worse than all to me, i saw that renegade, that fearful beast who made way with poor dear kate!" nell burst into tears, and leaned sobbing on jim's shoulder. "nell, i've kept my courage only because of you," replied jim, his voice trembling slightly. she looked up quickly. something in the pale face which was bent over her told that now, if ever, was the time for a woman to forget herself, and to cheer, to inspire those around her. "i am a silly baby, and selfish!" she cried, freeing herself from his hold. "always thinking of myself." she turned away and wiped the tears from her eyes. "go, jim, do you duty; i'll stand by and help you all a woman can." * * * the missionaries were consulting in heckewelder's cabin. zeisberger had returned that morning, and his aggressive, dominating spirit was just what they needed in an hour like this. he raised the downcast spirits of the ministers. "hold the service? i should say we will," he declared, waving his hands. "what have we to be afraid of?" "i do not know," answered heckewelder, shaking his head doubtfully. "i do not know what to fear. girty himself told me he bore us no ill will; but i hardly believe him. all this silence, this ominous waiting perplexes, bewilders me." "gentlemen, our duty at least is plain," said jim, impressively. "the faith of these christian indians in us is so absolute that they have no fear. they believe in god, and in us. these threatening savages have failed signally to impress our christians. if we do not hold the service they will think we fear girty, and that might have a bad influence." "i am in favor of postponing the preaching for a few days. i tell you i am afraid of girty's indians, not for myself, but for these christians whom we love so well. i am afraid." heckewelder's face bore testimony to his anxious dread. "you are our leader; we have but to obey," said edwards. "yet i think we owe it to our converts to stick to our work until we are forced by violence to desist." "ah! what form will that violence take?" cried heckewelder, his face white. "you cannot tell what these savages mean. i fear! i fear!" "listen, heckewelder, you must remember we had this to go through once before," put in zeisberger earnestly. "in ' girty came down on us like a wolf on the fold. he had not so many indians at his beck and call as now; but he harangued for days, trying to scare us and our handful of christians. he set his drunken fiends to frighten us, and he failed. we stuck it out and won. he's trying the same game. let us stand against him, and hold our services as usual. we should trust in god!" "never give up!" cried jim. "gentlemen, you are right; you shame me, even though i feel that i understand the situation and its dread possibilities better than any one of you. whatever befalls we'll stick to our post. i thank you for reviving the spirit in my cowardly heart. we will hold the service to-day as usual and to make it more impressive, each shall address the congregation in turn." "and, if need be, we will give our lives for our christians," said young, raising his pale face. * * * the deep mellow peals of the church bell awoke the slumbering echoes. scarcely had its melody died away in the forest when a line of indians issued from the church and marched toward the maple grove. men, women, youths, maidens and children. glickhican, the old delaware chief, headed the line. his step was firm, his head erect, his face calm in its noble austerity. his followers likewise expressed in their countenances the steadfastness of their belief. the maidens' heads were bowed, but with shyness, not fear. the children were happy, their bright faces expressive of the joy they felt in the anticipation of listening to their beloved teachers. this procession passed between rows of painted savages, standing immovable, with folded arms, and somber eyes. no sooner had the christians reached the maple grove, when from all over the clearing appeared hostile indians, who took positions near the knoll where the missionaries stood. heckewelder's faithful little band awaited him on the platform. the converted indians seated themselves as usual at the foot of the knoll. the other savages crowded closely on both sides. they carried their weapons, and maintained the same silence that had so singularly marked their mood of the last twenty-four hours. no human skill could have divined their intention. this coldness might be only habitual reserve, and it might be anything else. heckewelder approached at the same time that simon girty and his band of renegades appeared. with the renegades were pipe and half king. these two came slowly across the clearing, passed through the opening in the crowd, and stopped close to the platform. heckewelder went hurriedly up to his missionaries. he seemed beside himself with excitement, and spoke with difficulty. "do not preach to-day. i have been warned again," he said, in a low voice. "do you forbid it?" inquired edwards. "no, no. i have not that authority, but i implore it. wait, wait until the indians are in a better mood." edwards left the group, and, stepping upon the platform, faced the christians. at the same moment half king stalked majestically from before his party. he carried no weapon save a black, knotted war-club. a surging forward of the crowd of savages behind him showed the intense interest which his action had aroused. he walked forward until he stood half way between the platform and the converts. he ran his evil glance slowly over the christians, and then rested it upon edwards. "half king's orders are to be obeyed. let the paleface keep his mouth closed," he cried in the indian tongue. the imperious command came as a thunderbolt from a clear sky. the missionaries behind edwards stood bewildered, awaiting the outcome. but edwards, without a moment's hesitation, calmly lifted his hand and spoke. "beloved christians, we meet to-day as we have met before, as we hope to meet in---" "spang!" the whistling of a bullet over the heads of the christians accompanied the loud report of a rifle. all presently plainly heard the leaden missile strike. edwards wheeled, clutching his side, breathed hard, and then fell heavily without uttering a cry. he had been shot by an indian concealed in the thicket. for a moment no one moved, nor spoke. the missionaries were stricken with horror; the converts seemed turned to stone, and the hostile throng waited silently, as they had for hours. "he's shot! he's shot! oh, i feared this!" cried heckewelder, running forward. the missionaries followed him. edwards was lying on his back, with a bloody hand pressed to his side. "dave, dave, how is it with you?" asked heckewelder, in a voice low with fear. "not bad. it's too far out to be bad, but it knocked me over," answered edwards, weakly. "give me--water." they carried him from the platform, and laid him on the grass under a tree. young pressed edwards' hand; he murmured something that sounded like a prayer, and then walked straight upon the platform, as he raised his face, which was sublime with a white light. "paleface! back!" roared half king, as he waved his war-club. "you indian dog! be silent!" young's clear voice rolled out on the quiet air so imperiously, so powerful in its wonderful scorn and passion, that the hostile savages were overcome by awe, and the christians thrilled anew with reverential love. young spoke again in a voice which had lost its passion, and was singularly sweet in its richness. "beloved christians, if it is god's will that we must die to prove our faith, then as we have taught you how to live, so we can show you how to die---" "spang!" again a whistling sound came with the bellow of an overcharged rifle; again the sickening thud of a bullet striking flesh. young fell backwards from the platform. the missionaries laid him beside edwards, and then stood in shuddering silence. a smile shone on young's pale face; a stream of dark blood welled from his breast. his lips moved; he whispered: "i ask no more--god's will." jim looked down once at his brother missionaries; then with blanched face, but resolute and stern, he marched toward the platform. heckewelder ran after him, and dragged him back. "no! no! no! my god! would you be killed? oh! i tried to prevent this!" cried heckewelder, wringing his hands. one long, fierce, exultant yell pealed throughout the grove. it came from those silent breasts in which was pent up hatred; it greeted this action which proclaimed victory over the missionaries. all eyes turned on half king. with measured stride he paced to and fro before the christian indians. neither cowering nor shrinking marked their manner; to a man, to a child, they rose with proud mien, heads erect and eyes flashing. this mighty chief with his blood-thirsty crew could burn the village of peace, could annihilate the christians, but he could never change their hope and trust in god. "blinded fools!" cried half king. "the huron is wise; he tells no lies. many moons ago he told the christians they were sitting half way between two angry gods, who stood with mouths open wide and looking ferociously at each other. if they did not move back out of the road they would be ground to powder by the teeth of one or the other, or both. half king urged them to leave the peaceful village, to forget the paleface god; to take their horses, and flocks, and return to their homes. the christians scorned the huron king's counsel. the sun has set for the village of peace. the time has come. pipe and the huron are powerful. they will not listen to the paleface god. they will burn the village of peace. death to the christians!" half king threw the black war-club with a passionate energy on the grass before the indians. they heard this decree of death with unflinching front. even the children were quiet. not a face paled, not an eye was lowered. half king cast their doom in their teeth. the christians eyed him with unspoken scorn. "my god! my god! it is worse than i thought!" moaned heckewelder. "utter ruin! murder! murder!" in the momentary silence which followed his outburst, a tiny cloud of blue-white smoke came from the ferns overhanging a cliff. crack! all heard the shot of a rifle; all noticed the difference between its clear, ringing intonation and the loud reports of the other two. all distinctly heard the zip of a bullet as it whistled over their heads. all? no, not all. one did not hear that speeding bullet. he who was the central figure in this tragic scene, he who had doomed the christians might have seen that tiny puff of smoke which heralded his own doom, but before the ringing report could reach his ears a small blue hole appeared, as if by magic, over his left eye, and pulse, and sense, and life had fled forever. half king, great, cruel chieftain, stood still for an instant as if he had been an image of stone; his haughty head lost its erect poise, the fierceness seemed to fade from his dark face, his proud plume waved gracefully as he swayed to and fro, and then fell before the christians, inert and lifeless. no one moved; it was as if no one breathed. the superstitious savages awaited fearfully another rifle shot; another lightning stroke, another visitation from the paleface's god. but jim girty, with a cunning born of his terrible fear, had recognized the ring of that rifle. he had felt the zip of a bullet which could just as readily have found his brain as half king's. he had stood there as fair a mark as the cruel huron, yet the avenger had not chosen him. was he reserved for a different fate? was not such a death too merciful for the frontier deathshead? he yelled in his craven fear: "le vent de la mort!" the well known, dreaded appellation aroused the savages from a fearful stupor into a fierce manifestation of hatred. a tremendous yell rent the air. instantly the scene changed. chapter xxvi. in the confusion the missionaries carried young and edwards into mr. wells' cabin. nell's calm, white face showed that she had expected some such catastrophe as this, but she of all was the least excited. heckewelder left them at the cabin and hurried away to consult captain williamson. while zeisberger, who was skilled in surgery, attended to the wounded men, jim barred the heavy door, shut the rude, swinging windows, and made the cabin temporarily a refuge from prowling savages. outside the clamor increased. shrill yells rent the air, long, rolling war-cries sounded above all the din. the measured stamp of moccasined feet, the rush of indians past the cabin, the dull thud of hatchets struck hard into the trees--all attested to the excitement of the savages, and the imminence of terrible danger. in the front room of mr. wells' cabin edwards lay on a bed, his face turned to the wall, and his side exposed. there was a bloody hole in his white skin. zeisberger was probing for the bullet. he had no instruments, save those of his own manufacture, and they were darning needles with bent points, and a long knife-blade ground thin. "there, i have it," said zeisberger. "hold still, dave. there!" as edwards moaned zeisberger drew forth the bloody bullet. "jim, wash and dress this wound. it isn't bad. dave will be all right in a couple of days. now i'll look at george." zeisberger hurried into the other room. young lay with quiet face and closed eyes, breathing faintly. zeisberger opened the wounded man's shirt and exposed the wound, which was on the right side, rather high up. nell, who had followed zeisberger that she might be of some assistance if needed, saw him look at the wound and then turn a pale face away for a second. that hurried, shuddering movement of the sober, practical missionary was most significant. then he bent over young and inserted on of the probes into the wound. he pushed the steel an inch, two, three, four inches into young's breast, but the latter neither moved nor moaned. zeisberger shook his head, and finally removed the instrument. he raised the sufferer's shoulder to find the bed saturated with blood. the bullet wound extended completely through the missionary's body, and was bleeding from the back. zeisberger folded strips of linsey cloth into small pads and bound them tightly over both apertures of the wound. "how is he?" asked jim, when the amateur surgeon returned to the other room, and proceeded to wash the blood from his hands. zeisberger shook his head gloomily. "how is george?" whispered edwards, who had heard jim's question. "shot through the right lung. human skill can not aid him! only god can save." "didn't i hear a third shot?" whispered dave, gazing round with sad, questioning eyes. "heckewelder?" "is safe. he has gone to see williamson. you did hear a third shot. half king fell dead with a bullet over his left eye. he had just folded his arms in a grand pose after his death decree to the christians." "a judgment of god!" "it does seem so, but it came in the form of leaden death from wetzel's unerring rifle. do you hear all that yelling? half king's death has set the indians wild." there was a gentle knock at the door, and then the word, "open," in heckewelder's voice. jim unbarred the door. heckewelder came in carrying over his shoulder what apparently was a sack of meal. he was accompanied by young christy. heckewelder put the bag down, opened it, and lifted out a little indian boy. the child gazed round with fearful eyes. "save benny! save benny!" he cried, running to nell, and she clasped him closely in her arms. heckewelder's face was like marble as he asked concerning edwards' condition. "i'm not badly off," said the missionary with a smile. "how's george?" whispered heckewelder. no one answered him. zeisberger raised his hands. all followed heckewelder into the other room, where young lay in the same position as when first brought in. heckewelder stood gazing down into the wan face with its terribly significant smile. "i brought him out here. i persuaded him to come!" whispered heckewelder. "oh, almighty god!" he cried. his voice broke, and his prayer ended with the mute eloquence of clasped hands and uplifted, appealing face. "come out," said zeisberger, leading him into the larger room. the others followed, and jim closed the door. "what's to be done?" said zeisberger, with his practical common sense. "what did williamson say? tell us what you learned?" "wait--directly," answered heckewelder, sitting down and covering his face with his hands. there was a long silence. at length he raised his white face and spoke calmly: "gentlemen, the village of peace is doomed. i entreated captain williamson to help us, but he refused. said he dared not interfere. i prayed that he would speak at least a word to girty, but he denied my request." "where are the converts?" "imprisoned in the church, every one of them except benny. mr. christy and i hid the child in the meal sack and were thus able to get him here. we must save him." "save him?" asked nell, looking from heckewelder to the trembling indian boy. "nellie, the savages have driven all our christians into the church, and shut them up there, until girty and his men shall give the word to complete their fiendish design. the converts asked but one favor--an hour in which to pray. it was granted. the savages intend to murder them all." "oh! horrible! monstrous!" cried nell. "how can they be so inhuman?" she lifted benny up in her arms. "they'll never get you, my boy. we'll save you--i'll save you!" the child moaned and clung to her neck. "they are scouring the clearing now for christians, and will search all the cabins. i'm positive." "will they come here?" asked nell, turning her blazing eyes on heckewelder. "undoubtedly. we must try to hide benny. let me think; where would be a good place? we'll try a dark corner of the loft." "no, no," cried nell. "put benny in young's bed," suggested jim. "no, no," cried nell. "put him in a bucket and let him down in the well," whispered edwards, who had listened intently to the conversation. "that's a capital place," said heckewelder. "but might he not fall out and drown?" "tie him in the bucket," said jim. "no, no, no," cried nell. "but nellie, we must decide upon a hiding place, and in a hurry." "i'll save benny." "you? will you stay here to face those men? jim girty and deering are searching the cabins. could you bear it to see them? you couldn't." "oh! no, i believe it would kill me! that man! that beast! will he come here?" nell grew ghastly pale, and looked as if about to faint. she shrunk in horror at the thought of again facing girty. "for god's sake, heckewelder, don't let him see me! don't let him come in! don't!" even as the imploring voice ceased a heavy thump sounded on the door. "who's there?" demanded heckewelder. thump! thump! the heavy blows shook the cabin. the pans rattled on the shelves. no answer came from without. "quick! hide benny! it's as much as our lives are worth to have him found here," cried heckewelder in a fierce whisper, as he darted toward the door. "all right, all right, in a moment," he called out, fumbling over the bar. he opened the door a moment later and when jim girty and deering entered he turned to his friends with a dread uncertainty in his haggard face. edwards lay on the bed with wide-open eyes staring at the intruders. mr. wells sat with bowed head. zeisberger calmly whittled a stick, and jim stood bolt upright, with a hard light in his eyes. nell leaned against the side of a heavy table. wonderful was the change that had transformed her from a timid, appealing, fear-agonized girl to a woman whose only evidence of unusual excitement were the flame in her eyes and the peculiar whiteness of her face. benny was gone! heckewelder's glance returned to the visitors. he thought he had never seen such brutal, hideous men. "wal, i reckon a preacher ain't agoin' to lie. hev you seen any injun christians round here?" asked girty, waving a heavy sledge-hammer. "girty, we have hidden no indians here," answered heckewelder, calmly. "wal, we'll hev a look, anyway," answered the renegade. girty surveyed the room with wolfish eyes. deering was so drunk that he staggered. both men, in fact, reeked with the vile fumes of rum. without another word they proceeded to examine the room, by looking into every box, behind a stone oven, and in the cupboard. they drew the bedclothes from the bed, and with a kick demolished a pile of stove wood. then the ruffians passed into the other apartments, where they could be heard making thorough search. at length both returned to the large room, when girty directed deering to climb a ladder leading to the loft, but because deering was too much under the influence of liquor to do so, he had to go himself. he rummaged around up there for a few minutes, and then came down. "wal, i reckon you wasn't lyin' about it," said girty, with his ghastly leer. he and his companion started to go out. deering had stood with bloodshot eyes fixed on nell while girty searched the loft, and as they passed the girl on their way to the open air, the renegade looked at girty as he motioned with his head toward her. his besotted face expressed some terrible meaning. girty had looked at nell when he first entered, but had not glanced twice at her. as he turned now, before going out of the door, he fixed on her his baleful glance. his aspect was more full of meaning than could have been any words. a horrible power, of which he was boastfully conscious, shone from his little, pointed eyes. his mere presence was deadly. plainly as if he had spoken was the significance of his long gaze. any one could have translated that look. once before nell had faced it, and fainted when its dread meaning grew clear to her. but now she returned his gaze with one in which flashed lightning scorn, and repulsion, in which glowed a wonderful defiance. the cruel face of this man, the boastful barbarity of his manner, the long, dark, bloody history which his presence recalled, was, indeed, terrifying without the added horror of his intent toward her, but now the self-forgetfulness of a true woman sustained her. girty and deering backed out of the door. heckewelder closed it, and dropped the bar in place. nell fell over the table with a long, low gasp. then with one hand she lifted her skirt. benny walked from under it. his big eyes were bright. the young woman clasped him again in her arms. then she released him, and, laboring under intense excitement, ran to the window. "there he goes! oh, the horrible beast! if i only had a gun and could shoot! oh, if only i were a man! i'd kill him. to think of poor kate! ah! he intends the same for me!" suddenly she fell upon the floor in a faint. mr. wells and jim lifted her on the bed beside edwards, where they endeavored to revive her. it was some moments before she opened her eyes. jim sat holding nell's hand. mr. wells again bowed his head. zeisberger continued to whittle a stick, and heckewelder paced the floor. christy stood by with every evidence of sympathy for this distracted group. outside the clamor increased. "just listen!" cried heckewelder. "did you ever hear the like? all drunk, crazy, fiendish! they drank every drop of liquor the french traders had. curses on the vagabond dealers! rum has made these renegades and savages wild. oh! my poor, innocent christians!" heckewelder leaned his head against the mantle-shelf. he had broken down at last. racking sobs shook his frame. "are you all right again?" asked jim of nell. "yes." "i am going out, first to see williamson, and then the christians," he said, rising very pale, but calm. "don't go!" cried heckewelder. "i have tried everything. it was all of no use." "i will go," answered jim. "yes, jim, go," whispered nell, looking up into his eyes. it was an earnest gaze in which a faint hope shone. jim unbarred the door and went out. "wait, i'll go along," cried zeisberger, suddenly dropping his knife and stick. as the two men went out a fearful spectacle met their eyes. the clearing was alive with indians. but such indians! they were painted demons, maddened by rum. yesterday they had been silent; if they moved at all it had been with deliberation and dignity. to-day they were a yelling, running, blood-seeking mob. "awful! did you ever see human beings like these?" asked zeisberger. "no, no!" "i saw such a frenzy once before, but, of course, only in a small band of savages. many times have i seen indians preparing for the war-path, in search of both white men and redskins. they were fierce then, but nothing like this. every one of these frenzied fiends is honest. think of that! every man feels it his duty to murder these christians. girty has led up to this by cunning, and now the time is come to let them loose." "it means death for all." "i have given up any thought of escaping," said zeisberger, with the calmness that had characterized his manner since he returned to the village. "i shall try to get into the church." "i'll join you there as soon as i see williamson." jim walked rapidly across the clearing to the cabin where captain williamson had quarters. the frontiersmen stood in groups, watching the savages with an interest which showed little or no concern. "i want to see captain williamson," said jim to a frontiersman on guard at the cabin door. "wal, he's inside," drawled the man. jim thought the voice familiar, and he turned sharply to see the sun-burnt features of jeff lynn, the old riverman who had taken mr. wells' party to fort henry. "why, lynn! i'm glad to see you," exclaimed jim. "purty fair to middlin'," answered jeff, extending his big hand. "say, how's the other one, your brother as wus called joe?" "i don't know. he ran off with wetzel, was captured by indians, and when i last heard of him he had married wingenund's daughter." "wal, i'll be dog-goned!" jeff shook his grizzled head and slapped his leg. "i jest knowed he'd raise somethin'." "i'm in a hurry. do you think captain williamson will stand still and let all this go on?" "i'm afeerd so." evidently the captain heard the conversation, for he appeared at the cabin door, smoking a long pipe. "captain williamson, i have come to entreat you to save the christians from this impending massacre." "i can't do nuthin'," answered williamson, removing his pipe to puff forth a great cloud of smoke. "you have eighty men here!" "if we interfered pipe would eat us alive in three minutes. you preacher fellows don't understand this thing. you've got pipe and girty to deal with. if you don't know them, you'll be better acquainted by sundown." "i don't care who they are. drunken ruffians and savages! that's enough. will you help us? we are men of your own race, and we come to you for help. can you withhold it?" "i won't hev nuthin' to do with this bizness. the chiefs hev condemned the village, an' it'll hev to go. if you fellars hed been careful, no white blood would hev been spilled. i advise you all to lay low till it's over." "will you let me speak to your men, to try and get them to follow me?" "heckewelder asked that same thing. he was persistent, and i took a vote fer him just to show how my men stood. eighteen of them said they'd follow him; the rest wouldn't interfere." "eighteen! my god!" cried jim, voicing the passion which consumed him. "you are white men, yet you will stand by and see these innocent people murdered! man, where's your humanity? your manhood? these converted indians are savages no longer, they are christians. their children are as good, pure, innocent as your own. can you remain idle and see these little ones murdered?" williamson made no answer, the men who had crowded round were equally silent. not one lowered his head. many looked at the impassioned missionary; others gazed at the savages who were circling around the trees brandishing their weapons. if any pitied the unfortunate christians, none showed it. they were indifferent, with the indifference of men hardened to cruel scenes. jim understood, at last, as he turned from face to face to find everywhere that same imperturbability. these bordermen were like wetzel and jonathan zane. the only good indian was a dead indian. years of war and bloodshed, of merciless cruelty at the hands of redmen, of the hard, border life had rendered these frontiersmen incapable of compassion for any savage. jim no longer restrained himself. "bordermen you may be, but from my standpoint, from any man's, from god's, you are a lot of coldly indifferent cowards!" exclaimed jim, with white, quivering lips. "i understand now. few of you will risk anything for indians. you will not believe a savage can be a christian. you don't care if they are all murdered. any man among you--any man, i say--would step out before those howling fiends and boldly demand that there be no bloodshed. a courageous leader with a band of determined followers could avert this tragedy. you might readily intimidate yonder horde of drunken demons. captain williamson, i am only a minister, far removed from a man of war and leader, as you claim to be, but, sir, i curse you as a miserable coward. if i ever get back to civilization i'll brand this inhuman coldness of yours, as the most infamous and dastardly cowardice that ever disgraced a white man. you are worse than girty!" williamson turned a sickly yellow; he fumbled a second with the handle of his tomahawk, but made no answer. the other bordermen maintained the same careless composure. what to them was the raving of a mad preacher? jim saw it and turned baffled, fiercely angry, and hopeless. as he walked away jeff lynn took his arm, and after they were clear of the crowd of frontiersmen he said: "young feller, you give him pepper, an' no mistake. an' mebbe you're right from your side the fence. but you can't see the injuns from our side. we hunters hevn't much humanity--i reckon that's what you called it--but we've lost so many friends an' relatives, an' hearn of so many murders by the reddys that we look on all of 'em as wild varmints that should be killed on sight. now, mebbe it'll interest you to know i was the feller who took the vote williamson told you about, an' i did it 'cause i had an interest in you. i wus watchin' you when edwards and the other missionary got shot. i like grit in a man, an' i seen you had it clear through. so when heckewelder comes over i talked to the fellers, an' all i could git interested was eighteen, but they wanted to fight simply fer fightin' sake. now, ole jeff lynn is your friend. you just lay low until this is over." jim thanked the old riverman and left him. he hardly knew which way to turn. he would make one more effort. he crossed the clearing to where the renegades' teepee stood. mckee and elliott were sitting on a log. simon girty stood beside them, his hard, keen, roving eyes on the scene. the missionary was impressed by the white leader. there was a difference in his aspect, a wilder look than the others wore, as if the man had suddenly awakened to the fury of his indians. nevertheless the young man went straight toward him. "girty, i come---" "git out! you meddlin' preacher!" yelled the renegade, shaking his fist at jim. simon girty was drunk. jim turned from the white fiends. he knew his life to them was not worth a pinch of powder. "lost! lost! all lost!" he exclaimed in despair. as he went toward the church he saw hundreds of savages bounding over the grass, brandishing weapons and whooping fiendishly. they were concentrating around girty's teepee, where already a great throng had congregated. of all the indians to be seen not one walked. they leaped by jim, and ran over the grass nimble as deer. he saw the eager, fire in their dusky eyes, and the cruelly clenched teeth like those of wolves when they snarl. he felt the hissing breath of many savages as they raced by him. more than one whirled a tomahawk close to jim's head, and uttered horrible yells in his ear. they were like tigers lusting for blood. jim hurried to the church. not an indian was visible near the log structure. even the savage guards had gone. he entered the open door to be instantly struck with reverence and awe. the christians were singing. miserable and full of sickening dread though jim was, he could not but realize that the scene before him was one of extraordinary beauty and pathos. the doomed indians lifted up their voices in song. never had they sung so feelingly, so harmoniously. when the song ended zeisberger, who stood upon a platform, opened his bible and read: "in a little wrath i hid my face from thee for a moment, but with everlasting kindness will i have mercy on thee, saith the lord, thy redeemer." in a voice low and tremulous the venerable missionary began his sermon. the shadow of death hovered over these christian martyrs; it was reflected in their somber eyes, yet not one was sullen or sad. the children who were too young to understand, but instinctively feeling the tragedy soon to be enacted there, cowered close to their mothers. zeisberger preached a touching and impressive, though short, sermon. at its conclusion the whole congregation rose and surrounded the missionary. the men shook his hands, the women kissed them, the children clung to his legs. it was a wonderful manifestation of affection. suddenly glickhican, the old delaware chief, stepped on the platform, raised his hand and shouted one indian word. a long, low wail went up from the children and youths; the women slowly, meekly bowed their heads. the men, due to the stoicism of their nature and the christianity they had learned, stood proudly erect awaiting the death that had been decreed. glickhican pulled the bell rope. a deep, mellow tone pealed out. the sound transfixed all the christians. no one moved. glickhican had given the signal which told the murderers the christians were ready. "come, man, my god! we can't stay here!" cried jim to zeisberger. as they went out both men turned to look their last on the martyrs. the death knell which had rung in the ears of the christians, was to them the voice of god. stern, dark visages of men and the sweet, submissive faces of women were uplifted with rapt attention. a light seemed to shine from these faces as if the contemplation of god had illumined them. as zeisberger and jim left the church and hurried toward the cabins, they saw the crowd of savages in a black mass round girty's teepee. the yelling and leaping had ceased. heckewelder opened the door. evidently he had watched for them. "jim! jim!" cried nell, when he entered the cabin. "oh-h! i was afraid. oh! i am glad you're back safe. see, this noble indian has come to help us." wingenund stood calm and erect by the door. "chief, what will you do?" "wingenund will show you the way to the big river," answered the chieftain, in his deep bass. "run away? no, never! that would be cowardly. heckewelder, you would not go? nor you, zeisberger? we may yet be of use, we may yet save some of the christians." "save the yellow-hair," sternly said wingenund. "oh, jim, you don't understand. the chief has come to warn me of girty. he intends to take me as he has others, as he did poor kate. did you not see the meaning in his eyes to-day? how they scorched me! ho! jim, take me away! save me! do not leave me here to that horrible fate? oh! jim, take me away!" "nell, i will take you," cried jim, grasping her hands. "hurry! there's a blanket full of things i packed for you," said heckewelder. "lose no time. ah! hear that! my heavens! what a yell!" heckewelder rushed to the door and looked out. "there they go, a black mob of imps; a pack of hungry wolves! jim girty is in the lead. how he leaps! how he waves his sledge! he leads the savages toward the church. oh! it's the end!" "benny? where's benny?" cried jim, hurriedly lacing the hunting coat he had flung about him. "benny's safe. i've hidden him. i'll get him away from here," answered young christy. "go! now's your time. godspeed you!" "i'm ready," declared mr. wells. "i--have--finished!" "there goes wingenund! he's running. follow him, quick! good-by! good-by! god be with you!" cried heckewelder. "good-by! good-by!" jim hurried nell toward the bushes where wingenund's tall form could dimly be seen. mr. wells followed them. on the edge of the clearing jim and nell turned to look back. they saw a black mass of yelling, struggling, fighting savages crowding around the church. "oh! jim, look back! look back!" cried nell, holding hard to his hand. "look back! see if girty is coming!" chapter xxvii. at last the fugitives breathed free under the gold and red cover of the woods. never speaking, never looking back, the guide hurried eastward with long strides. his followers were almost forced to run in order to keep him in sight. he had waited at the edge of the clearing for them, and, relieving jim of the heavy pack, which he swung slightly over his shoulder, he set a pace that was most difficult to maintain. the young missionary half led, half carried nell over the stones and rough places. mr. wells labored in the rear. "oh! jim! look back! look back! see if we are pursued!" cried nell frequently, with many a earful glance into the dense thickets. the indian took a straight course through the woods. he leaped the brooks, climbed the rough ridges, and swiftly trod the glades that were free of windfalls. his hurry and utter disregard for the plain trail left behind, proved his belief in the necessity of placing many miles between the fugitives and the village of peace. evidently they would be followed, and it would be a waste of valuable time to try to conceal their trail. gradually the ground began to rise, the way become more difficult, but wingenund never slackened his pace. nell was strong, supple, and light of foot. she held her own with jim, but time and time again they were obliged to wait for her uncle. once he was far behind. wingenund halted for them at the height of a ridge where the forest was open. "ugh!" exclaimed the chieftain, as they finished the ascent. he stretched a long arm toward the sun; his falcon eye gleamed. far in the west a great black and yellow cloud of smoke rolled heavenward. it seemed to rise from out the forest, and to hang low over the trees; then it soared aloft and grew thinner until it lost its distinct line far in the clouds. the setting sun stood yet an hour high over a distant hill, and burned dark red through the great pall of smoke. "is it a forest fire?" asked nell, fearfully. "fire, of course, but---" jim did not voice his fear; he looked closely at wingenund. the chieftain stood silent a moment as was his wont when addressed. the dull glow of the sun was reflected in the dark eyes that gazed far away over forest and field. "fire," said wingenund, and it seemed that as he spoke a sterner shadow flitted across his bronzed face. "the sun sets to-night over the ashes of the village of peace." he resumed his rapid march eastward. with never a backward glance the saddened party followed. nell kept close beside jim, and the old man tramped after them with bowed head. the sun set, but wingenund never slackened his stride. twilight deepened, yet he kept on. "indian, we can go no further to-night, we must rest," cried jim, as nell stumbled against him, and mr. wells panted wearily in the rear. "rest soon," replied the chief, and kept on. darkness had settled down when wingenund at last halted. the fugitives could see little in the gloom, but they heard the music of running water, and felt soft moss beneath their feet. they sank wearily down upon a projecting stone. the moss was restful to their tired limbs. opening the pack they found food with which to satisfy the demands of hunger. then, close under the stone, the fugitives sank into slumber while the watchful indian stood silent and motionless. jim thought he had but just closed his eyes when he felt a gentle pressure on his arm. "day is here," said the indian. jim opened his eyes to see the bright red sun crimsoning the eastern hills, and streaming gloriously over the colored forests. he raised himself on his elbow to look around. nell was still asleep. the blanket was tucked close to her chin. her chestnut hair was tumbled like a schoolgirl's; she looked as fresh and sweet as the morning. "nell, nell, wake up," said jim, thinking the while how he would love to kiss those white eyelids. nell's eyes opened wide; a smile lay deep in their hazel shadows. "where a i? oh, i remember," she cried, sitting up. "oh, jim, i had such a sweet dream. i was at home with mother and kate. oh, to wake and find it all a dream! i am fleeing for life. but, jim, we are safe, are we not?" "another day, and we'll be safe." "let us fly," she cried, leaping up and shaking out her crumpled skirt. "uncle, come!" mr. wells lay quietly with his mild blue eyes smiling up at her. he neither moved nor spoke. "eat, drink," said the chief, opening the pack. "what a beautiful place," exclaimed nell, taking the bread and meat handed to her. "this is a lovely little glade. look at those golden flowers, the red and purple leaves, the brown shining moss, and those lichen-covered stones. why! some one has camped here. see the little cave, the screens of plaited ferns, and the stone fireplace." "it seems to me this dark spring and those gracefully spreading branches are familiar," said jim. "beautiful spring," interposed wingenund. "yes, i know this place," cried nell excitedly. "i remember this glade though it was moonlight when i saw it. here wetzel rescued me from girty." "nell, you're right," replied jim. "how strange we should run across this place again." strange fate, indeed, which had brought them again to beautiful spring! it was destined that the great scenes of their lives were to be enacted in this mossy glade. "come, uncle, you are lazy," cried nell, a touch of her old roguishness making playful her voice. mr. wells lay still, and smiled up at them. "you are not ill?" cried nell, seeing for the first time how pallid was his face. "dear nellie, i am not ill. i do not suffer, but i am dying," he answered, again with that strange, sweet smile. "oh-h-h!" breathed nell, falling on her knees. "no, no, mr. wells, you are only weak; you will be all right again soon," cried jim. "jim, nellie, i have known all night. i have lain here wakeful. my heart never was strong. it gave out yesterday, and now it is slowly growing weaker. put your hand on my breast. feel. ah! you see! my life is flickering. god's will be done. i am content. my work is finished. my only regret is that i brought you out to this terrible borderland. but i did not know. if only i could see you safe from the peril of this wilderness, at home, happy, married." nell bent over him blinded by her tears, unable to see or speak, crushed by this last overwhelming blow. jim sat on the other side of the old missionary, holding his hand. for many moments neither spoke. they glanced at the pale face, watching with eager, wistful eyes for a smile, or listening for a word. "come," said the indian. nell silently pointed toward her uncle. "he is dying," whispered jim to the indian. "go, leave me," murmured mr. wells. "you are still in danger." "we'll not leave you," cried jim. "no, no, no," sobbed nell, bending over to kiss him. "nellie, may i marry you to jim?" whispered mr. wells into her ear. "he has told me how it is with him. he loves you, nellie. i'd die happier knowing i'd left you with him." even at that moment, with her heart almost breaking, nell's fair face flushed. "nell, will you marry me?" asked jim, softly. low though it was, he had heard mr. wells' whisper. nell stretched a little trembling hand over her uncle to jim, who inclosed it in his own. her eyes met his. through her tears shone faintly a light, which, but for the agony that made it dim, would have beamed radiant. "find the place," said mr. wells, handing jim a bible. it was the one he always carried in his pocket. with trembling hand jim turned the leaves. at last he found the lines, and handed the book back to the old man. simple, sweet and sad was that marriage service. nell and jim knelt with hands clasped over mr. wells. the old missionary's voice was faint; nell's responses were low, and jim answered with deep and tender feeling. beside them stood wingenund, a dark, magnificent figure. "there! may god bless you!" murmured mr. wells, with a happy smile, closing the bible. "nell, my wife!" whispered jim, kissing her hand. "come!" broke in wingenund's voice, deep, strong, like that of a bell. not one of them had observed the chief as he stood erect, motionless, poised like a stag scenting the air. his dark eyes seemed to pierce the purple-golden forest, his keen ear seemed to drink in the singing of the birds and the gentle rustling of leaves. native to these haunts as were the wild creatures, they were no quicker than the indian to feel the approach of foes. the breeze had borne faint, suspicious sounds. "keep--the--bible," said mr. wells, "remember--its--word." his hand closely clasped nell's, and then suddenly loosened. his pallid face was lighted by a meaning, tender smile which slowly faded--faded, and was gone. the venerable head fell back. the old missionary was dead. nell kissed the pale, cold brow, and then rose, half dazed and shuddering. jim was vainly trying to close the dead man's eyes. she could no longer look. on rising she found herself near the indian chief. he took her fingers in his great hand, and held them with a strong, warm pressure. strangely thrilled, she looked up at wingenund. his somber eyes, fixed piercingly on the forest, and his dark stern face, were, as always, inscrutable. no compassion shone there; no emotion unbefitting a chieftain would ever find expression in that cold face, but nell felt a certain tenderness in this indian, a response in his great heart. felt it so surely, so powerfully that she leaned her head against him. she knew he was her friend. "come," said the chief once more. he gently put nell aside before jim arose from his sad task. "we can not leave him unburied," expostulated jim. wingenund dragged aside a large stone which formed one wall of the cavern. then he grasped a log which was half covered by dirt, and, exerting his great strength, pulled it from its place. there was a crash, a rumble, the jar of a heavy weight striking the earth, then the rattling of gravel, and, before nell and jim realized what had happened, the great rock forming the roof of the cavern slipped down the bank followed by a small avalanche. the cavern was completely covered. mr. wells was buried. a mossy stone marked the old missionary's grave. nell and jim were lost in wonder and awe. "ugh!" cried the chief, looking toward the opening in the glade. fearfully nell and jim turned, to be appalled by four naked, painted savages standing with leveled rifles. behind them stood deering and jim girty. "oh, god! we are lost! lost! lost!" exclaimed jim, unable to command himself. hope died in his heart. no cry issued from nell's white lips. she was dazed by this final blow. having endured so much, this last misfortune, apparently the ruin of her life, brought no added suffering, only a strange, numb feeling. "ah-huh! thought you'd give me the slip, eh?" croaked girty, striding forward, and as he looked at wingenund his little, yellow eyes flared like flint. "does a wolf befriend girty's captives? chief you hev led me a hard chase." wingenund deigned no reply. he stood as he did so often, still and silent, with folded arms, and a look that was haughty, unresponsive. the indians came forward into the glade, and one of them quickly bound jim's hands behind his back. the savages wore a wild, brutish look. a feverish ferocity, very near akin to insanity, possessed them. they were not quiet a moment, but ran here and there, for no apparent reason, except, possibly, to keep in action with the raging fire in their hearts. the cleanliness which characterized the normal indian was absent in them; their scant buckskin dress was bedraggled and stained. they were still drunk with rum and the lust for blood. murder gleamed from the glance of their eyes. "jake, come over here," said girty to his renegade friend. "ain't she a prize?" girty and deering stood before the poor, stricken girl, and gloated over her fair beauty. she stood as when first transfixed by the horror from which she had been fleeing. her pale face was lowered, her hands clenched tightly in the folds of her skirt. never before had two such coarse, cruel fiends as deering and girty encumbered the earth. even on the border, where the best men were bad, they were the worst. deering was yet drunk, but girty had recovered somewhat from the effects of the rum he had absorbed. the former rolled his big eyes and nodded his shaggy head. he was passing judgment, from his point of view, on the fine points of the girl. "she cer'aintly is," he declared with a grin. "she's a little beauty. beats any i ever seen!" jim girty stroked his sharp chin with dirty fingers. his yellow eyes, his burnt saffron skin, his hooked nose, his thin lips--all his evil face seemed to shine with an evil triumph. to look at him was painful. to have him gaze at her was enough to drive any woman mad. dark stains spotted the bright frills of his gaudy dress, his buckskin coat and leggins, and dotted his white eagle plumes. dark stains, horribly suggestive, covered him from head to foot. blood stains! the innocent blood of christians crimsoned his renegade's body, and every dark red blotch cried murder. "girl, i burned the village of peace to git you," growled girty. "come here!" with a rude grasp that tore open her dress, exposing her beautiful white shoulder and bosom, the ruffian pulled her toward him. his face was transfixed with a fierce joy, a brutal passion. deering looked on with a drunken grin, while his renegade friend hugged the almost dying girl. the indians paced the glade with short strides like leashed tigers. the young missionary lay on the moss with closed eyes. he could not endure the sight of nell in girty's arms. no one noticed wingenund. he stood back a little, half screened by drooping branches. once again the chief's dark eyes gleamed, his head turned a trifle aside, and, standing in the statuesque position habitual with him when resting, he listened, as one who hears mysterious sounds. suddenly his keen glance was riveted on the ferns above the low cliff. he had seen their graceful heads quivering. then two blinding sheets of flame burst from the ferns. spang! spang! the two rifle reports thundered through the glade. two indians staggered and fell in their tracks--dead without a cry. a huge yellow body, spread out like a panther in his spring, descended with a crash upon deering and girty. the girl fell away from the renegade as he went down with a shrill screech, dragging deering with him. instantly began a terrific, whirling, wrestling struggle. a few feet farther down the cliff another yellow body came crashing down to alight with a thud, to bound erect, to rush forward swift as a leaping deer. the two remaining indians had only time to draw their weapons before this lithe, threatening form whirled upon them. shrill cries, hoarse yells, the clash of steel and dull blows mingled together. one savage went down, twisted over, writhed and lay still. the other staggered, warded off lightninglike blows until one passed under his guard, and crashed dully on his head. then he reeled, rose again, but only to have his skull cloven by a bloody tomahawk. the victor darted toward the whirling mass. "lew, shake him loose! let him go!" yelled jonathan zane, swinging his bloody weapon. high above zane's cry, deering's shouts and curses, girty's shrieks of fear and fury, above the noise of wrestling bodies and dull blows, rose a deep booming roar. it was wetzel's awful cry of vengeance. "shake him loose," yelled jonathan. baffled, he ran wildly around the wrestlers. time and time again his gory tomahawk was raised only to be lowered. he found no opportunity to strike. girty's ghastly countenance gleamed at him from the whirl of legs, and arms and bodies. then wetzel's dark face, lighted by merciless eyes, took its place, and that gave way to deering's broad features. the men being clad alike in buckskin, and their motions so rapid, prevented zane from lending a helping hand. suddenly deering was propelled from the mass as if by a catapult. his body straightened as it came down with a heavy thud. zane pounced upon it with catlike quickness. once more he swung aloft the bloody hatchet; then once more he lowered it, for there was no need to strike. the renegade's side was torn open from shoulder to hip. a deluge of blood poured out upon the moss. deering choked, a bloody froth formed on his lips. his fingers clutched at nothing. his eyes rolled violently and then were fixed in an awful stare. the girl lying so quiet in the woods near the old hut was avenged! jonathan turned again to wetzel and girty, not with any intention to aid the hunter, but simply to witness the end of the struggle. without the help of the powerful deering, how pitifully weak was the deathshead of the frontier in the hands of the avenger! jim girty's tomahawk was thrown in one direction and his knife in another. he struggled vainly in the iron grip that held him. wetzel rose to his feet clutching the renegade. with his left arm, which had been bared in the fight, he held girty by the front of his buckskin shirt, and dragged him to that tree which stood alone in the glade. he pushed him against it, and held him there. the white dog leaped and snarled around the prisoner. girty's hands pulled and tore at the powerful arm which forced him hard against the beech. it was a brown arm, and huge with its bulging, knotted, rigid muscles. a mighty arm, strong as the justice which ruled it. "girty, thy race is run!" wetzel's voice cut the silence like a steel whip. the terrible, ruthless smile, the glittering eyes of doom seemed literally to petrify the renegade. the hunter's right arm rose slowly. the knife in his hand quivered as if with eagerness. the long blade, dripping with deering's blood, pointed toward the hilltop. "look thar! see 'em! thar's yer friends!" cried wetzel. on the dead branches of trees standing far above the hilltop, were many great, dark birds. they sat motionless as if waiting. "buzzards! buzzards!" hissed wetzel. girty's ghastly face became an awful thing to look upon. no living countenance ever before expressed such fear, such horror, such agony. he foamed at the mouth, he struggled, he writhed. with a terrible fascination he watched that quivering, dripping blade, now poised high. wetzel's arm swung with the speed of a shooting star. he drove the blade into girty's groin, through flesh and bone, hard and fast into the tree. he nailed the renegade to the beech, there to await his lingering doom. "ah-h! ah-h! ah-h!" shrieked girty, in cries of agony. he fumbled and pulled at the haft of the knife, but could not loosen it. he beat his breast, he tore his hair. his screams were echoed from the hilltop as if in mockery. the white dog stood near, his hair bristling, his teeth snapping. the dark birds sat on the dead branches above the hilltop, as if waiting for their feast. chapter xxviii. zane turned and cut the young missionary's bonds. jim ran to where nell was lying on the ground, and tenderly raised her head, calling to her that they were saved. zane bathed the girl's pale face. presently she sighed and opened her eyes. then zane looked from the statuelike form of wingenund to the motionless figure of wetzel. the chief stood erect with his eyes on the distant hills. wetzel remained with folded arms, his cold eyes fixed upon the writhing, moaning renegade. "lew, look here," said zane, unhesitatingly, and pointed toward the chief. wetzel quivered as if sharply stung; the cold glitter in his eyes changed to lurid fire. with upraised tomahawk he bounded across the brook. "lew, wait a minute!" yelled zane. "wetzel! wait, wait!" cried jim, grasping the hunter's arm; but the latter flung him off, as the wind tosses a straw. "wetzel, wait, for god's sake, wait!" screamed nell. she had risen at zane's call, and now saw the deadly resolve in the hunter's eyes. fearlessly she flung herself in front of him; bravely she risked her life before his mad rush; frantically she threw her arms around him and clung to his hands desperately. wetzel halted; frenzied as he was at the sight of his foe, he could not hurt a woman. "girl, let go!" he panted, and his broad breast heaved. "no, no, no! listen, wetzel, you must not kill the chief. he is a friend." "he is my great foe!" "listen, oh! please listen!" pleaded nell. "he warned me to flee from girty; he offered to guide us to fort henry. he has saved my life. for my sake, wetzel, do not kill him! don't let me be the cause of his murder! wetzel, wetzel, lower your arm, drop your hatchet. for pity's sake do not spill more blood. wingenund is a christian!" wetzel stepped back breathing heavily. his white face resembled chiseled marble. with those little hands at his breast he hesitated in front of the chief he had hunted for so many long years. "would you kill a christian?" pleaded nell, her voice sweet and earnest. "i reckon not, but this injun ain't one," replied wetzel slowly. "put away your hatchet. let me have it. listen, and i will tell you, after thanking you for this rescue. do you know of my marriage? come, please listen! forget for a moment your enmity. oh! you must be merciful! brave men are always merciful!" "injun, are you a christian?" hissed wetzel. "oh! i know he is! i know he is!" cried nell, still standing between wetzel and the chief. wingenund spoke no word. he did not move. his falcon eyes gazed tranquilly at his white foe. christian or pagan, he would not speak one word to save his life. "oh! tell him you are a christian," cried nell, running to the chief. "yellow-hair, the delaware is true to his race." as he spoke gently to nell a noble dignity shone upon his dark face. "injun, my back bears the scars of your braves' whips," hissed wetzel, once more advancing. "deathwind, your scars are deep, but the delaware's are deeper," came the calm reply. "wingenund's heart bears two scars. his son lies under the moss and ferns; deathwind killed him; deathwind alone knows his grave. wingenund's daughter, the delight of his waning years, freed the delaware's great foe, and betrayed her father. can the christian god tell wingenund of his child?" wetzel shook like a tree in a storm. justice cried out in the indian's deep voice. wetzel fought for mastery of himself. "delaware, your daughter lays there, with her lover," said wetzel firmly, and pointed into the spring. "ugh!" exclaimed the indian, bending over the dark pool. he looked long into its murky depths. then he thrust his arm down into the brown water. "deathwind tells no lie," said the chief, calmly, and pointed toward girty. the renegade had ceased struggling, his head was bowed upon his breast. "the white serpent has stung the delaware." "what does it mean?" cried jim. "your brother joe and whispering winds lie in the spring," answered jonathan zane. "girty murdered them, and wetzel buried the two there." "oh, is it true?" cried nell. "true, lass," whispered jim, brokenly, holding out his arms to her. indeed, he needed her strength as much as she needed his. the girl gave one shuddering glance at the spring, and then hid her face on her husband's shoulder. "delaware, we are sworn foes," cried wetzel. "wingenund asks no mercy." "are you a christian?" "wingenund is true to his race." "delaware, begone! take these weapons an' go. when your shadow falls shortest on the ground, deathwind starts on your trail." "deathwind is the great white chief; he is the great indian foe; he is as sure as the panther in his leap; as swift as the wild goose in his northern flight. wingenund never felt fear." the chieftain's sonorous reply rolled through the quiet glade. "if deathwind thirsts for wingenund's blood, let him spill it now, for when the delaware goes into the forest his trail will fade." "begone!" roared wetzel. the fever for blood was once more rising within him. the chief picked up some weapons of the dead indians, and with haughty stride stalked from the glade. "oh, wetzel, thank you, i knew---" nell's voice broke as she faced the hunter. she recoiled from this changed man. "come, we'll go," said jonathan zane. "i'll guide you to fort henry." he lifted the pack, and led nell and jim out of the glade. they looked back once to picture forever in their minds the lovely spot with its ghastly quiet bodies, the dark, haunting spring, the renegade nailed to the tree, and the tall figure of wetzel as he watched his shadow on the ground. * * * when wetzel also had gone, only two living creatures remained in the glade--the doomed renegade, and the white dog. the gaunt beast watched the man with hungry, mad eyes. a long moan wailed through the forest. it swelled mournfully on the air, and died away. the doomed man heard it. he raised his ghastly face; his dulled senses seemed to revive. he gazed at the stiffening bodies of the indians, at the gory corpse of deering, at the savage eyes of the dog. suddenly life seemed to surge strong within him. "hell's fire! i'm not done fer yet," he gasped. "this damned knife can't kill me; i'll pull it out." he worked at the heavy knife hilt. awful curses passed his lips, but the blade did not move. retribution had spoken his doom. suddenly he saw a dark shadow moving along the sunlit ground. it swept past him. he looked up to see a great bird with wide wings sailing far above. he saw another still higher, and then a third. he looked at the hilltop. the quiet, black birds had taken wing. they were floating slowly, majestically upward. he watched their graceful flight. how easily they swooped in wide circles. he remembered that they had fascinated him when a boy, long, long ago, when he had a home. where was that home? he had one once. ah! the long, cruel years have rolled back. a youth blotted out by evil returned. he saw a little cottage, he saw the old virginia homestead, he saw his brothers and his mother. "ah-h!" a cruel agony tore his heart. he leaned hard against the knife. with the pain the present returned, but the past remained. all his youth, all his manhood flashed before him. the long, bloody, merciless years faced him, and his crimes crushed upon him with awful might. suddenly a rushing sound startled him. he saw a great bird swoop down and graze the tree tops. another followed, and another, and then a flock of them. he saw their gray, spotted breasts and hooked beaks. "buzzards," he muttered, darkly eyeing the dead savages. the carrion birds were swooping to their feast. "by god! he's nailed me fast for buzzards!" he screamed in sudden, awful frenzy. "nailed fast! ah-h! ah-h! ah-h! eaten alive by buzzards! ah-h! ah-h! ah-h!" he shrieked until his voice failed, and then he gasped. again the buzzards swooped overhead, this time brushing the leaves. one, a great grizzled bird, settled upon a limb of the giant oak, and stretched its long neck. another alighted beside him. others sailed round and round the dead tree top. the leader arched his wings, and with a dive swooped into the glade. he alighted near deering's dead body. he was a dark, uncanny bird, with long, scraggy, bare neck, a wreath of white, grizzled feathers, a cruel, hooked beak, and cold eyes. the carrion bird looked around the glade, and put a great claw on the dead man's breast. "ah-h! ah-h!" shrieked girty. his agonized yell of terror and horror echoed mockingly from the wooded bluff. the huge buzzard flapped his wings and flew away, but soon returned to his gruesome feast. his followers, made bold by their leader, floated down into the glade. their black feathers shone in the sun. they hopped over the moss; they stretched their grizzled necks, and turned their heads sideways. girty was sweating blood. it trickled from his ghastly face. all the suffering and horror he had caused in all his long career was as nothing to that which then rended him. he, the renegade, the white indian, the deathshead of the frontier, panted and prayed for a merciful breath. he was exquisitely alive. he was human. presently the huge buzzard, the leader, raised his hoary head. he saw the man nailed to the tree. the bird bent his head wisely to one side, and then lightly lifted himself into the air. he sailed round the glade, over the fighting buzzards, over the spring, and over the doomed renegade. he flew out of the glade, and in again. he swooped close to girty. his broad wings scarcely moved as he sailed along. girty tried to strike the buzzard as he sailed close by, but his arm fell useless. he tried to scream, but his voice failed. slowly the buzzard king sailed by and returned. every time he swooped a little nearer, and bent his long, scraggy neck. suddenly he swooped down, light and swift as a hawk; his wide wings fanned the air; he poised under the tree, and then fastened sharp talons in the doomed man's breast. chapter xxix. the fleeting human instinct of wetzel had given way to the habit of years. his merciless quest for many days had been to kill the frontier fiend. now that it had been accomplished, he turned his vengeance into its accustomed channel, and once more became the ruthless indian-slayer. a fierce, tingling joy surged through him as he struck the delaware's trail. wingenund had made little or no effort to conceal his tracks; he had gone northwest, straight as a crow flies, toward the indian encampment. he had a start of sixty minutes, and it would require six hours of rapid traveling to gain the delaware town. "reckon he'll make fer home," muttered wetzel, following the trail with all possible speed. the hunter's method of trailing an indian was singular. intuition played as great a part as sight. he seemed always to divine his victim's intention. once on the trail he was as hard to shake off as a bloodhound. yet he did not, by any means, always stick to the indian's footsteps. with wetzel the direction was of the greatest importance. for half a mile he closely followed the delaware's plainly marked trail. then he stopped to take a quick survey of the forest before him. he abruptly left the trail, and, breaking into a run, went through the woods as fleetly and noiselessly as a deer, running for a quarter of a mile, when he stopped to listen. all seemed well, for he lowered his head, and walked slowly along, examining the moss and leaves. presently he came upon a little open space where the soil was a sandy loam. he bent over, then rose quickly. he had come upon the indian's trail. cautiously he moved forward, stopping every moment to listen. in all the close pursuits of his maturer years he had never been a victim of that most cunning of indian tricks, an ambush. he relied solely on his ear to learn if foes were close by. the wild creatures of the forest were his informants. as soon as he heard any change in their twittering, humming or playing--whichever way they manifested their joy or fear of life--he became as hard to see, as difficult to hear as a creeping snake. the delaware's trail led to a rocky ridge and there disappeared. wetzel made no effort to find the chief's footprints on the flinty ground, but halted a moment and studied the ridge, the lay of the land around, a ravine on one side, and a dark impenetrable forest on the other. he was calculating his chances of finding the delaware's trail far on the other side. indian woodcraft, subtle, wonderful as it may be, is limited to each indian's ability. savages, as well as other men, were born unequal. one might leave a faint trail through the forest, while another could be readily traced, and a third, more cunning and skillful than his fellows, have flown under the shady trees, for all the trail he left. but redmen followed the same methods of woodcraft from tradition, as wetzel had learned after long years of study and experience. and now, satisfied that he had divined the delaware's intention, he slipped down the bank of the ravine, and once more broke into a run. he leaped lightly, sure-footed as a goat, from stone to stone, over fallen logs, and the brawling brook. at every turn of the ravine, at every open place, he stopped to listen. arriving on the other side of the ridge, he left the ravine and passed along the edge of the rising ground. he listened to the birds, and searched the grass and leaves. he found not the slightest indication of a trail where he had expected to find one. he retraced his steps patiently, carefully, scrutinizing every inch of the ground. but it was all in vain. wingenund had begun to show his savage cunning. in his warrior days for long years no chief could rival him. his boast had always been that, when wingenund sought to elude his pursuers, his trail faded among the moss and the ferns. wetzel, calm, patient, resourceful, deliberated a moment. the delaware had not crossed this rocky ridge. he had been cunning enough to make his pursuer think such was his intention. the hunter hurried to the eastern end of the ridge for no other reason than apparently that course was the one the savage had the least reason to take. he advanced hurriedly because every moment was precious. not a crushed blade of grass, a brushed leaf, an overturned pebble nor a snapped twig did he find. he saw that he was getting near to the side of the ridge where the delaware's trail had abruptly ended. ah! what was there? a twisted bit of fern, with the drops of dew brushed off. bending beside the fern, wetzel examined the grass; it was not crushed. a small plant with triangular leaves of dark green, lay under the fern. breaking off one of these leaves, he exposed its lower side to the light. the fine, silvery hair of fuzz that grew upon the leaf had been crushed. wetzel knew that an indian could tread so softly as not to break the springy grass blades, but the under side of one of these leaves, if a man steps on it, always betrays his passage through the woods. to keen eyes this leaf showed that it had been bruised by a soft moccasin. wetzel had located the trail, but was still ignorant of its direction. slowly he traced the shaken ferns and bruised leaves down over the side of the ridge, and at last, near a stone, he found a moccasin-print in the moss. it pointed east. the delaware was traveling in exactly the opposite direction to that which he should be going. he was, moreover, exercising wonderful sagacity in hiding his trail. this, however, did not trouble wetzel, for if it took him a long time to find the trail, certainly the delaware had expended as much, or more, in choosing hard ground, logs or rocks on which to tread. wetzel soon realized that his own cunning was matched. he trusted no more to his intuitive knowledge, but stuck close to the trail, as a hungry wolf holds to the scent of his quarry. the delaware trail led over logs, stones and hard-baked ground, up stony ravines and over cliffs. the wily chief used all of his old skill; he walked backward over moss and sand where his footprints showed plainly; he leaped wide fissures in stony ravines, and then jumped back again; he let himself down over ledges by branches; he crossed creeks and gorges by swinging himself into trees and climbing from one to another; he waded brooks where he found hard bottom, and avoided swampy, soft ground. with dogged persistence and tenacity of purpose wetzel stuck to this gradually fading trail. every additional rod he was forced to go more slowly, and take more time in order to find any sign of his enemy's passage through the forests. one thing struck him forcibly. wingenund was gradually circling to the southwest, a course that took him farther and farther from the delaware encampment. slowly it dawned upon wetzel that the chief could hardly have any reason for taking this circling course save that of pride and savage joy in misleading, in fooling the foe of the delawares, in deliberately showing deathwind that there was one indian who could laugh at and loose him in the forests. to wetzel this was bitter as gall. to be led a wild goose chase! his fierce heart boiled with fury. his dark, keen eyes sought the grass and moss with terrible earnestness. yet in spite of the anger that increased to the white heat of passion, he became aware of some strange sensation creeping upon him. he remembered that the delawares had offered his life. slowly, like a shadow, wetzel passed up and down the ridges, through the brown and yellow aisles of the forest, over the babbling brooks, out upon the golden-flecked fields--always close on the trail. at last in an open part of the forest, where a fire had once swept away the brush and smaller timber, wetzel came upon the spot where the delaware's trail ended. there in the soft, black ground was a moccasin-print. the forest was not dense; there was plenty of light; no logs, stones or trees were near, and yet over all that glade no further evidence of the indian's trail was visible. it faded there as the great chief had boasted it would. wetzel searched the burnt ground; he crawled on his hands and knees; again and again he went over the surroundings. the fact that one moccasin-print pointed west and the other east, showed that the delaware had turned in his tracks, was the most baffling thing that had ever crossed the hunter in all his wild wanderings. for the first time in many years he had failed. he took his defeat hard, because he had been successful for so long he thought himself almost infallible, and because the failure lost him the opportunity to kill his great foe. in his passion he cursed himself for being so weak as to let the prayer of a woman turn him from his life's purpose. with bowed head and slow, dragging steps he made his way westward. the land was strange to him, but he knew he was going toward familiar ground. for a time he walked quietly, all the time the fierce fever in his veins slowly abating. calm he always was, except when that unnatural lust for indians' blood overcame him. on the summit of a high ridge he looked around to ascertain his bearings. he was surprised to find he had traveled in a circle. a mile or so below him arose the great oak tree which he recognized as the landmark of beautiful spring. he found himself standing on the hill, under the very dead tree to which he had directed girty's attention a few hours previous. with the idea that he would return to the spring to scalp the dead indians, he went directly toward the big oak tree. once out of the forest a wide plain lay between him and the wooded knoll which marked the glade of beautiful spring. he crossed this stretch of verdant meadow-land, and entered the copse. suddenly he halted. his keen sense of the usual harmony of the forest, with its innumerable quiet sounds, had received a severe shock. he sank into the tall weeds and listened. then he crawled a little farther. doubt became certainty. a single note of an oriole warned him, and it needed not the quick notes of a catbird to tell him that near at hand, somewhere, was human life. once more wetzel became a tiger. the hot blood leaped from his heart, firing all his veins and nerves. but calmly noiseless, certain, cold, deadly as a snake he began the familiar crawling method of stalking his game. on, on under the briars and thickets, across the hollows full of yellow leaves, up over stony patches of ground to the fern-covered cliff overhanging the glade he glided--lithe, sinuous, a tiger in movement and in heart. he parted the long, graceful ferns and gazed with glittering eyes down into the beautiful glade. he saw not the shining spring nor the purple moss, nor the ghastly white bones--all that the buzzards had left of the dead--nor anything, save a solitary indian standing erect in the glade. there, within range of his rifle, was his great indian foe, wingenund. wetzel sank back into the ferns to still the furious exultations which almost consumed him during the moment when he marked his victim. he lay there breathing hard, gripping tightly his rifle, slowly mastering the passion that alone of all things might render his aim futile. for him it was the third great moment of his life, the last of three moments in which the indian's life had belonged to him. once before he had seen that dark, powerful face over the sights of his rifle, and he could not shoot because his one shot must be for another. again had that lofty, haughty figure stood before him, calm, disdainful, arrogant, and he yielded to a woman's prayer. the delaware's life was his to take, and he swore he would have it! he trembled in the ecstasy of his triumphant passion; his great muscles rippled and quivered, for the moment was entirely beyond his control. then his passion calmed. such power for vengeance had he that he could almost still the very beats of his heart to make sure and deadly his fatal aim. slowly he raised himself; his eyes of cold fire glittered; slowly he raised the black rifle. wingenund stood erect in his old, grand pose, with folded arms, but his eyes, instead of being fixed on the distant hills, were lowered to the ground. an indian girl, cold as marble, lay at his feet. her garments were wet, and clung to her slender form. her sad face was frozen into an eternal rigidity. by her side was a newly dug grave. the bead on the front sight of the rifle had hardly covered the chief's dark face when wetzel's eye took in these other details. he had been so absorbed in his purpose that he did not dream of the delaware's reason for returning to the beautiful spring. slowly wetzel's forefinger stiffened; slowly he lowered the black rifle. wingenund had returned to bury whispering winds. wetzel's teethe clenched, an awful struggle tore his heart. slowly the rifle rose, wavered and fell. it rose again, wavered and fell. something terrible was wrong with him; something awful was awakening in his soul. wingenund had not made a fool of him. the delaware had led him a long chase, had given him the slip in the forest, not to boast of it, but to hurry back to give his daughter christian burial. wingenund was a christian! had he not been, once having cast his daughter from him, he would never have looked upon her face again. wingenund was true to his race, but he was a christian. suddenly wetzel's terrible temptation, his heart-racking struggle ceased. he lowered the long, black rifle. he took one last look at the chieftain's dark, powerful face. then the avenger fled like a shadow through the forest. chapter xxx. it was late afternoon at fort henry. the ruddy sun had already sunk behind the wooded hill, and the long shadows of the trees lengthened on the green square in front of the fort. colonel zane stood in his doorway watching the river with eager eyes. a few minutes before a man had appeared on the bank of the island and hailed. the colonel had sent his brother jonathan to learn what was wanted. the latter had already reached the other shore in his flatboat, and presently the little boat put out again with the stranger seated at the stern. "i thought, perhaps, it might be wetzel," mused the colonel, "though i never knew of lew's wanting a boat." jonathan brought the man across the river, and up the winding path to where colonel zane was waiting. "hello! it's young christy!" exclaimed the colonel, jumping off the steps, and cordially extending his hand. "glad to see you! where's williamson. how did you happen over here?" "captain williamson and his men will make the river eight or ten miles above," answered christy. "i came across to inquire about the young people who left the village of peace. was glad to learn from jonathan they got out all right." "yes, indeed, we're all glad. come and sit down. of course you'll stay over night. you look tired and worn. well, no wonder, when you saw that moravian massacre. you must tell me about it. i saw sam brady yesterday, and he spoke of seeing you over there. sam told me a good deal. ah! here's jim now." the young missionary came out of the open door, and the two young men greeted each other warmly. "how is she?" asked christy, when the first greetings had been exchanged. "nell's just beginning to get over the shock. she'll be glad to see you." "jonathan tells me you got married just before girty came up with you at beautiful spring." "yes; it is true. in fact, the whole wonderful story is true, yet i cannot believe as yet. you look thin and haggard. when we last met you were well." "that awful time pulled me down. i was an unwilling spectator of all that horrible massacre, and shall never get over it. i can still see the fiendish savages running about with the reeking scalps of their own people. i actually counted the bodies of forty-nine grown christians and twenty-seven children. an hour after you left us the church was in ashes, and the next day i saw the burned bodies. oh! the sickening horror of the scene! it haunts me! that monster jim girty killed fourteen christians with his sledge-hammer." "did you hear of his death?" asked colonel zane. "yes, and a fitting end it was to the frontier 'skull and cross-bones'." "it was like wetzel to think of such a vengeance." "has wetzel come in since?" "no. jonathan says he went after wingenund, and there's no telling when he'll return." "i hoped he would spare the delaware." "wetzel spare an indian!" "but the chief was a friend. he surely saved the girl." "i am sorry, too, because wingenund was a fine indian. but wetzel is implacable." "here's nell, and mrs. clarke too. come out, both of you," cried jim. nell appeared in the doorway with colonel zane's sister. the two girls came down the steps and greeted the young man. the bride's sweet face was white and thin, and there was a shadow in her eyes. "i am so glad you got safely away from--from there," said christy, earnestly. "tell me of benny?" asked nell, speaking softly. "oh, yes, i forgot. why, benny is safe and well. he was the only christian indian to escape the christian massacre. heckewelder hid him until it was all over. he is going to have the lad educated." "thank heaven!" murmured nell. "and the missionaries?" inquired jim, earnestly. "were all well when i left, except, of course, young. he was dying. the others will remain out there, and try to get another hold, but i fear it's impossible." "it is impossible, not because the indian does not want christianity, but because such white men as the girty's rule. the beautiful village of peace owes its ruin to the renegades," said colonel zane impressively. "captain williamson could have prevented the massacre," remarked jim. "possibly. it was a bad place for him, and i think he was wrong not to try," declared the colonel. "hullo!" cried jonathan zane, getting up from the steps where he sat listening to the conversation. a familiar soft-moccasined footfall sounded on the path. all turned to see wetzel come slowly toward them. his buckskin hunting costume was ragged and worn. he looked tired and weary, but the dark eyes were calm. it was the wetzel whom they all loved. they greeted him warmly. nell gave him her hands, and smiled up at him. "i'm so glad you've come home safe," she said. "safe an' sound, lass, an' glad to find you well," answered the hunter, as he leaned on his long rifle, looking from nell to colonel zane's sister. "betty, i allus gave you first place among border lasses, but here's one as could run you most any kind of a race," he said, with the rare smile which so warmly lighted his dark, stern face. "lew wetzel making compliments! well, of all things!" exclaimed the colonel's sister. jonathan zane stood closely scanning wetzel's features. colonel zane, observing his brother's close scrutiny of the hunter, guessed the cause, and said: "lew, tell us, did you see wingenund over the sights of your rifle?" "yes," answered the hunter simply. a chill seemed to strike the hearts of the listeners. that simple answer, coming from wetzel, meant so much. nell bowed her head sadly. jim turned away biting his lip. christy looked across the valley. colonel zane bent over and picked up some pebbles which he threw hard at the cabin wall. jonathan zane abruptly left the group, and went into the house. but the colonel's sister fixed her large, black eyes on wetzel's face. "well?" she asked, and her voice rang. wetzel was silent for a moment. he met her eyes with that old, inscrutable smile in his own. a slight shade flitted across his face. "betty, i missed him," he said, calmly, and, shouldering his long rifle, he strode away. * * * nell and jim walked along the bluff above the river. twilight was deepening. the red glow in the west was slowly darkening behind the boldly defined hills. "so it's all settled, jim, that we stay here," said nell. "yes, dear. colonel zane has offered me work, and a church besides. we are very fortunate, and should be contented. i am happy because you're my wife, and yet i am sad when i think of--him. poor joe!" "don't you ever think we--we wronged him?" whispered nell. "no, he wished it. i think he knew how he would end. no, we did not wrong him; we loved him." "yes, i loved him--i loved you both," said nell softly. "then let us always think of him as he would have wished." "think of him? think of joe? i shall never forget. in winter, spring and summer i shall remember him, but always most in autumn. for i shall see that beautiful glade with its gorgeous color and the dark, shaded spring where he lies asleep." * * * the years rolled by with their changing seasons; every autumn the golden flowers bloomed richly, and the colored leaves fell softly upon the amber moss in the glade of beautiful spring. the indians camped there no more; they shunned the glade and called it the haunted spring. they said the spirit of a white dog ran there at night, and the wind-of-death mourned over the lonely spot. at long intervals an indian chief of lofty frame and dark, powerful face stalked into the glade to stand for many moments silent and motionless. and sometimes at twilight when the red glow of the sun had faded to gray, a stalwart hunter slipped like a shadow out of the thicket, and leaned upon a long, black rifle while he gazed sadly into the dark spring, and listened to the sad murmur of the waterfall. the twilight deepened while he stood motionless. the leaves fell into the water with a soft splash, a whippoorwill caroled his melancholy song. from the gloom of the forest came a low sigh which swelled thrillingly upon the quiet air, and then died away like the wailing of the night wind. quiet reigned once more over the dark, murky grave of the boy who gave his love and his life to the wilderness. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) beth norvell a romance of the west by randall parrish author of "when wilderness was king," "my lady of the north," "bob hampton of placer," etc. with frontispiece in color by n. c. wyeth [frontispiece: the woman never changed her posture, never seemed to realize the approach of dawn; but winston roused up, lifting his head to gaze wearily forward.] a. l. burt company publishers -------- new york copyright a. c. mcclurg & co. entered at stationers' hall, london all rights reserved published september , second edition october , third edition, october , fourth edition, december , fifth edition, december , contents i a chance meeting ii out with a road company iii a breaking of ice iv a new deal of the cards v in open rebellion vi the "little yankee" mine vii a dismissal viii "he means fight" ix the force of circumstances x a new alliance xi half-confidences xii the cover of darkness xiii two women xiv underground xv the proof of crime xvi a return to the day xvii a council of war xviii the confession xix the point of view xx the game of foils xxi under arrest xxii the intervention of swanson xxiii a new volunteer xxiv an avowal of love xxv the proof of love xxvi beneath the darkness xxvii the shadow of crime xxviii across the desert to the end xxix the summit of success xxx the mission of a letter beth norvell a tale of the west chapter i a chance meeting there were nine altogether in the party registering. this number included the manager, who, both on and off the stage, quite successfully impersonated the villain--a rather heavy-jawed, middle-aged fellow, of foreign appearance, with coarse, gruff voice; three representatives of the gentler sex; a child of eight, exact species unknown, wrapped up like a mummy; and four males. beyond doubt the most notable member of the troupe was the comedian "star," mr. t. macready lane, whose well-known cognomen must even now awaken happy histrionic memories throughout the western circuit. the long night's ride from their previous stand, involving as it did two changes of trains, had proven exceedingly wearisome; and the young woman in the rather natty blue toque, the collar of her long gray coat turned up in partial concealment of her face, was so utterly fatigued that she refused to wait for a belated breakfast, and insisted upon being at once directed to her room. there was a substantial bolt decorating the inside of the door, but, rendered careless by sheer exhaustion of both mind and body, she forgot everything except her desire for immediate rest, dropped her wraps upon the only chair visible, and flung herself, fully dressed, upon the bed. her cheek had barely pressed the hard pillow before she was sleeping like a tired child. it must have been an hour later when winston drove in from flat rock, shook the powdery snow from off his long fur overcoat, his cheeks still tingling from the sharp wind, and, with fingers yet stiffened by cold, wrote his name carelessly across the lower line of the dilapidated hotel register. "can you let me have the same room, tom?" he questioned familiarly of the man ornamenting the high stool behind the desk. the latter, busy with some figures, nodded carelessly, and the last arrival promptly picked up his valise from the floor and began climbing the stairs, whistling softly. he was a long-limbed, broad-chested young fellow, with clean-shaven face, and a pair of dark-gray eyes that looked straight ahead of him; and he ran up the somewhat steep steps as though finding such exercise a pleasure. rounding the upper railing, he stopped abruptly before number twenty-seven, flung open the door, took a single step within, and came to a sudden pause, his careless whistling suspended in breathless surprise. with that single glance the complete picture became indelibly photographed upon his memory,--the narrow, sparsely furnished room with roughly plastered walls; the small, cheap mirror; the faded-green window curtain, torn half in two; the sheet-iron wash-stand; the wooden chair, across which rested the gray coat with the blue toque on top; and the single cot bed bearing its unconscious occupant. somehow as he gazed, his earliest conscious emotion was that of sympathy--it all appeared so unspeakably pathetic, so homesick, so dismally forlorn and barren. then that half-upturned face riveted his attention and seemed to awaken a vague, dreamy memory he found himself unable to localize; it reminded him of some other face he had known, tantalizing from its dim indistinctness. then this earlier impression slightly faded away, and he merely beheld her alone, a perfect stranger appropriating little by little her few claims to womanly beauty. there was no certain guessing at her age as she lay thus, one hand pressed beneath her cheek, her eyes closed, the long, dark lashes clearly outlined against the white flesh, her bosom rising and falling with the steady breathing of absolute exhaustion. she appeared so extremely tired, discouraged, unhappy, that the young man involuntarily closed his teeth tightly, as though some wrong had been personally done to himself. he marked the dense blackness of her heavy mass of hair; the perfect clearness of her skin; the shapeliness of the slender, outstretched figure; the narrow boot, with its high-arched instep, peeping shyly beneath the blue skirt; the something rarely interesting, yet which scarcely made for beauty, revealed unconsciously in the upturned face with its rounded chin and parted lips. there was no distinct regularity of features, but there was unquestionably character, such character as we recognize vaguely in a sculptured face, lacking that life-like expression which the opened eyes alone are capable of rendering. all this swept across his mind in that instant during which he remained irresolute from surprise. yet winston was by nature a gentleman; almost before he had grasped the full significance of it all he stepped silently backward, and gently closed the door. for an uncertain moment he remained there staring blankly at the wood, that haunting memory once again mocking every vain attempt to associate this girl-face with some other he had known before. finally, leaving valise and overcoat lying in the hall, he retraced his way slowly down the stairs. "tom," and the young man leaned against the rough counter, his voice grown graver, "there chances to be a woman at present occupying that room you just assigned me." "no! is that so?" and the clerk swung easily down from his high stool, drawing the register toward him. "must be one of the troupe, then. let's see--number twenty-seven, was n't it? twenty-seven--oh, yes, here it is. that's a fact," and his finger slowly traced the line as he spelled out the name, "'miss beth norvell.' oh, i remember her now--black hair, and a long gray coat; best looker among 'em. manager said she 'd have to be given a room all to herself; but i clean forgot i assigned her to twenty-seven. make much of a row?" the other shook his head, bending down so as to read the name with his own eyes. there was nothing in the least familiar about the sound of it, and he became faintly conscious of an undefined feeling of disappointment. still, if she was upon the stage, the name quite probably was an assumed one; the very utterance of it left that impression. he walked over toward the cigar stand and picked out a weed, thinking gravely while he held a flaming match to the tip. somehow he was not altogether greatly pleased with this information; he should have preferred to discover her to be some one else. he glanced at the clerk through the slight haze of blue smoke, his increasing curiosity finding reluctant utterance. "what troupe is it?" he questioned with seeming carelessness. "'heart of the world,'" answered tom with some considerable increase of enthusiasm. "a dandy play, and a blamed good company, they tell me. got some fine press notices anyhow, an' a carload o' scenery. played in denver a whole month; and it costs a dollar and a half to buy a decent seat even in this measly town, so you can bet it ain't no slouch of a show. house two-thirds sold out in advance, but i know where i can get you some good seats for just a little extra. lane is the star. you 've heard of lane, have n't you? funniest fellow you ever saw; makes you laugh just to look at him. and this--this miss norvell, why she's the leadin' lady, and the travellin' men tell me she's simply immense. there's one of their show bills hanging over there back of the stove." winston sauntered across to the indicated red and yellow abomination, and dumbly stood staring at it through the blue rings of his cigar. it represented a most thrilling stage picture, while underneath, and in type scarcely a shade less pronounced than that devoted to the eminent comedian t. macready lane, appeared the announcement of the great emotional actress, miss beth norvell, together with several quite flattering western press notices. the young man read these slowly, wondering why they should particularly interest him, and on a sudden his rather grave face brightened into a smile, a whimsical thought flashing into his mind. "by jove, why not?" he muttered, as if arguing the matter out with himself. "the report has gone east, and there is nothing more to be accomplished in flat rock for at least a month. this snow will have to melt away before they can hope to put any miners to work, and in the meanwhile i might just as well be laying up experiences on the road as wasting my substance in riotous living at denver. it ought to prove a great lark, and i 've always had ambition to have a try at something of the kind. well, here 's my chance; and besides, i can't help believing that that girl might prove interesting; her face is, anyhow." he walked back to where tom still hung idly over the cigar case. "who is running this show outfit?" "that big fellow writing at the table. his name 's albrecht," suspiciously. "but see here, i tell you there ain't any use of your hittin' him for 'comps'; he 's tighter than a drum." "'comps'? oh, ye of little faith!" exclaimed winston genially. "it is n't 'comps' i 'm after, tommy, it's a job." albrecht looked up from his writing, scowling somewhat under his heavily thatched brows, and revealing a coarse face, with little glinting eyes filled with low cunning. at that first glance winston instinctively disliked the fellow; yet he put his case in a few brief sentences of explanation, and, as the other listened, the managerial frown slightly relaxed. "actor?" he questioned laconically, when the younger man paused, his glance wandering appreciatively over the sturdy, erect figure. "well, hardly that; at least, merely in an amateur way," and the applicant laughed lightly. "you see, i imagined you might possibly make use of me in some minor capacity until i learn more about the business. i don't care very much regarding pay, but i desire to get a taste of the life." "oxactly, mein frient." and the worthy albrecht became almost briskly cordial in manner. perhaps here was an "angel" waiting to be plucked in the holy name of art; at least, he appeared well dressed, looked intellectually promising, and expressed himself as totally indifferent regarding salary. such visitors were indeed few and far between, and the astute manager sufficiently understood his business to permit his heavy features to relax into a hearty, welcoming smile. "oxactly, young man. sit down, und i vill see yoost vat vos pest for us both. you vould be an actor; you haf the ambition. ah! i see it in your eyes, and it gif me great bleasure. but, young man, it vos unfortunate dot i haf not mooch just now to gif you, yet the vay vill open if you only stays mit me. sure; yaw, i, samuel albrecht, vill make of you a great actor. i can see dot in your face, und for dot reason i vill now gif you the chance. you begin at the pottom, but not for long; all i vants now vos a utility man--some one to take small barts, understudy, und be ready to help out mit der scenery und der trunks. i could not bay moch monies for dot," and he spread his beringed hands deprecatingly, "but it vos only der first step on der ladder of fame. every day i teach you de great art of de actor. you come with me dot way, mein frient?" "certainly; that will be perfectly satisfactory." "ah," delightedly, "you vos a goot poy, villin' to learn, i see. next season, who knows, you might be leading man if you vork hardt. i bay you now after one veek's trial, when i know petter vot you are vort, hey?" winston carelessly nodded his acceptance of these rather indefinite terms, his hands thrust into his pockets, his gray eyes smiling their appreciation of the situation. albrecht was deliberately looking him over, as he might a horse he had just purchased. "you are kinder slim to look at," he confessed at last, thoughtfully. "are you bretty strong?" the younger man silently held forth his right arm to the inspection of the other, who fingered the iron rigidity of muscle under the cloth with evident respect. "god of yacob!" the manager muttered in unconcealed surprise, "it is vonderful, and you such a slender young man to look at. i vos most afraidt you could not do mein vork, but it is all right. you vill eat mit us at the long table," he waved his hand indefinitely toward the dining-room, "at : , and then i valk mit you over py der obera house, und show you vat der is to be done mit dot scenery und dem trunks. mein gott! it vos vonderful dot muscles vot you haf got--you vould make a great davy crockett ven i learns you de business, mein frient." the manager's appreciation of his new acquisition was so clearly evident that winston felt compelled to notice it. "i am rejoiced you appear so well satisfied," he said, rising to his feet. "satisfied! mein gott," and the overjoyed albrecht cordially clasped the hand of his new recruit. "it vos a great season of luck for me, mein frient. dot meess norvell, she makes me mooch monies vile i shows her how to be an actress,--oh, it vos yoost beautiful to see her act,--und now you comes mit me also, und cares nottings for vot i bay you, und i can see you haf der actor genius. mein gott! it vos too goot to be true." winston broke away gladly, and drifted back toward the cigar stand, where the mystified tommy yet stood staring at him. "well, did you get it?" the latter questioned, grinning. "thomas," returned the other loftily. "you can hand me out another cigar, and i will thank you not to be quite so familiar in the future. i am now general utility man with the 'heart of the world' company, and consequently entitled to greater respect." chapter ii out with a road company miss norvell failed to appear at the noon meal, though winston met the other members of the company. he found them genial enough, even somewhat boisterous, with the single exception of mr. lane, who maintained a dignified and rather gloomy silence, such as became one of his recognized professional standing, after having favored the newcomer with a long, impertinent stare, apparently expressing disapproval. the manager was outwardly in most excellent humor, narrating several stories, at which all, excepting the reserved comedian, laughed quite heartily. at the conclusion of the repast, albrecht condescended to purchase his new recruit a cigar, and then walked beside him toward the opera house, where the necessary instructions in new duties promptly began. if winston had previously imagined his earlier steps toward histrionic honors were destined to be easy ones, he was very soon undeceived under the guidance of the enthusiastic manager. it proved a strenuous afternoon, yet the young fellow had the right stuff in him to make good, that stubborn pride which never surrenders before difficulties; he shut his teeth, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and went earnestly to work. it was a small, cheaply built theatre, having restricted stage space, while a perfect riff-raff of trunks and detached pieces of canvas scenery littered the wings. at first sight it appeared a confused medley of odds and ends, utterly impossible to bring into any conformity to order, but albrecht recognized each separate piece of luggage, every detached section of canvas, recalling exactly where it properly belonged during the coming performance. for more than an hour he pranced about the dirty stage, shouting minute directions, and giving due emphasis to them by growling german oaths; while winston, aided by two local assistants, bore trunks into the various dressing-rooms, hung drop curtains in designated positions, placed set pieces conveniently at hand, and arranged the various required properties where they could not possibly be overlooked during the rush of the evening's performance. thus, little by little, order was evolved from chaos, and the astute manager chuckled happily to himself in quick appreciation of the unusual rapidity with which the newly engaged utility man grasped the situation and mastered the confusing details. assuredly he had discovered a veritable jewel in this fresh recruit. at last, the affairs of principal importance having been attended to, albrecht left some final instructions, and departed for the hotel, feeling serenely confident that this young man would carry out his orders to the letter. and winston did. he was of that determined nature which performs thoroughly any work once deliberately undertaken; and, although the merest idle whim had originally brought him to this position of utility man in the "heart of the world" company, he was already beginning to experience a slight degree of interest in the success of the coming show, and to feel a faint _esprit de corps_, which commanded his best efforts. indeed, his temporary devotion to the preparation of the stage proved sufficiently strong to obscure partially for the time being all recollection of that first incentive which had suggested his taking such a step--the young lady discovered asleep in number twenty-seven. the remembrance of her scarcely recurred to him all through the afternoon, yet it finally returned in overwhelming rush when, in the course of his arduous labors, he raised up a small leather trunk and discovered her name painted plainly upon the end of it. the chalk mark designating where it belonged read "dressing-room no. ," and, instead of rolling it roughly in that direction, as he had rolled numerous others, the new utility man lifted it carefully upon his shoulder and deposited it gently against the farther wall. he glanced with curiosity about the restricted apartment to which miss beth norvell had been assigned. it appeared the merest hole of a place, narrow and ill-ventilated, the side walls and ceiling composed of rough lumber, and it was evidently designed to be lit at night by a single gas jet, inclosed within a wire netting. this apartment contained merely a single rude chair, of the kitchen variety, and an exceedingly small mirror cracked across one corner and badly fly-specked. numerous rusty spikes, intended to hold articles of discarded clothing, decorated both side walls and the back of the door. it was dismally bare, and above all, it was abominably dirty, the dust lying thick everywhere, the floor apparently unswept for weeks. with an exclamation of disgust winston hunted up broom and dust-rag, and gave the gloomy place such a cleansing as it probably had not enjoyed since the house was originally erected. at the end of these arduous labors he looked the scene over critically, the honest perspiration streaming down his face, glancing, with some newly awakened curiosity, into the surrounding dressing-rooms. they were equally filthy and unfit for occupancy, yet he did not feel called upon to invade them with his cleansing broom. by four o'clock everything was in proper position, the stage set in perfect order for the opening act, and winston returned with his report to the hotel, and to the glowing albrecht. miss norvell joined the company at the supper table, sitting between the manager and mr. t. macready lane, although winston was quick to observe that she gave slight attention to either, except when addressed directly. she met the others present with all necessary cordiality and good-fellowship, yet there appeared a certain undefined reserve about her manner which led to an immediate hush in the rather free conversation of what albrecht was pleased to term the "training table," and when the murmur of voices was resumed after her entrance, a somewhat better choice of subjects became immediately noticeable. without so much as either word or look, the silent influence of the actress was plainly for refinement, while her mere presence at the table gave a new tone to bohemianism. winston, swiftly realizing this, began observing the lady with a curiosity which rapidly developed into deeper interest. he became more and more attracted by her unique personality, which persistently appealed to his aroused imagination, even while there continued to haunt him a dim tantalizing remembrance he was unable wholly to master. he assuredly had never either seen or heard of this young woman before, yet she constantly reminded him of the past. her eyes, the peculiar contour of her face, the rather odd trick she had of shaking back the straying tresses of her dark, glossy hair, and, above all, that quick smile with which she greeted any flash of humor, and which produced a fascinating dimple in her cheek, all served to puzzle and stimulate him; while admiration of her so apparent womanliness began as instantly to replace the vague curiosity he had felt toward her as an actress. she was different from what he had imagined, with absolutely nothing to suggest the glare and glitter of the footlights. until this time he had scarcely been conscious that she possessed any special claim to beauty; yet now, her face, illumined by those dark eyes filled with quick intelligence, became most decidedly attractive, peculiarly lovable and womanly. besides, she evidently possessed a rare taste in dress, which met with his masculine approval. much of this, it is true, he reasoned out later and slowly, for during that first meal only two circumstances impressed him clearly--the depth of feeling glowing within those wonderfully revealing eyes, and her complete ignoring of his presence. if she recognized any addition to their number, there was not the slightest sign given. once their eyes met by merest accident; but hers apparently saw nothing, and winston returned to his disagreeable labors at the opera house, nursing a feeling akin to disappointment. concealed within the gloomy shadows of the wings, he stood entranced that night watching her depict the character of a wife whose previous happy life had been irretrievably ruined by deceit; and the force, the quiet originality of her depiction, together with its marvellous clearness of detail and its intense realism, held him captive. the plot of the play was ugly, melodramatic, and entirely untrue to nature; against it winston's cultivated taste instantly revolted; yet this woman interpreted her own part with the rare instinct of a true artist, picturing to the very life the particular character intrusted to her, and holding the house to a breathless realization of what real artistic portrayal meant. in voice, manner, action, in each minute detail of face and figure, she was truly the very woman she represented. it was an art so fine as to make the auditors forget the artist, forget even themselves. her perfect workmanship, clear-cut, rounded, complete, stood forth like a delicate cameo beside the rude buffoonery of t. macready lane, the coarse villany of albrecht, and the stiff mannerisms of the remainder of the cast. they were automatons as compared with a figure instinct with life animated by intelligence. she seemed to redeem the common clay of the coarse, unnatural story, and give to it some vital excuse for existence, the howls of laughter greeting the cheap wit of the comedian changed to a sudden hush of expectancy at her mere entrance upon the stage, while her slightest word, or action, riveted the attention. it was a triumph beyond applause, beyond any mere outward demonstration of approval. winston felt the spell deeply, his entire body thrilling to her marvellous delineation of this common thing, her uplifting of it out of the vile ruck of its surroundings and giving unto it the abundant life of her own interpretation. never once did he question the real although untrained genius back of those glowing eyes, that expressive face, those sincere, quiet tones which so touched and swayed the heart. in other days he had seen the stage at its best, and now he recognized in this woman that subtle power which must conquer all things, and eventually "arrive." early the following morning, tossing uneasily upon a hard cot-bed in the next town listed in their itinerary, he discovered himself totally unable to divorce this memory from his thoughts. she even mingled with his dreams,--a rounded, girlish figure, her young face glowing with the emotions dominating her, her dark eyes grave with thoughtfulness,--and he awoke, at last, facing another day of servile toil, actually rejoicing to remember that he was part of the "heart of the world." that which he had first assumed from a mere spirit of play, the veriest freak of boyish adventure, had suddenly developed into a real impulse to which his heart gave complete surrender. to all outward appearances miss beth norvell remained serenely unconscious regarding either his admiration or his presence. it was impossible to imagine that in so small a company he could continually pass and repass without attracting notice, yet neither word nor look passed between them; no introduction had been accorded, and she merely ignored him, under the natural impression, without doubt, that he was simply an ignorant roustabout of the stage, a wielder of trunks, a manipulator of scenery, in whom she could feel no possible interest. a week passed thus, the troupe displaying their talents to fair business, and constantly penetrating into more remote regions, stopping at all manner of hotels, travelling in every species of conveyance, and exhibiting their ability, or lack of it, upon every makeshift of a stage. sometimes this was a bare hall; again it was an armory, with an occasional opera house--like an oasis in the vast desert--to yield them fresh professional courage. small cities, straggling towns, boisterous mining camps welcomed and speeded them on, until sameness became routine, and names grew meaningless. it was the sort of life to test character thoroughly, and the "heart of the world" troupe of strollers began very promptly to exhibit its kind. albrecht, who was making money, retained his coarse good-nature unruffled by the hardships of travel; but the majority of the stage people grew morose and fretful,--the eminent comedian, glum and unapproachable as a bear; the leading gentleman swearing savagely over every unusual worry, and acting the boor generally; the _ingénue_, snappy and cat-like. miss norvell alone among them all appeared as at first, reserved, quiet, uncomplaining, forming no intimate friendships, yet performing her nightly work with constantly augmenting power. winston, ever observing her with increasing interest, imagined that the strain of such a life was telling upon her health, exhibiting its baleful effect in the whitening of her cheeks, in those darker shadows forming beneath her eyes, as well as in a shade less of animation in her manner. yet he saw comparatively little of her, his own work proving sufficiently onerous; the quick jumps from town to town leaving small opportunity for either rest or reflection. he had been advanced to a small speaking part, but the remainder of his waking hours, while he was attired in working-clothes, was diligently devoted to the strenuous labor of his muscles. the novelty of the life had long since vanished, the so eagerly expected experience had already become amply sufficient; again and again, flinging his wearied body upon a cot in some strange room, he had called himself an unmitigated ass, and sworn loudly that he would certainly quit in the morning. yet the girl held him. he did not completely realize how or why, yet some peculiar, indefinite fascination appeared to bind his destinies to her; he ever desired to see her once again, to be near her, to feel the charm of her work, to listen to the sound of her voice, to experience the thrill of her presence. so strong and compelling became this influence over him that day after day he held on, actually afraid to sever that slight bond of professional companionship. this was most assuredly through no fault of hers. it was at shelbyville that she first spoke to him, first gave him the earliest intimation that she even so much as recognized his presence in the company. the house that particular night was crowded to the doors, and she, completing a piece of work which left her cheeks flushed, her slender form trembling from intense emotion, while the prolonged applause thundered after her from the front, stepped quickly into the gloomy shadows of the wings, and thus came face to face with winston. his eyes were glowing with unconcealed appreciation of her art. perhaps the quick reaction had partially unstrung her nerves, for she spoke with feverish haste at sight of his uprolled sleeves and coarse woollen shirt. "how does it occur that you are always standing directly in my passage whenever i step from the stage?" she questioned impetuously. "is there no other place where you can wait to do your work except in my exit?" for a brief moment the surprised man stood hesitating, hat in hand. "i certainly regret having thus unintentionally offended you, miss norvell," he explained at last, slowly. "yet, surely, the occasion should bring you pleasure rather than annoyance." "indeed! why, pray?" "because i so greatly enjoy your work. i stood here merely that i might observe the details more carefully." she glanced directly at him with suddenly aroused interest. "you enjoy my work?" she exclaimed, slightly smiling. "how extremely droll! yet without doubt you do, precisely as those others, out yonder, without the slightest conception of what it all means. probably you are equally interested in the delicate art of mr. t. macready lane?" winston permitted his cool gray eyes to brighten, his firmly set lips slightly to relax. "lane is the merest buffoon," he replied quietly. "you are an artist. there is no comparison possible, miss norvell. the play itself is utterly unworthy of your talent, yet you succeed in dignifying it in a way i can never cease to admire." she stood staring straight at him, her lips parted, apparently so thoroughly startled by these unexpected words as to be left speechless. "why," she managed to articulate at last, her cheeks flushing, "i supposed you like the others we have had with us--just--just a common stage hand. you speak with refinement, with meaning." "have you not lived sufficiently long in the west to discover that men of education are occasionally to be found in rough clothing?" "oh, yes," doubtfully, her eyes still on his face, "miners, stockmen, engineers, but scarcely in your present employment." "miss norvell," and winston straightened up, "possibly i may be employed here for a reason similar to that which has induced you to travel with a troupe of barn-stormers." she shrugged her shoulders, her lips smiling, the seductive dimple showing in her cheeks. "and what was that?" "the ambition of an amateur to attain a foothold upon the professional stage." "who told you so?" "mr. samuel albrecht was guilty of the suggestion. "it was extremely nice of him to discuss my motives thus freely with a stranger. but he told you only a very small portion of the truth. in my case it was rather the imperative necessity of an amateur to earn her own living--a deliberate choice between the professional stage and starvation." "without ambition?" she hesitated slightly, yet there was a depth of respect slumbering within those gray eyes gazing so directly into her darker ones, together with a strength she felt. "without very much at first, i fear," she confessed, as though admitting it rather to herself alone, "yet i acknowledge it has since grown upon me, until i have determined to succeed." his eyes brightened, the admiration in them unconcealed, his lips speaking impulsively. "and what is more, miss norvell, you 'll make it." "do you truly believe so?" she had already forgotten that the man before her was a mere stage hand, and her cheeks burned eagerly to the undoubted sincerity of his utterance. "no one else has ever said that to me--only the audiences have appeared to care and appreciate. albrecht and all those others have scarcely offered me a word of encouragement." "albrecht and the others are asses," ejaculated winston, with sudden indignation. "they imagine they are actors because they prance and bellow on a stage, and they sneer at any one who is not in their class. but i can tell you this, miss norvell, the manager considers you a treasure; he said as much to me." she stood before him, the glare of the stage glinting in her hair, her hands clasped, her dark eyes eagerly reading his face as though these unexpected words of appreciation had yielded her renewed courage, like a glass of wine. "really, is that true? oh, i am so glad. i thought, perhaps, they were only making fun of me out in front, although i have always tried so hard to do my very best. you have given me a new hope that i may indeed master the art. was that my cue?" she stepped quickly backward, listening to the voices droning on the stage, but there remained still a moment of liberty, and she glanced uncertainly about at winston. "am i to thank you for giving me such immaculate dressing-rooms of late?" she questioned, just a little archly. "i certainly wielded the broom." "it was thoughtful of you," and her clear voice hesitated an instant. "was--was it you, also, who placed those flowers upon my trunk last evening?" he bowed, feeling slightly embarrassed by the swift returning restraint in her manner. "they were most beautiful. where did you get them?" "from denver; they were forwarded by express, and i am only too glad if they brought you pleasure." "miracle of miracles! a stage-hand ordering roses from denver! it must have cost you a week's salary." he smiled: "and, alas, the salary has not even been paid." her eyes were uplifted to his face, yet fell as suddenly, shadowed behind the long lashes. "i thank you very much," she said, her voice trembling, "only please don't do it again; i would rather not have you." before he could frame a satisfactory answer to so unexpected a prohibition she had stepped forth upon the stage. this brief interview did not prove as prolific of results as winston confidently expected. miss norvell evidently considered such casual conversation no foundation for future friendship, and although she greeted him when they again met, much as she acknowledged acquaintanceship with the others of the troupe, there remained a quiet reserve about her manner, which effectually barred all thought of possible familiarity. indeed, that she ever again considered him as in any way differing from the others about her did not once occur to winston until one evening at bluffton, when by chance he stood resting behind a piece of set scenery and thus overheard the manager as he halted the young lady on the way to her dressing room. "meess norvell," and albrecht stood rubbing his hands and smiling genially, "at gilchrist we are pilled to blay for dwo nights, und der second blay vill be der 'man from der vest'--you know dot bart, ida somers?" "yes," she acknowledged, "i am perfectly acquainted with the lines, but who is to play ralph wilde?" "mister mooney, of course. you tink dot i import some actors venever i change der pill?" she lifted her dark, expressive eyes to his mottled face, slowly gathering up her skirts in one hand. "as you please," she said quietly, "but i shall not play ida somers to mr. mooney's ralph wilde. i told you as much plainly before we left denver, and it was for that special reason the 'heart of the world' was substituted. the more i have seen of mr. mooney since we took the road, the less i am inclined to yield in this matter." albrecht laughed coarsely, his face reddening. "oh, bah!" he exclaimed, gruffly derisive. "ven you begome star then you can have dem tantrums, but not now, not mit me. you blay vat i say, or i send back after some von else. you bedder not get too gay, or you lose your job damn quick. you don't vant mooney to make lofe to you? you don't vant him to giss you?--hey, vos dot it?" "yes, that was exactly it." "ach!--you too nice to be brofessional; you like to choose your lofer, hey? you forget you earn a livin' so. vot you got against mooney?" miss norvell, her cheeks burning indignantly, her eyes already ablaze, did not mince words. "nothing personally just so long as he keeps away from me," she retorted clearly. "he is coarse, vulgar, boorish, and i have far too much respect for myself to permit such a man to touch me, either upon the stage or off; to have him kiss me would be an unbearable insult." albrecht, totally unable to comprehend the feelings of the girl, shifted uneasily beneath the sharp sting of her words, yet continued to smile idiotically. "dot is very nice, quite melodramatic, but it is not brofessional, meess," he stammered, striving to get hold of some satisfactory argument. "vy, mooney vos not so pad. meess lyle she act dot bart mit him all der last season, and make no kick. dunder! vat you vant--an angel? you don't hafe to take dot bart mit me, or meester lane either, don 't it, hey?" miss norvell turned contemptuously away from him, her face white with determination. "if you really want to know, there is only one man in all your troupe i would consent to play it with," she declared calmly. "und dot is?" "i do not even know his name," and she turned her head just sufficiently to look directly into albrecht's surprised face; "but i refer to your new utility man; he, at least, possesses some of the ordinary attributes of a gentleman." the door of her dressing-room opened and closed, leaving the startled manager standing alone without, gasping for breath, his thick lips gurgling impotent curses, while winston discreetly drew farther back amid the intricacy of scenery. chapter iii a breaking of ice the troupe in its wandering arrived at bolton junction early on a saturday afternoon, and winston, lingering a moment in the hotel office, overheard miss norvell ask the manager if they would probably spend sunday there; and later question the hotel clerk regarding any episcopalian services in the town. their rather late arrival, however, kept him so exceedingly busy with stage preparation for the evening's performance that this conversation scarcely recurred to mind until his night's labor had been completed. then, in the silence of his room, he resolved upon an immediate change in conditions, or else the deliberate giving up of further experiment altogether. he was long since tired enough of it, yet a strange, almost unaccountable attraction for this young woman continued binding him to disagreeable servitude. he came down stairs the following morning, his plans completely determined upon. he was carefully dressed in the neat business suit which had been packed away ever since his first reckless plunge into theatrical life, and thus attired he felt more like his old self than at any moment since his surrender to the dictation of albrecht. in some degree self-confidence, audacity, hope, came promptly trooping back with the mere donning of clean linen and semi-fashionable attire, so that winston "utility" became winston gentleman, in the twinkling of an eye. the other members of the troupe slept late, leaving him to breakfast alone after vainly loitering about the office in the hope that miss norvell might by some chance appear and keep him company. it was almost mortifying to behold that young woman enter the deserted dining-room soon after he had returned to the lonely office, but she gave no sign of recognition in passing, and his returned audacity scarcely proved sufficient to permit his encroachment upon her privacy. he could only linger a moment at the desk in an effort to catch a better view of her through the partially open door. nervously gripping a freshly lighted cigar, winston finally strolled forth upon the wide porch to await, with all possible patience, the opportunity he felt assured was fast approaching. it was a bright spring morning, sufficiently warm to be comfortable without in the sunshine, although the mountains overshadowing the town were yet white with snow. the one long, straggling business street appeared sufficiently lonely, being almost deserted, the shops closed. the notable contrast between its present rather dreary desolation and the wild revelry of the previous night seemed really painful, while the solemn prevailing stillness served to weaken winston's bold resolutions and brought him a strange timidity. he slowly strolled a block or more, peering in at the shop windows, yet never venturing beyond easy view of the hotel steps. then he sauntered as deliberately back again. lane and mooney were now stationed upon the porch, tipping far back in their chairs, their feet deposited on the convenient railing, smoking and conversing noisily with a group of travelling men. winston, to his disgust, caught little scraps of the coarse stories exchanged, constantly greeted by roars of laughter, but drew as far away from their immediate vicinity as possible, leaning idly against the rail. far down the street, from some unseen steeple, a church bell rang solemnly. listening, he wondered if she would come alone, and a dread lest she might not set his heart throbbing. albrecht, looking not unlike a fat hog newly shaven, sauntered out of the open office door, and stared idly about. he spoke a gracious word or two to his rather silent utility man, viewing his well-cut clothing with some apparent misgiving, finally drifting over to join the more congenial group beyond. winston did not alter his chosen position, but remained with watchful eyes never long straying from off the ladies' entrance, a few steps to his left. all at once that slightly used door opened, and the hot blood leaped through his veins as miss norvell stepped forth unaccompanied. she appeared well groomed, looking dainty enough in her blue skirt and jacket, her dark hair crowned by the tasteful blue toque, a prayer-book clasped in one neatly gloved hand. as she turned unconsciously toward the steps, winston lifted his hat and bowed. with a quick upward glance of surprise the girl recognized him, a sudden flush crimsoning her cheeks, her eyes as instantly dropping before his own. in that sudden revelation the young man appeared to her an utterly different character from what she had formerly considered him; the miracle of good clothing, of environment, had suddenly placed them upon a level of companionship. that winston likewise experienced something of this same exaltation was plainly evident, although his low voice trembled in momentary excitement. "i trust you will pardon my presumption," he said, taking the single step necessary to face her, "but i confess having been deliberately waiting here to request the privilege of walking to church beside you." "beside me? indeed!" and both lips and eyes smiled unreservedly back at him. "and how did you chance to guess it was my intention to attend? is it a peculiarity of leading ladies?" "as to that i cannot safely say, my acquaintance among them being limited." he was acquiring fresh confidence from her cordial manner. "but i chanced to overhear your questioning the clerk last night, and the bold project at once took possession of me. am i granted such permission?" her dark eyes wandered from their early scrutiny of his eager face toward that small group of interested smokers beyond. what she may have beheld there was instantly reflected in a pursing of the lips, a swift decision. "i shall be delighted to have your company," she responded, frankly meeting his eyes, "but longer delay will probably make us late, and i abominate that." as they passed down the steps to the street winston caught a glimpse of the others. they were all intently gazing after them, while mooney had even risen to his feet and taken a step forward, his cigar still in his mouth. then the group behind laughed loudly, and the younger man set his teeth, his cheeks flushed from sudden anger. he would have enjoyed dashing back up the steps, and giving those grinning fools a much-needed lesson, but he glanced aside at his companion, her eyes downcast, seemingly utterly unconscious of it all, and gripped himself, walking along beside her, erect and silent. they traversed the entire deserted block without speaking, each busied indeed with the intricacies of the board walk. then winston sought to break the somewhat embarrassing silence, his first words sounding strangely awkward and constrained. "it was exceedingly kind of you to grant such privilege when we have scarcely even spoken to each other before." she glanced aside at his grave face, a certain coquettish smile making her appear suddenly girlish. "possibly if you realized the exact cause of my complete surrender you might not feel so highly flattered," she confessed, shyly. "indeed! you mean why it was you consented so easily? then possibly you had better inform me at once, for i acknowledge feeling quite conceited already at my good fortune." she lifted her eyes questioningly, and for the first time he looked directly down into their unveiled depths. "then i must certainly make confession. what if i should say, i merely accepted the lesser of two evils--in short, preferred your company to something i considered infinitely worse?" "you refer to mooney?" she nodded, her dark eyes once again shadowed, her cheeks slightly reddening beneath his steady gaze. "why, i can scarcely feel greatly flattered at being made the subject of such a choice," winston acknowledged with frankness. "the very conception brings me uneasiness in fear lest my presence may be unwelcome now that mooney has been safely left behind. yet it yields me boldness also, and i venture to ask miss norvell what she would probably have answered had mooney been left out of the problem entirely?" his low voice held a ring of subdued earnestness, and the face of the woman as quickly lost its smile. an instant she hesitated, her eyes downcast, fully conscious he was anxiously searching her countenance for the exact truth. "and under those conditions," she responded finally, "miss norvell would very probably have answered yes, only it would have been more deliberately uttered, so that you should have realized the measure of her condescension." winston laughed. "you can have small conception of the intense relief brought me by that last acknowledgment," he explained cheerfully. "now i can proceed with clear conscience, and shall undoubtedly discover in the church service an expression of my own devout gratitude." it was an exceedingly alert exchange of words which followed, each cautiously exploring a way in toward a somewhat clearer understanding of the other, yet both becoming quickly convinced that they were not destined for ordinary acquaintanceship. to miss norvell observing her companion with shy intentness, this erect, manly young fellow with weather-browned, clean-shaven face and straightforward gray eyes seemed to evince a power of manhood she instinctively felt and surrendered to. his were those elements which a woman of her nature must instantly recognize--physical strength and daring, combined with mental acuteness and indomitable will. the fact of his present unworthy employment added the fascination of mystery to his personality, for it was manifestly impossible to conceive that such a position was all this man had ever achieved in life. and winston wondered likewise at her, his earlier admiration for the bright attractiveness of face and manner broadening as her mind gave quick response to his leadership. here was certainly no commonplace girl of the stage, but an educated, refined, ambitious woman, matured beyond her years by experience, her conversation exhibiting a wide range of reading, interwoven, with a deep knowledge of life. they spoke of ideals, of art, of literature, of secret aspirations, not often mentioned during such early acquaintanceship, breaking through that mental barrenness which had characterized their living for weeks, this common ground of thought and interest awakening between them an immediate friendliness and frankness of utterance delightfully inspiring. almost without comprehending how it occurred they were chatting together as if the eventful years had already cemented their acquaintanceship. with cheeks flushed and eyes glowing from aroused interest miss norvell increased in beauty, and winston observed her with an admiration finding frank expression in his eyes. it was a small chapel they sought, situated at the extreme end of the straggling street, and the worshippers were few. at the conclusion of the ritual and the sermon the two walked forth together in silence, their former brief intimacy a mere memory, neither realizing exactly how best to resume a conversation which had been interrupted by so solemn a service. it was miss norvell who first broke the constraint. "you are evidently well acquainted with the intricacies of the prayer-book," she remarked quietly, "and hence i venture to inquire if you are a churchman." "not exactly, although my parents are both communicants, and i was brought up to attend service." "do you know, i am glad even of that? it is a little additional bond between us merely to feel interested in the same church, isn't it? i was guilty during the service of thinking how exceedingly odd it was for us to talk so frankly together this morning when we knew absolutely nothing regarding each other. would you mind if i questioned you just a little about yourself?" he glanced aside at her in surprise, all remembrance that they were comparatively strangers having deserted his mind. it seemed as if he had already known her for years. "most certainly question; i had no thought of any concealment." she smiled at the confusedness of his words, yet her own speech was not entirely devoid of embarrassment. "it does appear almost ridiculous, but really i do not even know your name." "it is ned winston." "not so bad a name, is it? do you mind telling me where your home is?" "i can scarcely lay claim to such a spot, but my people live in denver." she drew a quick, surprised breath, her eyes instantly falling, as though she would thus conceal some half-revealed secret. for a moment her parted lips trembled to a question she hesitated asking. "i--i believe i have heard of a colonel daniel winston in denver, a banker," she said finally. "i--i have seen his house." "he is my father." her shadowing lashes suddenly uplifted, the color once again flooding the clear cheeks. "you are, indeed, becoming a man of mystery," she exclaimed, affecting lightness of utterance. "the son of colonel winston acting as utility for a troupe of strollers! i can hardly believe it true." winston laughed. "it does seem a trifle out of proportion," he confessed, "and i can hardly hope to make the situation entirely clear. yet i am not quite so unworthy my birthright as would appear upon the surface. i will trust you with a portion of the story, at least, miss norvell. i am by profession a mining engineer, and was sent out, perhaps a month ago, by a syndicate of denver capitalists to examine thoroughly into some promising claims at shell rock. i made the examination, completed and mailed my report, and finally, on the same day your company arrived there, i discovered myself in rockton with nothing to do and several weeks of idleness on my hands. i had intended returning to denver, but a sudden temptation seized me to try the experiment of a week or two in wandering theatrical life. i had always experienced a boyish hankering that way, and have a natural inclination to seek new experiences. albrecht was favorably impressed with my application, and hence i easily attained to my present exalted position upon the stage." "and is that all?" "not entirely; there yet remains a chapter to be added to my confessions. i acknowledge i should have long since tired of the life and its hardships, had you not chanced to be a member of the same troupe." "i, mr. winston? why, we have scarcely spoken to each other until to-day." "true, yet i strenuously deny that it was my fault. in fact, i had firmly determined that we should, and, having been a spoiled child, i am accustomed to having my own way. this, perhaps, will partially account for my persistency and for my still being with 'the heart of the world.' but all else aside, i early became intensely interested in your work, miss norvell, instantly recognizing that it required no common degree of ability to yield dignity to so poor a thing as the play in which you appear. i began to study you and your interpretation; i never tired of noting those little fresh touches with which you constantly succeeded in embellishing your lines and your 'business,' and how clearly your conception of character stood forth against the crude background of those mummers surrounding you. it was a lesson in interpretative art to me, and one i never wearied of. then, i must likewise confess, something else occurred." he paused, looking aside at her, and, as though she felt the spell of that glance, she turned her own face, brightened by such earnest words of praise, their eyes meeting frankly. "what?" "the most natural thing in the world--my admiration for the art only served to increase my early interest in the artist. i began to feel drawn not only to the actress but to the woman," he said gravely. her eyes never faltered, but faced him bravely, although her cheeks were like poppies, and her lips faltered in their first bold effort at swift reply. "i am so glad you honestly think that about my work; so glad you told me. it is a wonderful encouragement, for i know now that you speak as a man of education, of cultivation. you must have seen the highest class of stage interpretation, and, i am sure, have no desire merely to flatter me. you do not speak as if you meant an idle compliment. oh, you can scarcely conceive how much success will spell to me, mr. winston," her voice growing deeper from increasing earnestness, her eyes more thoughtful, "but i am going to tell you a portion of my life-story in order that you may partially comprehend. this is my first professional engagement; but i was no stage-struck girl when i first applied for the position. rather, the thought was most repugnant to me. my earlier life had been passed under conditions which held me quite aloof from anything of the kind. while i always enjoyed interpreting character as a relaxation, and even achieved, while at school in the east, a rather enviable reputation as an amateur, i nevertheless had a distinct prejudice against the professional stage, even while intensely admiring its higher exponents. my turning to it for a livelihood was a grim necessity, my first week on the road a continual horror. i abhorred the play, the making of a nightly spectacle of myself, the rudeness and freedom of the audiences, the coarse, common-place people with whom i was constantly compelled to consort. you know them, and can therefore realize to some extent what daily association with them must necessarily mean to one of my early training and familiarity with quieter social customs. but my position in the troupe afforded me certain privileges of isolation, while my necessities compelled me to persevere. as a result, the dormant art-spirit within apparently came to life; ambition began to usurp the place of indifference; i became more and more disgusted with mediocrity, and began an earnest struggle toward higher achievements. i had little to guide me other than my own natural instincts, yet i persevered. i insisted on living my own life while off the stage, and, to kill unhappy thought, i devoted all my spare moments to hard study. almost to my surprise, the very effort brought with it happiness. i began to forget the past and its crudities, to blot out the present with its dull, unpleasant realities, and to live for the future. my ideals, at first but vague dreams, took form and substance. i determined to succeed, to master my art, to develop whatever of talent i might possess to its highest possibility, to become an actress worthy of the name. this developing ideal has already made me a new woman--it has given me something to live for, to strive toward." she came to a sudden pause, perceiving in the frank gray eyes scanning her animated face a look which caused her own to droop. then her lips set in firmer resolution, and she continued as though in utter indifference to his presence. "you may not comprehend all this, but i do. it was the turning-point in my life. and i began right where i was. i endeavored to make the utmost possible out of that miserable melodramatic part which had been assigned to me. i elected to play it quietly, with an intensity to be felt and not heard, the very opposite from the interpretation given by miss lyle last season, and i felt assured my efforts were appreciated by the audiences. it encouraged me to discover them so responsive; but albrecht, lane, and mooney merely laughed and winked at each other, and thus hurt me cruelly, although i had little respect for their criticisms. still, they were professional actors of experience, and i was not yet certain that my judgment might not be wrong. miss head, the _ingénue_, a girl of sweet disposition but little education, praised my efforts warmly, but otherwise your evident appreciation is my only real reward. i spoke to you that evening in the wings not so much to scold you for being in the way, as from a hungry, despairing hope that you might speak some word of encouragement. i was not disappointed, and i have felt stronger ever since." "i should never have suspected any such purpose. we have never so much as exchanged speech since, until to-day, and then i forced it." she shook her head, a vagrant tress of her black hair loosening. "you must be a very young and inexperienced man to expect to comprehend all that any woman feels merely by what she says or does." "no," smilingly, "i have advanced beyond that stage of development, although the mystery of some womanly natures may always remain beyond me. but can i ask you a somewhat personal question, also?" "most assuredly, yet i expressly reserve the privilege of refusing a direct reply." "is beth norvell your real, or merely your stage name?" "why do you ask? that is a secret which, i believe, an actress is privileged to keep inviolate." "for one particular reason--because i cannot escape a vague impression that somewhere we have met before." she did not respond immediately, her gloved fingers perceptibly tightening about the prayer-book, her eyes carefully avoiding his own. "you are mistaken in that, for we have never met," she said slowly, and with emphasis. "moreover, beth norvell is my stage name, but in part it is my true name also." suddenly she paused and glanced aside at him. "i have spoken with unusual frankness to you this morning, mr. winston. most people, i imagine, find me diffident and uncommunicative--perhaps i appear according to my varying moods. but i have been lonely, and in some way you have inspired my confidence and unlocked my life. i believe you to be a man worthy of trust, and because i thus believe i am now going to request you not to ask me any more. my past life has not been so bright that i enjoy dwelling upon it. i have chosen rather to forget it entirely, and live merely for the future." they were standing before the door of the ladies' entrance to the hotel by this time, and the young man lifted his hat gravely. "your wish shall certainly be respected," he said with courtesy, "yet that does not necessarily mean that our friendship is to end here." her face became transfigured by a sudden smile, and she impulsively extended her hand. "assuredly not, if you can withstand my vagaries. i have never made friends easily, and am the greater surprised at my unceremonious frankness with you. yet that only makes it harder to yield up a friendship when once formed. do you intend, then, to remain with the company? i have no choice, but you have the whole world." "yet, my intense devotion to the art of the thespian holds me captive." their eyes met smilingly, and the next instant the door closed quietly between them. winston turned aside and entered the gloomy hotel office, feeling mentally unsettled, undetermined in regard to his future conduct. miss norvell had proven frankly intimate, delightfully cordial, yet overshadowing it all there remained unquestionably a certain constraint about both words and actions which continued to perplex and tantalize. she had something in her past life to conceal; she did not even pretend to deceive him in this regard, but rather held him off with deliberate coolness. the very manner in which this had been accomplished merely served to stimulate his eagerness to penetrate the mystery of her reserve, and caused him to consider her henceforth as altogether differing from other girls. she had become a problem, an enigma, which he would try to solve; and her peculiar nature, baffling, changeable, full of puzzling moods, served to fascinate his imagination, to invite his dreaming. a strange thrill swept him when he caught a fleeting glimpse of white skirt and well-turned ankle as she ran swiftly up the steep staircase, yet, almost at the same instant, he returned to earth with a sudden shock, facing mooney, when the latter turned slowly away from the window and sneeringly confronted him. the mottled face was unpleasantly twisted, a half-smoked cigar tilted between his lips. an instant the half-angry eyes of the two men met. "must have made a conquest, from all appearances," ventured the leading man with a knowing wink. "not so damned hard to catch on with, is she, when the right man tries it?" there was a swift, passionate blow, a crash among the overturned chairs, and mooney, dazed and trembling, gazed up from the floor at the rigid, erect figure towering threateningly above him, with squared shoulders and clenched fists. "utter another word like that, you cur," said winston, sternly, "and i 'll break your head. don't you dare doubt that i 'll keep my word." for a breathless moment he stood there, glowering down at the shrinking wretch on the floor. then, his face, still set and white with passion, he turned contemptuously away. mooney, cursing cowardly behind his teeth, watched him ascend the stairs, but the younger man never so much as glanced below. chapter iv a new deal of the cards for the two performances following there occurred an enforced shift of actors, owing to mr. mooney's being somewhat indisposed; and winston, aided by considerable prompting from the others, succeeded in getting through his lines, conscious of much good-natured guying out in front, and not altogether insensible to miss norvell's efforts not to appear amused. this experience left him in no pleasanter frame of mind, while a wish to throw over the whole thing returned with renewed temptation. why not? what was he continuing to make such a fool of himself for, anyhow? he was assuredly old enough to be done with chasing after will-o'-the-wisps; and besides, there was his constant liability to meet some old acquaintance who would blow the whole confounded story through the denver clubs. the thought of the probable sarcasm of his fellows made him wince. moreover, he was himself ashamed of his actions. this actress was nothing to him; he thoroughly convinced himself of that important fact at least twenty times a day. she was a delightful companion, bright, witty, full of captivating character, attractively winsome, to be sure, yet it was manifestly impossible for him ever to consider her in any more serious way. this became sufficiently clear to his reasoning, yet, at the same time, he could never quite break free. she seldom appeared to him twice the same--proving as changeable as the winds, her very nature seeming to vary with a suddenness which never permitted his complete escape from her fascinations, but left him to surmise how she would greet him next. frank or distant, filled with unrestrained gayety or dignified by womanly reserve, smiling or grave, the changeable vagaries of miss norvell were utterly beyond his guessing, while back of all these outward manifestations of tantalizing personality, there continually lurked a depth of hidden womanhood, which as constantly baffled his efforts at fathoming. it piqued him to realize his own helplessness, to comprehend how completely this girl turned aside his most daring efforts at uncovering the true trend of her heart and life. she refused to be read, wearing her various masks with a cool defiance which apparently bespoke utter indifference to his good opinion, while constantly affording him brief, tantalizing glimpses into half-revealed depths that caused his heart to throb with anticipation never entirely realized. it did not once occur to his mind that such artifices might be directed as much toward herself as him; he lacked the conceit which could have convinced him that they merely marked a secret struggle for mastery, a desperate effort to crush an inclination to surrender before the temptation of the moment. it was a battle for deliverance being fought silently behind a mask of smiles, an exchange of sparkling commonplace; yet ever beneath this surface play she was breathing a fervent prayer that he would go away of his own volition and leave her free. far more clearly than he, the woman recognized the utter impossibility of any serious purpose between them, and she fought his advances with every weapon in her armory, her very soul trembling behind the happy smiling of her lips. it was bravely attempted, and yet those dull weapons of defence served merely to increase his interest, to awaken his passion, and thus bind him more strongly to her. safe once again from general observation, he returned to the obscurity of the wings and to the routine handling of trunks and scenery, feeling totally unable to permit her to pass entirely out of his life. within her own room she dampened her pillow with tears of regret and remorse, yet finally she sank to sleep strangely happy because he lingered. it was the way of a woman; it was no less the way of a man. it was thus that the "heart of the world" players came to fulfil their engagement at san juan upon a saturday night. this was the liveliest camp in all that mountain region, a frantic, feverish, mushroom city of tents and shacks, sprawling frame business blocks, and a few ugly brick abominations, perched above the golden rocks of the vila valley, bounded on one side by the towering cliffs, on the other by the pitiless desert. in those days san juan recognized no material distinction between midnight and noon-day. all was glitter, glow, life, excitement along the streets; the gloomy overhanging mountains were pouring untold wealth into her lap, while vice and crime, ostentation and lawlessness, held high carnival along the crowded, straggling byways. the exultant residents existed to-day in utter carelessness of the morrow, their one dominant thought gold, their sole acknowledged purpose those carnal pleasures to be purchased with it. everything was primitive, the animal yet in full control, the drinking, laughing, fighting animal, filled with passion and blood-lust, worshipping bodily strength, and governed by the ideals of a frontier society wherein the real law hung dangling at the hip. saloons, gambling halls, dance halls, and brothels flaunted themselves shamelessly upon every hand; the streets exhibited one continual riot, while all higher life was seemingly rendered inactive by inordinate grasping after wealth, and reckless squandering of it on appetite and vice; over all, as if blazoned across the blue sky, appeared the ever-recurring motto of careless humanity, "eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow ye die." hardly a week before a short railroad spur had been constructed up the narrow, rock-guarded valley from bolton junction, eighteen miles to the northward, and over those uneven rails the "heart of the world" troupe of adventurous strollers arrived at san juan, to find lodgment in that ramshackle pile of boards known locally as the "occidental hotel." the san juan opera house, better known as the gayety, was in truth merely an adjunct to the poodle-dog saloon, the side-doors from the main floor opening directly into the inviting bar-room, while those in the gallery afforded an equally easy egress into the spacious gambling apartments directly above. it was a monstrous ugly building, constructed entirely of wood most hastily prepared; the stage was utilized both night and day for continuous variety entertainments of the kind naturally demanded by the motley gathering. these, however, were occasionally suspended to make room for some adventurous travelling company to appear in the legitimate drama, but at the close of every evening performance the main floor was promptly cleared, the rows of chairs pushed hastily back from the centre, and the space thus vacated utilized for a general dance, which invariably continued until dawn. when the drop-curtain slowly rose that saturday evening fully three thousand people crowded the hall, eager for any fresh excitement; and ready enough either to taunt or applaud a performer, as the whim moved them. bearded miners conspicuous in red shirts; cattlemen wearing wide sombreros and hairy "chaps"; swarthy mexicans lazily puffing the inseparable cigarette; gamblers attired in immaculate linen, together with numerous women gaudy of cheek and attire, composed a frontier audience full of possibilities. the result might easily prove good or evil, according to the prevailing temper, but fortunately the "heart of the world" quickly caught the men's fancy, the laughter ringing loud in appreciation of mr. lane's ardent buffoonery, while the motley crowd sat in surprised silence evincing respect, as miss norvell drove home to their minds the lesson of a woman's sorrow and struggle against temptation. it was well worth while looking out across the oil-lamp footlights upon those hard-faced, bearded men, those gaudily attired women, thus held and controlled by perfectly depleted emotion, the vast audience so silent that the click of the wheel, the rattle of ivory chips in the rooms beyond, became plainly audible. there was inspiration in it likewise, and never before did beth norvell more clearly exhibit her native power, her spark of real genius. winston found little to do in his department that night, either on or off the stage, as the company expected to spend sunday in the place. consequently, he was only slightly behind the other members of the troupe in attaining the hotel at the conclusion of the evening's performance. indeed, he was earlier than many, for most of the male members had promptly adjourned to the convenient bar-room, with whatsoever small sums of money they could wring from out the reluctant palm of albrecht. winston chanced to pause for a moment at the cigar stand to exchange a pleasant good-night word with the seemingly genial clerk. "you one of the actors?" questioned the latter, exhibiting some slight interest. the young man nodded indifferently, not feeling unduly proud of the distinction. "sorry i couldn't have been there," the other went on cordially. "the boys tell me you gave 'em a mighty fine show, but i 'm here to bet that some of your people wish they 'd steered clear of san juan." "how's that?" "why, that fat fellow--what's his name?--oh, yes, albrecht--the sheriff was in here hunting him with some papers he had to serve, and it would have made you laugh just to see that duck climb out when i met him yonder on the street a few minutes ago, and gave him the highball. guest of the house, you know, and we did n't want him pinched in here; besides, we understood he carried the scads for the rest of your bunch, and we naturally wanted our share. the sheriff's out tryin' to find him now; but lord! the fellow 's safe enough out of the county by this time, if he skipped the way i advised him he 'd better. there was an extra ore train goin' down to bolton to-night, and he just had time to catch it on the run." the dramatic situation slowly dawned on winston while the clerk was speaking. "do you mean to tell me albrecht has actually skipped out?" he questioned, anxiously. "did he leave any money?" "sure; he paid your folks' board till monday. you bet i looked after that." "board till monday!" and winston totally forgot himself. "that is n't salary, man; there is something infernally dirty about this whole deal. why, he took in over three thousand dollars to-night, and he's got all of that, and at least a week's receipts besides--the infernal cur! was he alone?" "tall fellow with clipped black moustache, and bald head." "lane; i expected as much; they're birds of a feather. when can they get out of the junction?" "well, the first train scheduled goes east at four o'clock, but it 's generally late." winston walked twice across the floor, alternately swearing and thinking. "is there any way i could get there before that time?" he questioned, finally, his square jaw setting firm. "well, i reckon you might, by goin' hossback across the old trail, but you 'd need to have a guide in the dark, and you 'd find it a hell of a hard ride." the young engineer stood a moment staring out of the window into the night. the street was well illumined by the numerous saloon lights, and he could perceive scattering flakes of snow in the air, blown about by the gusty wind. he no longer felt the slightest doubt regarding albrecht's desertion, and a wave of indignation swept over him. he did not greatly care himself regarding the small amount of money due for his services, but it was a dirty, contemptible trick, and he resented being so easily made the victim of such a scheme. suddenly he wondered how this unexpected occurrence might affect the others. with one of them alone in mind he strode back to the counter, his teeth clinched savagely. "what is the number of miss norvell's room?" "fifty-four--first door to the right of the stairs." he took the steep flight of steps at a run, caught a glimpse of dimly reflected light shining through the closed transom, and rapped sharply. there was a hurried movement within, and her voice spoke. "what is wanted?" "i am mr. winston, and i must speak with you at once." his tone was sufficiently low and earnest to make her realize instantly some grave emergency. without hesitation the door was held open, and she stood before him in the faint light of the single lamp, wearing a fleecy white wrapper, her dark hair partially disarranged, her eyes seeking his own in bewilderment. "what is it?" "are you aware that both albrecht and lane have skipped out?" "why, no," her cheeks suddenly paling, her fingers clasping the edge of the door. "do you mean they have deserted us here to--to take care of ourselves?" he nodded. "yes, that's about it. what i came to ask was, does that fellow owe you any money?" for an instant she hesitated, as if in lingering distrust of his exact purpose, her lips parted, her face still plainly picturing the shock of discovery. "what difference can that possibly make now? why do you require to know?" "because i half believe you have been left penniless. albrecht has not even spoken about any pay to me since i joined the company; and when i learned he had deliberately left us stalled here, my first thought was of your unpleasant situation if my suspicions proved true." "if they were, what is there you can do?" "the hotel clerk says it is possible to reach the junction on horseback before any trains leave there on the main line. i propose to make him disgorge, but i must know first exactly how things stand. have you any money?" she stood gazing at him, her anger, shame, all forgotten in the fascination of winston's determined face. for the first time she thoroughly comprehended the cool, compelling power of this man, and it mastered her completely. she felt no longer the slightest doubt of what he purposed doing, and her woman heart swelled responsively to his masculine strength. "i--i have n't got a dollar," she confessed simply, her lashes drooping over her lowered eyes. "what does that fellow owe you?" "two hundred and sixty dollars; he has merely dribbled out what little i have been actually compelled to ask for." a moment he remained standing there, breathing hard. once she ventured to glance up inquiringly, only to catch his stern eyes, and as instantly lower her own. "all right, miss norvell," he said finally, the words seeming fairly to explode from between his lips. "i understand the situation now, and you are to remain here until i come back. i 'll get your money, don't fear, if i have to trail him clear to denver, but i 'll take what little the miserable thief owes me out of his hide." the next moment he was down below in the office rapidly preparing for action, and miss norvell, leaning far out across the banister, listened to his quick, nervous words of instruction with an odd thrill of pride that left her cheeks crimson. chapter v in open rebellion "it wus about the durndest fight as ever i see," explained bill hicks confidentially to a group of his cronies in the bar-room of the poodle-dog, while he tossed down a glass of red liquor, and shook the powdered snowflakes from his bearskin coat. "he wus a sorter slim, long-legged chap, thet young actor feller i showed the trail down ter bolton ter, an' he scurcely spoke a word all durin' thet whol' blame ride. search me, gents, if i c'd git either head er tail outer jist whut he wus up to, only thet he proposed ter knock ther block off some feller if he had the good luck ter ketch 'im. somehow, i reckoned he 'd be mighty likely ter perform the job, the way his jaw set an' his eyes flared. leastwise, i didn't possess no rip-roarin' ambition fer ter be thet other feller. still, i didn't suppose he was no whirlwind." bill mechanically held out his drained glass, and, warming up somewhat, flung his discarded overcoat across a vacant bench, his eyes beginning to glow with reawakened enthusiasm. "but, by gory, he wus! he wus simply chain lightnin', thet kid, an' the way he handed out his dukes wus a sight fer sore eyes. i got onto the facts sorter slow like, neither of us bein' much on the converse, but afore we hed reached bolton i managed to savvy the most of it. it seems thet feller albrecht--the big, cock-eyed cuss who played damon, ye recollect, gents--wus the boss of the show. he wus the grand moke, an' held the spuds. well, he an' thet one they call lane jumped the ore train last night, carryin' with 'em 'bout all the specie they'd been corrallin' fer a week past, and started hot-foot fer denver, intendin' ter leave all them other actor people in the soup. this yere lad hed got onter the racket somehow, an' say, he wus plumb mad; he wus too damn mad ter talk, an' when they git thet fur gone it's 'bout time fer the innocent spectator ter move back outen range. so he lassoed me down at gary's barn fer ter show him the ol' trail, an' we had one hell of a night's ride of it. but, gents, i would n't o' missed bein' thar fer a heap. it was a great scrape let me tell you. we never see hide ner hair of thet albrecht or his partner till jist afore the main-line train pulled in goin' north. the choo-choo wus mighty nigh two hours late, so it wus fair daylight by then, an' we got a good sight o' them two fellers a-leggin' it toward the station from out the crick bottom, whar they 'd been layin' low. they wus both husky-lookin' bucks, an' i was sufficient interested by then ter offer ter sorter hold one of 'em while the kid polished off the other. but lord! that wan't his style, no how, and he just politely told me ter go plumb ter hell, an' then waltzed out alone without nary a gun in his fist. he wus purty white round the lips, but i reckon it wus only mad, fur thar wus n't nothin' weak about his voice, an' the way he lambasted thet thief wus a caution ter snakes. say, i 've heerd some considerable ornate language in my time, but thet kid had a cinch on the dictionary all right, an' he read them two ducks the riot act good an' plenty. thet long-legged lane, he did n't have no sand, an' hung back and did n't say much, but the other feller tried every sneakin' trick a thief knows, only he bucked up agin a stone wall every time. thet young feller just simply slathered him; he called him every name i ever heerd, an' some considerable others, an' finally, when the train was a-pullin' in, the cuss unlimbered his wad, an' began peelin' off the tens an' twenties till i thought the whole show wus over fer sure. but lord! i didn't know thet kid--no more did thet albrecht." hicks wet his lips with his tongue, pausing, after the manner of a good _raconteur_, to gaze calmly about upon the faces of his auditors. "i could n't see jist how much the feller disgorged, but he wus almighty reluctant an' nifty about it; an' then i heerd him say, sneerin'-like, 'now, damn yer, how much more do _you_ want?' an', gents, what do yer think thet actor kid did? cop ther whole blame pile? not on yer whiskers, he didn't. he jist shoved them scads what hed been given him careless-like down inter his coat pocket, an' faced mister manager. 'not a dirty penny, albrecht,' he said, sorter soft-like; 'i 'm a-goin' to take whut yer owe me out of yer right now.' an', by gory, gents, he sure did. i can't say as how i see much o' the fracas, 'ceptin' the dust, but when thet long-legged lane jerked out a pearl-handled pop-gun i jist naturally rapped him over the knuckles with my ' .' an' then tossed him over inter the bunch. say, thet beat any three-ringed circus ever i see. the kid he pounded albrecht's head on the platform, occasionally interestin' lane by kickin' him in the stomick, while i jist waltzed 'round promiscous-like without seein' no special occasion to take holt anywhar. i reckon they 'd a been thar yit, if the train hands had n't pried 'em apart, an' loaded the remains onter a keer. an' then thet actor kid he stood thar lookin' fust at me, an' then after them keers. 'hicks,' he panted, 'did i git fifty dollars' worth?' 'i rather reckon ye did,' i said, thoughtfully, 'en maybe it mought be a hundred.' an' then he laughed, an' brushed the dust off his clothes. 'all right, then,' says he; 'let's eat.' an' i never see no nicer feller after he got thet load offen his mind." winston, totally unconscious that he had thus achieved an enviable reputation in certain rather exclusive social circles of san juan, proceeded straight to the hotel, pausing merely a moment in the wash-room to make himself a trifle more presentable, tramped up the stairs, and rapped briskly at miss norvell's door. he was still flushed with victory, while the natural confidence felt in her appreciation of his efforts yielded him a sense of exhilaration not easily concealed. the door was promptly opened, and, with her first glance, she read the success of his mission pictured within his face. as instantly her eyes smiled, and her hand was extended in the cordiality of welcome. "i can perceive without a word being spoken that you discovered your man," she exclaimed, "and i am so glad!" "yes," he returned, stepping past, and emptying his pockets on the white coverlet of the bed. "there is the money." she glanced at the pile doubtfully. "what money?" "why, yours, of course. the money you told me albrecht owed you." she turned, somewhat embarrassed, her eyes upon his surprised face. "do you mean that was all you got?" she questioned finally. "did he send nothing for the others? did n't you know he was equally in debt to every member of the company?" with these words the entire situation dawned upon him for the first time. he had been thinking only about miss norvell, and had permitted the rascally manager to escape with the greater portion of his stolen goods. the realization of how easily he had been tricked angered him, his face darkening. she read the truth as quickly, and, before he found speech in explanation, had swept the little pile of loose bills into her lap. "wait here a moment, please," she exclaimed quickly; "i shall be right back." he remained as bidden, wondering dimly as to her purpose, yet her brief absence yielded but little opportunity for thought. he met her at the door with an indignantly suspicious question: "what have you been doing? surely, you have n't given all that money away?" the girl smiled, a gleam of defiance visible in the uplifted eyes. "every cent of it. why, what else could i do? they actually have nothing, and must get back to denver or starve." for an instant he completely lost his self-control. "why did n't you tell me first?" he asked sharply. "did you suppose i collected my own money, and could therefore meet your expenses?" he never forgot the expression which swept instantly into her face--the quick indignation that leaped from the depths of those dark eyes. "i was not aware i had ever requested any help from mr. winston," she returned clearly, her slight form held erect. "your following after albrecht was entirely voluntary, but i naturally presumed the money you brought back belonged to me. you said it did, and hence i supposed it could be disposed of at my own discretion." "you have exhibited none." "that would seem to depend entirely upon the point of view. until i request your aid, however, your criticism is not desired." both voice and manner were so cold that they were equivalent to dismissal, but winston hesitated, already beginning to regret the bitter harshness of his speech. beneath his steady gaze her cheeks flamed hotly. "we have been friends," he began more humbly. "would you mind telling me something regarding your plans? just now i feel unable to offer you either aid or advice." her face perceptibly brightened, as if this new mood quickly appealed to her. "that sounds ever so much better," she admitted, glancing up into his face. "i have never enjoyed being scolded, as though i were a child who had done wrong. besides, i am quite convinced in this case i have done precisely right. i think you would admit it also if you only had patience to hear my story. i know exactly what i intend doing, or i should never have given all that money away. i have an engagement." "an engagement? where? is there another troupe playing here?" she shrugged her shoulders, her hands clasped. "no, not in the sense you mean; not the legitimate. i am going to appear at the gayety." winston stood grasping the back of the chair, staring straight at her, his body motionless. for an instant he was conscious of a sudden revulsion of feeling, a vague distrust of her true character, a doubt of the real nature of this perverse personality. such a resolution on her part shocked him with its recklessness. either she did not in the least appreciate what such action meant, or else she woefully lacked in moral judgment. slowly, those shadowed dark eyes were uplifted to his face, as if his very silence had awakened alarm. yet she merely smiled at the gravity of his look, shaking her dark hair in coquettish disdain. "again you apparently disapprove," she said with pretence of carelessness. "how easily i succeed in shocking you to-day! really, a stranger might imagine i was under particular obligations to ask your permission for the mere privilege of living. we have known each other by sight for all of two weeks, and yet your face already speaks of dictation. evidently you do not like the gayety." "no; do you?" "i?" she replied doubtfully, with a slight movement of the body more expressive than words. "there are times when necessity, rather than taste, must control the choice. but truly, since you ask the question, i do not like the gayety. it is far too noisy, too dirty, too gaudy, and too decidedly primitive. but then, beggars may not always be choosers, you know. i am no bright, scintillating 'star'; i am not even a mining engineer possessing a bank account in denver; i am merely an unknown professional actress, temporarily stranded, and the good angel of the gayety offers me twenty dollars a week. that is my answer." the young man flushed to the roots of his fair hair, his teeth meeting firmly. "there is no 'good angel' of the gayety--the very atmosphere of that place would soil an angel's wing," he exclaimed hotly. "besides, you are not driven by necessity to any such choice. there is another way out. as you gently suggested, i am a mining engineer possessing a bank account at denver. i will most gladly draw a sight draft to-morrow, and pay your expenses back to that city, if you will only accept my offer. is this fair?" "perfectly so; yet supposing i refuse?" "and deliberately choose the gayety instead?" "yes, and deliberately choose the gayety instead--what then?" she asked the momentous question calmly enough, her mouth rigid, her eyes challenging him to speak the whole truth. he moistened his dry lips, realizing that he was being forced into an apparently brutal bluntness he had sincerely hoped to avoid. "then," he replied, with quiet impressiveness, "i fear such deliberate action would forfeit my respect." she went instantly white before the blow of these unexpected words, her fingers clasping the door, her eyes as full of physical pain as if he had struck her with clinched hand. "forfeit your respect!" she echoed, the slender figure quivering, the voice tremulous. "rather should i forever forfeit my own, were i to accept your proffer of money." her form straightened, a slight tinge of color rising to the cheeks. "you totally mistake my character. i have never been accustomed to listening to such words, mr. winston, nor do i now believe i merit them. i choose to earn my own living, and i retain my own self-respect, even although while doing this i am unfortunate enough to forfeit yours." "but, miss norvell, do you realize what the gayety is?" "not being deprived of all my natural powers of observation, i most certainly believe i do--we were there together last evening." she puzzled, confused him, outwardly appearing to trifle with those matters which seemed to his mind most gravely serious. yet, his was a dogged resolution that would not easily confess defeat. "miss norvell," he began firmly, and in the depth of his earnestness he touched her hand where it yet clung to the door, "i may, indeed, be presuming upon an exceedingly brief friendship, but my sole excuse must be the very serious interest i feel in you, especially in your undoubted ability and future as an actress. it is always a great misfortune for any man to repose trust and confidence in the character of a woman, and then suddenly awaken to discover himself deceived. under these circumstances i should be unworthy of friendship did i fail in plain speaking. to me, your reckless acceptance of this chance engagement at the gayety seems inexpressibly degrading; it is a lowering of every ideal with which my imagination has heretofore invested your character. i am not puritanical, but i confess having held you to a higher plane than others of my acquaintance, and i find it hard to realize my evident mistake. yet, surely, you cannot fully comprehend what it is you are choosing, i was with you last night, true, but i considered it no honor to appear upon _that_ stage, even with the 'heart of the world,' and it hurt me even then to behold you in the midst of such surroundings. but deliberately to take part in the regular variety bill is a vastly more serious matter. it is almost a total surrender to evil, and involves a daily and nightly association with vice which cannot but prove most repugnant to true womanhood. surely, you do not know the true nature of this place?" "then tell it to me." "i will, and without any mincing of words. the gayety is a mere adjunct to the poodle-dog saloon and the gambling hell up-stairs. they are so closely connected that on the stage last evening i could easily hear the click of ivory chips and the clatter of drinking glasses. one man owns and controls the entire outfit, and employs for his variety stage any kind of talent which will please the vicious class to which he caters. all questioning as to morality is thoroughly eliminated. did you comprehend this?" the young girl bowed slightly, her face as grave as his own, and again colorless, the whiteness of her cheeks a marked contrast to her dark hair. "i understood those conditions fully." "and yet consented to appear there?" she shook back her slightly disarranged hair, and looked him directly in the eyes, every line of her face stamped with resolve. "mr. winston, in the first place, i deny your slightest right to question me in this manner, or to pass moral judgment upon my motives. i chance to possess a conscience of my own, and your presumption is almost insulting. while you were absent in pursuit of albrecht, the manager of the gayety, having chanced to learn the straits we were in, called upon me here with his proposal. it appeared an honorable one, and the offer was made in a gentlemanly manner. however, i did not accept at the time, for the plain reason that i had no desire whatever to appear upon that stage, and in the midst of that unpleasant environment. i decided to await your return, and learn whether such a personal sacrifice of pride would be necessary. now, i believe i recognize my duty, and am not afraid to perform it, even in the face of your displeasure. i am going to deliver the parting scene from the 'heart of the world,' and i do not imagine my auditors will be any the worse for hearing it. i certainly regret that the gayety is an adjunct to a saloon; i should greatly prefer not to appear there, but, unfortunately, it is the only place offering me work. i may be compelled to sink a certain false pride in order to accept, but i shall certainly not sacrifice one iota of my womanhood. you had no cause even to intimate such a thing." "possibly not; yet had you been my sister i should have said the same." "undoubtedly, for you view this matter entirely from the standpoint of the polite world, from the outlook of social respectability, where self rules every action with the question, 'what will others say?' so should i two years ago, but conditions have somewhat changed my views. professional necessity can never afford to be quite so punctilious, cannot always choose the nature of its environments: the nurse must care for the injured, however disagreeable the task; the newspaper woman must cover her assignment, although it takes her amid filth; and the actress must thoroughly assume her character, in spite of earlier prejudices. the woman who deliberately chooses this life must, sooner or later, adjust herself to its unpleasant requirements; and if her womanhood remain true, the shallow criticism of others cannot greatly harm her. i had three alternatives in this case--i could selfishly accept my handful of money, go to denver, and leave these other helpless people here to suffer; i could accept assistance from you, a comparative stranger; or i could aid them and earn my own way by assuming an unpleasant task. i chose the last, and my sense of right upholds me." winston watched her earnestly as she spoke, his gray eyes brightening with unconscious appreciation, his face gradually losing its harshness of disapproval. a spirit of independence always made quick appeal to his favor, and this girl's outspoken defiance of his good opinion set his heart throbbing. back of her outward quietness of demeanor there was an untamed spirit flashing into life. "we may never exactly agree as to this question of proprieties," he acknowledged slowly. "yet i can partially comprehend your position as viewed professionally. am i, then, to understand that your future is definitely decided upon? you really purpose dedicating your life to dramatic art?" she hesitated, her quickly lowered eyes betraying a moment of embarrassment. "yes," she answered finally. "i am beginning to find myself, to believe in myself." "you expect to find complete satisfaction in this way?" "complete? oh, no; one never does that, you know, unless, possibly, the ideals are very low; but more than i can hope to find elsewhere. even now i am certainly happier in the work than i have been for years." she looked up at him quickly, her eyes pleading. "it is not the glitter, the sham, the applause," she hastened to explain, "but the real work itself, that attracts and rewards me--the hidden labor of fitly interpreting character--the hard, secret study after details. this has become a positive passion, an inspiration. i may never become the perfected artist of which i sometimes dream, yet it must be that i have within me a glimmering of that art. i feel it, and cannot remain false to it." "possibly love may enter to change your plans," he ventured to suggest, influenced by the constantly changing expression of her face. she flushed to the roots of her hair, yet her lips laughed lightly. "i imagine such an unexpected occurrence would merely serve to strengthen them," she replied quickly. "i cannot conceive of any love so supremely selfish as to retard the development of a worthy ideal. but really, there is small need yet of discussing such a possibility." she stood aside as he made a movement toward the open door, yet, when he had stepped forth into the hall, she halted him with a sudden question: "do you intend returning at once to denver?" "no, i shall remain here." she said nothing, but he clearly read a farther unasked question in her face. "i remain here, miss norvell, while you do. i shall be among your audiences at the gayety. i do not altogether agree that your choice has been a correct one, but i do sincerely believe in you,--in your motives,--and, whether you desire it or not, i propose to constitute myself your special guardian. there is likely to be trouble at the gayety, if any drunken fool becomes too gay." with flushed cheeks she watched him go slowly down the stairway, and there were tears glistening within those dark eyes as she drew back into the room and locked the door. a moment she remained looking at her reflected face in the little mirror, her fingers clinched as if in pain. "oh, why does n't he go away without my having to tell him?" she cried, unconsciously aloud. "i--i thought he surely would, this time." chapter vi the "little yankee" mine a wide out-jutting wall of rock, uneven and precipitous, completely shut off all view toward the broader valley of the vila, as well as of the town of san juan, scarcely three miles distant. beyond its stern guardianship echo canyon stretched grim and desolate, running far back into the very heart of the gold-ribbed mountains. the canyon, a mere shapeless gash in the side of the great hills, was deep, long, undulating, ever twisting about like some immense serpent, its sides darkened by clinging cedars and bunches of chaparral, and rising in irregular terraces of partially exposed rock toward a narrow strip of blue sky. it was a fragment of primitive nature, as wild, gloomy, desolate, and silent as though never yet explored by man. a small clear stream danced and sang over scattered stones at the bottom of this grim chasm, constantly twisting and curving from wall to wall, generally half concealed from view by the dense growth of overhanging bushes shadowing its banks. high up along the brown rock wall the gleam of the afternoon sun rested warm and golden, but deeper down within those dismal, forbidding depths there lingered merely a purple twilight, while patches of white snow yet clung desperately to the steep surrounding hills, or showered in powdery clouds from off the laden cedars whenever the disturbing wind came soughing up the gorge. early birds were beginning to flit from tree to tree, singing their welcome to belated springtime; a fleecy cloud lazily floating far overhead gave deeper background to the slender strip of over-arching blue. it all combined to form a nature picture of primeval peace, rendered peculiarly solemn by those vast ranges of overshadowing mountains, and more deeply impressive by the grim silence and loneliness, the seemingly total absence of human life. yet in this the scene was most deceptive. neither peace nor loneliness lurked amid those sombre rock shadows; over all was the dominance of men--primitive, fighting men, rendered almost wholly animal by the continued hardships of existence, the ceaseless struggle after gold. the vagrant trail, worn deep between rocks by the constant passage of men and mules, lay close beside the singing water, while here and there almost imperceptible branches struck off to left or right, running as directly as possible up the terraced benches until the final dim traces were completely lost amid the low-growing cedars. each one of these led as straight as nature would permit to some specific spot where men toiled incessantly for the golden dross, guarding their claims with loaded rifles, while delving deeper and deeper beneath the mysterious rocks, ever seeking to make their own the secret hoards of the world's great storehouse. countless centuries were being rudely unlocked through the ceaseless toil of pick and shovel, the green hillsides torn asunder and disfigured by ever-increasing piles of debris, while eager-eyed men struggled frantically to obtain the hidden riches of the rocks. here and there a rudely constructed log hut, perched with apparent recklessness upon the brink of the precipice, told the silent story of a claim, while in other places the smouldering remains of a camp-fire alone bespoke primitive living. yet every where along that upper terrace, where in places the seductive gold streak lay half uncovered to the sun, were those same yawning holes leading far down beneath the surface; about them grouped the puny figures of men performing the labors of hercules under the galling spur of hope. on this higher ledge, slightly beyond a shallow intersecting gorge shadowed by low-growing cedars, two men reclined upon a rock-dump, gazing carelessly off six hundred feet sheer down into the gloomy depths of the canyon below. just beyond them yawned the black opening of their shaft-hole, the rude windlass outlined against the gray background of rock, while somewhat to the left, seemingly overhanging the edge of the cliff, perched a single-roomed cabin of logs representing home. this was the "little yankee" claim, owners william hicks and "stutter" brown. the two partners were sitting silent and idle, a single rifle lying between them on the dump. hicks was tall, lank, seamed of face, with twinkling gray eyes, a goat's beard dangling at his chin to the constant motion of his nervous jaws; and brown, twenty years his junior, was a young, sandy-haired giant, limited of speech, of movement, of thought, with freckled cheeks and a downy little moustache of decidedly red hue. they had been laboriously deciphering a letter of considerable length and peculiar illegibility, and the slow but irascible stutter had been swearing in disjointed syllables, his blue eyes glaring angrily across the gully, where numerous moving figures, conspicuous in blue and red shirts, were plainly visible about the shaft-hole of the "independence," the next claim below them on the ledge. yet for the moment neither man spoke otherwise. finally, shifting uneasily, yet with mind evidently made up for definite action, hicks broke the prolonged silence. "i was thinkin' it over, stutter, all the way hoofin' it out yere," he said, chewing continually on his tobacco, "but sorter reckoned ez how yer ought ter see the writin' furst, considerin' ez how you're a full partner in this yere claim. it sorter strikes me thet the lawyer hes give us the straight tip all right, an' thar 's no other way fer gittin' the cinch on them ornary fellers over thar," and the speaker waved his hand toward the distant figures. "yer see, it's this yere way, stutter. you an' i could swar, of course, thet the damned cusses hed changed the stakes on us more 'n onct, an' thar 's no doubt in our two minds but what they 're a-followin' out our ore-lead right now, afore we kin git down ter it. hell! of course they are--they got the fust start, an' the men, an' the money back of 'em. we ain't got a darn thing but our own muscle, an' the rights of it, which latter don't amount ter two bumps on a log. fer about three weeks we 've been watchin' them measly skunks take out our mineral, an' for one i 'm a-goin' ter quit. i never did knuckle down ter thet sort, an' i 'm too old now ter begin. the lawyer says ez how we ain't got no legal proof, an' i reckon it's so. but i 'm damned if i don't git some. thar ain't a minin' engineer in san juan that 'll come up yere fer us. them fellers hes got 'em all on the hip; but i reckon, if we hunt long 'nough, we kin find some feller in colorado with nerve 'nough to tackle this yere job, an' i 'm a-goin' out gunnin' for jist that man." he got to his feet, his obstinate old eyes wandering across the gully, and the younger man watched him with slow curiosity. "how f-f-far you g-g-going, bill?" he burst forth stutteringly. "denver, if i need to," was the elder's resolute, response. "i 'll tell ye what i 'm a-goin' ter do, stutter. i 'm a-goin' ter draw out every blamed cent we 've got in the bank down at san juan. 't ain't much of a pile, but i reckon it's got ter do the business. then i 'll strike out an' hunt till i find a minin' engineer thet 's got a soul of his own, an' grit 'nough behind it ter root out the facts. i 've been a-prospecttn' through these here mountings fer thirty years, an' now thet i 've hit somethin' worth havin', i 'm hanged if i 'm a-goin' ter lie down meek ez moses an' see it stole out plumb from under me by a parcel o' tin-horn gamblers. not me, by god! if i can't git a cinch on sich a feller ez i want, then i 'll come back an' blow a hole through that farnham down at san juan. i reckon i 'll go in an' tell him so afore i start." the old man's square jaws set ominously, his gnarled hand dropping heavily on the butt of the colt dangling at his hip. "you stay right yere, stutter, on the dump, and don't yer let one o' them measly sneaks put nary foot on our claim, if yer have ter blow 'em plumb ter hell. you an' mike kin tend ter thet all right, an' you bet i 'm goin' ter have some news fer yer when i git home, my boy." he swung around, and strode back along the ledge to the door of the cabin, reappearing scarcely a moment later with a small bundle in his hand. "thar 's 'nough grub in thar ter last you an' mike fer a week yit, an' i 'll be back afore then, er else planted. _adios_." brown sat up, his gun resting between his knees, and in silence watched his partner scrambling down the steep trail. it was not easy for him to converse, and he therefore never uttered a word unless the situation demanded the sacrifice. he could swear, however, with considerable fluency, but just now even that relief seemed inadequate. finally, the older man disappeared behind the scrub, and, except for those more distant figures about the dump of the "independence," the blond giant remained apparently alone. but stutter had long ago become habituated to loneliness; the one condition likely to worry him was lack of occupation. he scrambled to his feet and climbed the dump, until able to lean far over and look down into the black mouth of the uncovered shaft. "got yer b-b-bucket full, m-m-mike?" he questioned, sending his deep, sputtering voice far down into the depths below. "oi have thot," came the disgusted response from out the darkness. "ye measly spalpeen, ain't oi bin shakin' of the rope fer twinty minutes? oi tought maybe ye'd run off an' left me to rot down in the hole. whut 's up now, ye freckled-face ilephant, yer?" brown indulged in a cautious glance about, then stuck his almost boyish face farther down within the safety of the hole before venturing an explanation. "b-b-bill's g-gone to find s-s-some engi-n-neer w-with nerve 'nough ter r-r-run our lines," he managed to spit out disjointedly. "s-s-says he'll go plumb ter denver 'fore he 'll g-g-give up, an' if he d-don't f-find any sich he 'll c-c-come back an' p-p-perforate f-f-farnham." "bedad!" a tinge of unrestrained delight apparent in the sudden roar, "an' was he hot?" "h-he sure was. he m-m-m-meant business all r-right, an' hed f-f-forty rounds b-b-buckled on him. h-here goes, mike," and brown grasped the warped handle of the windlass and began to grind slowly, coiling the heavy rope, layer upon layer, around the straining drum. he brought the huge ore-bucket to the surface, dumped its load of rock over the edge of the shaft-hole, and had permitted it to run down swiftly to the waiting mike, when a slight noise behind sent the man whirling suddenly about, his hand instinctively reaching forth toward the discarded but ready rifle. a moment he stared, incredulous, at the strange vision fronting him, his face quickly reddening from embarrassment, his eyes irresolute and puzzled. scarcely ten feet away, a woman, rather brightly attired and apparently very much at her ease, sat upon a rather diminutive pony, her red lips curved in lines of laughter, evidently no little amused at thus startling him. brown realized that she was young and pretty, with jet black, curling hair, and eyes of the same color, her skin peculiarly white and clear, while she rode man fashion, her lower limbs daintily encased within leggings of buckskin. she had carelessly dropped her reins upon the high pommel of the saddle, and as their glances fairly met, she laughed outright. "you mooch frighten, señor, and you so ver' big. it make me joy." her broken english was oddly attractive. "poof! los americanos not all find me so ver' ter'ble." stutter brown ground his white teeth together savagely, his short red moustache bristling. he was quite young, never greatly accustomed to companionship with the gentler sex, and of a disposition strongly opposed to being laughed at. besides, he felt seriously his grave deficiencies of speech. "i-i-i was s-sorter expectin' a-a-another kind of c-c-caller," he stuttered desperately, in explanation, every freckle standing out in prominence, "an' th-th-thought m-m-maybe somebody 'd g-g-got the d-drop on me." the girl only laughed again, her black eyes sparkling. yet beneath his steady, questioning gaze her face slightly sobered, a faint flush becoming apparent in either cheek. "you talk so ver' funny, señor; you so big like de tree, an' say vords dat vay; it make me forget an' laf. you moost not care just for me. pah! but it vas fight all de time vid you, was n't it, señor? biff, bang, kill; ver' bad," and she clapped her gauntleted hands together sharply. "but not me; i vas only girl; no gun, no knife--see. i just like know more 'bout mine--americano's mine; you show me how it vork. _sabe_?" stutter appeared puzzled, doubtful. "mexicana?" he questioned, kicking a piece of rock with his heavy boot. "si, señor, but i speak de english ver' good. i mercedes morales, an' i like ver' much de brav' americanos. i like de red hair, too, señor--in mexico it all de same color like dis," and she shook out her own curling ebon locks in sudden shower. "i tink de red hair vas more beautiful." mr. brown was not greatly accustomed to having his rather fiery top-knot thus openly referred to in tones of evident admiration. it was a subject he naturally felt somewhat sensitive about, and in spite of the open honesty of the young girl's face, he could not help doubting for a moment the sincerity of her speech. "l-l-like f-fun yer do," he growled uneasily. "a-a-anyhow, whut are yer d-d-doin' yere?" for answer she very promptly swung one neatly booted foot over and dropped lightly to the ground, thus revealing her slender figure. her most notable beauty was the liquid blackness of her eyes. "si, i tell you all dat ver' quick, señor," she explained frankly, nipping the rock-pile with her riding whip, and bending over to peer, with undisguised curiosity, into the yawning shaft-hole. "i ride out from san juan for vat you call constitutional--mercy, such a vord, señor!--an' i stray up dis trail. see? it vas most steep, my, so steep, like i slide off; but de mustang he climb de hill, all right, an' den i see you, señor, an' know dere vas a mine here. not de big mine--bah! i care not for dat kind--but just one leetle mine, vere i no be 'fraid to go down. den i look at you, so big, vid de beautiful red hair, an' de kin' face, an' i sink he vood let me see how dey do such tings--he vas nice fellow, if he vas all mud on de clothes. si, for i know nice fellow, do i not, _amigo_? _si, bueno_. so you vill show to me how de brav' americanos dig out de yellow gold, señor?" she flashed her tempting glance up into the man's face, and brown stamped his feet nervously, endeavoring to appear stern. "c-c-could n't h-hardly do it, m-m-miss. it 's t-too blame dirty d-d-down below fer y-your sort. b-b-besides, my p-pardner ain't yere, an' he m-m-might not l-like it." "you haf de pardner? who vas de pardner?" "h-h-his name's h-h-hicks." she clasped her hands in an ecstasy of unrestrained delight. "beell heeks? oh, señor, i know beell heeks. he vas ver' nice fellow, too--but no so pretty like you; he old man an' swear--holy mother, how he swear! he tol' me once come out any time an' see hees mine. i not know vere it vas before. maybe de angels show me. you vas vat beell call stutter brown, i tink maybe? ah, now it be all right, señor. _bueno_!" she laid her gauntleted hand softly on the rough sleeve of his woollen shirt, her black, appealing eyes flashing suddenly up into his troubled face. "i moost laugh, señor; such a brav' americano 'fraid of de girl. why not you shoot me?" "a-a-afraid nothin'," and stutter's freckled face became instantly as rosy as his admired hair, "b-but i t-tell ye, miss, it's a-a-all d-dirt down th-there, an' not f-f-fit fer no lady ter t-t-traipse round in." the temptress, never once doubting her power, smiled most bewitchingly, her hands eloquent. "you vas good boy, just like i tink; i wear dis ol' coat--see; an' den i turn up de skirt, so. i no 'fraid de dirt. now, vat you say, señor? _bueno_?" thus speaking, she seized upon the discarded and somewhat disreputable garment, flung it carelessly about her shapely shoulders, shrugging them coquettishly, her great eyes shyly uplifting to his relenting face, and began swiftly to fasten up her already short dress in disregard of the exposure of trim ankles. the agitated mr. brown coughed, his uneasy glances straying down the open shaft. he would gladly, and with extreme promptness, have shoved the cold muzzle of his colt beneath the nose of any man at such moment of trial; but this young girl, with a glance and a laugh, had totally disarmed him. disturbed conscience, a feeling akin to disloyalty, pricked him, but the temptation left him powerless to resist--those black eyes held him already captive; and yet in this moment of wavering indecision, that teasing hand once again rested lightly upon his shirt-sleeve. "please do dat, señor," the voice low and pleading. "it vas not ver' mooch just to let a girl see your leetle mine. what harm, señor? but maybe it's so because you no like me?" startled by so unjust a suspicion, the eyes of the young giant instantly revealed a degree of interest which caused her own to light up suddenly, her red lips parting in a quick, appreciative smile which disclosed the white teeth. "ah, i see it vas not dat. eet make glad de heart--make eet to sing like de birds. now i know eet vill be as i vish. how do i get down, señor?" thus easily driven from his last weak entrenchments, his heart fluttering to the seduction of her suggestive glance, the embarrassed stutter made unconditional surrender, a gruff oath growling in his throat. he leaned out over the dark shaft, his supporting hand on the drum. "come u-u-up, m-m-mike," he called, rattling his letters like castanets. "i w-w-want to g-go d-d-down." there followed a sound of falling rocks below, a fierce shaking of the suspended rope, and then a muffled voice sang out an order, "h'ist away, and be dommed ter yer." brown devoted himself assiduously to the creaking windlass, although never able entirely to remove his attention from that bright-robed, slender figure standing so closely at his side. for one brief second he vaguely wondered if she could be a witch, and he looked furtively aside, only to perceive her bright eyes smiling happily at him. then suddenly a totally bald head shot up through the opening, a seamed face the color of parchment, with squinting gray eyes, peered suspiciously about, while a gnarled hand reached forth, grasped a post in support, and dragged out into the sunlight a short, sturdy body. mike straightened up, with a peculiar jerk, on the dump, spat viciously over the edge of the canyon, and drew a short, black pipe from out a convenient pocket in his shirt. he made no audible comment, but stood, his back planted to the two watchers; and stutter cleared his throat noisily. "th-th-this l-l-lady wants ter s-s-see how we m-m-mine," he explained in painful embarrassment, "a-an' i th-th-thought i 'd t-take her d-d-down if you 'd w-work the w-w-windlass a b-bit." old mike turned slowly around and fronted the two, his screwed-up eyes on the girl, while with great deliberation he drew a match along the leg of his canvas trousers. "onything to oblige ye," he said gruffly. "always ready to hilp the ladies--be me sowl, oi've married three of thim already. an' wus this hicks's orthers, stutter?" "n-n-no, not exactly," brown admitted, with evident reluctance. "b-but ye s-s-see, she's a g-great friend o' b-b-bill's, an' so i reckon it 'll be all r-right. don't s-see how n-no harm kin be d-d-done." the pessimistic michael slowly blew a cloud of pungent smoke into the air, sucking hard at his pipe-stem, and laid his rough hands on the windlass handle. "none o' my dommed funeral, beggin' yer pardon, miss," he condescended to mutter in slight apology. "long as the pay goes on, oi 'd jist as soon work on top as down below. h'ist the female into the bucket, ye overgrown dood!" stutter brown, still nervous from recurring doubts, awkwardly assisted his vivacious charge to attain safe footing, anxiously bade her hold firmly to the swaying rope, and stood, carefully steadying the line as it slowly disappeared, hypnotized still by those marvellous black eyes, which continued to peer up at him until they vanished within the darkness. leaning far over to listen, the young miner heard the bucket touch bottom, and then, with a quick word of warning to the man grasping the handle, he swung himself out on the taut rope, and went swiftly down, hand over hand. mike, still grumbling huskily to himself, waited until the windlass ceased vibrating, securely anchored the handle with a strip of raw-hide, and composedly sat down, his teeth set firmly on the pipe-stem, his eyes already half closed. it was an obstinate, mulish old face, seamed and creased, the bright sunlight rendering more manifest the leather-like skin, the marvellous network of wrinkles about eyes and mouth. not being paid for thought, the old fellow now contented himself with dozing, quite confident of not being quickly disturbed. in this he was right. the two were below for fully an hour, while above them mike leaned with back comfortably propped against the windlass in perfect contentment, and the hobbled pony peacefully cropped the short grass along the ledge. then the brooding silence was abruptly broken by a voice rising from out the depths of the shaft, while a vigorous shaking of the dangling rope caused the windlass to vibrate sharply. old mike, with great deliberation stowing away his pipe, unslipped the raw-hide, and, calmly indifferent to all else except his necessary labor, slowly hauled the girl to the surface. she was radiant, her eyes glowing from the excitement of unusual adventure, and scrambled forth from the dangling bucket without awaiting assistance. before brown attained to the surface, the lady had safely captured the straying pony and swung herself lightly into the saddle. squaring his broad shoulders with surprise as he came out, his face flushed, his lips set firm, the young giant laid restraining fingers on her gloved hand. "y-y-you really m-mean it?" he asked, eagerly, as though fearing the return to daylight might already have altered her decision. "c-can i c-call on you wh-wh-where you s-s-said?" she smiled sweetly down at him, her eyes picturing undisguised admiration of his generous proportions, and frank, boyish face. "si, si, señor. _sapristi_, why not? 't is i, rather, who 'fraid you forget to come." "y-you n-need n't be," he stammered, coloring. "s-señorita, i sh-shall never f-f-forget this day." "_quien sabe_?--poof! no more vill i; but now, _adios_, señor." she touched her pony's side sharply with the whip, and, standing motionless, stutter watched them disappear over the abrupt ledge. once she glanced shyly back, with a little seductive wave of the gauntleted hand, and then suddenly dropped completely out of view down the steep descent of the trail. old mike struck another match, and held the tiny flame to his pipe-bowl. "an' it's hell ye played the day," he remarked reflectively, his eyes glowing gloomily. the younger man wheeled suddenly about and faced him. "wh-what do ye m-m-mean?" "jist the same whut i said, stutter. ye 're a broight one, ye are. that's the mexican dancer down at the gayety at san juan, no less; and it's dollars to doughnuts, me bye, that that dom farnham sint her out here to take a peek at us. it wud be loike the slippery cuss, an' i hear the two of thim are moighty chummy." and stutter brown, his huge fists clinched in anger, looked off into the dark valley below, and, forgetting his affliction of speech, swore like a man. chapter vii a dismissal the far from gentle orchestra at the gayety was playing with a vivacity which set the pulses leaping, while the densely packed audience, scarcely breathing from intensity of awakened interest, were focussing their eager eyes upon a slender, scarlet-robed figure, an enveloping cloud of gossamer floating mistily about her, her black hair and eyes vividly contrasting against the clear whiteness of her skin, as she yielded herself completely to the strange convolutions of her weird dance. the wide stage was a yellow flood of light, and she the very witch of motion. this was her third encore, but, as wildly grotesque as ever, her full skirts shimmering in the glare of the foot-lights, her tripping feet barely touching the sanded floor, her young, supple figure, light as a fairy, weaving in the perfect rhythm of music, the tireless child of mexico leaped and spun, wheeled and twirled,--at times apparently floated upon the very air, her bare white arms extended, her wonderful eyes blazing from the exhilaration of this moment of supreme triumph. beth norvell, neatly gowned for the street, her own more sedate performance already concluded, had paused for a single curious instant in the shadow of the wings, and remained looking out upon that scarlet figure, flitting here and there like some tropical bird, through the gaudy glare of the stage. winston, waiting patiently for twenty minutes amid the denser gloom just inside the stage door, watched the young girl's unconsciously interested face, wondering alike at both himself and her. this entire adventure remained an unsolved problem to his mystified mind--how it was she yet continued to retain his interest; why it was he could never wholly succeed in divorcing her from his life. he endeavored now to imagine her a mere ordinary woman of the stage, whom he might idly flirt with to-night, and quite as easily forget to-morrow. yet from some cause the mind failed to respond to such suggestion. there was something within the calm, womanly face as revealed beneath the reflection of garish light, something in the very poise of the slender figure bending slightly forward in aroused enthusiasm, which compelled his respect, aroused his admiration. she was not a common woman, and he could not succeed in blinding himself to that fact. even the garish, cheap environments, the glitter and tinsel, the noise and brutality, had utterly failed to tarnish beth norvell. she stood forth different, distinct, a perfectly developed flower, rarely beautiful, although blooming in muck that was overgrown with noxious weeds. winston remained clearly conscious that some peculiar essence of her native character had mysteriously perfumed the whole place--it glorified her slight bit of stage work, and had already indelibly impressed itself upon those rough, boisterous western spirits out in front. before her parting lips uttered a line she had thoroughly mastered them, the innate purity of her perfected womanhood, the evident innocence of her purpose, shielding her against all indecency and insult. the ribald scoffing, the insolent shuffling of feet, the half-drunken uneasiness, ceased as if by magic; and as her simple act proceeded, the stillness out in front became positively solemn, the startled faces picturing an awakening to higher things. it was a triumph far exceeding the noisy outburst that greeted the mexican--a moral victory over unrestrained lawlessness won simply by true womanliness, unaided and alone. that earlier scene had brought to winston a deeper realization of this girl's genius, a fresher appreciation of the true worth of her esteem. no struggle of heart or head could ever again lower her in his secret thought to the common level. the swinging strains of the dancer's accompaniment concluded with a blare of noisy triumph, the mad enthusiasts out in front wildly shouting her name above the frantic din of applause, while, flushed and panting, the agile mexican dancer swept into the darkened wings like a scarlet bird. "ah, de americana!" she exclaimed, her eyes yet blazing from excitement, poising herself directly in front of her silent watcher. "señorita, it ees not de same as yours--dey like you, si; but dey lofe mercedes." miss norvell smiled gently, her gaze on the other's flushed, childish face, and extended her hand. "there seems ample room for both of us," she replied, pleasantly, "yet your dancing is truly wonderful. it is an art, and you must let me thank you." it is difficult to understand why, but the untamed, passionate girl, stung in some mysterious manner by these quietly spoken words of appreciation, instantly drew her slight form erect. "you nevar forget you not one of us, do you?" she questioned in sudden bitterness of spirit. "pah! maybe you tink i care what you like. i dance because i lofe to; because it sets my blood on fire. i no care for all your airs of fine lady." "i exceedingly regret you should feel so. i certainly spoke in kindness and appreciation. would you permit me to pass?" the angry young mexican swept back her scarlet skirts as though in disdain, her white shoulders uplifted. she did not know why she felt thus vindictive; to save her soul she could not have told the reason, yet deep down within her passionate heart there existed a hatred for this white, silent american, whose slightest word sounded to her like rebuke. she stood there still, watching suspiciously, smouldering dislike burning in her black eyes, when winston suddenly stepped from the concealing shadows with a word of unexpected greeting. she noticed the sudden flush sweep into miss norvell's cheek, the quick uplifting of her eyes, the almost instant drooping again of veiling lashes, and, quickly comprehending it all, stepped promptly forward just far enough to obtain a clear view of the young man's face. the next moment the two had vanished into the night without. mercedes laughed unpleasantly to herself, her white teeth gleaming. "ah, merciful mother! so my ver' fine lady has found herself a lofer here already. _sapristi_, an' he is well worth lookin' at! i vill ask of de stage manager his name." outside, beneath the faint glimmer of the stars, winston offered his arm, and miss norvell accepted it silently. it was no more than a short stroll to the hotel, and the street at that particular hour was sufficiently deserted, so the young man rather keenly felt the evident constraint of his companion. it impressed him as unnatural, and he felt inclined to attribute her state of mind to the unpleasant scene he had just beheld. "señorita mercedes does not appear very kindly disposed toward you," he ventured. "have you quarrelled already?" "you refer to the mexican dancer?" she questioned, glancing aside at him curiously. "really, i did not remember having heard the girl's name mentioned before. do you know her?" "only as she is announced on the bills, and having seen her dance from the front of the house. she is certainly a true artist in her line, the most expert i recall ever having seen. what has ever made her your enemy?" "i am sure i do not know. her words were a complete surprise; i was too greatly astonished even to resent them. i have never spoken to the girl until to-night, and then merely uttered a sentence of sincere congratulation. she is extremely pretty, and it seems quite too bad she should be compelled to lead such a life. she does not appear older than seventeen." he glanced about at her in surprise. "such a life," he echoed, recklessly. "so then you actually pity others while remaining totally unconcerned regarding yourself?" "oh, no; you greatly mistake, or else wilfully misconstrue. i am not unconcerned, yet there is a very wide difference, i am sure. this girl is at the gayety from deliberate choice; she as much as told me so. she is in love with that sort of life. probably she has never known anything better, while i am merely fighting out a bit of hard luck, and, within two weeks, at the longest, shall again be free. surely, you cannot hint that we stand upon the same level." "god forbid!" fervently. "yet just as sincerely i wish you did not deem it necessary to remain for even that brief length of time. it is a shock to me to realize your intimate association with such depraved characters. you are surely aware that my purse remains at your disposal, if you will only cut the whole thing." she lifted her eyes reproachfully to his face. "yes, i know; and possibly you are justified according to your code for feeling in that way. but i do not believe i am becoming in the least contaminated by evil associations, nor do i feel any lowering of moral ideals. i am doing what i imagine to be right under the circumstances, and have already given you my final decision, as well as my reason for it. you say 'such depraved characters.' can you refer to this mercedes? strange as it may seem, i confess feeling an interest in this beautiful mexican girl. what is it you know regarding her?" the young man impulsively started to speak, but as instantly paused. an instinctive dread of uttering those plain words he would much prefer she should never hear served to soften his language. "there is not a great deal of reserve about the gayety," he explained lightly, "and indiscriminate gossip is a part of its advertising equipment. as to señorita mercedes, my only informant is common rumor out in front. that connects her name quite familiarly with one of the proprietors of the gambling rooms." "you have no reason to know this?" "none whatever. as i say, it has come to me in the form of common rumor. the man referred to is the special faro expert, a fellow named farnham." miss norvell started violently, her fingers clutching his arm as if to keep her body from falling, her face grown suddenly white. "farnham, did you say? what--what farnham?" "i believe i have heard him familiarly spoken of as 'biff.'" "here? here in san juan? 'biff' farnham here?" the startled words appeared to stick in the swelling white throat, and she stood staring at him, her slender figure swaying as though he had struck her a physical blow. "oh, i never knew that!" winston, shocked and surprised by this unexpected outburst, did not speak, his face slowly hardening to the dim suspicion thus suddenly aroused by her agitation and her impetuous exclamation. she must have taken instant warning from the expression of his eyes, for, with an effort, she faced him in regained calmness, a slight tremor in her low voice alone betraying the lack of complete self-control. "your information certainly startled me greatly," she exclaimed slowly. "it was so unexpected, and so much has happened of late to affect my nerves." they walked on in silence, and as he ventured to glance aside at her, uncertain regarding his future course, her eyes were lowered and hidden behind the drooping lashes. "and is that all?" he asked. "all? why, what more is there?" he compressed his lips, striving not to exhibit openly his impatience. "nothing, of course," he acquiesced quietly, "if the lady prefers keeping silent. only, as matters now stand, the result may prove an unpleasant misunderstanding." they were now at the bottom of the few steps leading up toward the hotel entrance, and miss norvell, removing her hand from the support of his arm, stood before him outwardly calm. "beyond doubt, you refer to my apparent surprise at first hearing mr. farnham's name mentioned?" he bowed quietly, again fascinated and disarmed by the revelation in those dark eyes. "the explanation is quite simple," and the voice exhibited a touch of coolness easily perceptible. "i chanced to be somewhat acquainted with this man in the east before--well, before he became a gambler. of course, i do not know him now, have not the slightest desire to do so, but the sudden information that he was actually here, and--and all the rest--came to me with a shock. is that sufficient?" the young man was unsatisfied, and, without doubt, his face quite clearly exhibited his true feeling. yet there was that about her constrained manner which held him to respectful silence, so that for a moment the hesitation between them grew almost painful. miss norvell, realizing this new danger, struggled weakly against sudden temptation to throw herself unreservedly upon the mercy of this new friend, confide wholly in him, accept his proffered aid, and flee from possible coming trouble. but pride proved even stronger than fear, and her lips closed in firm resolution. "mr. winston," she said, and now her eyes were uplifted unfaltering to his own. "i find myself obliged to speak with a frankness i have hoped to avoid. it was never my desire that you should call for me at the theatre to-night." "indeed?" his surprised tone clearly exhibited the sudden hurt of the wound. "yes; yet, pray do not misunderstand me. i find it exceedingly difficult to say this, and i confess i have even prayed that you would be led to go away voluntarily, and without its being necessary for me to appear discourteous. i appreciate your kindness, your gentlemanly conduct. i--i greatly value your friendship, prize it more highly, possibly, than you will ever be able to realize; yet, believe me, there are reasons why i cannot permit you to--to be with me any longer in this way. it is for your sake, as well as my own, that i am driven to speak thus frankly, and i am certain you will not add to my pain, my embarrassment, by asking more definite explanation." his heart beating like a trip-hammer, winston stood motionless, staring into the girl's appealing face, suddenly aroused to her full meaning, and as thoroughly awakened to a conception of what she really had become to him. the thought of losing her, losing her perhaps to another, seemed to chill his very soul. "assuredly, i will respect your secret," he answered, mastering his voice with an effort. "i understand when i am bowled out. what is it you desire me to do?" he could not perceive in that dim light the sudden mist of tears clouding her eyes, but she lifted her gloved hand and swept them aside. "it is not easy to say such things, yet i must. i wish you to go away; go back to denver," she exclaimed; then, all at once, her strained voice broke into a little sob. "i cannot stand your presence here!" that last impetuous sentence burst through his armor of constraint, and for the instant he forgot everything but that thoughtless confession. she read it in his face, and as quickly flung forth her hand in warning, but he only grasped it tightly within his own. "you cannot stand it!" he cried in passionate eagerness. "then you must care for me? you must love me, beth?" "no, no!" her eyes were full of agony, and she sought to free her imprisoned hand. "oh, hush! i beg of you, hush! you--you hurt me so. i will not permit you to speak such words. please release my hand." he loosened his grasp, feeling bewildered, ashamed, dimly conscious that he had been guilty of an ungentlemanly action, yet deep within his own heart assured that he felt no regret. "do you mean that?" he questioned vaguely. "yes," and all the previous tremor had left her clear voice. "i did not suppose you would ever say such a thing to me. i gave you no right to speak those words." "my own heart gave me the right." possibly the woman in her conquered; perhaps there was a nameless hunger within her soul which made her long to hear the forbidden words just once from his lips. "the right, you say? what right?" "to tell you that i love you." she drew a quick, quivering breath, the rich color surging into her cheeks, her gloved hands clasped across her heaving bosom as though to still the fierce throbbing of her heart. an instant she stood as if palsied, trembling, from head to foot, although he could perceive nothing. her lips smiled. "oh, indeed," she said archly, "and how very prettily you said it! the only son of colonel winston, the wealthy banker of denver, honors miss norvell, actress, and she, of course, feels highly grateful!" "beth, stop!" his voice was indignantly earnest. "it is not that; you must know it is not that!" "i only know it is supremely ridiculous," she returned, more coldly; "yet if i did not believe you spoke with some degree of honesty i should deem your words a deliberate insult, and treat them accordingly. as it is, i prefer regarding your speech merely as an evidence of temporary insanity. ned winston making love to beth norvell! why, you do not even know my true name, the story of my life, or that i am in any way worthy of your mere friendship. love! you love me, an actress in a fly-by-night company, a variety artist at the gayety! what would they say at home?" "i know you." "ah, but you do not in the least," her voice grown steady and serious. "that is the whole trouble. you do not in the least know me. i am not even what you imagine me to be. i am a fraud, a cheat, a masquerader. know me! why, if you did, instead of speaking words of love you would despise; instead of seeking, you would run away. oh, let us end this farce forever; it is as painful to myself as to you. promise me, ned winston, that you will return to denver." she tantalized, tempted him even while she thus openly renounced. he struggled madly with an almost overmastering desire to burst forth in strenuous denial, to lay his whole life unreservedly at her feet. yet something within the girl's resolute face steadied him, made him feel her decision as unchangeable. "beth--you--you will not listen?" "no--not to another word." "you do not believe me?" he marked the quick restraining pressure of her lips, the tumultuous rise and fall of her breast. "yes, i believe you," she admitted, almost wearily. "you mean it--now; but--but it is impossible. i wish you to go." an instant winston stood looking straight into those dark, glowing eyes, and all his inherited strength of manhood came trooping back to aid him. he comprehended in that moment of intense resolution that this woman had become the whole world to him. that one fact never would change. it came over him as a distinct revelation untinged by either despair or hope. it was merely an unalterable truth, which he must henceforth face as fate willed. he was of fighting blood, and the seeming obstacles in the way of success did not dismay; they merely served to inspire him to greater efforts. "unfortunately, i am not at present free to go," he replied, more quietly, "for the reason that i have already accepted some professional work here. however, i agree not to trouble you again with my presence until--" he paused in uncertainty as to his next word. "what?" "you give me welcome." she extended her hand. "you certainly speak with sufficient confidence." "'fools rush in where angels fear to tread,'" he quoted lightly; "and i herewith announce myself a firm believer in miracles." "then your faith is about to be put to a most severe test." "i welcome that. yet, if parting is insisted upon, we can, at least, remain friends. you certainly do not hold my words against me?" the flush, although fainter, again crept into the clear cheeks, and her eyes fell before this questioning. "no true woman ever remains wholly indifferent," she acknowledged with swift frankness, "or neglects to think kindly in her secret heart of any one who has told her that story; and i am a woman." for a brief moment her hand rested warm and throbbing within his own, and there passed an electric flash of the eyes between them. then she withdrew her fingers and opened the door. "good-bye," she whispered, the word lingering like perfume, and vanished, even as he took a step toward her. chapter viii "he means fight" winston remained staring blankly at the closed door behind which she had so swiftly vanished, his mind a chaos of doubt. he assuredly never purposed saying what he had said under the spur of deprivation, yet he regretted no single word that he had uttered. that he earnestly worshipped this briefly known woman was a fact borne in upon him suddenly; yet now, the fact once completely realized, he surrendered unconditionally to the inevitable. for a moment his thought of her obscured all lesser things; he saw nothing else in the wide world really worth striving after--every aroused impulse thrilled to the fair face, the soft voice of beth norvell. he was no "quitter," no faint-heart either in love or in war, and he was now far too deeply in earnest to accept as final a stingless rejection spoken by lips that were so openly contradicted by the smiling eyes above. whatever of stern necessity might have inspired the utterance of such words of cold renunciation, it was assuredly neither indifference nor dislike. he forgave the lips, recalling only the eyes. with his hand still pressed against the porch railing, the young man suddenly recalled biff farnham, his cool gray eyes as instantly hardening, his lips pressed together. what possible part in the dusk of the shadowed past did that disreputable gambler play? what connection could he hold, either in honor or dishonor, with the previous life history of beth norvell? he did not in the least doubt her, for it was winston's nature to be entirely loyal, to be unsuspicious of those he once trusted. yet he could not continue completely blind. that there once existed some connection it was impossible to ignore entirely. her laughing, yet clearly embarrassed, attempt at explanation had not in the slightest deceived him, for beyond it remained her quick surprise at that earliest unexpected mention of the man's name, the suddenly blanched cheeks, the unconcealed fright revealed by the dark eyes. the full truth was to be read there, and not in her later more deliberate attempt at leading his suspicions astray. there was nothing pleasant about this thought, and winston's sensitive face flushed, his glance wandering uneasily down the midnight street. for the space of a block, or more, where numerous tents and low wooden buildings stood deserted of tenants, all remained dark and silent; but just beyond glowed brilliantly the many-hued lights of the wide-awake poodle-dog, and he could even hear the band playing noisily within the still more distant dance hall. this combined sight and sound served to arouse him to action and a cool resolve. if he really intended to play out this game successfully he must learn something of its conditions. besides, he had now two most excellent reasons for desiring to form an early acquaintance with this man farnham--the fellow had come across his line of life twice within the past twelve hours. for the purpose there could be no time better than the present. he struck a match against the rough railing and lighted for himself a fresh cigar, his clear-cut, manly features showing calmly determined in that instant glare of sputtering flame. almost unconsciously, following the instinct of his long western training, he slipped a revolver from its customary resting-place at the hip, and dropped the weapon conveniently into the side pocket of his loose sack coat. he had heard some tales of this man he purposed seeking, and it might prove well to be prepared for emergencies. the bar-room of the blazing poodle-dog was thronged with men--men standing before the long, sloppy bar, men seated around rough tables, and men lounging here and there in groups about the heavily sanded floor. uninterestedly glancing at these, winston paused for an idle moment, his eyes fastened upon a whirling spectacle of dancers in the hall beyond. it formed a scene of mad revelry; yet in his present state of mind, he cared little for its frontier picturesqueness, and soon turned away, mounting the broad stairway down which, like an invitation, echoed the sharp click of ivory chips, and the excited voices of those absorbed in play. in both size and gorgeousness of decoration the rooms above were a surprise--a glitter of lights, a babel of noises, a continuous jumble of figures, while over all trembled a certain tension of excitement, terrible in its enchaining power. the very atmosphere seemed electric, filled with a deadly charm. the dull roar of undistinguishable voices sounded incessantly, occasionally punctuated by those sharp, penetrating tones with which the scattered dealers called varied turns of play, or by some deep oath falling unnoted from desperate lips as the unhappy end came. winston, who had seen many similar scenes, glanced with his usual cool indifference at the various groups of players, careless except in his search, and pressing straight through the vibrating, excited throng, regardless of the many faces fronting him. he understood that farnham dealt faro, and consequently moved directly down the long main room totally indifferent to all else. he discovered his particular goal at last, almost at the farther end of the great apartment, the crowd gathered about the faro table dense and silent. he succeeded in pressing in slowly through the outer fringe of players until he attained a position within ten feet of the dealer. there he halted, leaning against the wall, the narrow space between them unoccupied. he saw before him a slenderly built, fashionably dressed figure, surmounted by clear-cut, smooth-shaven features--a man of thirty, possibly, decidedly aristocratic, perfectly self-controlled, his eyes cool, calculating, his hands swift, unhesitating in play. from some mysterious cause this masterful repose of the absorbed dealer began immediately to exercise a serious fascination over the man watching him. he did not appear altogether human, he seemed rather like some perfectly adjusted machine, able to think and plan, yet as unemotional as so much tempered steel. there was no perceptible change passing in that utterly impassive face, no brightening of those cold, observant eyes, no faintest movement of the tightly compressed lips. it was as though he wore a mask completely eclipsing every natural human feeling. twice winston, observing closely from his post of vantage slightly to the rear the swift action of those slender white fingers, could have sworn the dealer faced the wrong card, yet the dangerous trick was accomplished so quickly, so coolly, with never a lowering of the eyes, the twitching of a muscle, that a moment later the half-jealous watcher doubted the evidence of his own keen eyesight. as the final fateful card came silently gliding forth and was deliberately turned, face upward, amid bitter curses telling the disappointment of that breathless crowd, a young woman suddenly swept around the lower edge of the long table, brushing winston with her flapping skirt as she passed, bent down, and whispered a half-dozen rapid sentences into the gambler's ear. the hands, already deftly shuffling the cards for another deal, scarcely paused in their operations, nor did those cool, observant eyes once desert the sea of excited faces before him. he asked a single brief question, nodded carelessly to the hastily spoken reply, and then, as the woman drew noiselessly away, winston gazed directly into the startled black eyes of señorita mercedes. instantly she smiled merrily, exhibiting her white teeth. "ah, señor," and she bent toward him in seductive whisper, "so my lady, de americana, let you escape early to-night!" surprised at her recognition, he failed to answer immediately, and the girl touched him gently with her hand. "de girls of my race never so cold, señor. try me some time, an' see." with a happy laugh and coquettish uplifting of the dark eyes, the dancer was as quickly gone, vanishing into the throng like a flash of red flame. for a breathless moment winston's admiring gaze followed, conscious merely of her dark beauty, her slender, graceful figure. he was young, impressionable, and there was rare witchery about the girl which momentarily fascinated him. his attention shifted back to farnham with a swift remembrance of the stern purpose which had brought him there. the gambler was playing out his case silently, emotionless as ever. if he had observed anything unusual, if he considered anything beyond his card-play, no eye could have detected it in that impassive countenance, those cold, expressionless eyes. apparently he was a mere automaton, the sole symbol of life showing in the white fingers so deftly dealing the fateful pasteboards from the box. the impatient, excited crowd facing him moved restlessly, cursing or laughing with each swift turn of play; but he who wrought the spell neither spoke nor smiled, his face remaining fixed, immutable, as emotionless as carven granite. suddenly he glanced meaningly aside, and, nodding silently to a black-moustached fellow lounging beside the croupier, rose quickly from his chair. the other as instantly slipped into it, his hands guarding the few remaining cards, while farnham stood for a moment behind the chair, idly looking on. there was no noticeable interruption to the game, and when the final card came gliding forth from the silver box, the imperturbable gamester turned deliberately away from the table, heedless of the desperate struggle about him, the curses and uproar, and faced the younger man still leaning against the wall. "mr. winston?" he questioned quietly. surprised by this unexpected notice, the other bowed in silent acknowledgment of his name. a faint sarcastic smile curved the thin, compressed lips, while farnham ran one hand carelessly through his slightly curling hair. "i should like a few words with you in private," he explained politely. "there is a vacant room we can use--this way." astonished into yielding without protest, and at the same time feeling sufficiently eager to learn the cause for such a request, winston unhesitatingly followed the other through the press, marking as he did so the slender erectness of that figure in advance, the square set of the broad shoulders, the easy air of authority with which he cleared the way. without ceremony farnham flung aside a heavy brocaded curtain, glancing inquiringly into the smaller room thus revealed. it contained a square table and half a dozen chairs. three men sat within, their feet elevated, quietly smoking. the gambler coolly ran his eyes over their uplifted faces. "i desire to use this room, gents," he announced quietly. "you 'll find plenty of vacant space outside." whether the lounging trio knew the speaker of old, or were sufficiently satisfied from his stern face of the probable results should they long hesitate to comply, the three pairs of feet came down together, their owners passing out in single file. farnham waved his hand politely toward the vacated interior, a slight measure of deference apparent in his modulated voice. "help yourself to a chair, mr. winston, and permit me to offer you a fresh cigar; a fairly good one i imagine, as i chance to be somewhat particular regarding the weed." a moment they sat thus furtively studying each other's face across the table through the increasing clouds of blue smoke, the younger man puzzled and filled with vague suspicion, the elder still rather uncertain of his present ground, as well as of the exact sort of character opposing him. he was somewhat expert in judging human nature; and the full, square chin, the frank, open look in those steady gray eyes across the table left him doubtful of the final outcome. "no doubt, my addressing you by name was something of a surprise," he began, leaning slightly forward, his cigar between his fingers; "but as it chanced, you were pointed out to me on the street a few hours since. may i inquire in this connection if, by any freak of fortune, you can be ned winston, of denver?" "i am." farnham permitted his lips to smile genially, although his eyes remained utterly devoid of humor. he was skating upon rather thin ice now, realizing it to be far safer to make the venture in all boldness. what he might need to say later would altogether depend upon how much this man really knew. "i was not previously assured of that fact," he explained, pleasantly. "it was my pleasure at one time to be quite intimately associated with an old friend of yours, a college chum, i believe--robert craig, of chicago." the swift light of pleasant remembrance glowed instantly within the other's watchful eyes. for the moment he dropped his guard in the surprise of this avowal. "bob craig! indeed; why, i do not recall his ever having mentioned your name to me." farnham's suspended breath burst through his compressed lips in sudden relief. "very probably not," he admitted, quietly, yet having the grace to lower his eyes slightly. "my own intimacy with craig occurred since his college days. however, he has spoken to me regarding you quite frequently, and i naturally esteem it a pleasure to meet with you personally." winston did not immediately reply, puzzling his confused mind in a wholly useless attempt at recalling his ever having heard this man's name before. but farnham, placed completely at his ease regarding possible recognition, proceeded coolly. "yet, that does not sufficiently account for my inviting you here." and he leaned farther across the table, slightly lowering his voice. "my important reason for speaking is entirely a business one. you are, i understand, a mining engineer?" winston permitted his eyes to acquiesce, fully determined now to allow this man to exhibit his own hand completely before making any return play. farnham, watching the face of the other closely, paused to relight his cigar. "the simple fact is," he resumed, carelessly, "we are having some little difficulty at present regarding certain mining claims we are operating up in echo canyon. nothing at all serious, you understand, but there 's plenty of bad blood, and we naturally prefer keeping the entire controversy out of the courts, if possible. a lawsuit, whatever its final result, would be quite certain to tie up the property for an indefinite period. besides, lawsuits in this country cost money. the man who has been making the greater part of the existing trouble, a drunken, quarrelsome old mountain shell-back, named hicks, came in here to see me this afternoon. he was in blamed bad humor, and threatened to blow my brains out unless i came to his terms. no doubt he meant it, and consequently i got rid of him the easiest way i could, and that was by lying. i 've always preferred to lie rather than get shot. hard to account for tastes, you know. however among other things the fellow chanced to mention while here was that you had been employed to look after their interests. i presume that statement was merely a bluff?" "well, not precisely," admitted winston, when the other paused. "i agreed to go out there, and look over the ground." farnham smiled deprecatingly, his cigar gripped tightly between his white teeth. "just about as i supposed. no particular harm done as yet, and no contract made; time enough left to draw out of a bad bargain. well, winston, i am here to tell you that outfit is not the kind you want to associate yourself with if you desire to stand well in this camp. that 's the straight goods. they 're simply a lot of blackmailers and irresponsible thieves. why, damn it, man, the actual fact is, they can't get a single reputable mining engineer in all this whole district to take hold of their dirty work. that 's why they 've had to hunt up a new man, and got track of you." "so hicks admitted," interposed the younger man gravely, "although he put it in rather different form. he said it was because you had the money, and your crowd bought them all up." "oh, he did, did he?" and the gambler laughed outright. "well, that sort of a job would n't be very costly--to outbid that measly outfit. it would be a sight cheaper than litigation, i reckon. what did he offer you, by the way?" the young engineer hesitated slightly, his cheeks flushing at the cool impudence of the other's direct question. "i do not recall that any positive offer was made," he replied finally. "at least, the question of payment was not broached." "the old cuss proved more honest than i had supposed," and farnham dropped his clinched hand on the table. "now, see here, winston, i propose giving you this thing right out from the shoulder. there is no use beating around the bush. those fellows have n't got so much as a leg to stand on; their claim is no good, and never will be. they 're simply making a bluff to wring some good money out of us, and i don't want to see you get tangled up in that sort of a skin game. you 're bob craig's friend, and therefore mine. now, listen. there are two fellows concerned in that 'little yankee' claim, this whiskey-soaked hicks and his partner, a big, red-headed, stuttering fool named brown--'stutter' brown, i believe they call him--and what have they got between them? a damned hole in the ground, that's all. oh, i know; i 've had them looked after from a to z. i always handle my cards over before i play. they had exactly two hundred dollars between them deposited in a local bank here last week. that 's their total cash capital. yesterday one of my people managed to get down in their dinky mine. it was a girl who did the job, but she 's a bright one, and that fellow brown proved dead easy when she once got her black eyes playing on him. he threw up both hands and caved. well, say, they 're down less than fifty feet, and their vein actually is n't paying them grub-stakes. that's the exact state of the case. now, winston, you do n't propose to tie yourself professionally with that sort of a beggarly outfit, do you?" the younger man had been sitting motionless, his arm resting easily on the back of the chair, his eyes slowly hardening as the other proceeded. "i never before clearly understood that poverty was necessarily a crime," he remarked thoughtfully, as farnham came to a pause. "besides, i am not tied up with that special outfit. i have merely agreed to examine into the matter." "of course, i understand that; but what's the use? you 'll only come to exactly the same conclusion all the others have. besides, i have been especially authorized to offer you a thousand dollars simply to drop the thing. it's worth that much to us just now to be let alone." winston's eyes half closed, his fingers gripping nervously into the palm of his hand. "it occurs to me you place my selling-out price at rather low figures," he said contemptuously. farnham straightened up in his chair, instantly realizing he had been guilty of playing the wrong card, and for the moment totally unable to perceive how safely to withdraw it. even then he utterly failed to comprehend the deeper meaning in the other's words. "i was thinking rather of what it was directly worth to us," he explained, "and had no conception you would look at it that way. however, we are perfectly willing to be liberal--how much do you want?" for a moment winston stared straight at him, his lips firmly set, his gray eyes grown hard as steel. then he deliberately pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet, one clinched hand resting on the table. "you may not fully understand my position," he began quietly, "for in all probability such a conception is utterly beyond you, but i do n't want a dollar, nor a cent. good-night." he turned deliberately toward the entrance, but the thoroughly astounded gambler leaped to his feet with one hand extended in sudden protest. he was angry, yet believed he perceived a great light shining through the darkness. "hold on, winston," he exclaimed anxiously; "just a moment. i 'd totally forgotten that you were the son of a millionaire, and therefore possessed no desire for money like the rest of us more ordinary mortals. now, let's be sensible. by god, you must want something! what is it?" "you have received my final answer. i am not in the market." farnham crushed a bitter oath between his gleaming teeth, and flung his sodden cigar-butt to the floor. "do you actually mean you are crazy enough to go with hicks, after all i 've told you?" "i propose to discover for myself whether his claim is just. if it is, i 'm with him." the gambler caught his breath sharply, for an instant utterly speechless, his face pallid with rage. then the fierce, angry words burst forth in unrestrained torrent through the calm of his accustomed self-control. "oh, you 'll play hell, you infernal cur. do it, and i 'll guarantee you 'll get a bullet in the brain, even if you are old winston's son. we 've got a way of taking care of your kind out here when you get too gay. you 're with him, are you? well, i 'm damned if you ever get any chance even to sit in the game. we 'll get you, and get you early, see if we don't. there are other things besides money in this world, and you 've got your price, just as well as every other man. perhaps it's silk, perhaps it's calico; but you bet it's something, for you 're no angel. by god, i believe i could name it, even now." winston wheeled, his right hand thrust deeply into his coat pocket, his face sternly set. "what, for instance?" "well,--just to take a chance,--beth norvell," farnham never forgot the flame of those gray eyes, or the sharp sting of the indignant voice. "what do you know regarding her? speak out, damn you!" the gambler laughed uneasily; he had seen that look in men's faces before, and knew its full, deadly meaning. he had already gone to the very limit of safety. "oh, nothing, i assure you. i never even saw the lady," he explained coldly. "but i have been told that she was _the_ attraction for you in this camp; and i rather guess i hit the bull's-eye that time, even if it was a chance shot." winston moistened his dry lips, his eyes never wavering from off the sneering face of the other. "farnham," the voice sounding low and distinct, "i have got something to say to you, and you are going to listen to the end. you see that?" he thrust sharply forward the skirt of his short coat. "well, that's a thirty-eight, cocked and loaded, and i 've got you covered. i know your style, and if you make a single move toward your hip i 'll uncork the whole six shots into your anatomy. understand? now, see here--i 'm not on the bargain counter for money or anything else. i had not the slightest personal interest in this affair an hour ago, but i have now, and, what is more, i am going directly after the facts. neither you, nor all of your crowd put together, can stop me with either money, bullets, or women. i don't bully worth a cent, and i don't scare. you took the wrong track, and you 've got me ready now to fight this out to a finish. and the first pointer i desire to give you is this--if your lips ever again besmirch the name of beth norvell to my knowledge, i 'll hunt you down as i would a mad dog. i believe you are a dirty liar and thief, and now i 'm going after the facts to prove it. good-night." he backed slowly toward the curtained doorway, his gaze never wavering from off the surprised countenance of the other, his hidden hand grasping the masked revolver. then he stepped through the opening and disappeared. farnham remained motionless, his face like iron, his teeth gripping savagely. then he dropped his hand heavily on the table, still staring, as if fascinated, at the quivering curtains. "by god, the fellow actually means fight," he muttered slowly. "he means fight." chapter ix the force of circumstances she had expected the probability of such a happening, yet her face perceptibly paled while perusing the brief note handed her by the stage manager upon coming forth from her dressing-room. her first impulse was to refuse compliance, to trust fortune in an endeavor to keep beyond reach, to turn and run from this new, threatening danger like a frightened deer. but she recalled the financial necessity which held her yet a prisoner at the gayety. this writer was partner in the gambling rooms, possibly in the theatre also; her chance for escaping him would be very slender. besides, it might be far better to face the man boldly and have it over. undoubtedly a meeting must occur some time; as well now as later so that the haunting shadow would not remain ever before her. the color stole slowly back into her cheeks as she stood twisting the paper between her fingers, her eyes darkening with returning courage. "where is the gentleman, ben?" she asked, steadying herself slightly against a fly. "first box, miss; right through that narrow door, yonder," and the man smiled, supposing he understood. "very convenient arrangement for the stage ladies." she paused, her hand resting upon the latch, in a final effort to quiet her rapid breathing and gain firmer control over her nerves. this was to be a struggle for which she must steel herself. she stepped quietly within, and stood, silent and motionless, amid the shadows of the drawn curtains, gazing directly at the sole occupant of the box, her dark eyes filled with contemptuous defiance. farnham lounged in the second chair, leaning back in affected carelessness with one arm resting negligently upon the railing, but there came into his pale face a sudden glow of appreciation as he swept his cool eyes over the trim figure, the flushed countenance there confronting him. a realization of her fresh womanly fairness came over him with such suddenness as to cause the man to draw his breath quickly, his eyes darkening with passion. "by thunder, lizzie, but you are actually developing into quite a beauty!" he exclaimed with almost brutal frankness. "life on the stage appears to agree with you; or was it joy at getting rid of me?" she did not move from where she had taken her first stand against the background of curtains, nor did the expression upon her face change. "i presume you did not send for me merely for the purpose of compliment," she remarked, quietly. "well, no; not exactly," and the man laughed with assumed recklessness in an evident effort to appear perfectly at ease. "i was simply carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment. i was always, as you will remember, something of a connoisseur regarding the charms of the sex, and you have certainly improved wonderfully. why, i actually believe i might fall in love with you again if i were to receive the slightest encouragement." "i do not think i am offering you any." "hardly; even my egotism will not permit me to believe so. an iceberg would seem warm in comparison. yet, at least, there is no present occasion for our quarrelling. sit down." "thank you, i prefer to remain standing. i presume whatever you may desire to say will not require much time?" farnham leaned forward, decidedly jarred from out his assumed mood of cold sarcasm. he had expected something different, and his face hardened with definite purpose. "that depends," he said soberly, "on your frame of mind. you do not appear extremely delighted to meet me again. considering that it is now fully three years since our last conversation, you might strive to be, at least outwardly, cordial." she gathered up her skirts within her left hand, and turned calmly toward the door. "is that all?" the man leaped impulsively to his feet, his cheeks burning with sudden animation, his previous mask of reckless indifference entirely torn away. "hell, no!" he exclaimed warmly, as instantly pausing when she wheeled swiftly about and faced him firmly. "no, it is not all. of course, i had a special purpose in sending for you. yet i cannot help feeling a natural curiosity. tell me, what are you doing here?" "that is quite easily seen; i am endeavoring to earn a living." "a nice, quiet, respectable sort of a place you have chosen, certainly. it is about the last spot i should ever have expected to discover you in, knowing as i do your former puritanical morals. your tastes must have greatly changed under the spur," and he laughed lightly, in mockery. miss norvell's lips curled in unconcealed contempt, her eyes darkening with indignation. "my present associations were not entered into from choice but from necessity. with you, i understand, it is deliberate choice." the man stood undecided, fingering the edge of the curtain, vaguely realizing that he was merely injuring his own cause by continuing to anger her, yet far too deeply hit to remain entirely silent. "you seem inclined to strike out as hard as ever," he retorted, yet in tones of manifest regret. "but just now there is not the slightest occasion for any bitterness. i am perfectly prepared to do the square thing, and if we can only pull together pleasantly for a little while, it will prove far better for both of us." "in plainer words, you chance just now to have some special use for me?" "well, i hope you will look at the situation from my viewpoint. but the actual truth is, that when i first came up here to-night, i had not the faintest suspicion that it was you i was seeking." "no?" doubtfully. "that is an actual fact, lizzie. i did n't suppose you were within a thousand miles of this place," and farnham quietly settled himself again in his chair. "i came up here merely intending to get a glimpse of an actress named beth norvell. i was never more thoroughly surprised in my life than when you first came out on the stage. for a moment it knocked me silly. say, you're an artist all right, my girl. that was a great stunt. why, those boys down below hardly breathed until you disappeared. you ought to get a chance in chicago; you 'd be wearing diamonds. damned if i was n't honestly proud of you myself." the girl caught her breath sharply, her hand pressed tightly against her side. "what--what was it you desired of beth norvell?" she questioned. farnham's white teeth gleamed in a sudden smile of appreciation. "hope you are not becoming jealous," he said insinuatingly. "positively no occasion, i assure you, for it was not to make love to the girl, i wanted to see her. lord, no! this was purely a business deal. the truth is, i chanced to hear she had a lover already, and he was the fellow i was really after." "a lover?" she stepped toward him, her eyes blazing, her cheeks aflame. "i? how dare you? what can you mean by so false an insinuation?" "oh, don't flare up so, lizzie," and the complacent gambler looked at her with eyes not entirely devoid of admiration. "it really makes you prettier than ever, but that sort of thing cuts no ice with me. however, what i have just said stands: the story flying around here is that you have captured old winston's boy, and a damned good catch it is, too." she went instantly white as a sheet, her body trembling like an aspen, her quivering lips faltering forth words she could not wholly restrain. "the story, you say--the story! do--do you believe that of me?" "oh, that does n't make any difference," the brute in him frankly enjoying her evident pain. "lord, what do you care about my belief? that was all passed and over with long ago. all i know is, the fellow is gone on you, all right. why, he pulled a gun on me last night merely because i chanced to mention your name in his presence." the telltale color swept back into her cheeks in swift wave. for an instant her eyes wavered, then came back to the man's sneering face. "did--did you dare tell him?" he laughed lightly, softly patting his hand on the railing, his own eyes partially veiled by lowered lids. "torn off the mask of unimpeachable virtue, have i?" he chuckled, well pleased. "rather prefer not to have our late affair blowed to this particular young man, hey? well, i suspected as much; and really, lizzie, you ought to know i am not that sort of a cur. i 've held my tongue all right so far, and consequently i expect you to do me a good deed in return. that's a fair enough proposition, is n't it?" she did not immediately answer, gazing upon him as she might at some foul snake which had fascinated her, her breath coming in half-stifled sobs, her hand clutching the heavy curtain for support. "oh, good god!" she faltered at last, speaking as though half dazed. "you must possess the spirit of a demon. why do you continue to torture me so? you have no right--no right; you forfeited all you ever possessed years ago. under heaven, i am nothing to you; and in your heart you know i have done nothing wrong, nothing to awaken even the foul suspicions of jealousy. mr. winston has been my friend, yet even that friendship--innocent and unsullied--is already past; we have parted for all time." "indeed! you are such a consummate actress, lizzie, i scarcely know what really to believe. probably, then, you no longer object to my telling the gentleman the story?" her lips closed firmly. "i shall tell him myself." "oh! then, after all your fine words of renunciation, you will see him again! your reform is soon ended. well, my girl, there is really no necessity for any such sacrifice on your part. no one here suspects anything regarding our little affair excepting you and me. you do what i desire with this winston, and i 'm mum. what do you say?" she sank back into a chair, utterly unable to stand longer, hiding her face in her hands. "what--what is it you wish?" she questioned wearily. he leaned forward and placed his hand, almost in caress, upon her skirt, but she drew the cloth hastily away, a sudden sob shaking her voice. "oh, please, don't touch me! i cannot stand it--only tell me what it is you wish." "i want you to exercise your influence over that fellow, and prevent his taking professional employment at the 'little yankee' mine." "why?" she lifted her head again, facing him with questioning eyes. "simply because his doing so will interfere seriously with some of my business plans--that's all." "then why don't you act the part of a man, and go to him yourself? why, in this, do you prefer hiding behind the skirts of a woman?" farnham laughed grimly, in no way embarrassed by the query. "good lord, lizzie! i 've been to him, all right, but the fellow is like a stubborn mule. he has n't got but one selling-out price, so far as i can learn, and that chances to be beth norvell. you see the point? well, that's exactly why i came here to-night. i wanted to be able to tender him the goods." for a moment her eyes remained pitifully pleading; then they suddenly appeared to harden into resolute defiance. as though moving in a dream, she arose slowly to her feet, taking a single step away from him toward the closed door. "as i have already explained," she paused to say coldly, "mr. winston is no more to me than any other gentleman whom i may have chanced to meet in friendship. i have not the faintest reason to suppose i could influence his decision in any matter appertaining to his professional work. moreover, i have not the slightest inclination to try." "do you dare refuse, in spite of all i can say to your injury?" he asked, even then doubtful of her meaning. "i definitely decline to be your catspaw,--yes. nothing you can relate truthfully will ever harm me in the estimation of a gentleman, and i shall certainly know how to combat falsehood." "quite pretty. injured innocence, i perceive, is to be the line of defence. what! are you already going?" "i am." "where?" she turned again, standing erect, her face flushing, her hand upon the latch of the door. "if it is imperative that you know, i will tell you. i intend seeking mr. winston, and informing him exactly who and what i am." "now? at this hour of the night?" "better now, and at this hour of the night, than venture waiting until after you have had an inning. i am not at all ashamed to confess the truth, if i can only be the first to tell my story." she pressed the latch of the door, her breathing so rapid as to be positively painful. with an ill-repressed oath, farnham sprang to his feet, his rising anger putting an end to all prudence. "wait!" he exclaimed gruffly. "wait where you are until i am done. you have heard only a part of this thing so far. my god, girl! don't you know me well enough by this time to comprehend that i always have my way, whatever the cost may be to others? lord! what do i care for this fellow? or, for the matter of that, what do i care for you? i don't permit people to stand in my path; and i supposed you had thoroughly learned that lesson, if no other. faith, you had cause enough, surely. so you refuse all endeavor to keep winston out of this affair, do you? perhaps you had better pause a minute, and remember who it is you are dealing with. i reckon you never saw any signs of the quitter about me. now, it 's true i 'd rather have you do this business up quietly; but if you refuse, don't forget there are other means fully as effective, and a damn sight quicker." he reached out suddenly, grasping her hand. "did you ever hear the adage, 'dead men tell no tales'?" he questioned savagely. she drew her hand sharply back from its instant of imprisonment, with a smothered cry, her eyes filled with undisguised horror. "you threaten--you threaten murder?" "oh, we never use that word out in this country--it is considered far too coarse, my dear," and farnham's thin lips curled sardonically. "we merely 'silence' our enemies in colorado. it is an extremely simple matter; nothing at all disagreeable or boorish about it, i can assure you. a stick of dynamite dropped quietly down a shaft-hole, or pushed beneath a bunk house--that's all. the coroner calls it an accident; the preachers, a dispensation of providence; while the fellows who really know never come back to tell. if merely one is desired, a well-directed shot from out a cedar thicket affords a most gentlemanly way of shuffling off this mortal coil." "you would not! you dare not!" "i? why, such a thought is preposterous, of course, for the risk would be entirely unnecessary. quite evidently you are not well acquainted with one of the flourishing industries of this section, my dear. there are always plenty of men out of a job in this camp; conscience does n't come high, and the present market price for that sort of work is only about twenty-five dollars a head. not unreasonable, all things considered, is it?" if she had not thoroughly known this man, had not previously sounded his depths, she might have doubted his meaning, deceived by the lazy drawl in his soft voice, the glimmer of grim humor in his eyes. but she did know him; she comprehended fully the slumbering tiger within, the lurking spirit of vindictiveness of his real nature, and that knowledge overcame her, left her weak and trembling like a frightened child. for an instant she could not articulate, staring at him with white face and horrified eyes. "you--you mean that?" and for the first time she clasped his loose coat between her clutching fingers. "it is hardly a subject to be deliberately selected for jest," he replied coolly, "but if you prefer you might wait and see." she stepped back from him, leaning heavily against the frame of the door, her face again hidden behind uplifted hands. the man did not move, his face emotionless, his lips tightly set. he was watching her with the intentness of a hawk, absolutely certain now of his victim. suddenly she looked up, her eyes picturing the courage of desperation. one glance into his face and the woman stood transformed, at bay, the fierce spirit of battle flaming into her face. "have it so, then," she exclaimed sharply. "i pledge myself to do everything possible to prevent his remaining here." she drew herself up, her eyes darkening from sudden, uncontrollable anger. "oh, how i despise you, you coward, you cur! i know you, what you are capable of, and i do this to preserve the life of a friend; but my detestation of you is beyond expression in words. my one and greatest shame is that i ever trusted you; that i once believed you to be a man. good god! how could i ever have been so blind!" she opened the door with her hand extended behind her, and backed slowly away, facing him where he stood motionless, smiling still as though her sudden outburst of passion merely served to feed his conceit. "then i may trust you in this?" her eyes shone fairly black with the depth of scorn glowing in them. "have--have you ever known me to lie?" she asked, her voice faltering from reaction. the door closed. chapter x a new alliance her eyes blinded by a strange mist of tears, beth norvell clung to the latch of the closed door, fearful lest the man within might decide to follow, endeavoring to gaze about, while gaining control over her sorely shattered nerves. strong as she had appeared when nerved by indignation and despair, that stormy interview with farnham--his scarcely veiled threats, his heartless scoffing--had left her a wreck, for the moment scarcely mistress of her own mind. one thing alone stood forth as a rallying point for all her benumbed energies--she must save winston from a real danger, the nature of which she did not in the least doubt. the gambler's boast was no idle one; she, who had before tasted of his depravity, felt fully convinced of his intention now. yet what could she hope to do? how best might she accomplish that imperative duty of rescue? there occurred to her only one feasible plan--a complete surrender of her womanly pride, an immediate acceptance of the young man's proffered aid to denver, with an insistence that he also accompany her. woman enough to realize her power, she could not but have faith in the results. the color crept back in her cheeks at this daring conception, for, after those hastily uttered words of the previous night, what construction would he be likely to put on this sudden yielding? an instant she hesitated, afraid, shrinking back before the sacrifice as from fire. then her fine eyes darkened, the clinging tears vanishing while her fingers clinched in passionate resolve. do it? why, of course she must do it! what was her pitiful pride in the balance against his life? he might never dream what so great a sacrifice cost her; might even despise her for such an exhibition of weakness; but she would know, and be the stronger in her own soul from the brave performance of duty. besides, she intended to tell him the whole miserable story of her wrecked life--not now, not even to-night, but some time, on their way back into the world,--as they were nearing denver, perhaps, and at the moment of final parting. it almost seemed easy as she faced the stern necessity, so easy that her parted lips smiled sarcastically when she heard farnham rise and leave the darkened box through the opposite entrance. perhaps, when he comprehended it all, this other, who had spoken love words to her, would understand where the real blame lay, and so prove manly enough to absolve her from any conception of evil. this hope was sweet, strengthening, yet it faded immediately away. ah, no; such result was not natural, as she understood the world--it was always the woman who bore the burden of condemnation. far safer to expect nothing, but do the right simply because it was right. she no longer questioned what that would be. it stood there before her like a blazing cross of flame; she must hold those two men apart, even though they both trampled her heart beneath their feet. this was her destiny, the payment she must return the world for having once made a mistake. one out of the multitude, she felt strong enough in the crisis to choose deliberately the straight and narrow path leading through gethsemane. and this very choosing gave back her womanhood, cleared her dazed brain for action, and sent the red blood throbbing through her veins. her immediate surroundings began to take definite form. to the left the great, deserted stage extended, wrapped in total darkness, silent, forsaken, the heavy drop-curtain lowered to the floor. through its obscuring folds resounded noisily a crash of musical instruments, the incessant shuffling of feet, a mingled hum of voices, evidencing that the dance was already on in full volume. far back, behind much protruding scenery, a single light flickered like a twinkling star, its dim, uncertain radiance the sole guide through the intricacies of cluttered passageways leading toward the distant stage entrance. half frightened at this gloomy loneliness, the girl moved gingerly forward, her skirts gathered closely about her slender figure, with anxious eyes scanning the gloomy shadows in vague suspicion. suddenly a hand gripped her extended wrist, and she gazed for a startled instant into fiercely burning eyes, her own heart throbbing with nervous excitement. "vat vas he to you? answer me! answer me quick!" the blood came back into her blanched cheeks with a sudden rush of anger. instantly indignation swept back the mists of fear. with unnatural strength she wrenched free her captured hand, and sternly fronted the other, a barely recognized shadow in the gloom. "permit me to pass," she exclaimed, clearly. "how dare you hide here to halt me?" the other exhibited her teeth, gleaming white and savage behind parted lips, yet she never stirred. "dare? pah! you vaste time to talk so," she cried brokenly, her voice trembling from passion. "you no such fine lady now, señorita. you see dis knife; i know how use eet quick. bah! you go to him like all de rest, but i vill know de truth first, if i have to cut eet out you. so vat ees de señor farnham to you? say quick!" the american remained silent, motionless, her breath quickening under the threat, her eyes striving to see clearly the face of the one confronting her. "do you expect to frighten me?" she asked, coldly, her earlier anger strangely changing to indifference. "it is you who wastes time, señorita, for i care little for your knife. only it would be an extremely foolish thing for you to do, as i have not come between you and your lover." the impulsive mexican dancer laughed, but with no tone of joy perceptible. "my lofer! mother of god! sometime i think i hate, not lofe. he vas like all you americanos, cold as de ice. he play vis mercedes, and hurt--gracious, how he hurt! but i must be told. vat vas he to you? answer me dat." beth norvell's eyes softened in sudden pity. the unconscious appeal within that broken voice, which had lost all semblance of threat, seemed to reveal instantly the whole sad story, and her heart gave immediate response. she reached out, touching gently the hand in which she saw the gleam of the knife-blade. there was no fear in her now, nothing but an infinite womanly sympathy. "he is nothing to me," she said, earnestly, "absolutely nothing. i despise him--that is all. he is unworthy the thought of any woman." the slender figure of the mexican swayed as though stricken by a blow, the fierce, tigerish passion dying out of her face, her free hand seeking her throat as though choking. "nothing?" she gasped, incredulously. "_sapristi_, i think you lie, señorita. nothing? vy you go to him in secret? vy you stay and talk so long? i not understand." "he sent for me; he wished me to aid him in a business matter." the other stared incredulous, her form growing rigid with gathering suspicion that this fair american was only endeavoring to make her a fool through the use of soft speech. the white teeth gleamed again maliciously. "you speak false to mercedes," she cried hotly, her voice trembling. "vy he send for you, señorita? you know him?" there was a bare instant of seeming hesitation, then the quiet, better controlled voice answered soberly: "yes, in the east, three years ago." like a flash of powder, the girl of the hot-blooded south burst into fresh flame of passion, her foot stamping the floor, her black eyes glowing with unrestrained anger. "_dios de dios_! eet ees as i thought. he lofe you, not mercedes. vy i not kill you?--hey?" miss norvell met her fiercely threatening look, her single step of advance, without tremor or lowering of the eyes. she even released her grasp upon the uplifted knife, as if in utter contempt. for a moment they confronted each other, and then, as suddenly as she had broken into flame, the excitable young mexican burst into tears. as though this unexpected exhibition of feeling had inspired the action, the other as quickly decided upon her course. "listen to me, girl," she exclaimed gravely, again grasping the lowered knife hand. "i am going to trust you implicitly. you feel deeply; you will understand when i tell you all. you call me a fine lady because i hold myself aloof from the senseless revelry of this mining camp; and you believe you hate me because you suppose i feel above you. but you are a woman, and, whatever your past life may have been, your heart will respond to the story of a woman's trouble. i 'm going to tell you mine, not so much for my sake as for your own. i am not afraid of your knife; why, its sharp point would be almost welcome, were it not that i have serious work to do in the world before i die. and you are going to aid me in accomplishing it. you say you do not really know now whether you truly love or hate this man, this farnham. but i know for myself beyond all doubt. all that once might have blossomed into love in my heart has been withered into hatred, for i know him to be a moral leper, a traitor to honor, a remorseless wretch, unworthy the tender remembrance, of any woman. you suppose i went to him this night through any deliberate choice of my own? almighty god, no! i went because i was compelled; because there was no possible escape. now, i am going to tell you why." mercedes, the tears yet clinging to her long, black lashes, stood motionless, gazing at the other with fascination, her slender, scarlet-draped figure quivering to the force of these impetuous words. she longed, yet dreaded, to hear, her own lips refusing utterance. but beth norvell gave little opportunity; her determination made, she swept forward unhesitatingly. as though fearful of being overheard, even in the midst of that loneliness, she leaned forward, whispering one quick, breathless sentence of confession. the startled dancer swayed backward at the words, clutching at her breast, the faint glimmer of light revealing her staring eyes and pallid cheeks. "mother of god!" she sobbed convulsively. "no, no! not dat! he could not lie to me like dat!" "lie?" in bitter scornfulness. "lie! why, it is his very life to lie--to women. god pity us! this world seems filled with just such men, and we are their natural victims. love? their only conception of it is passion, and, that once satiated, not even ordinary kindness is left with which to mock the memory. in heaven's name, girl, in your life have you not long since learned this? now, i will tell you what this monster wanted of me to-night." she paused, scarcely knowing how best to proceed, or just how much of the plot this other might already comprehend. "have you ever heard of the 'little yankee' mine?" she questioned. "si, señorita," the voice faltering slightly, the black eyes drooping. "eet is up in de deep canyon yonder; i know eet." "he told me about it," miss norvell continued more calmly. "he is having trouble with those people out there. there is something wrong, and he is afraid of exposure. you remember the young man who walked home with me last night: well, he is a mining engineer. he has agreed to examine into the claims of the 'little yankee' people, and this--this farnham wants him stopped. you understand? he sent for me to use my influence and make him go away. i refused, and then this--this creature threatened to kill mr. winston if he remained in camp, and--and i know he will." the mexican's great black eyes widened, but not with horror. suddenly in the silent pause she laughed. "si, si; now i know all--you lofe dis man. _bueno_! i see eet as eet vas." the telltale red blood swept to the roots of miss norvell's hair, but her indignant reply came swift and vehement. "no, stop! never dare to speak such words. i am not like that! can you think of nothing except the cheap masquerade of love? have you never known any true, pure friendship existing between man and woman? this mining engineer has been good to me; he has proved himself a gentleman. it is not love which makes me so anxious now to serve him, to warn him of imminent danger--it is gratitude, friendship, common humanity. is it impossible for you to comprehend such motives?" the other touched her for the first time with extended hand, her face losing much of its previous savagery. "i know so ver' leettle 'bout such kinds of peoples, señorita," she explained regretfully, her voice low, "de kind vat are good and gentle and vidout vantin' somting for eet. eet ees not de kinds i meet vis ver' much. dey be all alike vis me--lofe, lofe, lofe, till i get seek of de vord--only de one, an' i not know him ver' vell yet. maybe he teach me vat you mean some day. he talk better, not like a fool, an' he not try to make me bad. is dat eet, señorita?" "yes; who is it you mean?" "he? oh! it vas most odd, yet i do not laugh, señorita, i know not vy, but he make me to feel--vat you calls eet?--si, de respect; i tink him to be de good man, de gentle. he was at de 'little yankee' too. i vonder vas all good out at de 'little yankee'? _sapristi_! he vas such a funny man to talk--he sputter like de champagne ven it uncorked. i laugh at him, but i like him just de same, for he act to me like i vas de lady, de ver' fine lady. i never forget dat. you know him, señorita? so big like a great bear, vis de beautiful red hair like de color of dis dress. no? he so nice i just hate to have to fool him, but maybe i get chance to make eet all up some day--you tink so? merciful saints! ve are queer, ve vomens! eet vas alvays de voman vat does like de vay you do, hey? ve vas mooch fools all de time." "yes, we are 'much fools'; that seems ordained. yet there are true, noble men in this world, mercedes, and blessed is she who can boast of such a friendship. this mr. winston is one, and, perhaps, your stuttering giant may prove another." she caught at a straw of hope in thus interesting the girl. "so he is at the 'little yankee'? and you wish to serve him? then listen; he is in danger also if this scheme of revenge carries--in danger of his life. dynamite does not pick out one victim, and permit all others to escape." "dynamite?" "that was farnham's threat, and god knows he is perfectly capable of it. now, will you aid me?" the young mexican girl stood staring with parted lips. "help you how? vat you mean?" "warn the men of the 'little yankee.'" the other laughed behind her white teeth, yet with no mirth in the sound. "ah, maybe i see, señorita; you try make a fool out me. no, i not play your game. you try turn me against señor farnham. i tink you not catch mercedes so." "you do not believe me?" "_sapristi_! i know not for sure. maybe i help, maybe i not. first i talk vis señor farnham, an' den i know vether you lie, or tell true. vatever ees right i do." "then permit me to pass." miss norvell took a resolute step forward, clasping her skirts closely to keep them from contact with the dusty scenery crowding the narrow passage. the jealous flame within the black eyes of the mexican dimmed. "you can no pass dat vay," she explained swiftly, touching the other's sleeve. "not through the stage door?" the other shook her head doggedly. "eet is alvay locked, señorita." beth norvell turned about in dismay, her eyes pleading, her breath quickening. "you mean we are shut in here for the night? is n't there any way leading out?" "oh, si, si," and mercedes smiled, waving her hands. "zar is vay yonder vare de orchestra goes. eet leads to de hall; i show you." "did he know?" "vat? señor farnham? no doubt, señorita. come, eet ees but de step." the bewildered american hung back, her eyes filled with dread resting upon the black shadow of the curtain, from behind which clearly arose the strains of a laboring orchestra, mingling with the discordant noise of a ribald crowd. farnham understood she was locked in; knew she might hope to escape only through that scene of pollution; beyond doubt, he waited in its midst to gloat over her degradation, possibly even to accost her. she shrank from such an ordeal as though she fronted pestilence. "oh, not that way; not through the dance hall!" she exclaimed. mercedes clapped her hands with delight. to her it appeared amusing. "holy mother! vy not? eet make me laugh to see you so ver' nice. vat you 'fraid 'bout? vas eet de men? pah! i snap my fingers at all of dem dis vay. dey not say boo! but come, now, mercedes show you vay out vere you no meet vis de men, no meet vis anybody. poof, eet ees easy." she danced lightly away, her hand beckoning, her black eyes aglow with aroused interest. reluctantly the puzzled american slowly followed, dipping down into the black labyrinth leading beneath the stage. amid silence and darkness mercedes grasped her arm firmly, leading unhesitatingly forward. standing within the glare of light streaming through the partially open door. miss norvell drew a sudden breath of relief. the chairs and benches, piled high along the side of the great room, left a secluded passageway running close against the wall. along this the two young women moved silently, catching merely occasional glimpses of the wild revelry upon the other side of that rude barrier, unseen themselves until within twenty feet of the street door. there miss norvell hesitated her anxious eyes searching the mixed crowd of dancers now for the first time fully revealed. even as she gazed upon the riot, shocked into silence at the inexpressible profligacy displayed, and ashamed of her presence in the midst of it, a merry peal of laughter burst through the parted lips of the mexican dancer. "_dios de dios_, but i had all forgot dis vas your night for de dance, señor. but you no so easy forget mercedes, hey?" he stood directly before them, plainly embarrassed, gripping his disreputable hat in both hands like a great bashful boy, his face reddening under her smiling eyes, his voice appearing to catch within his throat. mercedes laughed again, patting his broad shoulder with her white hand as though she petted a great, good-natured dog. then her sparkling black eyes caught sight of something unexpected beyond, and, in an instant, grew hard with purpose. "holy mother! but eet 's true he ees here, señorita--see yonder by de second vindow," she whispered fiercely. "maybe it vas so he tink to get you once more, but he not looked dis vay yet. _bueno_! i make him dance vis me. dis man stutter brown, an' he go vis you to de hotel; ees eet not so, _amigo_?" "i-i have no t-t-time," he stuttered, totally confused. "y-you see, i 'm in a h-hell of a h-h-hurry." "pah; eet vill not take five minute, an' i be here ven you come back. si, señor, i vait for you for de dance, sure." she turned eagerly to miss norvell. "you go vis him, señorita; he ver' good man, i, mercedes, know." the american looked at them both, her eyes slightly smiling in understanding. "yes," she assented quietly, "i believe he is." chapter xi half-confidences whatever stutter brown may secretly have thought concerning this new arrangement of his affairs, he indulged in no outward manifestations. not greatly gifted in speech, he was nevertheless sufficiently prompt in action. the swift, nervous orders of the impulsive mexican dancer had sufficiently impressed him with one controlling idea, that something decidedly serious was in the air; and, as she flitted across the room, looking not unlike a red bird, he watched her make directly toward a man who was leaning negligently back in a chair against the farther wall. for a moment he continued to gaze through the obscuring haze of tobacco smoke, uncertain as to the other's identity, his eyes growing angry, his square jaw set firm. "w-who is the f-f-feller?" he questioned gruffly. "wh-what 's she m-mean l-leavin' me to go over th-thar ter h-him?" beth norvell glanced up frankly into his puzzled face. "she has gone to keep him away from me," she explained quietly. "his name is farnham." brown's right hand swung back to his belt, his teeth gripped like those of a fighting dog. "hell!" he ejaculated, forgetting to stutter. "is that him? biff farnham? an' he 's after you is he, the damned mormon?" she nodded, her cheeks growing rosy from embarrassment. brown cast a quick, comprehensive glance from the face of the woman to where the man was now leaning lazily against the wall. "all r-right, little g-girl," he said slowly, and with grave deliberation. "i-i reckon i n-never went b-back on any p-pard yet. b-blamed if y-y-you hate thet c-cuss any worse th-than i do. y-you bet, i 'll take you out o' h-h-here safe 'nough." he drew her more closely against his side, completely shielding her slender figure from observation by the intervention of his giant body, and thus they passed out together into the gloomy but still riotous street. a block or more down, under the glaring light of a noisy saloon, the girl looked up questioningly into his boyish face. "are you stutter brown, of the 'little yankee'?" she asked doubtfully. "i-i reckon you've c-c-called the t-turn, miss." she hesitated a moment, but there was something about this big, awkward fellow, with his sober eyes and good-natured face, which gave her confidence. "do--do you know a mr. ned winston?" he shook his head, the locks of red hair showing conspicuously under the wide hat-brim. "i r-reckon not. leastwise, don't s-s-sorter seem to r-recall no such n-name, miss. was the g-gent a f-friend o' your 'n?" "y-yes. he is a mining engineer, and, i have been told, is under engagement at the 'little yankee.'" brown's eyes hardened, looking down into the upturned face, and his hands clinched in sudden awakening suspicion. "you d-did, hey?" he questioned sullenly. "wh-who told you that r-rot?" "farnham." the man uttered an unrestrained oath, fully believing now that he was being led into a cunningly devised trap. his mental operations were slow, but he was swift and tenacious enough in prejudice. he stopped still, and the two stood silently facing each other, the same vague spectre of suspicion alive in the minds of both. "farnham," the man muttered, for one instant thrown off his guard from surprise. "how th-the hell d-d-did he g-git hold o' that?" "i don't know; but is n't it true?" he turned her face around toward the light, not roughly, yet with an unconscious strength which she felt irresistible, and looked at her searchingly, his own eyes perceptibly softening. "y-you sure l-l-look all right, little g-girl," he admitted, slowly, "but i 've h-heard th-th-that feller was hell with w-women. i-i reckon you b-better go b-back to farnham an' find out." he paused, wiping his perspiring face with the back of his hand, his cheeks reddening painfully under her unfaltering gaze. finally he blurted out: "say, w-who are you, anyhow?" "beth norvell, an actress." "you kn-kn-know farnham?" she bent her head in regretful acknowledgment. "an' you kn-kn-know the señorita?" "yes, a very little." stutter brown wet his lips, shifting awkwardly. "well, y-you 'll excuse me, m-miss," he stuttered in an excess of embarrassment, yet plunging straight ahead with manly determination to have it out. "i-i ain't much used t-t-to this sorter th-thing, an' maybe i-i ain't got no r-r-right ter be a-botherin' you with m-my affairs, nohow. but you s-see it's th-this way. i 've sorter t-took a big l-l-likin' to that dancin' girl. sh-she 's a darn sight n-n-nearer my s-style than anything i 've been up a-against fer s-some time. i-i don't just kn-know how it h-h-happened, it was so blame s-sudden, b-but she 's got her l-l-lasso 'bout me all r-right. but lord! sh-she 's all fun an' laugh; sh-sh-she don't seem to take n-nothin' serious like, an' you c-can't make much ou-ou-out o' that kind; you n-never know just how to t-take 'em; leastwise, i don't. n-now, i 'm a plain s-s-sorter man, an' i m-make bold ter ask ye a m-mighty plain sorter qu-question--is that there m-m-mercedes on the squar?" he stood there motionless before her, a vast, uncertain bulk in the dim light, but he was breathing hard, and the deep earnestness of his voice had impressed her strongly. "why do you ask me that?" she questioned, for the moment uncertain how to answer him. "i scarcely know her; i know almost nothing regarding her life." "y-you, you are a w-woman, miss," he insisted, doggedly, "an', i t-take it, a woman who will u-understand such th-th-things. t-tell me, is she on the squar?" "yes," she responded, warmly. "she has not had much chance, i think, and may have made a mistake, perhaps many of them, but i believe she 's on the square." "did--did sh-she come out t-to our m-m-mine spying for farnham?" "really, i don't know." his grave face darkened anxiously; she could perceive the change even in that shadow, and distinguish the sharp grind of his teeth. "damn him," he muttered, his voice bitter with hate. "it w-would be l-l-like one of his l-low-lived tricks. wh-what is that g-girl to him, anyhow?" it was no pleasant task to hurt this man deliberately, yet, perhaps, it would be best. anyway, it was not in beth norvell's nature either to lie or to be afraid. "he has been her friend; there are some who say her lover." he stared fixedly at her, as though she had struck him a stinging, unexpected blow. "him? a-an' you s-s-say she 's on the squar?" "yes; i say she is on the square, because i think so. it's a hard life she 's had to live, and no one has any right to judge her by strict rules of propriety. i may not approve, neither do i condemn. good women have been deceived before now--have innocently done wrong in the eyes of the world--and this mercedes is a woman. i know him also, know him to be a cold-blooded, heartless brute. she is merely a girl, pulsating with the fiery blood of the south, an artist to her fingers' tips, wayward and reckless. it would not be very difficult for one of that nature to be led astray by such a consummate deceiver as he is. i pity her, but i do not reproach. yet god have mercy on him when she awakes from her dream, for that time is surely coming, perhaps is here already; and the girl is on the square. i believe it, she is on the square." for a silent, breathless moment brown did not stir, did not once take his eyes from off her face. she saw his hand slip down and close hard over the butt of his dangling revolver. then he drew a deep breath, his head thrown back, his great shoulders squared. "d-damn, but that helps me," he said soberly. "it--it sure does. g-good-night, little g-girl." "are you going to leave me now?" "why, sure. th-this yere is the h-h-hotel, ain 't it? w-well, i 've got t-to be back to th-the 'little yankee' afore d-d-daylight, or thar 'll be h-hell to pay, an' i sure m-mean to see her first, an'--an'--maybe h-him." she stood there in thoughtful perplexity, oblivious to all else in her strange surroundings, watching the dark shadow of his burly figure disappear through the dim light. there was a strength of purpose, a grim, unchangeable earnestness about the man which impressed her greatly, which won her admiration. he was like some great faithful dog, ready to die at his master's bidding. down in her heart she wondered what would be the tragic end of this night's confidence. "there goes a good friend," she said slowly, under her breath, "and a bad enemy." then she turned away, aroused to her own insistent mission of warning, and entered the silent hotel. the night clerk, a mere boy with pallid cheeks and heavy eyes bespeaking dissipation, reclined on a couch behind the rough counter, reading a denver paper. he was alone in the room, excepting a drunken man noisily slumbering in an arm-chair behind the stove. miss norvell, clasping her skirts tightly, picked her way forward across the littered floor, the necessity for immediate action rendering her supremely callous to all ordinary questions of propriety. "can you inform me if mr. winston is in his room?" she questioned, leaning across the counter until she could see the clerk's surprised face. the young fellow smiled knowingly, rising instantly to his feet. "not here at all," he returned pleasantly. "he left just before noon on horseback. heard him say something 'bout an engineering job he had up echo canyon. reckon that 's where he 's gone. anything important, miss norvell?" chapter xii the cover of darkness beth norvell did not remember ever having fainted in her life, yet for a moment after these words reached her, all around grew dark, and she was compelled to grasp the counter to keep from falling. the strain of the long night, coupled with such unexpected news proving she had arrived too late with her warning, served to daze her brain, to leave her utterly unable either to think or plan. the clerk, alarmed by the sudden pallor of her face, was at her side instantly, holding eagerly forth that panacea for all fleshly ills in the west, a bottle of whiskey. "good lord, miss, don't faint away!" he cried excitedly. "here, just take a swig of this; there 's plenty of water in it, and it's the stuff to pull you through. there, that's better. great scott, but i sure thought you was goin' to flop over that time." he assisted her to a convenient chair, then stepped back, gazing curiously into her face, the black bottle still in his hand. "what's the trouble, anyhow?" he questioned, his mind filled with sudden suspicion. "that--that fellow did n't throw you, did he?" miss norvell, her fingers clasping the chair arm for support, rose hurriedly to her feet, a red flush sweeping into her pallid cheeks. for an instant her intense indignation held her speechless. "'throw' me? what is it you mean?" she exclaimed, her voice faltering. "do you rank me with those shameless creatures out yonder? it is for mr. winston's sake i sought word with him; it has nothing whatever to do with myself. i chanced to learn news of the utmost importance, news which he must possess before morning; yet it is not a message i can trust to any one else. my god! what can i do?" she paused irresolute, her hands pressing her temples. the boy, his interest aroused, took a step forward. "can i be of service?" "oh, i hardly know; i scarcely seem able to think. could--could you leave here for just ten minutes--long enough to go to the dance hall at the gayety?" "sure thing; there 's nothin' doin'." "then please go; find a big, red-headed miner there named brown--'stutter' brown they call him--and bring him back here to me. if--if he is n't there any longer, then get mercedes, the mexican dancer. you know her, don't you?" the clerk nodded, reaching for his hat. "get one of those two; oh, you must get one of them. tell them i say it is most important." there was a terrible earnestness about the girl's words and manner, which instantly impressed the lad with the necessity for immediate haste. he was off at a run, slamming the door heavily behind him, and plunging headlong into the black street. as he disappeared, miss norvell sank back into the vacated chair, and sat there breathing heavily, her eyes fastened upon the drunken man opposite, her natural coolness and resource slowly emerging from out the haze of disappointment. brown could surely be trusted in this emergency, for his interest was only second to her own. but why had she not told him the entire story before? why, when she had opportunity, did she fail to reveal to him farnham's threats, and warn him against impending danger? she realized fully now the possible injury wrought by her secrecy. she felt far too nervous, too intensely anxious, to remain long quiet; her eyes caught the ticking timepiece hanging above the clerk's desk, and noted the hour with a start of surprise. it was already after two. once, twice, thrice she paced across the floor of the office and stood for a moment striving to peer through the dirty window-glass into the blackness without, faintly splotched with gleams of yellow light. finally, she flung back the door and ventured forth upon the shadowed porch, standing behind the low railing, where those passing below were little likely to notice her presence. her head throbbed and ached, and she loosened her heavy hair, pressing her palms to the temples. the boy returned at last hurriedly, bare-headed, but unaccompanied, and she met him at the top of the steps, realizing, even before he spoke, that those she sought had not been found. "not there? neither there?" "no, miss." the clerk was breathing hard from his run, but his tone was sympathetic. "darned if i did n't hustle that outfit from pit to boxes, but nobody there seemed to sabe this yere brown. mercedes, she was there all right, 'bout ten minutes ago, but just naturally faded away before i hit the shebang. doorkeeper piped it she had a guy with her when she broke loose, an' he reckoned she must have lit out fer home." "for home?" a faint ray of light breaking from the word. "where does the girl live? do you know?" "sure; i 'm wise; she has a couple of dandy rooms over at the old fort, just across the creek; you know where that is, don't you?" she nodded silently, her eyes brightening with resolution. "it 's a blame tough bit of hiking to take alone on a dark night like this," he commented gravely. "you was n't plannin' to try any such trip as that, was you, miss?" "oh, no; certainly not. i'm going upstairs to wait for daylight. but i thank you so much," and she cordially extended her hand. "you see, i--i could hardly go to the gayety myself at such an hour." the boy colored, still clasping the extended hand. something in her low tone had served to recall to his mind those hasty words uttered in the office. "sure not, miss norvell; it's a bit tough, all right, for anybody like you down there at this time o' night." she opened the door, the bright light from within shining about her slender figure, yet leaving her face still in shadow. "did--did you chance to notice if mr. farnham remained in the dance hall?" "biff farnham?" in sudden, choking surprise. "great guns, do you know him, too? no, he was n't there, but i can tell you where he is, all the same. he 's at the palace livery, saddling up, along with half a dozen other fellows. i saw 'em as i come trottin' along back, and wondered what the dickens was on tap at this time o' night." the girl made no attempt to answer. she stood clutching the edge of the door for support, her lips tightly compressed, feeling as if her heart would rise up and choke her. she realized instantly that the crisis had arrived, that winston's life probably hung upon her next decision. twice she endeavored bravely to speak, and when she finally succeeded, the strange calmness other voice made her doubt her own sanity. "thank you," she said gravely, "you have been most kind,--good-night," and vanished up the stairs. within the privacy of her own securely locked room beth norvell flung herself upon the narrow bed, not to sleep, not even to rest, but in an earnest effort to clarify her brain, to gain fresh conception of this grim reality which fronted her. she realized now precisely what ned winston stood for in her life--must ever stand for until the bitter end. there was no upbraiding, no reviling. not in the slightest degree did she even attempt to deceive herself; with set, tearless eyes, and without a sigh of regret, she simply faced the naked truth. she had made the mistake herself; now she must bear the burden of discovery. it was not the dull inertia of fatalism, but rather the sober decision of a woman who had been tried in the fire, who understood her own heart, and comprehended the strength of her own will. personal suffering and sacrifice were no new chapters written in her life; these had been met before, and now, in yet another guise, they could be courageously met again. she sat up quickly upon the edge of the bed, her hands pressing back the heavy hair from off her hot forehead. what right had she to lie there shuddering at destiny when lives--his life--might be trembling in the balance? she could at least serve, and, whatever else of weakness may have lurked in beth norvell, there was no germ of cowardice. clearer and more clear she perceived duty, until it overshadowed love and brought her upon her feet in active preparation, in burning desire for action. standing before the little mirror, she wondered dimly at those dark circles beneath her eyes, the unusually sharp lines visible at the corners of her mouth. she felt hot, feverish, and in hope of thus relieving the painful throbbing of her temples she buried her face in the bowl of cool water. rapidly, almost carelessly, she gathered up her dishevelled locks, fastening them in some simple, yet secure fashion back out of the way. from the open trunk standing against the wall, she caught up a plain, soft hat, one she had used in character upon the stage, and drew it down firmly over the mass of soft hair, never noting how coquettishly the wide brim swept up in front, or what witchery of archness it gave to her dark eyes. she took a quick step toward the door, and then, her hand already on the latch, she paused in uncertainty; finally, she drew a small, pearl-handled revolver from the bottom tray, and placed it carefully in a pocket of her jacket. "i--i hardly believe i could ever use it," she thought, "but maybe i might." outside, in the narrow, deserted hall, she stood at the head of the steep flight of stairs and listened. the snoring of the drunken man in the office below was the only disturbing sound. out through the open office door a dull bar of yellow light streamed across the lower steps. like a ghost she stole silently down, treading so softly not a stair creaked beneath her cautious footfalls. the next moment she had opened the door, and was alone in the dark street. dark it was, but neither deserted nor silent. the unleashed evil of san juan was now in full control, more madly riotous than ever beneath the cloak of so late an hour. nothing short of complete return of daylight would bring semblance of peace to that carnival of saloons, gambling dens, and dance halls. through the shadows stalked unrebuked, uncontrolled, the votaries of dissipation and recklessness, of "easy money" and brutal lust. yellow rays of light streamed from out dirty, uncurtained windows, leaving the narrow street weirdly illuminated, with here and there patches of dense shadows. shifting figures, often unsteady of step, appeared and disappeared like disembodied spirits, distorted from all human semblance by that uncertain radiance; on every side the discordant sounds of violins and pianos commingled in one hideous din, punctuated by drunken shouts and every species of noise of which civilized savagery is capable. yet this was not what she feared, this saturnalia of unbridled passion, for the way was comparatively well lighted, and in traversing it she was reasonably certain to be within call of some one sober enough to protect her from insult or injury. even in drink these men remained courteous to women of the right sort. no, she had travelled that path alone at night before, again and again, returning from her work. she shrank, womanlike, from the sights and sounds, but was conscious of no personal fear. what she dreaded beyond expression was that long, black stretch of narrow, desolate alley-way leading down toward the creek bridge and the old fort beyond. she had been over that path once in broad daylight, and it made her shudder to think she must now feel her way there alone through the dark. the growing fear of it got upon her nerves as she stood hesitating; then, almost angry with herself, she advanced swiftly down toward the distant glowing lights of the gayety. it was just beyond there that the alley turned off toward the foothills, a mere thread of a path wandering amid a maze of unlighted tents and disreputable shacks; she remembered this, and the single rotten strip of plank which answered for a sidewalk. there was an unusually boisterous, quarrelsome crowd congregated in front of the poodle-dog, and she turned aside into the middle of the street in order to get past undisturbed. some one called noisily for her to wait and have a drink, but she never glanced about, or gave slightest heed. at the curb a drunken woman reeled against her, peering sneeringly into her face with ribald laugh, but beth norvell pushed silently past, and vanished into the protecting shadows beyond. the wide doors of the brilliantly illuminated gayety were flung open, the bright light from within streaming far across the road. many of its patrons, heated with liquor and the dance, had swarmed forth upon the broad platform outside in search of fresher air. to avoid pushing her way through this noisy crowd the girl swiftly crossed the street into the darkness opposite. as she paused there for an instant, scarcely conscious that the glow of the lamps reflected full upon her face, there sounded a sudden clatter of horses' hoofs to her right, and a half-dozen riders swept around the sharp corner, dashing forward into the glare. she had barely time in which to leap backward out of their direct path, when one of the horsemen jerked his mount upon its haunches, and, uttering an oath of astonishment, leaned forward across his pommel, staring down into her startled face. then he laughed. "go on, boys," he cried, sitting erect, with a wave of his hand to the others. "i 'll catch up within half a mile. i 've got a word to say first to this precious dove fluttering here." he struck the flank of his horse, causing the sensitive beast to quiver, his own lips curling maliciously. the girl, panting between parted lips, never lowered her eyes from his face, and the steady look angered him. "still hunting for winston?" he questioned, sneeringly. "well, i can inform you where he may very easily be found." "indeed!" "yes, out at the 'little yankee.' it seems you were a trifle late in getting him word, or else your fascinations failed to move him. you must be losing your grip." she neither moved nor spoke, her eyes--dark, unwinking beneath the wide hat-brim--telling him nothing. yet her hand closed upon the pearl handle hidden away in the jacket pocket, and her lips formed a straight line. "i 'm damned sorry you did n't land the fellow, lizzie," he went on brutally. "he 's about the best catch you 're liable to get, and besides, it leaves me a rather unpleasant job. still, i thought i 'd better tell you, so you would n't feel it necessary to hang around the streets here any longer. fact is, i 'm anxious to shield your reputation, you know." he looked about carelessly, his glance settling on the open doors of the gayety. "don't strike me this is exactly the sort of place for one of your moral respectability to be discovered in. lord! but what would the old man or that infernal prig of a brother of yours say, if they could only see you now? a monologue artist at the gayety was bad enough, but this, this is the limit." there was a flash of something white and glittering within six inches of his face, a sharp click, and an eye looked directly into his own across a short steel barrel. "go!" the word was like the spat of a bullet. "but, lizzie--" "go, you cur! or, as god is my witness, if you stay i'll kill you!" with a sharp dig of the spur his horse sprang half-way across the road, a black, prancing shadow against the glare of light. she saw the rider fling up one arm, and bring down the stinging quirt on the animal's flank; the next instant, with a bound, they were swallowed up in the darkness. a moment she leaned against the shack, nerveless, half fainting from reaction, her face deathly white. then she inhaled a long, deep breath, gathered her skirts closely within one hand, and plunged boldly into the black alley. chapter xiii two women mercedes stood in the shade of the towering hillside, the single beam of light shining from an uncurtained window alone faintly revealing her slenderness of figure in its red drapery. no other gleam anywhere cleft the prevailing darkness of the night, and the only perceptible sound was that of horses' hoofs dying away in the distance. the girl was not crying, although one of her hands was held across her eyes, and her bosom rose and fell tumultuously to labored breathing. she stood silent, motionless, the strange radiance causing her to appear unreal, some divinely moulded statue, an artist's dream carven in colored stone. suddenly she sprang backward from out that revealing tongue of light and crouched low at the angle of the house, not unlike some affrighted wild animal, her head bent forward intently listening. there was a plainly perceptible movement in the gloom, the sound of an approaching footstep and of rapid breathing, and finally a shadow became visible. the watcher leaped to her feet half angrily. "ah! so eet vas you, señorita!" she exclaimed, her voice betraying her emotion,--"you, who come so dis night. _sapristi_! vy you follow me dis vay? by all de saints, i make you tell me dat! you vant him, too? you vant rob me of all thing?" the visitor, startled by this sudden challenge, stood before her trembling from head to foot with the nervous excitement of her journey, yet her eyes remained darkly resolute. "you recognize me," she responded quickly, reaching out and touching the other with one hand, as if to make certain of her actual presence. "then for god's sake do not waste time now in quarrelling. i did not make this trip without a purpose. 'he,' you say? who is he? who was it that rode away from here just now? not farnham?" mercedes laughed a trifle uneasily, her eyes suddenly lowered before the other's anxious scrutiny. "ah, no, señorita," she answered softly. "eet surprises me mooch you not know; eet vas señor brown." miss norvell grasped her firmly by the shoulder. "brown?" she exclaimed eagerly. "stutter brown? oh, call him back; cannot you call him back?" the young mexican shook her head, her white teeth gleaming, as she drew her shoulder free from the fingers clasping it. "you vas too late, señorita," she replied, sweetly confident. "he vas already gone to de 'little yankee.' but he speak mooch to me first." "much about what?" "vel, he say he lofe me--he say eet straight, like eet vas vat he meant." "oh!" "si, señorita; he not even talk funny, maybe he so excited he forgot how, hey? an' vat you tink dat he say den to mercedes--vat?" the other shook her head, undecided, hesitating as to her own purpose. "he ask me vould i marry him. si, si, vat you tink of dat--me, mercedes morales, de dancer at de gayety--he ask me vould i marry him. oh, mother of god!" the young american stared at her upturned animated face, suddenly aroused to womanly interest. "and what did you say?" mercedes stamped her foot savagely on the hard ground, her eyes glowing like coals of fire. "you ask vat i say? saints of god! vat could i say? he vas a good man, dat señor brown, but i--i vas not a good voman. i no tell him dat--no! no! i vas shamed; i get red, vite; i hardly speak at all; my heart thump so i tink maybe eet choke me up here, but i say no. i say no once, tvice, tree time. i tell him he big fool to tink like dat of me. i tell him go vay an' find voman of his own race--good voman. i tell him eet could nevah be me, no, nevah." "then you do not love him?" the puzzled dancer hesitated, her long lashes lowered, and outlined against her cheeks. "lofe? dat vas not nice vord as eet come to me. i know not ver' vell just vat. maybe if i not lofe him i marry him--si; i no care den. i make him to suffer, but not care; ees eet not so? anyhow, i--vat you call dat?--respect dis señor brown mooch, ver' mooch. maybe dat last longer as lofe--_quien sabe_?" scarcely comprehending this peculiar explanation, beth norvell's first conception was that the girl had chosen wrong, that she had allied herself upon the side of evil. "you mean you--you will go back to biff farnham?" she asked, her tone full of horror. mercedes straightened up quickly, her young, expressive face filled with a new passion, which struggled almost vainly for utterance through her lips. "go back to dat man!" she panted. "me? _sapristi_! and you tink i do dat after señor brown ask me be hees vife! blessed mary! vat you tink i am? you tink i not feel, not care? i go back to dat farnham? eet vould not be, no! no! i tol' him dat mooch, an' he got mad. i no care, i like dat. i no lofe him, nevah; i vas sold to him for money, like sheep, but i learn to hate him to kill." the deep glow of the black eyes softened, and her head slowly dropped until it touched the other's extended arm. "but dis señor brown he vas not dat kind--he ask me to marry him; he say he not care vat i been, only he lofe me, an' he be good to me alvays. i vas hungry for dat, señorita, but i say no, no, no! eet vas not for me, nevah. i send him avay so sorry, an' den i cry ven i hear his horse go out yonder. eet vas like he tread on me, eet hurt dat vay. maybe i no lofe him, but i know he vas good man an' he lofe me. eet vas de honor ven he ask me dat, an' now i be good voman because a good man lofes me. holy mother! eet vill be easy now dat he vanted to marry me." impulsively beth norvell, her own eyes moist, held the other, sobbing like a child within the clasp of sympathetic arms. there was instantly formed between them a new bond, a new feeling of awakened womanhood. yet, even as her fingers continued to stroke the dishevelled hair softly, there flashed across her mind a recurring memory of her purpose, the necessity for immediate action. not for an instant longer did she doubt the complete honesty of the other's frank avowal, or question the propriety of requesting her aid in thwarting farnham. she held the slight, quivering figure back, so that she might gaze into the uplifted, questioning face. "mercedes, yes, yes, i understand it all," she cried eagerly. "but we cannot talk about it any longer now. it is a wonderful thing, this love of a good man; but we are wasting time that may mean life or death to others, perhaps even to him. listen to what i say--farnham has already gone to the 'little yankee,' and taken a gang of roughs with him. they left san juan on horseback more than half an hour ago. he threatened me first, and boasted that mr. winston was out there, and that i was too late to warn him of danger. oh, girl, you understand what that means; you know him well, you must realize what he is capable of doing. i came here as fast as i could in the dark," she shuddered, glancing backward across her shoulder. "every step was a way of horrors, but i did n't know any one who could help me. but you--you know the way to the 'little yankee,' and we--we must get there before daylight, if we have to crawl." all that was savagely animal in the other's untamed nature flamed into her face. "he say vat? señor farnham he say vat he do?" "he said dynamite told no tales, but sometimes killed more than the one intended." mercedes' hand went to her head as though a pain had smitten her, and she stepped back, half crouching in the glow like a tiger cat. "he say dat? de man say dat? holy angels! he vas de bad devil, but he find me de bad devil too. ah, now i play him de game, an' ve see who vin! de 'leetle yankee,' eet tree mile, señorita, an' de road rough, mooch rough, but i know eet--si, i know eet, an' ve get dare before de day come; sure ve do eet, _bueno_." she grasped the arm of the other, now fully aroused, her slight form quivering from intense excitement. "come, i show you. see! he vas my pony--ah! eet makes me to laugh to know de señor farnham give him me; now i make him to upset de señor farnham. _sapristi_! eet vas vat you call de vay of de vorld, de verligig; vas eet not so? you ride de pony, señorita; i valk an' lead him--si, si, you more tired as mercedes; i danseuse, no tire ever in de legs. den i find de vay more easy on foot in de dark, see? you ride good, hey? he jump little, maybe, but he de ver' nice pony, an' i no let him run. no, no, de odder vay, señorita, like de man ride. poof! it no harm in de dark. _bueno_, now ve go to surprise de señor farnham." she led promptly forth as she spoke, moving with perfect confidence down the irregular trail skirting the bank of the creek, her left hand grasping the pony's bit firmly, the other shading her eyes as though to aid in the selection of a path through the gloom. it was a rough, uneven, winding road they followed, apparently but little used, littered with loose stones and projecting roots; yet, after a moment of fierce but useless rebellion, the lively mustang sobered down into a cautious picking of his passage amid the debris, obedient as a dog to the soft voice of his mistress. the problems of advance were far too complicated to permit of much conversation, and little effort at speech was made by either, the principal thought in each mind being the necessity for haste. swaying on the saddleless back of the pony, her anxious gaze on the dimly revealed, slender figure trudging sturdily in front, beth norvell began to dread the necessity of again having to meet winston under such conditions. what would he naturally think? he could scarcely fail to construe such action on his behalf as one inspired by deep personal interest, and she instinctively shrank from such revealment, fearing his glance, his word of welcome, his expressions of surprised gratitude. the awkwardness, the probable embarrassment involved, became more and more apparent as she looked forward to that meeting. if possible, she would gladly drop out, and so permit the other to bear on the message of warning alone. but, even with mercedes' undoubted interest in brown, and her increasing dislike of farnham, beth could not as yet entirely trust her unaccompanied. besides, there was no excuse to offer for such sudden withdrawal, no reason she durst even whisper into the ear of another. no, there was nothing left her but to go on; let him think what he might of her action, she would not fail to do her best to serve him, and beneath the safe cover of darkness she blushed scarlet, her long lashes moist with tears that could not be restrained. they were at the bottom of the black canyon now, the high, uplifting rock walls on either side blotting out the stars and rendering the surrounding gloom intense. the young mexican girl seemed to have the eyes of a cat, or else was guided by some instinct of the wild, feeling her passage slowly yet surely forward, every nerve alert, and occasionally pausing to listen to some strange night sound. it was a weird, uncanny journey, in which the nerves tingled to uncouth shapes and the wild echoing of mountain voices. once, at such a moment of continued suspense, beth norvell bent forward and whispered a sentence into her ear. the girl started, impulsively pressing her lips against the white hand grasping the pony's mane. "no, no, señorita," she said softly. "not dat; not because he lofe me; because he ask me dat. si, i make him not so sorry." she remembered that vast overhanging rock about which the dim trail circled as it swept upward toward where the "little yankee" perched against the sky-line. undaunted by the narrowness of the ledge, the willing, sure-footed mustang began climbing the steep grade. step by step they crept up, cautiously advancing from out the bottom of the cleft, the path followed winding in and out among bewildering cedars, and skirting unknown depths of ravines. mercedes was breathing heavily, her unoccupied hand grasping the trailing skirt which interfered with her climbing. miss norvell, from her higher perch on the pony's back, glanced behind apprehensively. far away to the east a faint, uncertain tinge of gray was shading into the sky. suddenly a detached stone rattled in their front; there echoed the sharp click of a rifle hammer, mingled with the sound of a gruff, unfamiliar voice: "you come another step, an' i 'll blow hell out o' yer. _sabe_?" it all occurred so quickly that neither spoke; they caught their breath and waited in suspense. a shadow, dim, ill-defined, seemed to take partial form in their front. "well, can't yer speak?" questioned the same voice, growlingly. "what yer doin' on this yere trail?" mercedes released the pony's bit, and leaned eagerly forward. "vas dat you, beell heeks?" she questioned, doubtfully. the man swore, the butt of his quickly lowered rifle striking sharply against the rock at his feet. "i 'm damned if it ain't that mexican agin," he exclaimed, angrily. "now, you get out o' yere; you hear me? i 'm blamed if i kin shoot at no female, but you got in one measly spyin' job on this outfit, an' i 'll not put up with another if i have ter pitch ye out inter the canyon. so you git plum out o' yere, an' tell yer friend farnham he better take more care o' his females, or some of 'em are liable ter get hurt." there was the harsh crunch of a footstep in the darkness, another figure suddenly slid down the smooth surface of rock, dropping almost at the pony's head. the animal shied with a quick leap, but a heavy hand held him captive. "y-you sh-sh-shut up, b-bill," and the huge form of stutter brown loomed up directly between them, and that menacing rifle. "i-i reckon as how i'll t-t-take a h-hand in this yere g-g-game. sh-she ain't no s-spy fer farnham, er i 'm a l-l-liar." he touched her softly with his great hand, bending down to look into her face, half hidden beneath the ruffled black hair. "c-come, little g-g-girl, what's up?" she made no response, her lips faltering as though suddenly stricken dumb. beth norvell dropped down from the pony's back, and stood with one hand resting on mercedes' shoulder. "she only came to show me the way," she explained bravely. "i-i have a most important message for mr. winston. where is he?" "important, d-did you s-s-say?" "yes, its delivery means life or death--for heaven's sake, take me to him!" for a single breathless moment brown hesitated, his eyes on the girl's upturned face, evidently questioning her real purpose. "i c-can't right n-now, miss," he finally acknowledged, gravely; "that's s-straight; fer ye s-s-see, he 's down the 'i-i-independence' shaft." chapter xiv underground it was a daring ruse that had taken ned winston down the shaft of the "independence" mine with the midnight shift. not even the professional enthusiasm of a young engineer could serve to justify so vast a risk, but somehow this battle of right and wrong had become a personal struggle between himself and farnham; he felt, without understanding clearly why, that the real stake involved was well worth the venture, and would prove in the end of infinitely more value to him than any settlement of the mere mining claims at issue. for several hours he had been below in the tunnel of the "little yankee," measuring distances, and sampling the grade of ore. all the afternoon and much of the early night had been utilized in a careful exploration of the surface ledges; creeping in, under protection of the low-growing cedars, as closely as a vigilant rifle-guard would permit, to the great ore dump of the busy "independence"; diligently studying their system of labor, and slowly crystallizing into shape his later plan of action. he was already morally convinced that the farnham people were actively engaged in stealing the "little yankee" ore; that they were running their tunnel along the lead of the latter; that they were doing this systematically, and fully conscious of the danger of discovery. his lines of survey, the nature of the ore bodies, the muffled sound of picks, plainly discernible in the silent breast of the "little yankee" while he lay listening with ear to the rock, as well as the close secrecy, all combined to convince him fully of the fact. yet such vague suspicions were perfectly useless. he must have absolute, convincing proof, and such proof could be obtained nowhere excepting at the bottom of the "independence" shaft. he talked over the situation frankly with the two partners in the little single-roomed cabin perched on the cliff edge, while the obedient though grumbling mike, rifle in hand, sat solemnly on the dump pile without. little by little the three conspirators worked out a fairly feasible plan. there were numerous chances for failure in it, yet the very recklessness of the conception was an advantage. winston, his face darkened as a slight disguise, and dressed in the rough garments of a typical miner, was to hide beside the footpath leading between the "independence" bunk-house and the shaft. should one of the men chance to loiter behind the others when the working shift changed at midnight, brown was to attend to him silently, relying entirely upon his giant strength to prevent alarm, while winston was promptly to take the vacated place among the descending workmen. by some grim fate this crudely devised scheme worked like a well-oiled piece of machinery. a sleepy-headed lout, endeavoring to draw on his coat as he ran blindly after the others, stumbled in the rocky path and fell heavily. almost at the instant stutter brown had the fellow by the throat, dragging him back into the security of the cedars, and winston, lamp and dinner-pail in hand, was edging his way into the crowded cage, his face turned to the black wall. that was five hours before. at the very edge of the black, concealing chaparral, within easy rifle range of the "independence" shaft-house, hicks and brown lay flat on their faces, waiting and watching for some occasion to take a hand. back behind the little cabin old mike sat calmly smoking his black dudheen, apparently utterly oblivious to all the world save the bound and cursing swede he was vigilantly guarding, and whose spirits he occasionally refreshed with some choice bit of hibernian philosophy. beneath the flaring gleam of numerous gasoline torches, half a dozen men constantly passed and repassed between shaft-house and dump heap, casting weird shadows along the rough planking, and occasionally calling to each other, their gruff voices clear in the still night. every now and then those two silent watchers could hear the dismal clank of the windlass chain, and a rattle of ore on the dump, when the huge buckets were hoisted to the surface and emptied of their spoil. once--it must have been after three o'clock--other men seemed suddenly to mingle among those perspiring surface workers and the unmistakable neigh of a horse came faintly from out the blackness of a distant thicket. the two lying in the chaparral rose to their knees, bending anxiously forward. brown drew back the hammer of his rifle, while hicks swore savagely under his breath. but those new figures vanished in some mysterious way before either could decide who they might be--into the shaft-house, or else beyond, where denser shadows intervened. the two watchers sank back again into their cover, silently waiting, ever wondering what was happening beyond their ken, down below in the heart of the hill. some of this even winston never knew, although he was a portion of it. he had gone down with the descending cage, standing silent among the grimy workmen crowding it, and quickly discerning from their speech that they were largely swedes and poles, of a class inclined to ask few questions, provided their wages were promptly paid. there was a deserted gallery opening from the shaft-hole some forty feet below the surface; he saw the glimmer of light reflected along its wall as they passed, but the cage dropped to a considerably lower level before it stopped, and the men stepped forth into the black entry. winston went with them, keeping carefully away from the fellow he supposed to be foreman of the gang, and hanging back, under pretence of having difficulty in lighting his lamp, until the others had preceded him some distance along the echoing gallery. the yellow flaring of their lights through the intense darkness proved both guidance and warning, so he moved cautiously forward, counting his steps, his hand feeling the trend of the side wall, his lamp unlit. the floor was rough and uneven, but dry, the tunnel apparently having been blasted through solid rock, for no props supporting the roof were discernible. for quite an extended distance this entry ran straight away from the foot of the shaft--directly south he made it--into the heart of the mountain; then those twinkling lights far in advance suddenly winked out, and winston groped blindly forward until he discovered a sharp turn in the tunnel. he lingered for a moment behind the protection of that angle of rock wall, struck a safety match, and held the tiny flame down close against the face of his pocket compass. exactly; this new advance extended southeast by east. he snuffed out the glowing splinter between his fingers, crossed over to the opposite side, and watchfully rounded the corner to where he could again perceive the twinkling lights ahead. his foot met some obstacle along the floor, and he bent down, feeling for it with his fingers in the dark; it proved to be a rude scrap-iron rail, evidence that they carried out their ore by means of mules and a tram-car. a few yards farther this new tunnel began to ascend slightly, and he again mysteriously lost his view of the miners' lamps, and was compelled to grope his way more slowly, yet ever carefully counting his steps. the roof sank with the advance until it became so low he was compelled to stoop. the sound of picks smiting the rock was borne to him, made faint by distance, but constantly growing clearer. there he came to another curve in the tunnel. he crouched upon one knee, peering cautiously around the edge in an effort to discover what was taking place in front. the scattered lights on the hats of the miners rendered the whole weird scene fairly visible. there were two narrow entries branching off from the main gallery not more than thirty feet from where he lay. one ran, as nearly as he could judge, considerably to the east of south, but the second had its trend directly to the eastward. along the first of these tunnels there was no attempt at concealment, a revealing twinkle of light showing where numerous miners were already at work. but the second was dark, and would have remained unnoticed entirely had not several men been grouped before the entrance, their flaring lamps reflected over the rock wall. winston's eyes sparkled, his pulse leaped, as he marked the nature of their task--they were laboriously removing a heavy mask, built of wood and canvas, which had been snugly fitted over the hole, making it resemble a portion of the solid rock wall. there were four workmen employed at this task, while the foreman, a broad-jawed, profane-spoken irishman, his moustache a bristling red stubble, stood a little back, noisily directing operations, the yellow light flickering over him. the remainder of the fellows composing the party had largely disappeared farther down, although the sound of their busy picks was clearly audible. "where the hell is swanson?" blurted out the foreman suddenly. "he belongs in this gang. here you, ole, what 's become o' nelse swanson?" the fellow thus directly addressed drew his hand across his mouth, straightening up slightly to answer. "eet iss not sumtings dot i know, meester burke. he seems not here." "not here; no, i should say not, ye cross-oied swade. but oi 'm dommed if he did n't come down in the cage wid' us, for oi counted the lot o' yez. don't any o' you lads know whut 's become o' the drunken lout?" there was a universal shaking of heads, causing the lights to dance dizzily, forming weird shadows in the gloom, and the irritated foreman swore aloud, his eyes wandering back down the tunnel. "no doubt he's dhrunk yet, an' laid down to slape back beyant in the passage," he growled savagely. "be all the powers, but oi 'll tache that humpin' fool a lesson this day he 'll not be apt to fergit fer a while. i will that, or me name 's not jack burke. here you, peterson, hand me over that pick-helve." he struck the tough hickory handle sharply against the wall to test its strength, his ugly red moustache bristling. "lave the falsework sthandin' where it is till i git back," he ordered, with an authoritative wave of the hand; "an' you fellers go in beyant, an' help out on number wan till oi call ye. dom me sowl, but oi'll make that swanson think the whole dom mounting has slid down on top o' him--the lazy, dhrunken swade." the heavy pick-handle swinging in his hand his grim, red face glowing angrily beneath the sputtering flame of the lamp stuck in his hat, the irate burke strode swiftly back into the gloomy passage, muttering gruffly. chapter xv the proof of crime winston sprang to his feet and ran back along the deserted tunnel, bending low to avoid collision with the sloping roof, striving to move rapidly, yet in silence. the intense darkness blinded him, but one hand touching the wall acted as safeguard. for a moment the bewildering surprise of this new situation left his brain in a whirl of uncertainty. he could remember no spot in which he might hope to secrete himself safely; the rock wall of that narrow passageway afforded no possible concealment against the reflection of the foreman's glaring lamp. but he must get beyond sight and sound of those others before the inevitable meeting and the probable struggle occurred. this became the one insistent thought which sent him scurrying back into the gloom, recklessly accepting every chance of encountering obstacles in his haste. at the second curve he paused, panting heavily from the excitement of his hard run, and leaned against the face of the rock, peering anxiously back toward that fast approaching flicker of light. the angry foreman came crunching savagely along, his heavy boots resounding upon the hard floor, the hickory club in his hand occasionally striking against the wall as though he imagined himself already belaboring the recreant swanson. about him, causing his figure to appear gigantic, his shadow grotesque, the yellow gleam of the light shone in spectral coloring. winston set his teeth determinedly, and noiselessly cocked his revolver. the man was already almost upon him, a black, shapeless bulk, like some unreal shadow. then the younger stepped suddenly forth into the open, the two meeting face to face. the startled foreman stared incredulous, bending forward as though a ghost confronted him, his teeth showing between parted lips. "drop that club!" commanded winston coldly, the gleam of an uplifted steel barrel in the other's eyes. "lively, my man; this is a hair-trigger." "what the hell--" "drop that club! we 'll discuss this case later. there--no, up with your hands; both of them. turn around slowly; ah, i see you don 't tote a gun down here. so much the better, for now we can get along to business with fewer preliminaries." he kicked the released pick-helve to one side out of sight in the darkness, his watchful eyes never straying from the irishman's face. burke stood sputtering curses, his hands held high, his fighting face red from impotent passion. the trembling light gave to the scene a fantastic effect, grimly humorous. "who--who the divil be ye?" the surprised man thrust his head yet farther forward in an effort to make the flame more clearly reveal the other's features. winston drew the peak of his miner's cap lower. "that will make very little difference to you, jack burke," he said quietly, "if i have any occasion to turn loose this arsenal. however, stand quiet, and it will afford me pleasure to give you all necessary information. let us suppose, for instance, that i am a person to whom biff farnham desires to sell some stock in this mine; becoming interested, i seek to discover its real value for myself, and come down with the night shift. quite a natural proceeding on my part, is n't it? now, under such circumstances, i presume you, as foreman, would be perfectly willing to show me exactly what is being accomplished down here?" he paused, his lips smiling pleasantly, and burke stared at him, with mouth wide open, his eyes mere black slits in the gloom. it was a full minute before he regained control of his voice. "ye think oi 'm a dommed fool?" he ejaculated, hoarsely. "no; that is exactly what i do not think, burke," and winston smiled again beneath his stern gray eyes. "that is precisely why i know you will show me all i desire to see. a damn fool might possibly be tempted to take chances with this gun, and get hurt, but you are smart enough to understand that i 've got the drop all right, and that i mean business--i mean business." these words were uttered slowly, deliberately, and the foreman involuntarily dropped his lids as though feeling them physically, the fingers of his uplifted hands clinching. "what--what is it ye want to see?" "that tunnel you 've got concealed by falsework." burke spat against the rock wall, the perspiration standing forth on his forehead. but irish pugnacity made him stubborn. "who tould ye that loie? shure, an' it's not here ye 'll be apt to foind the loikes o' that, me man." winston eyed him scornfully. "you lie, burke; i saw it with my own eyes just beyond that second turn yonder. you cannot play with me, and the sooner you master that fact the better. now, you can take your choice--lead on as i order, and keep your men away, or eat lead. it's one or the other within the next sixty seconds. turn around!" no man in his senses would ever doubt the determined purpose lying behind those few low-spoken, earnest words. whoever this man might be, whatever his purpose, he was assuredly not there in sport, and burke wheeled about as though some concealed spring controlled his action. "good," commented winston, briefly. "you can lower your hands. now, walk straight forward, speaking only when i tell you, and never forget there is a gun-barrel within two feet of your back. the slightest movement of treachery, and, god helping me, burke, i 'll turn loose every cartridge into your body. i don 't want to do it, but i will." they moved slowly forward along the deserted tunnel, not unlike two convicts in lock-step. burke sullenly growling, a burly, shapeless figure under the light in his hat; winston alert, silent, watchful for treachery, the glimmer of the lamp full on his stern face. their shadows glided, ever changing in conformation, along the walls, their footfalls resounding hollow from the echoing passage. there were no words wasted in either command or explanation. without doubt, the foreman understood fairly well the purpose of this unknown invader; but he realized, also, that the man had never lightly assumed such risk of discovery, and he had lived long enough among desperate men to comprehend all that a loaded gun meant when the eye behind was hard and cool. the persuasive eloquence of "the drop" was amply sufficient to enforce obedience. farnham be hanged! he felt slight inclination at that moment to die for the sake of farnham. winston, accustomed to gauging men, easily comprehended this mental attitude of his prisoner, his eyes smiling in appreciation of the other's promptness, although his glance never once wavered, his guarding hand never fell. burke was safe enough now, yet he was not to be trifled with, not to be trusted for an instant, in the playing out of so desperate a game. at the angle the two halted, while the engineer cautiously reconnoitred the dimly revealed regions in front. he could perceive but little evidence of life, excepting the faint radiance of constantly moving lights down number one tunnel. burke stood sullenly silent, venturing upon no movement except under command. "anybody down that other entry?" the foreman shook his head, without glancing around, his jaws moving steadily on the tobacco that swelled his cheek. "then lead on down it." winston stretched forth his unused left hand as they proceeded, his fingers gliding along the wall, his observant eyes wandering slightly from off the broad back of his prisoner toward the sides and roof of the tunnel. to his experience it was at once plainly evident this preliminary cutting had been made through solid rock, not in the following of any seam, but crossways. here alone was disclosed evidence in plenty of deliberate purpose, of skilfully planned depredation. he halted burke, with one hand gripping his shoulder. "are you people following an ore-lead back yonder?" he asked sharply. the irishman squirmed, glancing back at his questioner. he saw nothing in that face to yield any encouragement to deceit. "sure," he returned gruffly, "we're follyin' it all down that number wan." "what 's the nature of the ore body?" "a bit low grade, wid a thrifle of copper, an' the vein is n't overly tick." "how far have you had to cut across here before striking color?" "'bout thirty fate o' rock work." "hike on, you thief," commanded the engineer, his jaw setting threateningly. it proved a decidedly crooked passage, the top uneven in height, clearly indicating numerous faults in the vein, although none of these were sufficiently serious to necessitate the solution of any difficult mining problem. in spite of the turns the general direction could be ascertained easily. the walls were apparently of some soft stone, somewhat disintegrated by the introduction of air, and the engineer quickly comprehended that pick and lever alone had been required to dislodge the interlying vein of ore. at the extreme end of this tunnel the pile of broken rock lying scattered about clearly proclaimed recent labor, although no discarded mining tools were visible. winston examined the exposed ore-vein, now clearly revealed by burke's flickering lamp, and dropped a few detached specimens into his pocket. then he sat down on an outcropping stone, the revolver still gleaming within his fingers, and ordered the sullen foreman to a similar seat opposite. the yellow rays of the light sparkled brilliantly from off the outcropping mass, and flung its radiance across the faces of the two men. for a moment the silence was so intense they could hear water drip somewhere afar off. "burke," asked the engineer suddenly, "how long have you fellows been in here?" the uneasy irishman shifted his quid, apparently considering whether to speak the truth or take the chances of a lie. something within winston's face must have decided him against the suggested falsehood. "well, sorr, oi 've only been boss over this gang for a matter o' three months," he said slowly, "an' they was well into this vein be then." "how deep are we down?" "between sixty an' siventy fate, countin' it at the shaft." "and this tunnel--how long do you make it?" "wan hundred an' forty-six fate, from the rock yonder." winston's gray eyes, grave with thought, were upon the man's face, but the other kept his own concealed, lowered to the rock floor. "who laid out this work, do you know? who did the engineering?" "oi think ut was the ould man hisself. annyhow, that 's how thim swades tell ut." winston drew a deep breath. "well, he knew his business, all right; it's a neat job," he admitted, a sudden note of admiration in his voice. his glance wandered toward the dull sparkle of the exposed ore. "i suppose you know who all this rightly belongs to, don 't you, burke?" the foreman spat reflectively into the dark, a grim smile bristling his red moustache. "well, sorr, oi 'm not mooch given up to thinkin'," he replied calmly. "if it's them ide's yer afther, maybe it wud be farnham ye'd betther interview, sure, an he 's the lad whut 'tinds to that end o' it for this outfit. oi 'm jist bossin' me gang durin' workin' hours, an' slapin' the rist o' the toime in the bunk-house. oi 'm dommed if oi care who owns the rock." the two men sat in silence. burke indifferently chewing on his quid. winston shifted the revolver into his left hand, and began slowly tracing lines, and marking distances, on the back of an old envelope. the motionless foreman steadily watched him through cautiously lowered lashes, holding the lamp in his hat perfectly steady. slowly, with no other muscle moving, both his hands stole upward along his body; inch by inch attaining to a higher position without awakening suspicion. his half-concealed eyes, as watchful as those of a cat, gleamed feverishly beneath his hat-brim, never deserting winston's partially lowered face. then suddenly his two palms came together, the sputtering flame of the lamp between them. chapter xvi a return to the day burke knew better than to attempt running; three steps in the midst of such blinding darkness would have dashed him against unyielding rock. instantly, his teeth gripped like those of a bulldog, he clutched at winston's throat, trusting to his great strength for victory. instinctively, as one without knowing why closes the eyes to avoid injury, the engineer dodged sideways, burke's gripping fingers missed their chosen mark, and the two men went crashing down together in desperate struggle. his revolver knocked from his grasp in the first impetus of assault, his cheek bleeding from forcible contact with a rock edge, winston fought in silent ferocity, one hand holding back the irishman's searching fingers, the other firmly twisting itself into the soft collar of his antagonist's shirt. twice burke struck out heavily, driving his clinched fist into the other's body, unable to reach the protected face; then winston succeeded in getting one groping foot braced firmly against a surface of rock, and whirled the surprised miner over upon his back with a degree of violence that caused his breath to burst forth in a great sob. a desperate struggle ensued, mad and merciless--arms gripping, bodies straining, feet rasping along the loose stones, muttered curses, the dull impact of blows. neither could see the other, neither could feel assured his antagonist possessed no weapon; yet both fought furiously,--burke enraged and merciless, winston intoxicated with the lust of fight. twice they reversed positions, the quickness of the one fairly offsetting the burly strength of the other, their sinews straining, the hot breath hissing between set teeth. pain was unfelt, mercy unknown. in the midst of the blind _mêlée_, following some savage instinct, winston clinched his fingers desperately in the irishman's hair, and began jamming him back against the irregularities of the rock floor. suddenly burke went limp, and the engineer, panting painfully, lay outstretched upon him, his whole body quivering, barely conscious that he had gained the victory. the miner did not move, apparently he had ceased breathing, and winston, shrinking away from contact with the motionless body, grasped a rock support and hauled himself to his feet. the intense blackness all about dazed him; he retained no sense of direction, scarcely any memory of where he was. his body, bruised and strained, pained him severely; his head throbbed as from fever. little by little the exhausted breath came back, and with it a slow realization of his situation. had he killed burke? he stared down toward the spot where he knew the body lay, but could perceive nothing. the mystery of the dark suddenly unnerved him; he could feel his hands tremble violently as he groped cautiously along the smooth surface of the rock. he experienced a shrinking, nervous dread of coming into contact with that man lying there beneath the black mantle, that hideous, silent form, perhaps done to death by his hands. it was a revolt of the soul. a moment he actually thought he was losing his mind, feverish fancies playing grim tricks before his strained, agonized vision, imagination peopling the black void with a riot of grotesque figures. he gripped himself slowly and sternly, his jaws set, his tingling nerves mastered by the resolute dominance of an aroused will. compelling himself to the act, he bent down, feeling along the ground for the foreman's hat having the extinguished lamp fixed on it. he was a long time discovering his object, yet the continued effort brought back a large measure of self-control, and gave birth to a certain clearness of perception. he held the recovered lamp in his hands, leaning against the side of the tunnel, listening. the very intensity of silence seemed to press against him from every direction as though it had weight. he was still breathing heavily, but his strained ears could not distinguish the slightest sound where he knew burke lay shrouded in the darkness. nothing reached him to break the dread, horrible silence, excepting that far-off, lonely trickle of dripping water. he hesitated, match in hand, shrinking childishly from the coming revealment of his victim. yet why should he? fierce as the struggle had proved, on his part the fight had been entirely one of defence. he had been attacked, and had fought back only in self-preservation. winston harbored no animosity; the fierceness of actual combat past, he dreaded now beyond expression the thought that through his savagery a human life might have been sacrificed. the tiny flame of the ignited match played across his white face, caught the wick of the lamp, and flared up in faint radiance through the gloom. burke, huddled into the rock shadow, never stirred, and the anxious engineer bent over his motionless form in a horrid agony of fear. the man rested partially upon one side, his hands still gripped as in struggle, an ugly wound, made by a jagged edge of rock, showing plainly in the side of his head. blood had flowed freely, crimsoning the stone beneath, but was already congealing amid the thick mass of hair, serving somewhat to conceal the nature of the injury. winston, his head lowered upon the other's breast, felt confident he detected breath, even a slight, spasmodic twitching of muscles, and hastily arose to his feet, his mind already aflame with expedients. the foreman yet lived; perhaps would not prove even seriously injured, if assistance only reached him promptly. yet what could he do? what ought he to attempt doing? in his present physical condition winston realized the utter impossibility of transporting that burly body; water, indeed, might serve to revive him, yet that faint trickle of falling drops probably came from some distant fault in the rock which would require much patient search to locate. the engineer had assumed grave chances in this venture underground; in this moment of victory he felt little inclination to surrender his information, or to sacrifice himself in any quixotic devotion to his assailant. yet he must give the fellow a fair chance. there seemed only one course practicable, the despatching to the helpless man's assistance of some among that gang of workmen down in number one. but could this be accomplished without danger of his own discovery? without any immediate revealment of his part in the tragedy? first of all, he must make sure regarding his own safety; he must reach the surface before the truth became known. almost mechanically he picked up his revolver where it lay glittering upon the floor, and stood staring at that recumbent form, slowly maturing a plan of action. little by little it assumed shape within his mind. swanson was the name of the missing miner, the one burke had gone back to seek,--a swede beyond doubt, and, from what slight glimpse he had of the fellow before brown grappled with him in the path above, a sturdily built fellow, awkwardly galled. in all probability such a person would have a deep voice, gruff from the dampness of long working hours below. well, he might not succeed in duplicating that exactly, but he could imitate swedish dialect, and, amid the excitement and darkness, trust to luck. let us see; burke had surely called one of those miners yonder ole, another peterson; it would probably help in throwing the fellows off their guard to hear their own names spoken, and they most naturally would expect swanson to be with the foreman. it appeared feasible enough, and assuredly was the only plan possible; it must be risked, the earlier the better. the thought never once occurred to him of thus doing injury to a perfectly innocent man. he looked once more anxiously at the limp figure of the prostrate burke, and then, holding the lamp out before him, moved cautiously down the passage toward the main tunnel. partially concealing himself amid the denser shadows behind the displaced falsework, he was enabled to look safely down the opening of number one, and could perceive numerous dark figures moving about under flickering rays of light, while his ears distinguished a sound of voices between the strokes of the picks. he crept still closer, shadowing his lamp between his hands, and crouching uneasily in the shadows. the group of men nearest him were undoubtedly swedes, as they were conversing in that language, working with much deliberation in the absence of the boss. winston rose up, his shadow becoming plainly visible on the rock wall, one hand held before his mouth to better muffle the sound of his voice. the hollow echoing along those underground caverns tended to make all noise unrecognizable. "yust two of you fellars bettar come by me, an' gif a leeft," he ventured, doubtfully. those nearer faces down the tunnel were turned toward the voice in sudden, bewildered surprise, the lights flickering as the heads uplifted. "vas it you, nels swanson?" "yas, i tank so; i yust want peterson an' ole. meester burke vas got hurt in the new level, an' i couldn't leeft him alone." he saw the two start promptly, dropping their picks, their heavy boots crunching along the floor, the flapping hat-brims hiding their eyes and shadowing their faces. for a moment he lingered beside the falsework, permitting the light from his lamp to flicker before them as a beacon; then he hid the tiny flame within his cap, and ran swiftly down the main tunnel. confident now of burke's early rescue, he must grasp this opportunity for an immediate escape from the mine. a hundred feet from the foot of the shaft he suddenly came upon the advancing tram-car, a diminutive mule pulling lazily in the rope traces, the humping figure of a boy hanging on behind. the two gazed at each other through the smoke of a sputtering wick. "hurry up," spoke winston, sharply. "burke's hurt, and they'll need your car to carry him out in. what's the signal for the cage?" the boy stood silent, his mouth wide open, staring at him stupidly. "do you hear, you lunk-head? i 'm after a doctor; how do you signal the cage?" "twa yanks on the cord, meester," was the grudging reply. "wha was ye, onyhow?" but winston, unheeding the question, was already off, his only thought the necessity of immediately attaining the surface in safety, ahead of the spreading of an alarm. the cage shot speedily upward through the intense darkness, past the deserted forty-foot gallery, and emerged into the gray light of dawn flooding the shafthouse. blinking from those long hours passed in the darkness below, winston distinguished dimly a number of strange figures grouped before him. an instant he paused in uncertainty, his hand shading his eyes; then, as he stepped almost blindly forward he came suddenly face to face with biff farnham. a second their glances met, both alike startled, bewildered, doubtful--then the jaw of the gambler set firm, his hand dropped like lightning toward his hip, and winston, every ounce of strength thrown into the swift blow, struck him squarely between the eyes. the man went over as though shot, yet before he even hit the floor, the other had leaped across the reeling body, and dashed, stumbling and falling, down the steep slope of the dump-pile, crashing head first into the thick underbrush below. chapter xvii a council of war in the magic of a moment a dozen angry men were pouring from the shaft-house, their guns barking viciously between their curses. beyond, at the edge of their dark cover, hicks and brown rose eagerly to their knees, while their ready rifles spat swift return fire, not all of it wasted. but winston had vanished in the green underbrush as completely as though he had dropped into the sea. when he finally emerged it was behind the protecting chaparral, his clothing rags, his breathing the sobs of utter exhaustion. brown, the spell of battle upon him, never glanced aside, his eyes along the brown rifle-barrel; but hicks sprang enthusiastically to his feet, uttering a growl of hearty welcome. "damn it," he exclaimed, his old eyes twinkling with admiration, "but you 're a man!" the engineer smiled, his hand pressed hard against his side. "maybe i am," he gasped, "but i 'm mighty near all in just now. say, that was a lively spin, and it's got to be an eat and a rest for me next." hicks shaded his forehead, leaning on his rifle. "sometimes i reckon maybe i don't see quite as good as i used to," he explained regretfully. "put five shots inter that measly bunch over thar just now, an' never saw even one o' 'em hop 'round like they got stung. they look sorter misty-like ter me from here; say, stutter, what is a-happenin' over thar now, anyway?" brown wiped his face deliberately, sputtering fiercely as he strove to get firm grip on his slow thought. "a-a-ain't much o' n-nuthing, so f-f-fur's i kin s-see," he replied gravely. "c-couple o' fellars w-with g-guns h-h-hidin' back o' ther d-dump. c-c-carried two b-bucks 'hind ther sh-shaft-house; h-h-hurt some, i 'speck. r-reckon i must a' g-got both on 'em. y-y-you shore ought t-ter wear t-t-telescopes, bill." hicks stared at his partner, his gray goat-beard sticking straight out, his teeth showing. "so yer got 'em, hey?" he retorted, savagely. "oh, ye 're chain-lightnin', yer are, stutter. ye 're the 'riginal doctor carver, yer long-legged, sputtering lunk-head. yer crow like a rooster thet 's just found its voice. now, look yere; i reckon it's brain-work what's got ter git us out o' this yere hole, an' i 'll shore have ter furnish most o' that, fer yer ain 't got none ter spare, as ever i noticed. shoot! hell, yes, yer kin shoot all right, an' make love ter greasers; but when thet's over with, yer all in. that's when it's up ter old bill hicks ter do the thinkin' act, and make good. lord! yer leave me plumb tired." the old man peered out across the vacant space toward the apparently deserted dump, the anger slowly fading away from his eyes. "i sorter imagine, gents, it will take them fellers a while ter git over ther sudden shock we 've given 'em," he continued. "maybe we better take this yere rest spell ter git somethin' ter eat in, and talk over how we 're fixed fer when the curtain goes up again. them fellers never won't be happy till after they git another dose into their systems, an' thar 's liable ter be some considerable lead eat afore night. when they does git braced up, an' they reckon up all this yere means, they 'll shore be an ugly bunch." behind the safe protection of the low-growing cedars the three men walked slowly toward the cabin of the "little yankee," seemingly utterly oblivious to any danger lurking behind. as they thus advanced winston related briefly his discoveries in the lower levels of the "independence," referring to his personal adventures merely as the needs of the simple narrative required. brown, his rifle at trail, his boyish face sober with thought, indulged in no outward comment, but hicks burst forth with words of fervent commendation. "by cracky, are yer shore that was farnham yer hit?" he exclaimed, his old eyes gleaming in appreciation. "blame me, stutter, what do yer think o' that? punched him afore he cud even pull his gun; never heerd o' no sich miracle afore in this yere camp. why, lord, that fellar 's quicker 'n chain-lightnin'; i 've seen him onlimber more 'n once." "i-i reckon h-h-he won't be v-very likely ter l-let up on yer now, m-m-mister w-winston," put in the young giant cautiously. "h-he ain't ther kind t-ter fergit no sich d-d-deal." "him let up!--hell!" and hicks stopped suddenly, and stared behind. "he 'll never let up on nothin', that fellar. he 'll be down after us all right, as soon as he gits his second wind, an' winston here is a-goin' ter git plugged for this night's shindy, if farnham ever fair gits the drop on him. he ain't got no more mercy 'n a tiger. yer kin gamble on that, boys. he 'll git ther whole parcel o' us if he kin, 'cause he knows now his little game is up if he does n't; but he 'll aim ter git winston, anyhow. did ye make any tracin's while yer was down thar?" "yes, i've got the plans in detail; my distances may not be exactly correct, but they are approximately, and i would be willing to go on the stand with them." "good boy! that means we 've shore got 'em on the hip. they're a-keepin' quiet over there yet, ain't they, stutter? well, let 's have our chuck out yere in the open, whar' we kin keep our eyes peeled, an' while we 're eatin' we 'll talk over what we better do next." the kitchen of the "little yankee" was situated out of doors, a small rift in the face of the bluff forming a natural fireplace, while a narrow crevice between rocks acted as chimney, and carried away the smoke. the preparation of an ordinary meal under such primitive conditions was speedily accomplished, the menu not being elaborate nor the service luxurious. winston barely found time in which to wash the grime from his hands and face, and hastily shift out of his ragged working clothes to the suit originally worn, when hicks announced the spread ready, and advised a lively falling to. the dining-room was a large, flat stone on the very edge of the bluff, sufficiently elevated to command a practically unobstructed view of the distant shaft-house of the "independence." hicks brought from the cabin an extra rifle, with belt filled with ammunition, which he gravely held out to the engineer. "these yere fixings will come in handy pretty soon, i reckon," he remarked significantly, and stood quietly on the edge of the rock, holding a powerful field-glass to his eyes. "they 've brought ther night-shift up ter the top," he commented finally, "an they 're 'rousin' them others outer ther bunk-house. hell 'll be piping hot presently. 'bout half them fellers are a-totin' guns, too. ah, i thought so--thar goes a lad horseback, hell-bent-fer-'lection down the trail, huntin' after more roughs, i reckon. well, ther more ther merrier, as ther ol' cat said when she counted her kittens. darned ef they ain't got a reg'lar skirmish line thrown out 'long ther gulch yonder. yer bet they mean business for shore, stutter, ol' boy." brown, deliberately engaged in pouring the coffee, contented himself with a slight grunt, and a quick glance in the direction indicated. hicks slowly closed his glasses, and seated himself comfortably on the edge of the rock. winston, already eating, but decidedly anxious, glanced at the two emotionless faces with curiosity. "the situation does n't seem to worry either of you very much," he said at last. "if you really expect an attack from those fellows over there, is n't it about time we were arranging for some defence?" hicks looked over at him across the rim of his tin cup. "defence? hell! here 's our defence--four o' us, countin' mike." "where is mike?" "oh, out yonder in ther back yard amusin' that swede stutter yere brought in ter him fer a playthin'. them foreigners seem ter all be gittin' mighty chummy o' late. stutter yere is a-takin' up with greasers, an' mike with swedes. i reckon i 'll have ter be lookin' round fer an injun, er else play a lone hand purty soon." brown, his freckled face hotly flushed, his eyes grown hard, struck the rock with clinched hand. "d-d-damn you, b-bill," he stuttered desperately, his great chest heaving. "i-i 've had jist 'nough o' th-th-thet sorter talk. yer s-s-spit out 'nuther word 'bout her, an' th-th-thar 'll be somethin' e-else a-doin'." old hicks laughed, his gray goat-beard waggling, yet it was clearly evident he appreciated the temper of his partner, and realized the limit of patience. "oh, i 'll pass," he confessed genially. "lord! i hed a touch o' that same disease oncet myself. but thar ain't no sense in yer fightin' me, stutter; i bet yer git practice 'nough arter awhile, 'less them thar black eyes o' hern be mighty deceivin'. but that thar may keep. jist now we 've got a few other p'ints ter consider. you was askin' about our defence, mr. winston, when this yere love-sick kid butted in?" "yes." "well, it 's ther lay o' ther ground, an' four good rifles. thet 's ther whole o' it; them fellers over yonder can't get in, an' i 'm damned if we kin git out. whichever party gits tired first is the one what's goin' ter git licked." "i scarcely understand, hicks; do you mean you propose standing a siege?" "don't clearly perceive nothin' else ter do," and the man's half-closed eyes glanced about questioningly. "we ain't strong enough to assault; farnham 's got more 'n five men ter our one over thar right now. he 's sent a rider inter san juan arter another bunch o' beauties. we've corralled the evidence, an' we've got ther law back o' us, ter send him ter the penitentiary. shore, thar's no doubt o' it. he knows it; an' he knows, moreover, thar ain't no way out fer him except ter plant us afore we kin ever git inter ther courts. thet's his game jist now. do yer think mr. biff farnham under them circumstances is liable ter do the baby act? not ter no great extent, let me tell yer. he ain't built thet way. besides, he hates me like pizen; i reckon by this time he don't harbor no great love for you; an' yer bet he means ter git us afore we kin squeal, if he has ter h'ist the whole damned mounting. anyhow, that's how it looks ter me an' stutter yere. what was it you was goin' ter advise, mr. winston?" the engineer set down his tin coffee cup. "the immediate despatching of a messenger to san juan, the swearing out of a warrant for farnham on a criminal charge, and getting the sheriff up here with a posse." hicks smiled grimly, his glance wandering over toward stutter, who sat staring open-eyed at the engineer. "ye're a young man, sir, an' i rather reckon yer don't precisely onderstan' ther exact status o' things out yere in echo canyon," he admitted, gravely. "i'm law-abidin', an' all that; law's all right in its place, an' whar it kin be enforced, but echo canyon ain't denver, an' out yere ther rifle, an' occasionally a chunk o' dynamite, hes got ter be considered afore ther courts git any chance ter look over ther evidence. it's ginerally lead first, an' lawyers later. thet 's what makes the game interestin', an' gives sich chaps as farnham a run fer their money. well, just now we 've got the law an' ther evidence with us all right, but, damn ther luck, them other fellers hes got the rifles. it 's his play first, an' it sorter looks ter me as if the man knew how ter handle his cards. he ain't no bluffer, either. just take a squint through them glasses down the trail, an' tell me what yer see." winston did so, rising to his feet, standing at the edge of the rock fairly overhanging the valley. "wal, do yer make out anythin' in partic'lar?" "there is a small party of men clustered near the big boulder." "exactly; wal, them thar fellars ain't thar altergether fer ther health. thar 's three more o' ther same kind a'squattin' in the bushes whar the path branches toward ther 'independence,' an' another bunch lower down 'side ther crick. it's easy 'nough ter talk about law, an' ther sendin' o' a messenger down ter san juan after the sheriff, but i 'd hate some ter be that messenger. he 'd have some considerable excitement afore he got thar. farnham 's a dirty villain, all right, but he ain't no fool. he's got us bottled up yere, and ther cork druv in." "you mean we are helpless?" "wal, not precisely; not while our grub and ammunition holds out. i merely intimate thet this yere difficulty hes naturally got ter be thrashed out with guns--good, honest fightin'--afore any courts will git a chance even ter sit inter ther game. we ain't got no time jist now ter fool with lawyers. clubs is trumps this deal in echo canyon, an' we 're goin' ter play a lone hand. ther one thing what's botherin' me is, how soon ther damned fracas is goin' ter begin. i reckon as how them fellers is only waitin' fer reinforcements." winston sat motionless, looking at the two men, his mind rapidly grasping the salient points of the situation. he was thoroughly puzzled at their apparent indifference to its seriousness. he was unused to this arbitrament of the rifle, and the odds against them seemed heavy. old hicks easily comprehended the expression upon his face, and solemnly stroked his goat-beard. "ain't used ter that sort o' thing, hey?" he asked at last, his obstinate old eyes contracting into mere slits. "reckon we're in a sort o' pickle, don't ye? wal, i don't know 'bout that. yer see, me an' stutter have bin sort o' lookin' fer somethin' like this ter occur fer a long time, an' we 've consequently got it figgered out ter a purty fine p'int. when farnham an' his crowd come moseying up yere, they ain't goin' ter have it all their own way, let me tell yer, pardner. do yer see that straight face o' rock over yonder?" he rose to his feet, pointing across his shoulder. "wal, that 's got a front o' thirty feet, an' slopes back 'bout as fur, with a shelf hangin' over it like a roof. best nat'ral fort ever i see, an' only one way o' gittin' inter it, an' that the devil o' a crooked climb. wal, we 've stocked that place fer a siege with chuck an' ammunition, an' i reckon four men kin 'bout hold it agin the whole county till hell freezes over. it's in easy rifle shot o' both ther cabin an' ther shaft, an' that biff farnham is mighty liable ter git another shock when he comes traipsin' up yere fer ter wipe out ther 'little yankee.' ol' bill hicks ain't bin prospectin' fer thirty years, an' holdin' down claims with a gun, without learnin' somethin' about ther business. i 'm ready to buck this yere farnham at any game he wants ter play; damned if he can't take his chice, law er rifles, an' i 'll give him a bellyful either way." no one spoke for a long while, the three men apparently occupied with their own thoughts. to winston it was a tragedy, picturesque, heroic, the wild mountain setting furnishing a strange dignity. brown finally cleared his throat, preparing to speak, his great hand slowly rubbing his chin. "i-i sorter w-w-wish them w-wimmen wan't y-yere," he stuttered, doubtfully. the engineer glanced up in sudden astonishment. "women!" he exclaimed. "do you mean to say you have women with you?" hicks chuckled behind his beard. "shore we have thet--all ther comforts o' home. nice place fer a picnic, ain't it? but i reckon as how them gals will have ter take pot-luck with the rest o' us. leastways, i don't see no chance now ter get shuck o' 'em. i 'll tell ye how it happened, mr. winston; it 'd take stutter, yere, too blame long ter relate ther story, only i hope he won't fly off an' git mad if i chance ter make mention o' his gal 'long with the other. he 's gittin' most damn touchy, is stutter, an' i 'm all a-tremble fer fear he 'll blow a hole cl'ar through me. it's hell, love is, whin it gits a good hol' on a damn fool. wal, these yere two bloomin' females came cavortin' up the trail this mornin', just afore daylight. nobody sent 'em no invite, but they sorter conceived they had a mission in ther wilderness. i wa'nt nowise favorable ter organizin' a reception committee, an' voted fer shovin' 'em back downhill, bein' a bit skeery o' that sex, but it seems that, all unbeknownst ter me, stutter, yere, hed bin gittin' broke ter harness. an' what did he do but come prancin' inter the argument with a gun, cussin' an' swearin', and insistin' they be received yere as honored guests. oh, he 's got it bad. he 'll likely 'nough go down ter san juan soon as ever ther road is cl'ar, an' buy one o' them motters 'god bless our home' ter hang on ther cabin wall, an' a door-mat with 'welcome' on it. that's stutter--gone cl'ar bug-house jist 'cause a little black-haired, slim sort o' female made eyes at him. blame a fool, anyhow. wal, one o' them two was stutter's catch, a high-kickin' mexican dancin' gal down ter san juan. i ain't goin' ter tell yer what i think o' her fer fear o' gittin' perforated. she hed 'long with her another performer, a darn good-looker, too, as near as i could make out in the dark. wal, them two gals was purtendin' ter be huntin' arter you; wanted ter warn yer agin farnham, er some sich rot. you was down ther mine, jist then, so that's the whole o' it up ter date." "where are they now?" "in the cabin yonder, sleepin' i reckon." winston turned hastily toward brown, his lips quivering, his eyes grown stern. "who was it with mercedes?" he questioned sharply. "did you learn her name?" "sh-she told me d-d-down at san juan," replied stutter, striving hard to recollect. "it w-w-was n-n-nor-vell." with the utterance of the word the young engineer was striding rapidly toward the cabin. chapter xviii the confession through the single unglazed window beth norvell saw him coming, and clutched at the casing, trembling violently, half inclined to turn and fly. this was the moment she had so greatly dreaded, yet the moment she could not avoid unless she failed to do her duty to this man. in another instant the battle had been fought and won, the die cast. she turned hastily toward her unconscious companion, grasping her arm. "mr. winston is coming, mercedes; i--i must see him this time alone." the mexican's great black eyes flashed up wonderingly into the flushed face bending over her, marking the heightened color, the visible embarrassment. she sprang erect, her quick glance through the window revealing the figure of the engineer striding swiftly toward them. "oh, si, señorita; dat iss all right. i go see mike; he more fun as dose vat make lofe." there was a flutter of skirts and sudden vanishment, even as miss norvell's ears caught the sound of a low rap on the outer door. she stood breathing heavily, her hands clasped upon her breast, until the knock had been repeated twice. her voice utterly failing her, she pressed the latch, stepping backward to permit his entrance. the first swift, inquiring glance into his face frightened her into an impulsive explanation. "i was afraid i arrived here too late to be of any service. it seems, however, you did not even need me." he grasped the hand which, half unconsciously, she had extended toward him; he was startled by its unresponsive coldness, striving vainly to perceive the truth hidden away beneath her lowered lids. "i fear i do not altogether understand," he returned gravely. "they merely said that you were here with a message of warning for me. i knew that much only a moment ago. i cannot even guess the purport of your message, yet i thank you for a very real sacrifice for my sake." "oh, no; truly it was nothing," the excitement bewildering her. "it was no more than i would have done for any friend; no one could have done less." "you, at least, confess friendship?" "have i ever denied it?" almost indignantly, and looking directly at him for the first time. "whatever else i may seem, i can certainly claim loyalty to those who trust me. i wear no mask off the stage." even as she spoke the hasty words she seemed to realize their full import, to read his doubt of their truth revealed within his eyes. "then," he said slowly, weighing each word as though life depended on the proper choice, "there is nothing being concealed from me? nothing between you and this farnham beyond what i already know?" she stood clinging to the door, with colorless cheeks, and parted lips, her form quivering. this was when she had intended to speak in all bravery, to pour forth the whole miserable story, trusting to this man for mercy. but, o god, she could not; the words choked in her throat, the very breath seemed to strangle her. "that--that is something different," she managed to gasp desperately. "it--it belongs to the past; it cannot be helped now." "yet you came here to warn me against him?" "yes." "how did you chance to learn that my life was threatened?" she uplifted her eyes to his for just one instant, her face like marble. "he told me." "what? farnham himself? you have been with him?" she bowed, a half-stifled sob shaking her body, which at any other time would have caused him to pause in sympathy. now it was merely a new spur to his awakened suspicion. he had no thought of sparing her. "where? did he call upon you at the hotel?" she threw back her shoulders in indignation at his tone of censure. "i met him, after the performance, in a private box at the gayety, last evening," she replied more calmly. "he sent for me, and i was alone with him for half an hour." winston stood motionless, almost breathless, looking directly into the girl's face. he durst not speak the words of rebuke trembling upon his lips. he felt that the slightest mistake now would never be forgiven. there was a mystery here unsolved; in some way he failed to understand her, to appreciate her motives. in the brief pause beth norvell came back to partial self-control, to a realization of what this man must think of her. with a gesture almost pleading she softly touched his sleeve. "mr. winston, i truly wish you to believe me, to believe in me," she began, her low voice vibrating with emotion. "god alone knows how deeply i appreciate your friendship, how greatly i desire to retain it unsullied. perhaps i have not done right; it is not always easy, perhaps not always possible. i may have been mistaken in my conception of duty, yet have tried to do what seemed best. there is that in the pages of my past life which i intended to tell you fully and frankly before our final parting. i thought when i came here i had sufficient courage to relate it to you to-day, but i cannot--i cannot." "at least answer me one question without equivocation--do you love that man?" he must ask that, know that; all else could wait. an instant she stood before him motionless, a slight color creeping back into her cheeks under his intense scrutiny. then she uplifted her eyes frankly to his own, and he looked down into their revealed depth. "i do not," the low voice hard with decision. "i despise him." "have you ever loved him?" "as god is my witness--no." there was no possible disbelieving her; the absolute truthfulness of that utterance was evidenced by trembling lips, by the upturned face. winston drew a deep breath of relief, his contracted brows straightening. for one hesitating moment he remained speechless, struggling for self-control. merciful heavens! would he ever understand this woman? would he ever fathom her full nature? ever rend the false from the true? the deepening, baffling mystery served merely to stimulate ambition, to strengthen his unwavering purpose. he possessed the instinct that assured him she cared; it was for his sake that she had braved the night and farnham's displeasure. what, then, was it that was holding them apart? what was the nature of this barrier beyond all surmounting? the man in him rebelled at having so spectral an adversary; he longed to fight it out in the open, to grapple with flesh and blood. in spite of promise, his heart found words of protest. "beth, please tell me what all this means," he pleaded simply, his hands outstretched toward her. "tell me, because i love you; tell me, because i desire to help you. it is true we have not known each other long; yet, surely, the time and opportunity have been sufficient for each to learn much regarding the character of the other. you trust me, you believe in my word; down in the secret depths of your heart you are beginning to love me. i believe that, little girl; i believe that, even while your lips deny its truth. it is the instinct of love which teaches me, for i love you. i may not know your name, the story of your life, who or what you are, but i love you, beth norvell, with the life-love of a man. what is it, then, between us? what is it? god help me! i could battle against realities, but not against ghosts. do you suppose i cannot forgive, cannot excuse, cannot blot out a past mistake? do you imagine my love so poor a thing as that? do not wrong me so. i am a man of the world, and comprehend fully those temptations which come to all of us. i can let the dead past bury its dead, satisfied with the present and the future. only tell me the truth, the naked truth, and let me combat in the open against whatever it is that stands between us. beth, beth, this is life or death to me!" she stood staring at him, her face gone haggard, her eyes full of misery. suddenly she sank upon her knees beside a chair, and, with a moan, buried her countenance within her hands. "beth," he asked, daring to touch her trembling hair, "have i hurt you? have i done wrong to speak thus?" a single sob shook the slender, bowed figure, the face still hidden. "yes," she whispered faintly, "you have hurt me; you have done wrong." "but why?" he insisted. "is not my love worthy?" she lifted her head then, resting one hand against the dishevelled hair, her eyes misty from tears. "worthy? o god, yes! but so useless; so utterly without power." winston strode to the window and back again, his hands clenched, the veins showing across his forehead. suddenly he dropped upon his knees beside her, clasping her one disengaged hand within both his own. "beth, i refuse to believe," he exclaimed firmly. "love is never useless, never without power, either in this world or the next. tell me, then, once for all, here before god, do you love me?" she swept the clinging tears from her lashes, the soft clasp of her fingers upon his hand unconsciously tightening. "you may read an answer within my face," she replied, slowly. "it must be that my eyes tell the truth, although i cannot speak it with my lips." "cannot? in god's name, why?" she choked, yet the voice did not wholly fail her. "because i have no right. i--i am the wife of another." the head drooped lower, the hair shadowing the face, and winston, his lips set and white, stared at her, scarcely comprehending. a moment later he sprang to his feet, one hand pressed across his eyes, slowly grasping the full measure of her confession. "the wife of another!" he burst forth, his voice shaking. "great god! you? what other? farnham?" the bowed head sank yet lower, as though in mute answer, and his ears caught the echo of a single muffled sob. suddenly she glanced up at him, and then rose unsteadily to her feet clinging to the back of the chair for support. "mr. winston," her voice strengthening with each word spoken, "it hurts me to realize that you feel so deeply. i--i wish i might bear the burden of this mistake all alone. but i cannot stand your contempt, or have you believe me wholly heartless, altogether unworthy. we--we must part, now and forever; there is no other honorable way. i tried so hard to compel you to leave me before; i accepted that engagement at the gayety, trusting such an act would disgust you with me. i am not to blame for this; truly, i am not--no woman could have fought against fate more faithfully; only--only i couldn't find sufficient courage to confess to you the whole truth. perhaps i might have done so at first; but it was too late before i learned the necessity, and then my heart failed me. there was another reason i need not mention now, why i hesitated, why such a course became doubly hard. but i am going to tell you it all now, for--for i wish you to go away at least respecting my womanhood." he made no reply, no comment, and the girl dropped her questioning eyes to the floor. "you asked me if i had ever loved him," she continued, speaking more slowly, "and i told you no. that was the truth as i realize it now, although there was a time when the man fascinated, bewildered me, as i imagine the snake fascinates a bird. i have learned since something of what love truly is, and can comprehend that my earlier feeling toward him was counterfeit, a mere bit of dross. be patient, please, while i tell you how it all happened. it--it is a hard task, yet, perhaps, you may think better of me from a knowledge of the whole truth. i am a chicago girl. there are reasons why i shall not mention my family name, and it is unnecessary; but my parents are wealthy and of good position. all my earlier education was acquired through private tutors; so that beyond my little, narrow circle of a world--fashionable and restricted--all of real life remained unknown, unexplored, until the necessity for a wider development caused my being sent to a well-known boarding-school for girls in the east. i think now the choice made was unfortunate. the school being situated close to a large city, and the discipline extremely lax, temptation which i was not in any way fitted to resist surrounded me from the day of entrance. in a fashionable drawing-room, in the home of my mother's friends, i first became acquainted with mr. farnham." she paused with the mention of his name, as though its utterance pained her, yet almost immediately resumed her story, not even glancing up at her listener. "i was at an age to be easily flattered by the admiration of a man of mature years. he was considerably older than i, always well dressed, versed in social forms, liberal with money, exhibiting a certain dashing recklessness which proved most attractive to all the girls i knew. indeed, i think it was largely because of their envy that i was first led to accept his attentions. however, i was very young, utterly inexperienced, while he was thoroughly versed in every trick by which to interest one of my nature. he claimed to be a successful dramatist and author, thus adding materially to my conception of his character and capability. little by little the man succeeded in weaving about me the web of his fascination, until i was ready for any sacrifice he might propose. naturally ardent, easily impressed by outward appearances, assured as to my own and his social position, ignorant of the wiles of the world, i was an easy victim. somewhere he had formed the acquaintance of my brother, which fact merely increased my confidence in him. i need not dwell in detail upon what followed--the advice of romantic girls, the false counsel of a favorite teacher, the specious lies and explanations accounting for the necessity for secrecy, the fervent pleadings, the protestations, the continual urging, that finally conquered my earlier resolves. i yielded before the strain, the awakened imagination of a girl of sixteen seeing nothing in the rose-tinted future except happiness. we were married in christ church, boston, two of my classmates witnessing the ceremony. three months later i awoke fully from dreaming, and faced the darkness." she leaned against the wall, her face, half hidden, pressed against her arm. speaking no word of interruption, winston clasped her hand and waited, his gray eyes moist. "he was a professional gambler, a brute, a cruel, cold-blooded coward," the words dropping from her lips as though they burned in utterance. "only at the very first did he make any effort to disguise his nature, or conceal the object of his marriage. he endeavored to wring money from my people, and--and struck me when i refused him aid. he failed because i blocked him; tried blackmail and failed again, although i saved him from exposure. if he had ever cared for me, by this time his love had changed to dislike or indifference. he left me for weeks at a time, often alone and in poverty. my father sought in vain to get me away from him, but--but i was too proud to confess the truth. i should have been welcome at home, without him; but i refused to go. i had made my own choice, had committed the mistake, had done the wrong; i could not bring myself to flee from the result. i burrowed in the slums where he took me, hiding from all who sought me out. yet i lived in an earthly hell, my dream of love dispelled, the despair of life constantly deepening. i no longer cared for the man--i despised him, shrank from his presence; yet something more potent than pride kept me loyal. i believed then, i believe now, in the sacredness of marriage; it was the teaching of my church, of my home; it had become part of my very soul. to me that formal church wedding typified the solemnity of religion; i durst not prove untrue to vows thus taken; divorce was a thought impossible." "and now?" he interrupted gently. she lifted her head, with one swift glance upward. "you will think me wrong, quixotic, unnatural," she acknowledged soberly. "yet i am not absolved, not free--this man remains my husband, wedded to me by the authority of the church. i--i must bear the burden of my vows; not even love would long compensate for unfaithfulness in the sight of god." in the intense silence they could hear each other's strained breathing and the soft notes of a bird singing gleefully without. winston, his lips compressed, his eyes stern with repressed feeling, neither moved nor spoke. beth norvell's head sank slowly back upon her arm. "he took me with him from city to city," she went on wearily, as though unconsciously speaking to herself, "staying, i think, in each as long as the police would permit. he was seldom with me, seldom gave me money. we did not quarrel, for i refused to be drawn into any exchange of words. he never struck me excepting twice, but there are other ways of hurting a woman, and he knew them all. i was hungry at times and ill clad. i was driven to provide for myself, and worked in factories and stores. whenever he knew i had money he took it. money was always the cause of controversy between us. it was his god, not to hoard up, but to spend upon himself. my steady refusal to permit his bleeding my father enraged him; it was at such times he lost all control, and--and struck me. god! i could have killed him! there were times when i could, when i wonder i did not. yet in calm deliberation i durst not break my vows. three years ago he left me in denver without a word, without a suggestion that the desertion was final. we had just reached there, and i had nothing. friends of my family lived there, but i could not seek them for help. i actually suffered, until finally i found employment in a large department store. i expected he would return, and kept my rooms where he left me. i wrote home twice, cheerful letters, saying nothing to lower him in the estimation of my people, yet concealing my address for fear they might seek me out. then there unexpectedly came to me an opportunity to go out with albrecht, and i accepted it most thankfully. it gave me a chance to think of other things, to work hard, to forget myself in a growing ambition. i had already thrown off the old, and was laying ever firmer hands upon the new, when you came into my life, and then he came back also. it is such a small world, such a little world, all shadowed and full of heartaches!" in the silence she glanced aside at him, her eyes clear, her hair held back by one hand. "please do not look at me like that," she pleaded. "surely, you cannot blame me; you must forgive." "there is nothing to blame, or forgive, beth; apparently there is nothing for me to say, nothing for me to do." she swayed slowly toward him, resting one hand upon his shoulder. "but am i right? won't you tell me if i am right?" he stood hesitating for a moment, looking down upon that upturned, questioning face, his gray eyes filled with a loyalty that caused her heart to throb wildly. "i do not know, beth," he said at last, "i do not know; i cannot be your conscience. i must go out where i can be alone and think; but never will i come between you and your god." chapter xix the point of view she sank back upon the chair, her face completely hidden within her arms. winston, his hand already grasping the latch of the door, paused and glanced around at her, a sudden revulsion of feeling leaving him unnerved and purposeless. he had been possessed by but one thought, a savage determination to seek out farnham and kill him. the brute was no more than a mad dog who had bitten one he loved; he was unworthy of mercy. but now, in a revealing burst of light, he realized the utter futility of such an act. coward, brutal as the man unquestionably was, he yet remained her husband, bound to her by ties she held indissoluble. any vengeful blow which should make her a widow would as certainly separate the slayer from her forever. unavoidably though it might occur, the act was one never to be forgiven by beth norvell, never to be blotted from her remembrance. winston appreciated this as though a sudden flash-light had been turned upon his soul. he had looked down into her secret heart, he had had opened before him the religious depth of her nature--this bright-faced, brown-eyed woman would do what was right although she walked a pathway of self-denying agony. never once did he doubt this truth, and the knowledge gripped him with fingers of steel. even as he stood there, looking back upon her quivering figure, it was no longer hate of farnham which controlled; it was love for her. he took a step toward her, hesitant, uncertain, his heart a-throb with sympathy; yet what could he say? what could he do? utterly helpless to comfort, unable to even suggest a way out, he drew back silently, closed the door behind him, and shut her in. he felt one clear, unalterable conviction--under god, it should not be for long. he stood there in the brilliant sunlight, bareheaded still; looking dreamily off across the wide reach of the canyon. how peaceful, how sublimely beautiful, it all appeared; how delicately the tints of those distant trees blended and harmonized with the brown rocks beyond! the broad, spreading picture slowly impressed itself upon his brain, effacing and taking the place of personal animosity. in so fair a world hope is ever a returning angel with healing in his wings; and winston's face brightened, the black frown deserting his forehead, all sternness gone from his eyes. there surely must be a way somewhere, and he would discover it; only the weakling and the coward can sit down in despair. out of the prevailing silence he suddenly distinguished voices at hand, and the sound awoke him to partial interest. just before the door where he stood a thick growth of bushes obstructed the view. the voices he heard indistinctly came from beyond, and he stepped cautiously forward, peering in curiosity between the parted branches. it was a narrow section of the ledge, hemmed in by walls of rock and thinly carpeted with grass, a small fire burning near its centre. there was an appetizing smell of cookery in the air, and three figures were plainly discernible. the old miner, mike, sat next the embers, a sizzling frying-pan not far away, his black pipe in one oratorically uplifted hand, a tin plate in his lap, his grouchy, seamed old face screwed up into argumentative ugliness, his angry eyes glaring at the swede opposite, who was loungingly propped against a convenient stone. the latter looked a huge, ungainly, raw-boned fellow, possessing a red and white complexion, with a perfect shock of blond hair wholly unaccustomed to the ministrations of a comb. he had a long, peculiarly solemn face, rendered yet more lugubrious by unwinking blue eyes and a drooping moustache of straw color. altogether, he composed a picture of unutterable woe, his wide mouth drawn mournfully down at the corners, his forehead wrinkled in perplexity. somewhat to the right of these two more central figures, the young mexican girl contributed a touch of brightness, lolling against the bank in graceful relaxation, her black eyes aglow with scarcely repressed merriment. however the existing controversy may have originated, it had already attained a stage for the display of considerable temper. "now, ye see here, swanska," growled the thoroughly aroused irishman vehemently. "it's 'bout enough oi 've heard from ye on that now. thar 's r'ason in all things, oi 'm tould, but oi don't clarely moind iver havin' met any in a swade, bedad. oi say ye 're nothin' betther than a dommed foreigner, wid no business in this counthry at all, at all, takin' the bread out o' the mouths of honest min. look at the oirish, now; they was here from the very beginnin'; they 've fought, bled, an' died for the counthry, an' the loikes o' ye comes in an' takes their jobs. be hivins, it 's enough to rile the blood. what's the name of ye, anny how?" "ay ban nels swanson." "huh! well, it's little the loikes o' ye iver railly knows about names, oi 'm thinkin'. they tell me ye don't have no proper, dacent names of yer own over in sweden,--wherever the divil that is, i dunno,--but jist picks up annything handy for to dhraw pay on." "it ban't true." "it's a loiar ye are! bad cess to ye, ain't oi had to be bunk-mate wid some o' ye dhirty foreigners afore now? ye 're _sons_, the whole kit and caboodle o' ye--nelsons, an' olesons, an' swansons, an' andersons. blissed mary! an' ye call them things names? if ye have anny other cognomen, it's somethin' ye stole from some christian all unbeknownst to him. holy mother! but ye ought to be 'shamed to be a swade, ye miserable, slab-sided haythen." "my name ban swanson; it ban all right, hey?" "swanson! swanson! oh, ye poor benighted, ignorant foreigner!" and mike straightened up, slapping his chest proudly. "jist ye look at me, now! oi'm an o'brien, do ye moind that? an o'brien! mother o' god! we was o'briens whin the ark first landed; we was o'briens whin yer ancestors--if iver ye had anny--was wigglin' pollywogs pokin' in the mud. we was kings in ould oireland, begorry, whin ye was a mollusk, or maybe a poi-faced baboon swingin' by the tail. the gall of the loikes of ye to call yerselves min, and dhraw pay wid that sort of thing ferninst ye for a name! oi 'll bet ye niver had no grandfather; ye 're nothin' but a it, a son of a say-cook, be the powers! an' ye come over here to work for a thafe--a dhirty, low-down thafe. do ye moind that, yer lanthern-jawed spalpeen? what was it yer did over beyant?" "ay ban shovel-man fer meester burke--hard vork." "ye don't look that intilligent from here. work!" with a snort, and waving his pipe in the air. "work, is it? sure, an' it's all the loikes of ye are iver good for. it 's not brains ye have at all, or ye 'd take it a bit aisier. oi had a haythen swade foreman oncet over at the 'last chance.' god forgive me for workin' undher the loikes of him. sure he near worked me to death, he did that, the ignorant furriner. work! why, oi 'm dommed if a green swade did n't fall the full length of the shaft one day, an' whin we wint over to pick him up, what was it ye think the poor haythen said? he opened his oies an' asked, 'is the boss mad?' afeared he 'd lose his job! an' so ye was workin' for a thafe, was ye? an' what for?" "two tollar saxty cint." mike leaped to his feet as though a spring had suddenly uncoiled beneath him, waving his arms in wild excitement, and dancing about on his short legs. "two dollars an' sixty cints! did ye hear that, now? for the love of hivin! an' the union wages three sixty! ye 're a dommed scab, an' it's meself that 'll wallup ye just for luck. it's crazy oi am to do the job. what wud the loikes of ye work for misther hicks for?" swanson's impassive face remained imperturbable; he stroked the moustaches dangling over the corners of his dejected mouth. "two tollar saxty cint." mike glared at him, and then at the girl, his own lips puckering. "bedad, oi belave the poor cr'ater do n't know anny betther. shure, 't is not for an o'brien to be wastin' his toime thryin' to tache the loikes of him the great sacrets of thrade. it wud be castin' pearls afore swine, as father kinny says. did iver ye hear tell of the boible, now?" "ay ban lutheran." "an' what's that? it's a dimocrat oi am, an' dom the o'brien that's annything else. but oi niver knew thar was anny of thim other things hereabout. it's no prohibitioner ye are, annyhow, fer that stuff in yer bottle wud cook a snake. sufferin' ages! but it had an edge to it that wud sharpen a saw. what do ye think of ther blatherin' baste annyhow, seeñorita?" the little mexican gave sudden vent to her pent-up laughter, clapping her hands in such an ecstasy of delight as to cause the unemotional swanson to open his mild blue eyes in solemn wonder. "he all right, i rink," she exclaimed eagerly. "he no so mooch fool as you tink him--no, no. see, señor, he busy eat all de time dat you talk; he has de meal, you has de fin' air. vich ees de bettair, de air or de meat, señor? _bueno_, i tink de laugh vas vid him." mr. o'brien, his attention thus suddenly recalled to practical affairs, gazed into the emptied frying-pan, a decided expression of bewildered despair upon his wizened face. for the moment even speech failed him as he confronted that scene of total devastation. then he dashed forward to face the victim of his righteous wrath. "ye dom swade, ye!" he shook a dirty fist beneath the other's nose. "shmell o' that! it's now oi know ye 're a thafe, a low-down haythen thafe. what are ye sittin' thar for, grinnin' at yer betthers?" "two tollar saxty cint." the startled irishman stared at him with mouth wide open. "an' begorry, did ye hear that, seeñorita? for the love of hivin, it's only a poll-parrot sittin' there ferninst us, barrin' the appetite of him. saints aloive! but oi 'd love to paste the crature av it was n't a mortal sin to bate a dumb baste. an' he 's a lutheran! god be marciful an' keep me from iver ketchin' that same dis'ase, av it wud lave me loike this wan. what's that? what was it the haythen said then, seeñorita?" "not von vord, señor; he only vink von eye like maybe he flirt vid me." "the swade did that! holy mother! an' wid an o'brien here to take the part of any dacent gurl. wait till i strip the coat off me. it's an o'brien that'll tache him how to trate a lady. say, swanson, ye son of a gun, ye son of a say-cook, ye son--sure, oi 'd loike to tell ye what ye are av it was n't for the prisince of the seeñorita. it's michael o'brien who 's about to paste ye in the oye fer forgittin' yer manners, an' growin' too gay in good company. whoop! begorry, it's the grane above the red!" there was a dull noise of a heavily struck blow. a pair of short legs, waving frantically, traversed a complete semicircle, coming down with a crash at the edge of the bushes. through a rapidly swelling and badly damaged optic the pessimistic o'brien gazed up in dazed bewilderment at the man already astride of his prostrate body. it was a regenerated norseman, the fierce battle-lust of the vikings glowing in his blue eyes. with fingers like steel claws he gripped the irishman's shirt collar, driving his head back against the earth with every mad utterance. "ay ban nels swanson!" he exploded defiantly. "ay ban nels swanson! ay ban nels swanson! ay ban shovel-man by meester burke! ay ban lutheran! ay ban work two tollar saxty cint! you hear dose tings? tamn the irish--ay show you!" with the swift, noiseless motion of a bird mercedes flitted across the narrow space, forcing her slender figure in between the two contestants, her white teeth gleaming merrily, the bright sunshine shimmering across her black hair. like two stars her great eyes flashed up imploringly into the swede's angry face. "no, no, señors! you no fight like de dogs vid me here. i not like dat, i not let you. see! you strike him, you strike me. _dios de dios_! i not have eet so--nevah." a strong, compelling hand fell suddenly on winston's shoulder, and he glanced about into the grave, boyish countenance of stutter brown. "th-thar 's quite c-c-consid'able of a c-crowd comin' up the t-t-trail t-ter the 'independence,' an' b-bill wants yer," he announced, his calm eyes on the controversy being waged beyond in the open. "th-thar 'll be somethin' d-doin' presently, but i r-reckon i better s-s-straighten out t-this yere i-i-international fracas first." chapter xx the game of foils the grave-faced, yet good-natured giant pressed his way through the tangled mass of obstructing bushes, and unceremoniously proceeded to proclaim peace. his methods were characteristic of one slow of speech, yet swift of action. with one great hand gripping the swede, he suddenly swung that startled individual at full length backward into the still smouldering embers of the fire, holding the gasping mike down to earth with foot planted heavily upon his chest. it was over in an instant, swanson sputtering unintelligible oaths while beating sparks from his overalls, the irishman profanely conscious of the damage wrought to his eye, and the overwhelming odds against him. señorita mercedes clapped her little hands in delight at the spectacle, her steps light as those of the dance, the girlish joy in her eyes frank and unreserved. "ah, de señor brown--_bueno_! dey vas just children to you even ven dey fight, hey? it vas good to see such tings doin', just like de play." she circled swiftly up toward him, a happy bird of gay, fluttering plumage, pressing her fingers almost caressingly along the swelling muscle of his arm, and gazing with earnest admiration up into his face. beneath the witching spell of her eyes the man's cheeks reddened. he took the way of savagery out of unexpected embarrassment. "th-that 's enough, now, swanson," he commanded, the stutter largely vanishing before the requirement of deeds. "th-this is no c-continuous vaudeville, an' ther curtain's rung d-down on yer act. mike, yer ol' varmint, if yer do any more swearin' while ther lady's yere i 'll knock ther words back down yer throat. yer know me, so shut up. th-thar'll be fightin' in p-plenty fer both o' yer presently, the way things look. now, vamoose, the two o' yer, an' be quiet about it. mike, y-yer better do something fer yer eyes if yer wanter see well 'nough ter take a pot-shot at farnham's gang." the two discomfited combatants slouched off unwillingly enough, but the slender white fingers of the mexican remained clasping the speaker's arm, her upturned face filled with undisguised enthusiasm. brown, after pretending to watch the fighters disappear, glanced uneasily down into her wondrous dark eyes, shuffling his feet awkwardly, his appearance that of a bashful boy. mercedes laughed out of the depths of a heart apparently untroubled. "my, but eet vas so ver' big, señor. see! i cannot make de fingers to go round--no, no. i nevah see such arm--nevah. but you no care? you vas dat great big all over, hey? _sapristi_! who de woman help like such a big americano?" "b-but that ain't it, m-m-m-mercedes," blurted out the perturbed giant, in desperation. "i-i want yer t-t-ter love me." "_no comprende, señor_." "o-oh, yes yer do. l-lord! didn't i t-tell it all ter yer s-s-straight 'nough last n-night? maybe i ain't m-much on ther t-talk, but i r-reckon i sh-sh-shot that all right. c-can't yer make over th-that like inter l-love somehow?" she released her clasp upon his arm, her eyes drooping behind their long lashes, the merry laughter fading from her lips. "dat vas not von bit nice of you, señor. vy you ever keep bodder me so, ven i good to you? no, i tol' you not ask me dat so quick soon again. did i not do dis? i tol' you den i know not; i meet you only de twice--how i lofe ven i meet you only de twice?" "you 've m-m-met me as often a-as i h-h-have you," he interrupted, "an' i kn-know i l-love you all right." "oh, dat vas diff'rent, ver' different," and she tripped back from him, with a coquettish toss of the black head. "vy not? of course. i vas mercedes--_si_; vas dat not enough? all de _caballeros_ say dat to me; dey say me ver' pretty girl. you tink dat too, señor?" the perplexed brown, fully conscious that his great strength was useless here, looked an answer, although his lips merely sputtered in vain attempt at speech. "so; i read dat in de eyes. den of course you lofe me. it vas de nature. but vis me it vas not so easy; no, not near so easy. i tink maybe you ver' nice man," she tipped it off upon her finger ends half playfully, constantly flashing her eyes up into his puzzled face. "i tink you ver' good man; i tink you ver' strong man; i tink maybe you be ver' nice to mercedes. 't is for all dose tings dat i like you, señor, like you ver' mooch; but lofe, dat means more as like, an' i know not for sure. maybe so, maybe not so; how i tell yet for true? i tink de best ting be i not say eet, but just tink 'bout eet; just keep eet in mine own heart till some odder time ven i sure know. vas eet not so?" brown set his teeth half savagely, the little witch tantalizing him with the swiftness of her speech, the coy archness of her manner. to his slower mentality she was like a humming-bird darting about from flower to flower, yet ever evading him. "m-maybe yer think i ain't in e-e-earnest?" he persisted, doggedly. "m-maybe yer imagine i d-did n't m-m-mean what i s-said when i asked yer ter m-marry me?" she glanced up quickly into his serious eyes, half shrinking away as if she suddenly comprehended the dumb, patient strength of the man, his rugged, changeless resolution. there was a bit of falter in the quick response, yet this was lost to him. "no, señor, i no make fun. i no dat kind. i do de right, dat all; i do de right for both of us. i no vant to do de wrong. you _comprende_, señor? maybe you soon grow ver' tire mercedes, she marry you?" the infatuated miner shook his head emphatically, and flung out one hand toward her. "no! oh, you tink so now; you tink so ver' mooch now, but eet better ve vait an' see. i know de men an' de vay dey forget after vile. maybe i not such good voman like you tink me; maybe i cross, scold, get qvick mad; maybe i no like live widout de stage, de lights, de dance, an' de fun, hey? vat you do den? you be ver' sorry you marry. i no like dat, no, no. i want de man to lofe me always--nevah to vish he not marry me. you not know me yet; i not know you. maybe ve vait, ve know." he caught her gesticulating hands, prisoning them strongly within both his own, but she shook forward her loosened hair until it fell partially across her face, hiding it thus from his eager eyes bent in passion upon her. "b-but tell me y-you love me! t-tell me th-th-that, an' i 'll let the o-other go!" "you vould make me to say de untrue, señor?" "of course not. i w-want ter kn-kn-know. only if you d-do n't, i 'm a-goin' t-ter git out o' yere." she remained silent, motionless, her telltale face shadowed, only the quick rise and fall of the bosom evidencing emotion. the man looked at her helplessly, his mouth setting firm, his eyes becoming filled with sudden doubt. "w-well, mercedes," he stuttered, unable to restrain himself, "wh-what is it?" she lifted her lowered head ever so slightly, so that he saw her profile, the flush on the cheek turned toward him. "maybe eet better you stay, señor. anyhow, i no vant you go just now." for once he proved the more swift of the two, clasping her instantly within his arms, drawing her slender form close against him with a strength he failed to realize in that sudden excess of passion. holding her thus in helpless subjection he flung aside the obstructing veil of hair, and covered the flushed cheeks with kisses. the next moment, breathless, but not with indignation, the girl had pushed his burning face aside, although she still lay quivering within the remorseless clasp of his arms. "i no said all dat, señor; i no said all dat. you so ver' strong, you hurt mercedes. please, señor--eet vas not dat i meant eet should be dis vay--no, no. i no said i lofe you; i just say stay till maybe i know vich--please, señor." "n-not till yer k-kiss me yourself," and brown, intensely conscious of triumph, held back the mass of black hair, his eager eyes devouring the fair face pressing his shoulder. "o-one kiss w-with ther l-l-lips, an' i 'll let yer g-go." "no, no, señor." "th-then i h-hold yer here till some one comes." "eet vas not lofe; eet vas just to get avay." "i-i-i take ch-chances on that, l-little girl." their lips met and clung; all unconsciously the free arm of the girl stole upward, clasping the man's broad shoulder. for that one instant she forgot all excepting the new joy of that embrace, the crowning faith that this man loved her as no other ever had--truly, nobly, and forever. her face was aglow as she drew reluctantly back from him, her eyes upon his, her cheeks flushed, her lips trembling. yet with the parting came as swiftly back the resolution which made her strong. "eh, señor; eet shame me, but you promise--please, señor!" like a flash, in some mysterious manner, she had slipped free, evaded his effort to grasp her dress, and, with quick, whirling motion, was already half-way across the open space, daring to mock him even while flinging back her long hair, the sunlight full upon her. never could she appear more delicately attractive, more coquettishly charming. "ah, see--you tink me de prisoner. eet vas not all de strength, señor, not all. you no can catch me again till i lofe you; not de once till i lofe you, señor." he started toward her blindly, taunted by these unexpected words of renunciation. but she danced away, ever managing to keep well beyond reach, until she disappeared within the narrow path leading to the cabin. he could see her through the vista of branches, pausing to look back and watch if he followed. "b-but you do," he called out, "i-i know you d-do. won't yer just s-s-say it for me onct?" "say dat i marry you?" "y-yes, for it means ther same. anyhow, s-say yer love me." she laughed, shaking her head so hard the black hair became a whirling cloud about her. "no, no! eet not de same, señor. maybe i lofe you, maybe not yet. dat ees vat you must fin' out. but marry? dat no show i lofe you. oh, de men! to tink eet vas de only vay to prove lofe to marry. no, no! maybe i show you some day eef i lofe you; si, some day i show you ven i know true. but dat not mean i marry you. dat mean more as dat--you see. _adios_, señor." and he stood alone, staring at the blank door, strangely happy, although not content. chapter xxi under arrest when brown emerged from behind the protection of the cabin, his freckled face yet burning red in memory of his strenuous love-making, he discovered both hicks and winston standing upon the rock which shortly before had formed their breakfast table, gazing watchfully off into the purple depths of the canyon, occasionally lifting their eyes to search carefully the nearer surroundings about the hostile "independence." something serious was in the air, and all three men felt its mysterious presence. hicks held the field-glasses in his hands, outwardly calm, yet his old face already beginning to exhibit the excitement of rapidly culminating events. that they were not to be long left undisturbed was promised by an increasing number of figures distinctly visible around the distant shaft-house and dump, as well as the continuous shouting, indistinguishable as to words but pronounced in volume, borne through the clear air to their ears. "i 'm a liar if ther was n't twenty in that last bunch," hicks muttered, just a trifle uneasily. "good lord boys! it 's an army they 're organizin' over yonder. blame me if i onderstan' that sorter scheme at all. it don't look nat'ral. i never thought farnham was no coward when ther time come fer fightin', but this kind o' fixin' shore looks as if we had him skeered stiff. wal, it 'll take more 'n a bunch o' san juan toughs to skeer me. i reckon ther present plan must be ter try rushin' ther 'little yankee.'" he wheeled about, driving the extended tubes of his glass together, his gray beard forking out in front of his lean, brown face like so many bristles. "oh, is thet you come back, stutter? thought i heerd somebody walkin' behind me. i reckon, judgin' from ther outlook over thar, thet the dance is 'bout ter begin; leastwise, the fiddlers is takin' their places," and he waved his gnarled hand toward the distant crowd. "got somethin' like a reg'ment thar now, hoss and fut, an' it's safe ter bet thar 's more a-comin'. this yere fracas must be gittin' some celebrated, an' bids fair ter draw bigger 'n a three-ringed circus. all ther scum o' san juan must 'a got a private tip thet we was easy marks. they 're out yere like crows hopin' ter pick our bones clean afore the law kin git any show at all. wal, it 'll be a tough meal all right, an' some of 'em are mighty liable ter have trouble with their digestion, fer thar 's goin' ter be considerable lead eat first. now see yere, stutter, the safest thing we kin do is git ready. you chase that whole bunch yonder back behind them rocks, where they 'll be out o' the way--the swede an' the women. do it lively, an' you an' mike stay up thar with 'em, with your guns handy. keep under cover as much as ye kin, for some o' them lads out thar will have glasses with 'em, and be watchin' of us almighty close. hurry 'long now; me an' winston will stop yere until we find out just what their little game is likely ter be." he turned away from his partner, facing once again toward the "independence." then he readjusted the tubes, and passed them over to his silent companion. "just see what you make out o' it, mr. winston; ye 're some younger, an' yer eyes ought ter be a heap better 'n mine." the young engineer, his heart already beginning to throb with the excitement of an unaccustomed position of danger, ran the lenses carefully back and forth from the half-concealed bunk-house to the nearer ore-dump, searching for every sign of life. whatever emotion swayed him, there was not the slightest tremor to the steady hands supporting the levelled tubes. "they have certainly got together a considerable number of men," he reported, the glass still at his eyes. "roughs the most of them look to be, from their clothes. the largest number are grouped in between the shaft-house and the dump, but there must be a dozen or fifteen down below at the edge of those cedars. farnham is at the shaft-house--no, he and another fellow have just started down the dump, walking this way. now they have gone into the cedars, and are coming straight through. what's up, do you suppose--negotiations?" "i 'm damned if i know," returned the old miner, staring blankly. "this whole thing kinder jiggers me. maybe he thinks he kin skeer us out by a good brand o' talk. he 's a bit o' a bluffer, that farnham." the two watchers waited in breathless expectancy, leaning on their loaded winchesters, their eyes eagerly fastened on the concealing cedars. behind where they remained in the open, yet within easy rifle-shot, the heads of brown and old mike rose cautiously above the rock rampart of their natural fort. suddenly two men, walking abreast, emerged from out the shadow of the wood, and came straight toward them across the open ridge of rocks. they advanced carelessly, making no effort to pick their path, and in apparently utter indifference to any possible peril. the one was farnham, his slender form erect, his shoulders squared, his hat pushed jauntily back so as to reveal fully the smoothly shaven face. the other bent slightly forward as he walked, his wide brim drawn low over his eyes, leaving little visible except the point of a closely trimmed beard. he was heavily built, and a " " dangled conspicuously at his hip. if farnham bore arms they were concealed beneath the skirt of his coat. watching them approach, winston's eyes became threatening, his hands involuntarily clinching, but hicks remained motionless, his lean jaws continuously munching on the tobacco in his cheek. "who the hell is that with him?" he questioned, wonderingly. "do you know the feller?" winston shook his head, his own steady gaze riveted upon farnham. deliberately the two climbed the low ore-dump side by side, and came forth on top into the full glare of the sun. hicks's winchester sank to a level, his wicked old eye peering along the polished barrel. "i 'll have to ask ye ter stop right thar, gents," he said, genially, drawing back the hammer with a sharp click. "ye 're trespassin' on my property." the two men came to an instant halt, farnham smiling unpleasantly, his hands buried in his pockets. his companion hastily shoved back his hat, as though in surprise at the summons, revealing a broad, ruddy face, shadowed by iron-gray whiskers. hicks half lowered his gun, giving vent to a smothered oath. "by god, it's the sheriff!" he muttered, in complete bewilderment. "what the hell are we up against?" there was an interval of intense silence, both parties gazing at each other, the one side startled, unnerved, the other cool, contemptuous. it was the sheriff who first spoke, standing firmly on his short legs, and quietly stroking his beard. "you probably recognize me, bill hicks," he said, calmly, "and it might be just as healthy for you to lower that gun. i ain't here hunting any trouble, but if it begins i 've got a posse over yonder big enough to make it mighty interesting. you sabe?" old hicks hesitated, his finger yet hovering about the trigger, his eyes filled with doubt. there was some mystery in this affair he could not in the least fathom, but he was obstinate and hard-headed. "yes, i know you all right, mr. sheriff," he returned, yet speaking half angrily. "but i don't know what ye 're dippin' inter this yere affair fer. i haven't any quarrel with you, ner any cause fer one. but i have with that grinnin' cuss alongside o' yer. i 'll talk with you all right, but farnham will either mosey back ter his own den o' thieves, 'er i 'll blow a hole plumb through him--that's flat. i don't talk ter his kind." the sheriff held up one hand, taking a single step forward, his face grown sternly resolute. "mr. farnham chances to be present as my deputy," he announced gravely. "i don't know anything about a quarrel between you two men, and i care less. i 'm here to enforce the law and arrest law-breakers. if you decide to interfere between me and my duty i 'll know how to act. i 've smelt of the business end of a gun before to-day, and i guess nobody ever saw sam hayes play baby when there was a fight on tap. if there 's trouble between you and farnham, have it out, and git done with it in proper fashion, but just now he 's a sworn officer of the law, and when you threaten him you threaten all gulpin county. do you manage to digest that fact, hicks?" the sturdy old prospector, his face white with rage under the tan, uncocked his rifle and dropped the butt heavily upon the earth, his eyes wandering from the face of the sheriff to that of winston. "what the hell is it yer want, then?" he asked sullenly. hayes smiled, shifting easily so as to rest his weight on one leg. "got anybody in your bunch named winston?" he questioned, "ned winston, mining engineer?" the younger man started in surprise. "that is my name," he replied, before hicks could speak. the sheriff looked toward him curiously, noting the square jaw, the steady gray eyes; then he glanced aside at farnham. the latter nodded carelessly. "so far, so good. by the same luck, have you a swede here called nels swanson?" hicks shook his head in uncertainty. "there 's a swede here, all right, who belongs ter the 'independence' gang. i don 't know his name." "it's swanson," put in farnham, cheerfully. "those are the two birds you 're after, sheriff." the latter official, as though fascinated by what he read there, never ventured to remove his watchfulness from the face of the engineer, yet he smiled grimly. "then i 'll have to trouble you to trot out the swede, hicks," he said, a distinct command in his voice. "after he 's here we 'll get down to business." it was fully five minutes before the fellow arrived, his movements slow and reluctant. from his language, expressing his feelings freely to mike and brown, who were engaged in urging him forward, it was evident he experienced no ambition to appear in the limelight. the four men waiting his coming remained motionless, intently watchful of one another. as the slowly moving swede finally approached, hayes ventured to remove his eyes from winston just long enough to scan swiftly the mournful countenance, that single glance revealing to him the character of the man. the latter gazed uneasily from one face to another, his mild blue eyes picturing distress, his fingers pulling aimlessly at his moustache. "ay ban yere by you fellers," he confessed sorrowfully, unable to determine which person it was that wanted him. "so i see," admitted the sheriff laconically. "are you nels swanson?" the fellow swallowed something in his throat that seemed to choke him. this question sounded familiar; it brought back in a rush a recollection of his late controversy with mr. o'brien. his face flushed, his eyes hardening. "ay ban nels swanson!" he exploded, beating the air with clenched fist. "ay ban lutheran! ay ban shovel-man by meester burke. ay get two tollar saxty cint! ay not give won tamn for you! ay lick de fellar vot ask me dot again!" the sheriff stared at him, much as he might have examined a new and peculiar specimen of bug. "i don't recall having asked you anything about your family history," he said quietly, dropping one hand in apparent carelessness on the butt of his " ." "your name was all i wanted." he tapped the breast of his coat suggestively, his gaze returning to winston. "well, gents, we might as well bring this affair to a focus, although no doubt you two understand the meaning of it pretty well already. i 've got warrants here for the arrest of winston and swanson. i hope neither of you intend to kick up any row." the white teeth of the young mining engineer set like a trap, his gray eyes gleaming dangerously beneath frowning brows. instinctively he took a quick step forward. "warrants?" he exclaimed, breathlessly. "in god's name, for what?" hayes tightened his grip on the gun butt, drawing it half from the sheath, his eyes narrowing. "for the murder of jack burke," he said tersely. "don't you move, young man!" there was a long moment of intense, strained silence, in which the five men could hear nothing but their own quick breathing. before winston everything grew indistinct, unreal, the faces fronting him a phantasy of imagination. he felt the fierce throb of his own pulses, a sudden dull pain shooting through his temples. _murder_! the terrible word struck like a blow, appearing to paralyze all his faculties. in front of him, as if painted, he saw that fierce struggle in the dark, the limp figure lying huddled among the rocks. _murder_! aye, and how could he prove it otherwise? how could he hope to clear himself from the foul charge? even as he yet swayed unsteadily upon his feet, a hand pressed across his eyes as if shielding them from that horrible vision, a voice, deep and strident, rang out: "mike an' me have got the two cusses covered mr. winston. if they move, or you give us the highball, we 'll plug 'em dead centre!" chapter xxii the intervention of swanson hayes never changed his position, nor removed his eyes from winston, his right hand still resting upon the butt of his " ," his lips set in rigid line. the engineer, the mist partially clearing from his brain, retained no thought except for farnham, who remained motionless, staring over his head into the black, threatening muzzle of stutter brown's levelled gun. these were western men; they recognized instantly the potency of "the drop," the absolute certainty of death if they stirred a muscle. they could only wait, breathless, uncertain, the next move in this desperate game. to winston it seemed an hour he hesitated, his mind a chaos, temptation buffeting him remorselessly. he saw the sheriff's face set hard, and resolute behind its iron-gray beard; he marked the reckless sneer curling farnham's lips, the livid mark under his eye where he had struck him. the intense hatred he felt for this man swept across him fiercely, for an instant driving out of his heart all thought of mercy. as suddenly he remembered the helpless woman yonder, within easy view, possibly even then upon her knees in supplication. it was this conception that aroused him. he withdrew his dull gaze from off that hateful, mocking face, his clenched hands opening, his mind responding to a new-born will. "vengeance is mine; i will repay, saith the lord"--like an echo, perhaps from the very prayer her lips were speaking, the solemn words came into his consciousness. with face white, and lips trembling, he stepped suddenly back, and flung up one hand. "don't fire, boys!" he commanded, his voice ringing clear and purposeful. "drop your guns; it's all right. this is my game, and i intend to play it out alone." farnham laughed, the quick reaction possibly affecting even his iron nerves. winston whirled and fronted him, the gray eyes blazing. "damn you, you sneaking, sneering brute!" he burst forth. "you thief, you woman-beater, you unspeakable cur! i surrender to the sheriff of gulpin county, not to you. i 've got the evidence to send you to the penitentiary, and i 'll do it, even though i stand myself in the shadow of death while i bear witness to your infamy. you think this arrest will shut my mouth! you imagine this will render me harmless! but, by god, it will not! i 'll fight you until the last breath leaves my body. i 'll tear you out from the protection of law; i 'll show you the kind of a man you have stacked up against. i don't know whether this murder charge is all a trick or not; i don't more than half believe jack burke is dead. but be that as it may, i 'll pull you down, biff farnham, not in any revenge for wrong done me, but to save a woman whom you know. i 'll do it, damn you, though it cost me my life!" the sheriff's iron hand fell in restraint upon his shoulder, the burly body interposed between them. "you're all right," hayes said quietly, his eyes pleasantly interested. "you 've been squar' with me, young fellow, an' i 'm goin' ter be squar' with you. you kin bet on that. they 'll give you a chance down below to fight out your quarrel with farnham." winston, his quick rage as instantly fading, drew one hand across his face, the real danger of his present situation flowing back suddenly to mind. "where do you mean to take us?" he questioned. "san juan." "right away?" "wal, 'bout as soon as we kin git you back ter whar the hosses are, yonder." "you promise us protection from that 'independence' outfit?" the sheriff nodded decisively. "never lost no prisoner yet to a mob," he replied confidently. "i reckon thar'll be one hell of a fight before i do now. however, you don't need to worry, young man. on second thought, i 'll have the hosses brought over here, an' we 'll go down this trail." winston glanced about into the faces of hicks and the swede. there was no help forthcoming from either, but he had already reached a definite decision for himself. "very well," he said calmly, "i 'll go with you quietly, sheriff, only i don't need any hand-cuffing." "never use 'em," and hayes affectionately patted his gun. "i reckon this yere instrument will do the business all right if any misunderstandin' should arise atween us goin' down. however, i 'll trouble yer to discard them weapons for the sake o' peace." without a word the engineer unbuckled his belt, tossed it over to hicks, and then slowly turned his body about to prove himself entirely disarmed. then he smiled, and extended his hand. the sheriff grasped it cordially. "there need be no hard feeling between us, hayes," he said pleasantly. "you 're only doing your sworn duty; i understand that. but there 's something rotten in this affair somewhere. all i ask is a square deal." "an' yer kin bet you'll git it, mr. winston, er sam hayes will find out why. this yere 'independence' outfit is no favorites o' mine, an' if the whole difficulty turns out ter be nothin' but a minin' squabble, the jury ain't likely ter be very hard on yer. that's my way o' figgerin' on it, from what little i know." he glanced keenly about, seeking to gain a clearer idea of their immediate surroundings. "maybe you an' swanson better mosey back yonder to the cabin, where i can keep an eye on you easy, while i send after the hosses. farnham, climb back on top of the dump there, an' give them boys the signal to come on." the gambler removed his hat, running one hand carelessly through his hair, his thin lips sufficiently parted to reveal his white teeth. "i hardly think we are exactly done yet, mr. sheriff," he said sarcastically. "i 'm not very much worried regarding your suddenly expressed sympathy for this fellow, or your desire to get him off unscratched; but i feel compelled to insist upon receiving all the law allows me in this game we 're playing. there 's another warrant in your pocket for winston." "by thunder, yes; i 'd clear forgot it," fumbling at his papers. "well, i had n't; matter of some personal importance to me," the voice taking on a lazy, insolent drawl. "of course, the fellow is under arrest all right, but that murder business is only part of it--i want my wife." winston started forward, crouching as though he would spring directly at the other's throat. "your wife?" he exclaimed madly, his voice choking. "your wife? you 've sworn out a warrant for me on account of your wife?" "something of that nature, i believe," gazing at him insolently. "abduction i think the lawyers call it, and i notice you 've got the lady hidden away back yonder now." he pointed across the other's shoulder. "caught with the goods. oh, you 're a fine preacher of morals, but i 've got you dead to rights this time." winston stood as though carven from stone, his face deathly white, his lips compressed, his gray eyes burning, never wavering from that mocking face. with all his strength of will he battled back the first mad impulse to throttle the man, to crush him into shapeless pulp. for one awful moment his mind became a chaos, his blood throbbing fire. to kill would be joy, a relief inexpressible. farnham realized the impulse, and drew back, not shrinking away, but bracing for the contest. but the engineer gripped himself in time. "hayes," he ejaculated hoarsely, "let the lady decide this. if she says no, then, by god, i 'll fight you all single-handed before he ever puts touch upon her!" old bill hicks was beside him in a single stride, his face blazing. "i 'm damned if yer will!" he growled madly. "i 'm in on this deal, law er no law. the whole blame thing is a bluff, an' i 'll not stan' fer it no longer. yer step back thar, sam hayes, er else gulpin county will be lookin' 'round fer another sheriff. i 've got plumb ter the limit o' patience in this game." winston grasped the old man's uplifted arm, whirling him sharply around. "no," he exclaimed almost wearily, "it 's not to be a fight yet; let--let her decide between us." she was already coming, walking alone directly across the open space toward them. the eyes of the bewildered men were upon her, marking the white face, rendered more noticeable by its frame of dark, uncovered hair, the firm, womanly chin, the tightly compressed lips, the resolute, unwavering eyes. she walked firmly, confidently forward, her head proudly uplifted, a stately dignity about her bearing which could not be ignored. if she perceived either winston or farnham in that group she gave no sign, never halting until she stood directly before sam hayes. involuntarily, unconscious of the act, the sheriff pulled off his hat, and stood twirling it in his hands. "is it indeed true," she asked, her voice thrilling with suppressed feeling, "that you possess a warrant sworn out by biff farnham, charging mr. winston with the abduction of his wife?" "yes, ma'am," and the man changed the weight of his body to the other foot. "i 'm sorry ter say it 's true." she lifted one hand suddenly to her forehead as though in pain. "and you intend to serve it?" "i have no choice, ma'am; i 'm an officer of the law." there followed a pause, seemingly endless, the eyes of the men turned away. she lifted her head, sweeping her gaze swiftly across the faces, and a flush crept into the white cheeks. "gentlemen," her voice low and clear, but with a slight falter occasionally yielding peculiar power to the words, "it is true i am that man's wife." she looked directly at him, apparently oblivious of his attempt at smiling indifference. "by the laws of god and men i am his wife. i neither deny this, nor have ever sought to escape from its obligations. to me, the vows of marriage were sacred when first assumed; they remain no less sacred now. this man is fully aware of how i feel in this regard; he knows i have proved true in spirit and letter to my vows; he knows exactly why i am not living with him; why i am earning my own living in the world; why i am here in this position to-day. he knows it all, i say, because the desertion was his, not mine; and his present deliberate, cowardly attempt to besmirch my character by doing an injury to another is an unbearable insult, an outrage more serious than if he had struck me a physical blow. the one i might forgive, as i have before forgiven, but the other is beyond the limits of pardon, if i would retain my own self-respect. i am a woman, an honorable woman, and my reputation is more to me than life." she paused, breathing heavily, her head flung back, her hands clenched as though in desperate effort at self-control. "you--you!" the words seemed fairly forced from between her lips, "there has never been a time when i would not have gone to you at a word, at your slightest expressed desire. however i may have despised you in my secret heart, i remained loyal outwardly, and would have gone to you in response to the call of duty. there is no such duty now. you have openly insulted and degraded me; you have accused me before the world; you have dragged my name in the muck; you have attempted to dethrone my womanhood. the past is over; it is over forever. the law may continue to hold me as your wife, but i am not your wife. the records of the church may so name me, but they are false. a god of love could never have linked me to such a brute--the very thought is infamy. do not touch me! do not speak to me! i believe i could kill you easier than i could ever again yield to you so much as a word." she reeled as though about to fall, her hand pressed against her heart. before an arm could be out-stretched in support, she had rallied, and turned away. with head lowered, her face shadowed by her hair she walked slowly toward the cabin. no man in the group stirred until she had disappeared. then the sheriff fumblingly replaced his hat, his eyes wandering in uncertainty from farnham to winston. "by god!" he exclaimed, as though in relief, catching his breath quickly and wiping his forehead. "by god! but that was fierce." recalling his own duty he reached out his hand and laid it heavily upon the shoulder of the man standing next him. it chanced to be the swede. "go on into the cabin," he commanded, a returning sternness in the order. the surprised man stared at him in dull bewilderment. "vat for ay go--hey?" "because you 're under arrest." "vat dot you say? i vas arrest? maybe you not know me, hey? ay tells you vat ay vas mighty quick. ay ban nels swanson; ay ban lutheran; ay ban shovel--" "oh, shut up; ye 're under arrest, i tell you--move on now." "vat vas dis under arrest?" the blue eyes losing their mildness, the drooping moustache beginning to bristle. "ay no understand 'bout dis arrest. vat ay do, hey?" "helped to kill jack burke." the startled norseman stared at him, gulping, his eyes fairly protruding from his face, his breath hissing between his gritted teeth. the wild berserker blood was surging hot through his veins. "ut vas von lie! you kill me so! by tamn, no!" that instant, insane with fright, he grasped the astonished officer in the vise of his great hands, swung him into the air, and dashed him down headlong upon the rocks. uttering a yell like that of some wild animal, the fellow was off, striking against winston with his body as he passed, leaping recklessly across the rocks, heading straight toward the nearest thicket. it was all the work of a moment. farnham whirled and sent one shot after him; then, as suddenly remembering his own peril, wheeled back to face the others, the smoking revolver in his hand. amid the quick turmoil old mike sprang to the summit of the rock rampart, his face flaming with enthusiasm. "go it, swanska!" he yelled, encouragingly. "go it, ye crazy white-head! be the powers, but it's the foinest runnin' oi 've sane fer a whoile. saints aloive! but wud ye moind thim legs! 'twas a kangaroo, begorry, an' not a monkey he come from, or oi 'm a loiar. go it, swanny, ould bye! howly st. patrick! but he 'll be out o' the state afore dhark, if he only kapes it up. it 's money oi 'm bettin' on the swade!" winston stepped swiftly across to the motionless sheriff, and knelt down beside him, his face gravely anxious. the unfortunate man lay huddled up, breathing heavily, his head bleeding freely from two plainly visible wounds. the engineer turned him over, one hand feeling for his heart. slowly the young man rose to his feet, standing beside the body, his gray eyes fastened upon farnham. here was a condition of affairs he must decide upon for himself, decide instantly, decide in spite of law, in spite of everything. "he appears to be rather badly hurt; not seriously, i think, but the man is unconscious, and in no condition to be removed," he said, managing to hold his voice to a strange quiet. "i consider myself his prisoner, and shall remain with him until he becomes fit to travel. farnham, i do not acknowledge your deputyship, and if you attempt to arrest me it will be at your peril. there are four of us here against you, but we 'll give you a chance--go back to your own! not a word, if you care to live! go, damn you--go!" they stood and watched him, until his slender figure disappeared behind the fringe of cedars. then hicks and winston, neither man speaking a word, tenderly lifted the wounded sheriff from off the rocks, and bore him back into the shelter of the cabin. chapter xxiii a new volunteer the desperate seriousness of their situation was only too evident. both men recognized this, yet had no opportunity then to reflect over its possibilities, or plan for relief. without exchanging a word, except as related to their present labor, the two at once began ministering to the relief of hayes, confident that brown, stationed without, would guard vigorously against any surprise attack. the two wounds upon the sheriff's head were extremely ugly in appearance, being both deep and jagged, and having bled profusely. however, when carefully washed and probed, neither proved particularly severe or dangerous. in less than an hour, conscious yet exceedingly weak and becoming somewhat feverish, the injured man, dazed in mind but fairly comfortable in body, had been safely stowed away in a bunk, with every prospect of an early recovery. not until all this had been accomplished did his anxious nurses venture to look thoughtfully into each others' faces and take direct cognizance of their own perilous position. hicks stepped outside into the sunlight, wiping the perspiration from off his face, and a moment later winston joined him, the two standing in grave silence, gazing off toward the apparently deserted "independence." the strain of the past night and day had plainly marked them both, yet it was not exposure and toil alone that gave such anxiety to their faces. finally hicks turned from his long scrutiny and glanced back toward the younger man, stroking his goat's beard solemnly. "looks ter me like we'd managed ter drop into a mighty bad hole, an' was up agin the real thing," he began gloomily, yet hastening to add in explanation, "not as i have any notion o' cavin', you onderstand, only i ain't overly pleased with the situation, an' thet 's a fact. i never yit objected in particular ter no fair fight, not o' any kind, free fer all, or stan' up, but i ain't used ter buckin' agin the law nohow, an' someway thet seems ter be 'bout what we 're up agin this trip. beats hell the way things turned out, don't it?" winston nodded without opening his lips. he was thinking more earnestly about miss norvell's unpleasant position than of their own, yet compelled himself to attention. "now, this yere farnham is a gambler an' a thief; he 's all round crooked, an' we 've got a cinch on him fer the penitentiary. but we ain't got the right holt," the old miner continued, squinting his eyes as if thus endeavoring to get the thought firmly lodged in his brain. "he 's ben made a deputy sheriff. he kin turn that crowd o' toughs over thar into a posse, an' come over here with the whole law o' the state backin' them in any deviltry they decide on, even ter killin' off the lot o' us for resistin' officers. es sam hayes said, if we shoot, we 'll be a-shootin' up gulpin county. an' yet, by thunder, we 've plumb got ter do it, er git off the earth. i jest don't see no other way. biff, he won't care a damn how he gits us, so he gits us afore we have any chance ter turn the tables on him, an' shift the law over ter our side. hayes can't help any, fer he 's out o' his head. consequent, it's up ter us. thet warrant business, an' deputy sheriff racket, was a blame smart trick, all right. it would 'a' corralled us good an' proper if thet fool swede had n't run amuck. not that he left us in no bed o' roses, but, at least, we got a fightin' chance now, an' afore we did n't have even that. i was inclined ter let yer surrender to the sheriff, fer sam hayes is a squar' man, but not ter farnham an' his gang--not much, mary ann! thet would mean lynchin', an' i know it. so, i reckon we jest got to plug it out, an' trust ter luck. thet 's my view-point, but ye 're a more higher edycated man ner me, mr. winston, an' maybe you kin see some other way out." the old man sat down on an outcropping stone, pulled out his pipe and lit it, puffing thick rings of smoke into the air with manifest enjoyment. winston did not answer until the other again turned his eyes upon him questioningly. "i was busy thinking," explained the engineer, "but must confess the situation looks about as bad to me as it does to you. the silver lining of this cloud is not apparent. of course, we 've got the right of it, but in some way fate has managed to leave us set square against the law. we 're outlaws without having done a thing to warrant it. there is n't but one possible way out, and that is for us to get on the right side again. now, how can it be done? some one of us will have to go down to san juan, before those fellows get over here in force, swear out warrants against farnham and his partners, and have this whole affair probed to the bottom. we 've got them, if we can only get the ear of the district attorney, and shift this fight into the courts. the trouble is, farnham was smart enough to get there ahead of us, and he 'll win out if we don't move quick and block him. i can't go myself, for i 'm a prisoner, and must remain with the sheriff, or will be considered a fugitive. the only question is, can any one hope to get through?" hicks permitted his gaze to stray out across the dim valley below, then up toward the ragged summit of the overhanging crest of rocks. through the smoke of his pipe he deliberately surveyed stutter brown, perched motionless at the edge of his watchtower, a winchester silhouetted black against the stone. "not down thet way, anyhow," he announced, finally, pointing with his pipe-stem. "i reckon a mosquiter could n't git through along thet trail ternight. ever hear tell o' daggett station?" winston rubbed his chin, endeavoring to recall the name. "i 'm not sure. is it the water-tank and section-house, next stop below bolton junction, on the main line?" "you 've called the tarn. wal, it's over thar," pointing apparently into the heart of the mountain, "straight south, twenty miles as ther crow flies from the foot o' this rise, across as barren a sand waste as ever broke a man's heart--nary drop o' water from start ter finish, an' hot--oh, hell!" he paused, thinking. "but i hardly reckon them people would ever think 'bout guardin' thet way out, an' a good rider could make it easy afore daylight, an' catch the train east." "how do you get down?" "through a long, twistin' ravine; it's a mean place fer travellin', an' you have ter lead the hoss till yer strike the sand." "ever cross there yourself?" "wal, no," stroking his beard; "but stutter come back thet way onct, from a hunt or something. he never said nothin' when he struck in, but yer could 'a' scraped alkali off him with a hoe, an' he drunk a whole bucket o' water without takin' breath. so i reckon it wa'n't no pleasure jaunt." "then it's got to be stutter," decided winston, rising to his feet, "for we must get word to san juan. i 'm going inside to see how hayes is feeling." "i reckon thet's the ticket," agreed hicks, gloomily, "but i 'm blamed if i like losin' him. he 's a fightin' man, thet stutter, after he onct gits his blood stirred up, an' i 'm sorter expectin' a lively time yere when it gits dark. it 'll be farnham's last chance ter put us out o' the way, an' he 's likely ter take it. i 'll bet stutter won't go, leastwise without the gal; he 's natural bull-headed, besides bein' in love. thet makes an ornery combination." within the cabin, the door closed behind him, the single small window shedding a dim light across the apartment, winston turned, his hand still upon the latch, and confronted beth norvell and mercedes. their presence there was so unexpected that the young man paused in sudden embarrassment, ready words failing him. the two were seated close together on rude stools beneath the window, where they had evidently been in intimate conversation. the former, her gaze lowered upon the floor, did not glance up; but mercedes flashed her black eyes into his face, recognizing his confusion, and hastening to relieve it. warm-hearted, impulsive, already beginning to experience the value of true love, the young mexican was eager to bring these two into a better understanding. her quick smile of welcome swept away for an instant all memory of the other's apparent indifference. "ah, eet vas good you come, señor. see, ve shut up here like prisoners; ve see nottings, ve hear nottings, ve know nottings. now ve make you tell us eet all, de whole story. miladi here, she tink eet all ver' bad; she cry, de tear yet in her eye, an' i know not vat to tell to make her feel bettah. she 'fraid for ever'ting, but most i tink, she 'fraid for you, señor." miss norvell hastily laid her hand upon the girl's sleeve in remonstrance, her face showing grave in the dim light. "no, no, mercedes; you must not say too much, or mr. winston will think us both very foolish." "eet vas not foolish for us to vant to know, vas eet, señor?" "assuredly not." he walked across the narrow room, glanced into the face of the sleeping sheriff, came back beside them, and leaned against the wall. the movement served to yield him confidence and self-control, to decide him as to his future course. "what is it you are so desirous of knowing?" "vy, de whole ting, señor, de whole ting." he gazed directly into the partially upturned face of the other, as though urging her also to speak. "we do not in the least comprehend the situation here, mr. winston," she responded, her voice low and steady. "no one has taken the trouble to explain. we realize, of course, it must be serious, but possibly the strain would prove less if we understood clearly what must be met." the engineer bowed, drawing toward him an empty cracker-box, and sat down facing them both. "i will relate the circumstances to you in all their unpleasantness," he began quietly. "perhaps your woman wit may discover some loophole which has escaped us." clearly, yet rapidly, he reviewed the salient points of the controversy between farnham and the "little yankee," his own brief connection with it, the discoveries made in the lower levels of the "independence," his desperate struggle with burke, the swearing out and serving of warrants, the sudden change in situation which had placed them legally in the wrong, the accident to the sheriff, the curt dismissal of his deputy, and the probable consequences. his voice grew deep as he proceeded, marking the intense interest with which they followed his recital. then he unfolded briefly the plan adopted for relief. it was the impulsive mexican who broke the silence that followed his conclusion. "si, i see dat!" she exclaimed, leaning eagerly forward, her head between her hands. "eet vas ver' good vay. but you tink dar be fight soon? you tink so? beell, he tink so? den you no like dat de señor brown be avay? no, no, you no like be lef' alone ven de fight come? he big, strong, brav'; he bettah as ten men, hey? eet vas so, i tell you. i go vis de message, si; señor brown he stay here. vould not dat be de bettah?" winston shifted uneasily upon his cracker-box, his gaze wandering from the animated face confronting him to that of the other farther back amid the shadows, still grave and full of doubt. "you?" he exclaimed in surprise. "surely you do not suppose we would ever permit you to attempt such a thing." "no? an' vy not, señor?" springing impulsively to her feet, her eyes opening wide. "maybe you tink i not know how ride? maybe you tink i vas 'fraid of de dark? or dat i lose my vay? you tink me leetle girl," and she snapped her fingers indignantly. "do dat? of course i do dat! _sapristi_! eet vas easy. just ride twenty mile. bah! i do dat lots o' times. my pony he take me in tree, four hour sure. he nice pony, an' he lofe mercedes." "but you do not know the way, girl, and the ride must be made at night." "de vay--poof! you speak ver' foolish. de vay?--you tink i cannot find de vay! vy, i mexicana, señor; i know de vay of de desert; i read de sign here, dar, everyvere, like miladi does de book. i know how; si, si. señor brown he show me how get down de side of de mountain, den i know de res'. twenty mile south to de rail; i read de stars, i feel de wind, i give de pony de quirt, and it vas done--_bueno_!" winston sat silently watching her, impressed by the earnestness of her broken english, the eloquent energy of her gesticulations. "vas dat not de bettah vay, señor? i no good here; i just girl in de vay, an' ven de fight come maybe i be 'fraid. but señor brown he not git 'fraid; he fight hard, more as ten men. so i help too; i just ride de pony, but i help. i go san juan; i see de distric' attorney." she clapped her hands, laughing at the thought. "si, i know de distric' attorney ver' veil. he tink mercedes ver' nice girl; he tink i dance bettah as any he ever saw; he say so to me. he do vat mercedes vant, vat she say vas de right ting--sure he do. vas dat not de bettah, señor?" "possibly," yet secretly questioning her motives, "but--but really, you know, i always supposed you to be a friend of farnham's!" the girl instantly flushed crimson to the roots of her black hair, bringing her hands together sharply, her eyes straying from winston to the suddenly uplifted face of miss norvell. "no, no," she said, at last, her voice softer. "he vas not to me anyting! she know how it vas; maybe she tell you sometime. not now, but sometime. i jus' vant do right. i vant serve señor brown, not dat farnham no more. no, no! once, maybe, i tink dat man ver' nice; i tink him good friend; he say much promise mercedes. now i tink dat no more--i know he lie all de time; i see tings as dey vas right, an' i try be good girl. you sabe all dat, señor?" "i understand some of it at least," and he smiled back into her pleading eyes, "enough to trust you. if hicks and brown consent, your going will be all right with me." "_bueno_!" and she dropped him a deep spanish courtesy, executing a quick dancing step toward the door. "den eet vill be so. i no 'fraid. i go see dem both. _adios_." the door opened, and she flashed forth into the fading sunlight; it closed behind her, and left the two alone among the shadows. chapter xxiv an avowal of love winston sat gazing at the delicate contour of her face, partially turned away from him, the long, silken lashes shading eyes lowered upon the floor. a single gleam of the westering sun rested in golden beauty across her dark hair, stirred by the slight breeze blowing through the open window. in the silence he could hear his heart beat, and distinguish the faint sound of her breathing. she was the first to speak, yet without moving her head. "is it true that you are now under arrest?" she questioned, her voice scarcely audible. "technically yes, although, as you may perceive, the sheriff is powerless to prevent an escape if i desired to attempt one." "is it because of that--that charge he made?" he arose to his feet in brave attempt at self-control. "oh, no, certainly not! i think that was merely a threat, a cowardly threat, utterly without provocation, without purpose, unless he sought in that way to work you a serious injury. the real charge against me is murder. it appears that the man i fought with in the mine later died from his injuries." she turned both face and body toward him, her eyes filled with agony. "the man died? will it be possible for you to prove yourself innocent?" "it may be possible, but it does not appear easy. i hope to show that all i did was in self-defence. i did not strike the man a deadly blow; in the struggle he fell and was injured on the sharp rocks. in every sense his death was unintentional, yet there is nothing to sustain me but my own testimony. but i shall not flee from the issue. if i have taken human life i will abide the judgment. god knows i never dreamed of killing the man; never once supposed him seriously injured. you, at least, believe this?" "i believe all you tell me." the man's grasp on the casing of the window tightened, his eyes upon the mass of black hair. "strangely enough," he continued, "this whole affair has gone wrong from the start; nothing has turned out in the natural way. criminals have been made into officers of the law, and honest men changed into outlaws. now it seems impossible to conjecture how the adventure will terminate." she sat looking up at him, scarcely seeing his face, her hands clasped in her lap. "'all the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,'" she said, quoting the familiar words as if in a dream. "we are such puppets in the great play! how strange it all is! how dangerously close real life is, always skirting the precipice of tragedy! plans fail, lines tangle, and lives are changed forever by events seemingly insignificant. to-morrow is always mystery. i wonder, is it not a dim consciousness of this that renders the stage so attractive to the multitude? even its burlesques, its lurid melodramas, are never utterly beyond the possible. everywhere are found stranger stories than any romancer can invent; and yet we sometimes term our lives commonplace." she leaned back against the wall, a sob coming into her voice. "what--what is going to be the end of this--for me?" "whatever you will," he exclaimed passionately, forgetful of all but her power over him. "it is you who must choose." "yes, it is i who must choose," her face still uplifted. "because i am not a leaf to float on the air, my destiny decided by a breath of wind, i must choose; yet how can i know i decide rightly? when heart and conscience stand opposed, any decision means sacrifice and pain. i meant those hasty words wrung out of me in shame, and spoken yonder; i meant them then, and yet they haunt me like so many sheeted ghosts. 'tis not their untruth, but the thought will not down that the real cause of their utterance was not the wrong done me. it had other birth." "in what?" she did not in the least hesitate to answer, her eyes clear and honest upon his own. "in my love for you," she answered, quietly, her cheeks reddening to the frank avowal. he grasped her hands, drawing her, unresisting, toward him. "you confess this to me?" "yes, to you; but to you only because i trust you, because i know you as an honorable man," she said, speaking with an earnest simplicity irresistible. "i am not ashamed of the truth, not afraid to acknowledge it frankly. if there be wrong in this; that wrong has already been accomplished; the mere uttering of it cannot harm either of us. we know the fact without words. i love you; with all my heart i love you. i can say this to you here in the silence, yet i could not speak it openly before the world. why? because such love is wrong? under god i do not know; only, the world would misunderstand, would question my motives, would misjudge my faith. by the code i am not the mistress of my heart; it has been legally surrendered. but you will not misjudge, or question. if i could not trust, i could not love you; i do both. now and here, i put my hands in yours, i place my life, my conscience, in your keeping. for good or evil, for heaven or hell, i yield to you my faith. tell me what i am utterly unable to decide for myself alone: what is my duty, the duty of a woman situated as i am?" he held her hands still, crushing them within his own, yet the color, the hope which had brightened his face, faded. a moment the two sat silent, their eyes meeting, searching the depths. "beth," he asked at last, "is this right?" "is what right?" "that you should cast such a burden upon me. i told you i could not be your conscience. all my desire, all my hope tends in one direction. that which to you appears wrong, to me seems the only right course. my heart responded eagerly to every word of renunciation spoken out there in your indignation. they were just and true. they gave me courage to believe the battle was over; that in soul and heart you were at last free." she lowered her eyes in confusion to the floor, her bosom rising and falling to quick breathing. "and now you discover me hesitating, undecided," she whispered, her lips trembling. "i know i am; there are moments when i hold myself unworthy of love. yet believe me, i am honest, sincere, unselfish in all my thought regarding you. perhaps the trouble is that i know myself, my nature, far too well; i dare not trust it to bring you happiness, unless i can come to you with unsullied conscience." "is it thought of divorce which yet remains so repugnant?" she glanced up into his questioning face, her own cheeks flushing. "i shrink from it in actual pain," she confessed, in instant frankness. "my whole nature revolts. believe me, i am not blind, not insensible; i recognize the truth--all you would tell me--of the inalienable rights of womanhood. neglect, distrust, brutality, open insult have all been my portion. the thousands all over the world accept these as worthy reasons for breaking their marriage vows. but can i? can i who have ever condemned those others for doing so? can i, who have ever held that sacrament to be sacred and enduring? and i realize that the temptation has not come because of the wrongs done to me. he has been all this before, many, many times, yet i have remained true and loyal, not questioning my duty. it is the birth of a new love--god alone knows if i should say a guilty love--which has thus changed me, which has brought to my mind dreams of release. i pray you, try to understand me! how could happiness ever prove my portion, or yours through me, while such questionings continued to haunt my soul like ghosts?" he released her clinging hands, turning away from her, his eyes staring unseeing out of the window. a moment she continued looking at him, her dry eyes anxiously pleading. then she buried her face within her hands and waited, her whole body trembling. twice winston sought to speak, before sufficient courage came to him to allow of his turning back, and looking down upon her bowed figure. "beth," he said at last, his struggle revealed in his voice, "i should not be worthy that love you have given me so unreservedly, did i stoop now to its abuse. i could never forgive myself were i to urge you to do that which your conscience so clearly condemns. to me there is a marriage far more sacred and enduring than any witnessed by man, or solemnized by formal service--the secret union of hearts. we are one in this, and nothing can ever come between us. then let all else wait; let it wait until god shall open a way along which we may walk in honor. mutual sacrifice can never make us any less dear to each other. this condition may serve to separate us for a while, yet i believe the path will open, and that you will learn to perceive your duty from a broader view-point--one that will permit you to find happiness in true love, unhaunted by any memory of the false." she arose slowly to her feet, the tears clinging to her lashes, both hands outstretched. "oh, i thank you! i thank you!" she exclaimed with deep fervor. "those words prove you all i ever believed you to be. they give me hope, courage, patience to remain true to myself, true to my lifelong ideals of womanhood. i am certain you trust me, comprehend my motives, and will think no less of me because of my unwillingness to forfeit a conception of right. he is absolutely nothing to me--nothing. he never could be. there are times when i feel that his death even could not fitly atone for the evil he has wrought me. never again will his influence touch my life to change its purpose. it is not he that keeps us apart; it is a solemn, sacred pledge made by a trusting girl in god's presence--a pledge i cannot forget, cannot break without forfeiting my self-respect, my honor." he drew her gently to him, his eyes no longer filled with passion, yet containing a depth of love that left her helpless to resist his will. "beth, dear," he whispered, his lips almost pressing her cheek, "i will not think of him, but only of you. if you love me i am content. the mere knowledge itself is happiness. tell me once again that this is true." "it is true, forever true; i love you." "may i have for this one time the pledge of your lips?" a single instant she seemed to hesitate, her cheeks flushing hotly, her dark eyes lowered before his. but she lifted her face, and their lips met and clung, as though parting must be forever. amid the closely gathering shadows he led her back to the vacated stool, and stood beside her, gently stroking the soft dark hair of the bowed head. "you have plans?" he questioned quietly. "you have decided how you are to live while we await each other?" "yes," half timidly, as though fearful he might oppose her decision. "i believe i had better return to my work upon the stage." she glanced up at him anxiously. "you do not care, do you? it seems to me i am best fitted for that; i have ambition to succeed, and--and it affords me something worthy to think about." "i recall you said once it would be a poor love which should interfere with the ideals of another." "yes, i remember. how long ago that seems, and what a change has since come over my conceptions of the power of love! i believe it still, yet in so different a way. now i would surrender gladly all ambition, all dream of worldly success, merely to fee alone with the man i love, and bring him happiness. that--that is all i want; it is everything." "and some day it shall be yours," he declared stoutly. "some day when you comprehend that divorce is not always the evil that some delight to proclaim it; some day when you realize that it must be a far greater sin to wreck irretrievably your own life for a brute than to break those man-made bonds which bind you to him. it cannot be long until you learn this, for all nature condemns so unholy an alliance. until then let it be the stage; only i ask you to strive for the very best it offers. have confidence in yourself, little girl, in your ability, your power, your spark of genius touched by suffering. every hour you pass now in hideous, misshapen melodrama is worse than wasted. you have that within you well worthy of better setting, nobler environment, and you wrong yourself to remain content with less. you are mine now wherever you go, whatever triumphs you win; mine in spite of the law, because i possess your heart. i should doubt myself far sooner than ever question your loyalty. i can lend you to the stage for a while--until i come for you in that glad hour when your lips shall bid me--but in the meantime i want you to be true to yourself, to the spirit of art within you. i want you to accomplish the highest purposes of your dreams; to interpret that in life which is worthy of interpretation." "you believe i can?" "i know you can. never from that first night, when i stood in the wings and watched, have i ever questioned the possibilities of your future. you have art, emotion, depth of true feeling, application, a clear understanding of character--all that ever made any actress great. i love you, beth; yet mine is a love too unselfish not to tell you this truth and stand aside rather than block your future." she lifted her eyes to him, now cleared of their tears, and shining with eagerness. "i will do all you say," she said earnestly, "do it because i love you. it shall not be for the people, the applause, the glitter and display, but alone for you. whenever a triumph comes to me, i shall meet it whispering your name in my heart, knowing that you rejoice because i am proving worthy of your faith. it will be as if we worked together; the memory must help to make us both strong." he bent lower, drew her closer to him, and held her thus in silence. "yes," he spoke at last, as though in thought, "i shall try to remember and be patient, so long as you feel it must be so." they were sitting there still, the barest glimmer of twilight brightening the window above, their hands clasped, when mercedes came back, overflowing with light-heartedness. "si, si, sure i did eet," she announced happily, dancing forward into the centre of the darkened room, and seemingly blind to the two before her. "eet ees i that am to ride. _bueno_! eet vill be mooch fun! señor brown he not like let me go; he tink i do all eet for him. oh, de conceit of de men, ven i care not for anyting but de fun, de good time! but i talk him long vile, an' beell he talk, an' maybe he say _si_ for to git us rid of. tink you not eet vas so, señor?" chapter xxv the proof of love the dreaded night settled down dark but clear, a myriad of stars gloriously bright in the vast vault overhead, the clinging shadows black and gloomy along the tree-fringed ridge. nature, hushed into repose, appeared alone in possession, the solemn silence of peaceful night enveloping the vast canyon and its overhanging mountains. amid the gathering gloom all animate life seemed to have sought rest, to have found covert. the last glimpse which the watchful guardians of the "little yankee" gained of the surroundings of the "independence" revealed nothing to awaken immediate alarm. a few men idly came and went about the shaft-house and ore-dump, but otherwise the entire claim appeared deserted. no hostile demonstration of any kind had been attempted since farnham's retreat, and now no sign of contemplated attack was to be perceived. the large number of men visible earlier in the day had mysteriously disappeared; not even the searching field-glasses served to reveal their whereabouts. in the gathering darkness no lights bore witness to the slightest activity; everywhere it remained black and silent. to those wearied men on guard this secrecy seemed ominous of approaching evil. they comprehended too clearly the vengeful nature of their enemy to be lulled thus into any false security. such skulking could be accepted only as a symptom of treachery, of some deep-laid plan for surprise. but what? would farnham, in his desperation, his anxiety to cover up all evidences of crime, resort to strategy, or to force? would he utilize the law, behind which he was now firmly entrenched, or would he rely entirely upon the numbers he controlled to achieve a surer, quicker victory? that he possessed men in plenty to work his will the defenders of the "little yankee" knew from observation. these were of the kind to whom fighting was a trade. they must be there yet, hiding somewhere in the chaparral, for none had retreated down the trail. backed by the mandates of law, convinced that they had nothing to fear legally, that they were merely executing the decrees of court, they would hardly be likely to hesitate at the committal of any atrocity under such a leader. but where would they strike, and how? what could be the purpose of their delay? the object of their secrecy? that there must be both purpose and object could not be doubted; yet nothing remained but to watt for their revelation. an obscuring mist hung over the canyon, stretching from wall to wall. beneath the revealing starlight it was like looking down upon a restless, silent expanse of gray sea. a stray breath of air came sucking up the gorge, causing the many spectral trees outlined against the lighter sky to wave their branches, the leaves rustling as though swept by rain. there was a faint moaning among the distant rocks as if hidden caverns were filled with elves at play. it was weird, lonely, desolate,--straining eyes beholding everywhere the same scene of deserted wilderness. old hicks lay flat under protection of the ore-dump, his ear pressed close to the earth, his contracted eyes searching anxiously those dark hollows in front, a winchester, cocked and ready, within the grasp of his hand. above, irish mike, sniffing the air as though he could smell danger like a pointer dog, hung far out across the parapet of rock, every eager nerve tingling in the hope of coming battle. winston remained in the cabin door, behind him the open room black and silent, his loaded winchester between his feet, gamely struggling to overcome a vague foreboding of impending trouble, yet alert and ready to bear his part. it was then that stutter brown led the saddled pony forward from out the concealment of bushes. the long awaited moment had come for action. to his whispered word, mercedes fluttered promptly forth through the shadowed doorway, and pressed her face lovingly against the pony's quickly uplifted nose. "see," she whispered, patting brown's brawny arm even while she continued toying playfully with the silken mane, "he know me, he lofe me. he bettah as any man, for he nevah tell lie,--nevah,--only be nice all de time. he ride me till he drop dead, swift, quick, like de bird fly. so i make eet all right, señor. you see ven de daylight come i be san juan. den i make mooch fun for de señor farnham--sure i do." "i-i reckon you 'll m-make it all right, l-l-little girl," answered the man regretfully, his voice hushed to a low growl, "b-but jest the same i a-ain't so darn g-g-glad ter l-let yer go. h-hanged ef i would, either, if i d-did n't th-think the toughest part o' it wus g-goin' ter be right yere." she glanced almost shyly up into his shadowed face, her black eyes like stars. "si--dat vas eet. i vas de coward; i just runs avay so 'fraid of de fight. i no like de fight von leetle bit. but i know you, señor; you vant to stay here, an' have de fun. you americano an' like dat ver' mooch. i feel of de big arm, so, an' i know eet ees bettah dat you be here. i mooch like please you, señor." he clasped her hand where it rested small and white against his sleeve, hiding it completely within his own great fist; when he spoke she could mark the tremble in the deep voice. "y-you 're a m-mighty fine girl," he managed to say, simply, "but we g-got ter go now. i-i reckon yer b-b-better walk fer a ways, as the p-pony will step lighter." "i not care, señor," softly. "eet be nice to valk; i nevah 'fraid vid you." brown led the way forward cautiously across the open space, one strong hand firm on the pony's bit, the other barely touching her dress as though it were something sacred. she endeavored to discern his face in the faint starlight, but the low-drawn hat brim shaded it into black lines, revealing nothing. the light, easy words she sought to speak, hoping thus to keep him from more serious talk, would not come to her lips. there was so much of silence and mystery on every side, so much of doubt in this venture, that, in spite of her gay manner, every nerve tingled with excitement. glancing up at him she bit her lips in embarrassment. it was stutter who finally found voice, his mind drifting back to what she had lately said in carelessness. "y-yer said that the p-p-pony never l-lied like a man," he began doubtfully. "yer d-did n't mean that f-fer me, did yer?" there was something so deeply pathetic about the tone in which he asked this as to hurt her, and the slender fingers still clasping his sleeve suddenly closed more tightly. "señor, you mus' not say dat; you mus' not tink dat. no, no! i speak that only in fun, señor--nevah i believe dat, nevah. you good man, more good as mercedes; she not vort' von leetle bit de lofe you say to her, but she feel mooch shame to have you tink dat she mean you ven she speak such ting in fun." he halted suddenly, all remembrance of their surroundings, their possible peril, as instantly erased from his mind. he merely saw that girl face upturned to his in the starlight, so fair and pleading, he merely heard that soft voice urging her unworthiness, her sorrow. a great, broad-shouldered giant he towered above her, yet his voice trembled like that of a frightened child. "an' d-don't yer say that n-no more," he stuttered in awkwardness. "somehow it hurts. l-lord! yer don't h-have ter be s-s-so blame good ter be u-up ter my level. th-they don't b-breed no a-angels back in ol' m-missouri, whar i come from. it's m-mostly mules thar, an' i r-reckon we all g-git a bit mulish an' ornery. b-but i 'spect i 'm d-decent 'nough ter know the r-right sort o' girl when i s-stack up agin her. so i don't w-want ter hear no m-more 'bout yer not b-bein' good. ye 're sure g-good 'nough fer me, an' th-that 's all thar is to it. now, yer w-won't say that no more, w-will yer?" "no, señor," she answered simply, "i no say dat no more." he remained standing before her, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, a great hulk in the gloom. "mercedes," he managed to say finally, "ye're a-g-goin' ter ride away, an' m-maybe thar'll be o-one hell o' a fracas up yere afore the rest o' us g-g-git out o' this scrape. i d-don't reckon as it'll b-be me as will git h-hurt, but somehow i 'd f-feel a heap better if you 'd j-jest say them words what i a-asked yer to afore yer g-go, little g-girl; i would that." she put her hands to her face, and then hid it against the pony's neck, her slight form trembling violently beneath the touch of his fingers. the strange actions of the girl, her continued silence, half frightened him. "maybe yer a-ain't ready yit?" he questioned, his manner full of apology. "oh, señor, i cannot say dat--sure i cannot," she sobbed, her face yet hidden. "maybe i say so some time ven i know eet bettah how eet ought to be; si, maybe so. but not now; i not tink it be jus' right to say now. i not angry--no, no! i ver' glad you tink so of mercedes--it make me mooch joy. i not cry for dat, señor; i cry for odder tings. maybe you know some time, an' be ver' sorry vid me. but i not cry any more. see, i stan' up straight, an' look you in de face dis vay." she drew her hand swiftly across her eyes. "dar, de tear all gone; now i be brav', now i not be 'fraid. you not ask me dat now--not now; to-morrow, nex' veek, maybe i know better how to say de trut' vat vas in my heart--maybe i know den; now eet all jumble up. i tink i know, but de vord not come like i vant eet." he turned silently away from her, leading the pony forward, his head bent low, his shoulders stooped. there was a dejection apparent about the action which her eyes could not mistake. she touched him pleadingly. "you no ver' angry mercedes, señor?" brown half turned about, and rested one great hand upon her soft hair in mute caress. "n-no, little girl, it a-ain't that," he admitted slowly. "only i 'm b-blamed if i jest e-exactly grasp yer s-style. i reckon i 'll kn-know what yer mean s-sometime." could he have seen clearly he might have marked the swift, hot tears dimming her eyes, but he never dreamed of their presence, for her lips were laughing. "maybe so, señor, maybe. i glad you not angry, for i no like dat. eet vas nice i fool you so; dat vas vat make de men lofe, ven dey not know everyting. ven day know dem maybe eet all be over vid. so maybe i show you sometime, maybe not--_quien sabe_?" if her lightly spoken words hurt, he realized the utter futility of striving then to penetrate their deeper meaning. they advanced slowly, moving in more closely against the great ridge of rocks where the denser shadows clung, the man's natural caution becoming apparent as his mind returned to a consideration of the dangerous mission upon which they were embarked. to-morrow would leave him free from all this, but now he must conduct her in safety to that mist-shrouded plain below. they had moved forward for perhaps a dozen yards, the obedient pony stepping as silently as themselves, mercedes a foot or two to the rear, when brown suddenly halted, staring fixedly at something slightly at one side of their path. there, like a huge baleful eye glaring angrily at him, appeared a dull red glow. an instant he doubted, wondered, his mind confused. tiny sparks sputtered out into the darkness, and the miner understood. he had blindly stumbled upon a lighted fuse, a train of destruction leading to some deed of hell. with an oath he leaped recklessly forward, stamping the creeping flame out beneath his feet, crushing it lifeless between his heavy boots and the rock. there was an angry shout, the swift rush of feet, the red flare of a rifle cleaving the night with burst of flame. in the sudden, unearthly glare brown caught dim sight of faces, of numerous dark figures leaping toward him, but he merely crouched low. the girl! he must protect the girl! that was all he knew, all he considered, excepting a passionate hatred engendered by one of those faces he had just seen. they were upon him in mass, striking, tearing like so many wild beasts in the first fierceness of attack. his revolver jammed in its holster, but he struck out with clenched fists, battering at the black figures, his teeth ground together, his every instinct bidding him fight hard till he died. once they pounded him to his knees, but he struggled up, shaking loose their gripping hands, and hurling them back like so many children. he was crazed by then with raging battle-fury, his hot blood lusting, every great muscle strained to the uttermost. he realized nothing, saw nothing, but those dim figures facing him; insensible to the blood trickling down the front of his shirt, unconscious of wound, he flung himself forward a perfect madman, jerking a rifle from the helpless fingers of an opponent, and smiting to right and left, the deadly-iron bar whirling through the air. he struck once, twice; he saw bodies whirl sidewise and fall to the ground. then suddenly he seemed alone, panting fiercely, the smashed rifle-stock uplifted for a blow. "it's the big fellow," roared a voice at his left. "why don't you fools shoot?" he sprang backward, crouching lower, his one endeavor to draw their fire, so as to protect her lying hidden among the rock shadows. he felt nothing except contempt for those fellows, but he could not let them hurt her. he stood up full in the starlight, shading his eyes in an attempt to see. somebody cried, "there he is, damn him!" a slender figure swept flying across the open space like some dim night vision. a red flame leaped forth from the blackness. the two stood silhouetted against the glare, reeled backward as it faded, and went down together in the dark. chapter xxvi beneath the darkness running blindly through the darkness toward the sound of struggle came hicks and winston. they caught no more than faint glimpses of scattering, fleeing figures, but promptly opened fire, scarcely comprehending as yet what it all meant. hicks, dashing recklessly forward, tripped over a recumbent figure in the darkness, and the two paused irresolutely, perceiving no more of the enemy. then it was that stutter brown struggled slowly up upon his knees, still closely clasping the slender figure of the stricken girl within his arms. she neither moved nor moaned, but beneath the revealing starlight her eyes were widely opened, gazing up into his face, appearing marvellously brilliant against the unusual pallor of her cheeks. her breath came short and sharp as if in pain, yet the lips smiled up at him. "oh, god!" he sobbed, "it was you!" "si, señor," the words faltering forth, almost as if in mockery of his own hesitating speech. "once i said maybe i show you. i not know how den--now i know." "sh-show me, little girl--in god's n-name, show me wh-what?" "eef eet vas true dat i lofe you, señor. now you tink eet vas so; now you all'ays know vat vas in de heart of mercedes. dis bettah vay as talk, señor--nevah you doubt no more." he could only continue to look at her, the intense agony within his eyes beyond all expression of speech, his words caught helpless in the swelling throat. she lifted one hand in weak caress, gently touching his cheek with her white fingers. "oh, please don't, señor. eet hurt me mooch to see you feel dat bad. sure eet does. eet vas not de balls vat hurt--no, no! i know dey not reach to you eef dey hit me de first. eet joys me to do dat--sure eet does." "little g-girl, little g-girl," he faltered, helplessly, his great hands trembling as he touched her. "it w-was you i t-tried ter save. i-i ran th-th-this way so th-they wouldn't sh-shoot toward yer." she smiled happily up at him, softly stroking his hair, even while the lines of her face twitched from pain. "sure i know, señor. you von brav', good man--maybe now you all'ays tink i brav', good also. dat be 'nough for mercedes. oh, dis be de bettar vay--de great god knows; sure he knows. now, señor, i be yours all'ays, forever. i so happy to be lofed by good man. i just look in your face, señor, and tink, he lofe me, he ask me marry him. maybe i not nevah do dat, for fear he tire, for fear he hear tings not nice about mercedes. dat make me sorrow, make me shame before him. si, i know how it vould be. i know de americanos; dey ver' proud of dare vives, dey fight for de honor. so eet make me mooch 'fraid, i no vort' eet--no, no! i know not den de bettar vay. but de good mother of god she show me, she tell me vat do--i run quick; i die for de man i lofe, an' den he all'ays know dat i lofe him; he know den bettar as eef i marry him. si, si, eet vas all joy for mercedes, now, my señor. eet not hurt, eet make me glad to know." brown bent ever lower as he listened, his great body shaking in the effort to repress his sobs, his lips pressing against her white cheek. "i kiss you now, señor," she whispered, faintly. "just de once, like i vas your vife." their lips met, the very soul of each seemingly in the soft, clinging contact. suddenly the poor girl sank backward, her head falling heavily upon his supporting arm, a peculiar shudder twitching her slender form. "mercedes!" he cried in alarm. "si, señor," the black eyes still wide open, but her words scarcely audible. "eet is so hard to see you; maybe de stars hide behin' de cloud, but, but i lofe--" "yes, y-yes, i kn-know." she lifted her arms, then dropped them heavily upon his bowed shoulders. "dar is such a brightness come, señor. eet light everyting like eet vas de day. maybe i be good too, now dat a good man lofe me; maybe de god forgif all de bad because i lofe. you tink so? oh, eet--eet joys me so--señor! señor!" motionless, almost breathless, but for the sobs shaking his great figure, he held her tightly, bending low, her white cheek against his own, her head pillowed upon his arm. about them was the silence, the solemn night shadows, amid which waited hicks and winston earnestly watching. finally, the latter spoke gently, striving to arouse the man; but stutter brown never lifted his head, never removed his eyes from the death-white face upheld by his arm. as though stricken to stone he remained motionless, seemingly lifeless, his face as pallid as the dead he guarded. hicks bent over and placed one hand upon his shoulder. "stutter, ol' pard," he said, pleadingly. "i know it's mighty hard, but don't take on so; don't act that way. it can't do her no manner o' good now. it's all--all over with, an' you ain't helpin' her none a-settin' thar that way." the smitten man drew a deep breath, glancing up into the kindly, seamed face bending over him, and about at the surrounding darkness. he acted like one suddenly aroused from sleep, unable to comprehend his situation. slowly, with all the tenderness of love, he crumpled his old hat into the semblance of a pillow, placed it upon the rock, and lowered the girl's head until it rested softly upon it. gently he passed his great hand in caress across the ruffled black hair, pressing it back from her forehead. he arose to his knees, to his feet, swaying slightly, one hand pressed against his head as he stared blankly into the faces of the two men. "w-which way d-did he go?" he asked, almost stupidly. "th-the feller w-who told 'em ter f-f-fire?" old hicks, his eyes filled with misery, shook his head. "back ter the 'independence,' i reckon," he admitted. "most o' 'em i saw started that way." brown roughly jerked his gun from out its holster, holding the shining weapon up into the starlight. "no, he didn't; not that one," he growled fiercely, his glance falling again upon the upturned features of the dead girl. "i saw him out thar runnin' toward our shaft-hole; h-he's up t-ter more d-deviltry. y-you take k-keer o' her." his voice broke, then rang out strong. "by g-god, i 'll git the murderer!" he pushed past between the two, shouldering them aside as though failing to see them, and, with the leap of a tiger, disappeared in the night. each man had caught a glimpse of his face, drawn, white, every line picturing savagery, and shrank back from the memory. it was as if they had looked upon something too horrible for thought. a moment they stared after him, clutching their rifles as though in an agony of fear. hicks first found words of expression. "he 's gone mad! god pity him, he 's gone mad!" winston drew himself together sharply, one hand grasping the other's arm. "then leave it to him," he said, quickly. "whoever did this deed deserves his punishment. let us do what he bade us--look to the body of this poor girl." they turned back, dreading their task, moving still as though half dazed. as they advanced, a dark body just beyond suddenly rose to its knees, and began crawling away. with a bound hicks succeeded in laying hands upon the fellow, and flung him over, face upward to the stars. with gun at his head he held the man prostrate, staring down upon the revealed features in manifest astonishment. "damn me!" he cried, a new note of surprise in his voice, "winston, look yere!" "what is it?" and the younger man pressed forward, his rifle ready. "ain't that burke? ain't that the same feller they had you pinched fer murderin'?" the helpless man lying upon the ground frowned savagely up at them, a dirty bandage bound about his head giving him a ghastly, unnatural appearance. for a long moment the startled engineer gazed down at him in incredulity, unable to distinguish the features clearly, his own heart beating rapidly in suspense. "i half believe it is. are you jack burke?" the man attempted a grin, but there was little of merriment in the result. "oi think loikely ye 're as liable as any wan to know. ye 're the lad that put this head on me, but that other divil it was that broke me arm. let me up from here. begorry! oi 've had 'nough fightin' fer wan toime." "did you know i had been put under arrest on the charge of killing you?" burke grinned, this time in earnest. "divil a bit did oi know anything about it. farnham he tould me to keep damn quiet in the bunkhouse, out o' sight, but whin they wanted for to set this fuse off, it seems oi was the only lad that could do the job, an' so they brought me out here along wid 'em. it 's a busted head an' a broken arm oi 've got for me share o' the fun. be the powers, now, let me git up!" the two men, watching him closely, exchanged glances. "all right, burke," and winston held up his rifle suggestively. "you can get up, only stay close to us, wid no tricks. i want you, and i want you bad. if you make any break, there 'll be a dead irishman this time sure. is that you, mike?" "sure, sor." "good; you've come just in time. drop your muzzle on this native son, and if the fellow makes a suspicious move, plug him, you understand?" "ye bet oi do, sor. sthep out there, burke, yer slab-sided boss o' swades, or oi 'll show ye what a dacent oirishman--an o'brien, bedad,--thinks o' the loikes of ye; oi will that." with sympathetic gentleness, and in all the tenderness possible, their eyes moist, and everything else forgotten excepting their sad task, hicks and winston kneeled on the hard rock and lifted the slender figure of mercedes in their arms. slowly, without the exchange of a word, the little concourse turned in the darkness, and advanced in the direction of the cabin, bearing the silent burden. they walked with bowed heads and careful steps, their hearts heavy. with a faint whinny the girl's deserted pony trotted forward from out the shadow where he had been left, sniffed at her trailing skirt with outstretched nose, and fell in behind, walking with head bent almost to the ground as though he also understood and mourned. winston glanced, marvelling, back at the animal, hastily brushing a tear from out his own eye; yet his lips remained set and rigid. he felt no doubt about who it was brown was seeking through the black night. when they met, it would be a battle to the death. before the still open door of the cabin they silently lowered their burden in the shadow of the building. an instant they stood there listening intently for any sound to reach them from out the surrounding night. then winston, assuming the duty, stepped reluctantly forward endeavoring to peer within. his heart throbbed from the pain of that sudden message of death he brought. "beth," he called, perceiving no movement within, and compelling his voice to calmness. "miss norvell." there was a slight movement near the farther wall, but it was the voice of the wounded sheriff which answered. "who are yer? what was all that firin' about just now? damn if i ain 't too weak ter git up, but i got a gun yere, an' reckon i kin pull the trigger." "it's winston and hicks. we 've had a skirmish out beyond the dump. those fellows tried to blow up our shaft, and we caught them at it. is miss norvell here?" "no, i reckon not; she was sittin' yere talkin' to me when that shootin' begun, an' then she ran out the door thar. anybody git hurt?" "the little mexican girl was killed. we have brought her body here." "good god!" "and we 've also got a prisoner, sheriff. it 's that same jack burke you arrested me for killing. he seems very much alive." there was a rustling back in the darkness, as if the man within was endeavoring to draw his body into a sitting posture. then he swore savagely, pounding his fist into the side of the bunk, as though seeking thus to relieve his feelings. "burke!" he fairly exploded at last, his anger appearing to stifle utterance. "jack burke! hell! is that true? oh, lord! but i wish i could git out o' yere. that damn farnham swore out that warrant down in san juan, ther blame, ornery cur. it was a low-down, measly trick, an' he actually had the nerve ter use me ter play out his game fer him. lord! if ever i git my hand on him i 'll shut down hard." no one answered him, the thought of all recurring reverently to the motionless, silent dead without. bareheaded, the two men, groping through the darkness, bore mercedes within in all tenderness, and placed the slender form upon the bed, covering it with the single sheet. hicks remained motionless, bending over her, the kindly darkness veiling the mist of tears dimming his old eyes and the trembling of his lips as he sought, for the first time in years, to pray. but winston turned instantly and walked over toward hayes, his heart already filled with fresh anxiety. "where did she go, do you know?" "who? the young actress woman? i could n't see exactly, only she went outside. i thought i heard voices talkin' out thar later on, over beyond toward the window, but maybe i imagined it. darn this ol' head o' mine! it keeps whirlin' round every time i move, like it was all wheels." the engineer, his face white with determination, strode to the door. beyond doubt it was biff farnham whose voice brown had recognized, commanding his men to fire; it was farnham who had disappeared in the direction of the "little yankee" shaft-house. what fresh deviltry was the desperate gambler engaged upon? what other tragedy was impending out there in the black night? chapter xxvii the shadow of crime winston could never afterward recall having heard any report, yet as he stepped across the threshold a sharp flare of red fire cleft the blackness to his left. as though this was a signal he leaped recklessly forward, running blindly along the narrow path toward the ore-dump. some trick of memory led him to remember a peculiar swerve in the trail just beneath the upper rim of the canyon. it must have been about there that he saw the flash, and he plunged over the edge, both hands outstretched in protection of his eyes from injury should he collide with any obstacle in the darkness. the deep shadows blinded him, but there was no hesitancy, some instinct causing him to feel the urgent need of haste. once he stumbled and fell headlong, but was as instantly up again, bruised yet not seriously hurt. his revolver was jerked loose from his belt, but the man never paused to search for it. even as he regained his feet, his mind bewildered by the shock, his ears distinguished clearly the cry of a woman, the sound of heavy feet crushing through underbrush. it was to his right, and he hurled himself directly into the thick chaparral in the direction from whence the sound came. he knew not what new terror awaited him, what peril lurked in the path. at that moment he cared nothing. bareheaded, pushing desperately aside the obstructing branches, his heart throbbing, his clothing torn, his face white with determination, he struggled madly forward, stumbling, creeping, fighting a passage, until he finally emerged, breathless but resolute, into a little cove extending back into the rock wall. from exertion and excitement he trembled from head to foot, the perspiration dripping from his face. he stopped. the sight which met him for the moment paralyzed both speech and motion. halfway across the open space, only dimly revealed in the star-light, her long hair dislodged and flying wildly about her shoulders, the gleam of the weapon in her hand, apparently stopped in the very act of flight, her eyes filled with terror staring back toward him, stood beth norvell. in that first instant he saw nothing else, thought only of her; of the intense peril that had so changed the girl. with hands outstretched he took a quick step toward her, marvelling why she crouched and shrank back before him as if in speechless fright. then he saw. there between them, at his very feet, the face upturned and ghastly, the hands yet clinched as if in struggle, lay the lifeless body of biff farnham. as though fascinated by the sight, winston stared at it, involuntarily drawing away as the full measure of this awful horror dawned upon him: she had killed him. driven to the deed by desperation, goaded to it by insult and injury, tried beyond all power of human endurance, she had taken the man's life. this fact was all he could grasp, all he could comprehend. it shut down about him like a great blackness. in the keen agony of that moment of comprehension winston recalled how she had once confessed temptation to commit the deed; how she had even openly threatened it in a tempest of sudden passion, if this man should ever seek her again. he had done so, and she had redeemed her pledge. he had dared, and she had struck. under god, no one could justly blame her; yet the man's heart sank, leaving him faint and weak, reeling like a drunken man, as he realized what this must mean--to her, to him, to all the world. right or wrong, justified or unjustified, the verdict of law spelled murder; the verdict of society, ostracism. it seemed to him that he must stifle; his brain was whirling dizzily. he saw it all as in a flash of lightning--the arrest, the pointing fingers, the bitterness of exposure, the cruel torture of the court, the broken-hearted woman cowering before her judges. oh, god! it was too much! yet what could he do? how might he protect, shield her from the consequences of this awful act? the law! what cared he for the law, knowing the story of her life, knowing still that he loved her? for a moment the man utterly forgot himself in the intensity of his agony for her. this must inevitably separate them more widely than ever before; yet he would not think of that--only of what he could do now to aid her. he tore open his shirt, that he might have air, his dull gaze uplifting piteously from the face of the dead to the place where she stood, her hands pressed against her head, her great eyes staring at him as though she confronted a ghost. her very posture shocked him, it was so filled with speechless horror, so wild with undisguised terror. suddenly she gave utterance to a sharp cry, that was half a sob, breaking in her throat. "oh, my god! my god!--you!" the very sound of her voice, unnatural, unhuman as it was, served to bring him to himself. "yes, beth, yes," he exclaimed hoarsely through dry lips, stepping across the body toward her. "you need not fear me." she drew hastily back from before him, holding forth her hands as though pressing him away, upon her face that same look of unutterable horror. "you! you! oh, my god!" she kept repeating. "see! see there!--he is dead, dead, dead! i--i found him there; i--i found him there. oh, my god!--that face so white in the starlight! i--i heard the words, and--and the shot." she pressed both hands across her eyes as though seeking to blot it out. "i swear i heard it! i--i do not know why i came here, but i--i found him there dead, dead! i--i was all alone in the dark. i--i had to touch him to make sure, and--and then it was you." "yes, yes," he said, realizing she was blindly endeavoring to clear herself, yet thinking only how he might soothe her, inexpressibly shocked by both words and manner. "i know, i understand--you found him there in the dark, and it has terrified you." he approached closer, holding forth his own hands, believing she would come to him. but instead she shrank away as a child might, expecting punishment, her arms uplifted, shielding her face. "no, no; do not touch me; do not touch me," she moaned. "i am not afraid of you, only i could not bear it." "beth!" he compelled his voice to sternness, confident now that this hysteria could be controlled only through the exercise of his own will. "you must listen to me, and be guided by my judgment. you must, you shall, do as i say. this is a most terrible happening, but it is now too late to remedy. we cannot restore life once taken. we must face the fact and do the very best we can for the future. this man is dead. how he died can make no difference to us now. you must go away from here; you must go away from here at once." "and--and leave him alone?" the whispered words stung him, his distressed mind placing wrong construction on the utterance. "has he been so much to you that now you must sacrifice yourself needlessly for him?" he questioned quickly. "no, not that--not that," a shudder ran through her body, "but he--he was my husband. you forget." "i do not forget. god knows it has been burden enough for me. but you have no further duty here, none to him. you have to yourself and to me." "to--to you?" "yes, to me. i will put it that way, if it will only stir you to action. i can not, will not, leave you here alone to suffer for this. if you stay, i stay. in heaven's name, beth, i plead with you to go; i beg you to be guided in this by me." "you--you will go with me?" her voice trembling, yet for the first time exhibiting a trace of interest. "if i go, you will go?" "yes, yes; can you suppose i would ever permit you to go alone? do you give me your promise?" she still held her head pressed between the palms of her hands, her dishevelled hair hanging far below the waist, her dark eyes, wild and filled with terror, roving about as though seeking to pierce the surrounding darkness. "oh, my god! i don't know!" she cried in a breathless sob. "i don't know! why won't you go? why won't you go, and leave me here with him, until some one else comes? i cannot understand; my brain is on fire. but that would be better--yes, yes! do that. i--i am not afraid of him." he caught her outflung hand firmly within his own grasp. she shuddered, as if the contact were painful, yet made no effort to escape, her eyes widening as she looked at him. "no, i will not go one step without you." he held her helpless, his face grown stern, seeing in this his only hope of influencing her action. "can it be you believe me such a cur? beth, we both comprehend the wrong this man has done, the evil of his life the provocation given for such an act as this. he deserved it all. this is no time for blame. if we desired to aid him, our remaining here now would accomplish nothing. others will discover the body and give it proper care. but, oh, god! do you realize what it will inevitably mean for us to be discovered here?--the disgrace, the stigma, the probability of arrest and conviction, the ruthless exposure of everything? i plead with you to think of all this, and no longer hesitate. we have no time for that. leave here with me before it becomes too late. i believe i know a way out, and there is opportunity if we move quickly. but the slightest delay may close every avenue for escape. beth, beth, blot out all else, and tell me you will go!" the intense agony apparent in his voice seemed to break her down utterly. the tears sprang blinding to her dry eyes, her head bent forward. "and," she asked, as if the thought had not yet reached her understanding, "you will not go without--without me?" "no; whatever the result, no." she lifted her face, white, haggard, and looked at him through the mist obscuring her eyes, no longer wide opened in wildness. "then i must go; i must go," she exclaimed, a shudder shaking her from head to foot; "god help me, i must go!" a moment she gazed blankly back toward the motionless body on the ground, the ghastly countenance upturned to the stars, her own face as white as the dead, one hand pressing back her dark hair. she reeled from sudden faintness, yet, before he could touch her in support, she had sunk upon her knees, with head bowed low, the long tresses trailing upon the ground. "beth! beth!" he cried in an agony of fear. she looked up at him, her expression that of earnest pleading. "yes, yes, i will go," she said, the words trembling; "but--but let me pray first." he stood motionless above her, his heart throbbing, his own eyes lowered upon the ground. he was conscious of the movement of her lips, yet could never afterward recall even a broken sentence of that prayer. possibly it was too sacred even for his ears, only to be measured by the infinite love of god. she ceased to speak at last, the low voice sinking into an inarticulate whisper, yet she remained kneeling there motionless, no sound audible excepting her repressed sobbing. driven by the requirements of haste, winston touched her gently upon the shoulder. "come, my girl," he said, the sight of her suffering almost more than he could bear. "you have done all you can here now." she arose to her feet slowly, never looking toward him, never appearing to heed his presence. he noticed the swelling of her throat as though the effort to breathe choked her, the quick spasmodic heaving of her bosom, and set his teeth, struggling against the strain upon his own nerves. "you will go with me now?" she glanced about at him, her eyes dull, unseeing. "oh, yes--now," she answered, as if the words were spoken automatically. he led her away, ignoring the constant efforts she made, as they climbed the bank, to gaze back across his shoulder. finally the intervening branches completely hid that white, dead face below, and, as if with it had vanished all remaining strength of will, or power of body, the girl drooped her head against him, swaying blindly as she walked. without a word he drew her close within his arm, her hair blowing across his face, her hand gripping his shoulder. it was thus they came forth amid the clearer starlight upon the ridge summit. again and again as they moved slowly he strove to speak, to utter some word of comfort, of sympathy. but he could not--the very expression of her partially revealed face, as he caught glimpses of it, held him speechless. deep within his heart he knew her trouble was beyond the ministration of words. some one was standing out in front of the cabin. his eyes perceived the figure as they approached, and he could not bring himself to speak of this thing of horror in her presence. "beth," he said gently, but had to touch her to attract attention, "i want you to sit here and wait while i arrange for our journey. you are not afraid?" "no," her voice utterly devoid of emotion, "i am not afraid." "you will remain here?" she looked at him, her face expressionless, as though she failed to understand. yet when he pointed to the stone she sat down. "yes," she answered, speaking those common words hesitatingly as if they were from some unfamiliar foreign tongue, "i am to do what you say." she bent wearily down, her head buried within her hands. for a moment winston stood hesitating, scarcely daring to leave her. but she did not move, and finally he turned away, walking directly toward that indistinct figure standing beside the cabin door. as he drew closer he recognized the old miner, his rifle half-raised in suspicion of his visitor. it must be done, and the engineer went at his task directly. "has brown come back?" "shore; he 's in thar now," and hicks peered cautiously into the face of his questioner, even while pointing back into the dark cabin. "he come in a while ago; never said no word ter me, but just pushed past in thar ter the bed, an' kneeled down with his face in the bed-clothes. he ain't moved ner spoke since. i went in onct, an' tried ter talk ter him, but he never so much as stirred, er looked at me. i tell yer, mr. winston, it just don't seem nat'ral; 't ain't a bit like stutter fer ter act in that way. i just could n't stand it no longer, an' had ter git out yere into the open air. damn, but it makes me sick." "this has been a terrible night," the younger man said gravely, laying his hand upon the other's shoulder. "i hope never to pass through such another. but we are not done with it yet. hicks, farnham has been killed--shot. his body lies over yonder in that little cove, just beyond the trail. you will have to attend to it, for i am going to get his wife away from here at once." "you are what?" "i am going to take miss norvell away--now, to-night. i am going to take her across to daggett station, to catch the east-bound train." hicks stared at him open-eyed, the full meaning of all this coming to his mind by degrees. "good god! do yer think she did it?" he questioned incredulously. winston shook him, his teeth grinding together savagely. "damn you! it makes no difference what i think!" he exclaimed fiercely, his nerves throbbing. "all you need to know is that she is going; going to-night; going to daggett station, to denver, to wherever she will be beyond danger of ever being found. you understand that? she 's going with me, and you are going to help us, and you are going to do your part without asking any more fool questions." "what is it you want?" "your horse, and the pony mercedes was riding." hicks uttered a rasping oath, that seemed to catch, growling, in his lean throat. "but, see yere, winston," he protested warmly. "just look at the shape your goin' now will leave us in yere at the 'little yankee.' we need yer testimony, an' need it bad." winston struck his hand against the log, as slight vent to his feelings. "hicks, i never supposed you were a fool. you know better than that, if you will only stop and think. this claim matter is settled already. the whole trouble originated with farnham, and he is dead. tomorrow you 'll bury him. the sheriff is here, and he's already beginning to understand this affair. he stands to help you. now, all you 've got to do is to swear out warrants for farnham's partners, and show up in evidence that tunnel running along your lead. it's simple as a b c, now that you know it's there. they can't beat you, and you don't require a word of testimony from me. but that poor girl needs me,--she's almost crazed by this thing,--and i 'm going with her, if i have to fight my way out from here with a rifle. that's the whole of it--either you give me those horses, or i 'll take them." old hicks looked into the grim face fronting him so threateningly, the complete situation slowly revealing itself to his mind. "great guns!" he said at last, almost apologetically. "yer need n't do nothin' like that. lord, no! i like yer first rate, an' i like the girl. yer bet i do, an' i 'm damn glad that farnham 's knocked out. shore, i 'll help the both o' yer. i reckon stutter 'd be no good as a guide ter-night, but i kin show yer the way down the ravine. the rest is just ridin'. yer kin leave them hosses with the section-boss at daggett till i come fer 'em." chapter xxviii across the desert to the end never in the after years could winston clearly recall the incidents of that night's ride across the sand waste. the haze which shrouded his brain would never wholly lift. except for a few detached details the surroundings of that journey remained vague, clouded, indistinct. he remembered the great, burning desert; the stars gleaming down above them like many eyes; the ponderous, ragged edge of cloud in the west; the irregular, castellated range of hills at their back; the dull expanse of plain ever stretching away in front, with no boundary other than that southern sky. the weird, ghostly shadows of cactus and spanish bayonet were everywhere; strange, eerie noises were borne to them out of the void--the distant cries of prowling wolves, the mournful sough of the night wind, the lonely hoot of some far-off owl. nothing greeted the roving eyes but desolation,--a desolation utter and complete, a mere waste of tumbled sand, by daylight whitened here and there by irregular patches of alkali, but under the brooding night shadows lying brown, dull, forlorn beyond all expression, a trackless, deserted ocean of mystery, oppressive in its drear sombreness. he rode straight south, seeking no trail, but guiding their course by the stars, his right hand firmly grasping the pony's bit, and continually urging his own mount to faster pace. the one thought dominating his mind was the urgent necessity for haste--a savage determination to intercept that early train eastward. beyond this single idea his brain seemed in hopeless turmoil, seemed failing him. any delay meant danger, discovery, the placing of her very life in peril. he could grasp that; he could plan, guide, act in every way the part of a man under its inspiration, but all else appeared chaos. the future?--there was no future; there never again could be. the chasm of a thousand years had suddenly yawned between him and this woman. it made his head reel merely to gaze down into those awful depths. it could not be bridged; no sacrifice, no compensation might ever undo that fatal death-shot. he did not blame her, he did not question her justification, but he understood--together they faced the inevitable. there was no escape, no clearing of the record. there was nothing left him to do except this, this riding through the night--absolutely nothing. once he had guided her into safety all was done,--done forever; there remained to him no other hope, ambition, purpose, in all this world. the desert about them typified that forthcoming existence--barren, devoid of life, dull, and dead. he set his teeth savagely to keep back the moan of despair that rose to his lips, half lifting himself in the stirrups to glance back toward her. if she perceived anything there was not the slightest reflection of it within her eyes. lustreless, undeviating, they were staring directly ahead into the gloom, her face white and almost devoid of expression. the sight of it turned him cold and sick, his unoccupied hand gripping the saddle-pommel as though he would crush the leather. yet he did not speak, for there was nothing to say. between these two was a fact, grim, awful, unchangeable. fronting it, words were meaningless, pitiable. he had never before known that she could ride, but he knew it now. his eye noted the security of her seat in the saddle, the easy swaying of her slender form to the motion of the pony, in apparent unconsciousness of the hard travelling or the rapidity of their progress. she had drawn back the long tresses of her hair and fastened them in place by some process of mystery, so that now her face was revealed unshadowed, clearly defined in the starlight. dazed, expressionless, as it appeared, looking strangely deathlike in that faint radiance, he loved it, his moistened eyes fondly tracing every exposed lineament. god! but this fair woman was all the world to him! in spite of everything, his heart went forth to her unchanged. it was fate, not lack of love or loyalty, that now set them apart, that had made of their future a path of bitterness. in his groping mind he rebelled against it, vainly searching for some way out, urging blindly that love could even blot out this thing in time, could erase the crime, leaving them as though it had never been. yet he knew better. once she spoke out of the haunting silence, her voice sounding strange, her eyes still fixed in that same vacant stare ahead into the gloom. "isn't this mercedes' pony? i--i thought she rode away on him herself?" with the words the recollection recurred to him that she did not yet know about that other tragedy. it was a hard task, but he met it bravely. quietly as he might, he told the sad story in so far as he understood it--the love, the sacrifice, the suffering. as she listened her head drooped ever lower, and he saw the glitter of tears falling unchecked. he was glad she could cry; it was better than that dull, dead stare. as he made an end, picturing the sorrowing stutter kneeling in his silent watch at the bedside, she looked gravely across to him, the moisture clinging to the long lashes. "it was better so--far better. i know how she felt, for she has told me. god was merciful to her;" the soft voice broke into a sob; "for me, there is no mercy." "beth, don't say that! little woman, don't say that! the future is long; it may yet lead to happiness. a true love can outlast even the memory of this night." she shook her head wearily, sinking back into the saddle. "yes," she said soberly, "love may, and i believe will, outlast all. it is immortal. but even love cannot change the deed; nothing ever can, nothing--no power of god or man." he did not attempt to answer, knowing in the depths of his own heart that her words were true. for an instant she continued gazing at him, as though trustful he might speak, might chance to utter some word of hope that had not come to her. then the uplifted head drooped wearily, the searching eyes turning away to stare once again straight ahead. his very silence was acknowledgment of the truth, the utter hopelessness of the future. although living, there lay between them the gulf of death. gray, misty, and silent came the dawn, stealing across the wide desolation like some ghostly presence--the dawn of a day which held for these two nothing except despair. they greeted its slow coming with dulled, wearied eyes, unwelcoming. drearier amid that weird twilight than in the concealing darkness stretched the desolate waste of encircling sand, its hideous loneliness rendered more apparent, its scars of alkali disfiguring the distance, its gaunt cacti looking deformed and merciless. the horses moved forward beneath the constant urging of the spur, worn from fatigue, their heads drooping, their flanks wet, their dragging hoofs ploughing the sand. the woman never changed her posture, never seemed to realize the approach of dawn; but winston roused up, lifting his head to gaze wearily forward. beneath the gray, out-spreading curtain of light he saw before them the dingy red of a small section-house, with a huge, rusty water-tank outlined against the sky. lower down a little section of vividly green grass seemed fenced about by a narrow stream of running water. at first glimpse he deemed it a mirage, and rubbed his half-blinded eyes to make sure. then he knew they had ridden straight through the night, and that this was daggett station. he helped her down from the saddle without a word, without the exchange of a glance, steadying her gently as she stood trembling, and finally half carried her in his arms across the little platform to the rest of a rude bench. the horses he turned loose to seek their own pasturage and water, and then came back, uncertain, filled with vague misgiving, to where she sat, staring wide-eyed out into the desolation of sand. he brought with him a tin cup filled with water, and placed it in her hand. she drank it down thirstily. "thank you," she said, her voice sounding more natural. "is there nothing else, beth? could you eat anything?" "no, nothing. i am just tired--oh, so tired in both body and brain. let me sit here in quiet until the train comes. will that be long?" he pointed far off toward the westward, along those parallel rails now beginning to gleam in the rays of the sun. on the outer rim of the desert a black spiral of smoke was curling into the horizon. "it is coming now; we had but little time to spare." "is that a fast train? are you certain it will stop here?" "to both questions, yes," he replied, relieved to see her exhibit some returning interest. "they all stop here for water; it is a long run from this place to bolton junction." she said nothing in reply, her gaze far down the track where those spirals of smoke were constantly becoming more plainly visible. in the increasing light of the morning he could observe how the long night had marked her face with new lines of weariness, had brought to it new shadows of care. it was not alone the dulled, lustreless eyes, but also those hollows under them, and the drawn lips, all combining to tell the story of physical fatigue, and a heart-sickness well-nigh unendurable. unable to bear the sight, winston turned away, walking to the end of the short platform, staring off objectless into the grim desert, fighting manfully in an effort to conquer himself. this was a struggle, a remorseless struggle, for both of them; he must do nothing, say nothing, which should weaken her, or add an ounce to her burden. he came back again, his lips firmly closed in repression. "our train is nearly here," he said in lack of something better with which to break the constrained silence. she glanced about doubtfully, first toward the yet distant train, then up into his face. "when is the local east due here? do you know?" "probably an hour later than the express. at least, i judge so from the time of its arrival at bolton," he responded, surprised at the question. "why do you ask?" she did not smile, or stir, except to lean slightly forward, her eyes falling from his face to the platform. "would--would it be too much if i were to ask you to permit me to take this first train alone?" she asked, her voice faltering, her hands trembling where they were clasped in her lap. his first bewildered surprise precluded speech; he could only look at her in stupefied amazement. then something within her lowered face touched him with pity. "beth," he exclaimed, hardly aware of the words used, "do you mean that? is it your wish that we part here? "oh, no, not that!" and she rose hastily, holding to the back of the bench with one hand, and extending the other. "do not put it in that way. such an act would be cruel, unwarranted. but i am so tired, so completely broken down. it has seemed all night long as though my brain were on fire; every step of the horse has been torture. oh, i want so to be alone--alone! i want to think this out; i want to face it all by myself. merciful god! it seems to me i shall be driven insane unless i can be alone, unless i can find a way into some peace of soul. do not blame me; do not look at me like that, but be merciful--if you still love me, let me be alone." he grasped the extended hand, bending low over it, unwilling in that instant that she should look upon his face. again and again he pressed his dry lips upon the soft flesh. "i do love you, beth," he said at last, chokingly, "love you always, in spite of everything. i will do now as you say. your train is already here. you know my address in denver. don't make this forever, beth--don't do that." she did not answer him; her lips quivered, her eyes meeting his for a single instant. in their depths he believed he read the answer of her heart, and endeavored to be content. as the great overland train paused for a moment to quench its thirst, the porter of the pullman, who, to his surprise, had been called to place his carpeted step on the platform of this desert station, gazed in undisguised amazement at those two figures before him--a man bareheaded, his clothing tattered and disreputable, half supporting a woman who was hatless, white-faced, and trembling like a frightened child. "yas, sah; whole section vacant, sah, numbah five. denvah; yas, sah, suttinly. oh, i'll look after de lady all right. you ain't a-goin' 'long wid us, den, dis trip? oh, yas; thank ye, sah. sure, i'll see dat she gits dere, don't you worry none 'bout dat." winston walked restlessly down the platform, gazing up at the car-windows, every ounce of his mustered resolve necessary to hold him outwardly calm. the curtains were many of them closed, but at last he distinguished her, leaning against the glass, that same dull, listless look in her eyes as she stared out blindly across the waste of sand. as the train started he touched the window, and she turned and saw him. there was a single moment when life came flashing back into her eyes, when he believed her lips even smiled at him. then he was alone, gazing down the track after the fast disappearing train. chapter xxix the summit of success there followed three years of silence, three years of waiting for that message which never came. as though she had dropped into an ocean of oblivion, beth norvell disappeared. winston had no longer the slightest hope that a word from her would ever come, and there were times when he wondered if it was not better so--if, after all, she had not chosen rightly. love untarnished lived in his heart; yet, as she had told him out in the desert, love could never change the deed. that remained--black, grim, unblotted, the unalterable death stain. why, then, should they meet? why seek even to know of each other? close together, or far apart, there yawned a bottomless gulf between. silence was better; silence, and the mercy of partial forgetfulness. winston had toiled hard during those years, partly from a natural liking, partly to forget his heartaches. feverishly he had taken up the tasks confronting him, sinking self in the thought of other things. such work had conquered success, for he did his part in subjecting nature to man, thus winning a reputation already ranking him high among the mining experts of the west. his had become a name to conjure with in the mountains and mining camps. during the long months he had hoped fiercely. yet he had made no endeavor to seek her out, or to uncover her secret. deep within his heart lay a respect for her choice, and he would have held it almost a crime to invade the privacy that her continued silence had created. so he resolutely locked the secret within his own soul, becoming more quiet in manner, more reserved in speech, with every long month of waiting, constantly striving to forget the past amid a multitude of business and professional cares. it was at the close of a winter's day in chicago. snow clouds were scurrying in from over the dun-colored waters of the lake, bringing with them an early twilight. already myriads of lights were twinkling in the high office buildings, and showing brilliant above the smooth asphalt of michigan avenue. the endless stream of vehicles homeward bound began to thicken, the broad highway became a scene of continuous motion and display. after hastily consulting the ponderous pages of a city directory in an adjacent drug store, a young man, attired in dark business suit, his broad shoulders those of an athlete, his face strongly marked and full of character, and bronzed even at this season by out-of-door living, hurried across the street and entered the busy doorway of the railway exchange building. on the seventh floor he unceremoniously flung open a door bearing the number sought, and stepped within to confront the office boy, who as instantly frowned his disapproval. "office hours over," the latter announced shortly. "just shuttin' up." "i am not here on business, my lad," was the good-natured reply, "but in the hope of catching mr. craig before he got away." the boy, still somewhat doubtful, jerked his hand back across his shoulder toward an inner apartment. "well, his nibs is in there, but he 's just a-goin'." the visitor swung aside the gate and entered. the man within, engaged in closing down his roll-top desk for the day, wheeled about in his chair, quite evidently annoyed by so late a caller. an instant he looked at the face, partially shadowed in the dim light, then sprang to his feet, both hands cordially extended. "ned winston, by all the gods!" he exclaimed, his voice full of heartiness. "say, but i 'm glad to see you, old man. supposed it was some bore wanting to talk business, and this happens to be my busy night. by jove, thought i never was going to break away from this confounded desk--always like that when a fellow has a date. how are you, anyhow? looking fine as a fiddle. in shape to kick the pigskin at this minute, i 'll bet a hundred. denver yet, i suppose? must be a great climate out there, if you 're a specimen. must like it, anyhow; why, you 've simply buried yourself in the mountains. some of the old fellows were in here talking about it the other day. have n't been east before for a couple of years, have you, ned?" "considerably over three, bob, and only on urgent business now. have been hard at it all day, but thought i would take a chance at finding you in, even at this hour. knew your natural inclination to grind, you know. i take a train for the west at midnight." "well, i rather guess not," and craig picked up his hat from the top of the desk. "do you imagine i 'll let go of you that easily, now that you are here? well, hardly. you 've got to give up that excursion for one night at least, even if i 'm compelled to get you jugged in order to hold you safe. i can do it, too; i have a pull with the police department. my automobile fines are making them rich." "but you just mentioned having an engagement, or rather a date, which i suppose means the same thing." craig smiled indulgently, his dark eyes filled with humor. "that's exactly the ticket. glad to see you keep up with the slang of the day; proof you live in the real world, possess a normal mind, and feel an interest in current events. altogether most commendable. that engagement of mine happens to be the very thing i want you for. most glorious event in our family history, at least within my remembrance. my birth probably transcended even this in importance, but the details are not clear. you will add _éclat_ to the occasion. by jove, it will be immense; paterfamilias and mater-ditto will welcome you with open arms. they often speak of you; 'pon my word they do, and i don't know of another fellow anywhere they 'd rather have join in our little family celebration. oh, this is a great night for old ireland. stay? why, confound it, of course you 'll stay!" "but see here, bob, at least give me the straight of all this. what 's happening? what is it you are stacking me up against?" "box party at the grand. here, have a cigar. just a family affair, you know. first night; certain to be a swell crowd there; everything sold out in advance. supper afterwards, private dining-room at the annex--just ourselves; no guests, except only the star and her manager." "the star? i never heard that you people went in for theatricals?" "lord! they never did; but they 've experienced a change of heart. you see, lizzie took to it like a duck to water--she was the baby, the kid, you know--and, by thunder, the little girl made good. she 's got 'em coming and going, and the pater is so proud of her he wears a smile on him that won't come off. it 's simply great just to see him beau her around downtown, shedding real money at every step. nothing is too good for lizzie just now." "and she is the star?" "sure, and the lassie is going to have an ovation, unless all signs fail. society has got a hunch, and that means a gorgeous turnout. the horse-show will be a back number. lord, man, you can't afford to miss it! why, you 'd never see anything like it in denver in a thousand years." winston laughed, unable to resist entirely the contagious enthusiasm of his friend. "you certainly make a strong bid, bob; but really if i did remain overnight i 'd much prefer putting in the hours talking over old times. with all due respect to your sister, old boy, i confess i have n't very much heart for the stage. i 've grown away from it; have n't even looked into a playhouse for years." "thought as much; clear over the head in business. big mistake at your age. a night such as lizzie can give you will be a revelation. say, ned, that girl is an actress. i don't say it because she 's my sister, but she actually is; they 're all raving over her, even the critics. that's one reason why i want you to stay. i 'm blame proud of my little sister." "but i have n't my evening dress within a thousand miles of here." "what of that? i have no time now to run out to the house and get into mine. i 'm no lightning change artist. lizzie won't care; she 's got good sense, and the others can go hang. come on, ned; we 'll run over to the chicago club and have a bite, then a smoke and chat about alma mater; after that, the grand." * * * * * * the great opera house was densely crowded from pit to dome, the boxes and parquet brilliant with color and fashion, the numberless tiers of seats rising above, black with packed, expectant humanity. before eight o'clock late comers had been confronted in the lobby with the "standing room only" announcement; and now even this had been turned to the wall, while the man at the ticket window shook his head to disappointed inquirers. and that was an audience to be remembered, to be held notable, to be editorially commented upon by the press the next morning. there was reason for it. a child of chicago, daughter in a family of standing and exclusiveness, after winning notable successes in san francisco, in london, in new york, had, at last, consented to return home, and appear for the first time in her native city. endowed with rare gifts of interpretation, earnest, sincere, forceful, loving her work fervently, possessing an attractive presence and natural capacity for study, she had long since won the appreciation of the critics and the warm admiration of those who care for the highest in dramatic art. the reward was assured. already her home-coming had been heralded broadcast as an event of consequence to the great city. her name was upon the lips of the multitude, and upon the hearts of those who really care for such things, the devotees of art, of high endeavor, of a stage worthy the traditions of its past. and in her case, in addition to all these helpful elements, society grew suddenly interested and enthralled. the actress became a fashion, a fad, about which revolved the courtier and the butterfly. once, it was remembered, she had been one of them, one of their own set, and out of the depths of their little pool they rose clamorously to the surface, imagining, as ever, that they were the rightful leaders of it all. thus it came about, that first night--the stage brilliant, the house a dense mass of mad enthusiasts, jewelled heads nodding from boxes to parquet in recognition of friends, opera glasses insolently staring, voices humming in ceaseless conversation, and, over all, the frantic efforts of the orchestra to attract attention to itself amid the glitter and display. utterly indifferent to all of it, ned winston leaned his elbow on the brass rail of the first box, and gazed idly about over that sea of unknown faces. he would have much preferred not being there. to him, the theatre served merely as a stimulant to unpleasant memory. it was in this atmosphere that the ghost walked, and those hidden things of life came back to mock him. he might forget, sometimes, bending above his desk, or struggling against the perplexing problems of his profession in the field, but not here; not in the glare of the footlights, amid the hum of the crowd. he crushed the unread programme within his hand, striving to converse carelessly with the lady sitting next to him, whom he was expected to entertain. but his thoughts were afar off, his eyes seeing a gray, misty, silent expanse of desert, growing constantly clearer in its hideous desolation before the advancing dawn. the vast steel curtain arose with apparent reluctance to the top of the proscenium arch, the chatter of voices ceased, somewhat permitting the struggling orchestra to make itself felt and heard. winston shut his teeth, and waited uneasily, the hand upon the rail clenched. even more than he had ever expected, awakened memory tortured. he would have gone out into the solitude of the street, except for the certainty of disturbing others. the accompanying music became faster as the inner curtain slowly rose, revealing the great stage set for the first act. he looked at it carelessly, indifferently, his thoughts elsewhere, yet dimly conscious of the sudden hush all about him, the leaning forward of figures intent upon catching the opening words. the scene portrayed was that of a picturesque swiss mountain village. it was brilliant in coloring, and superbly staged. for a moment the scenery; with great snow-capped peaks for background, caught his attention. if was realistic, beautifully faithful to nature, and he felt his heart throb with sudden longing to be home, to be once more in the shadow of the rockies. but the actors did not interest him, and his thoughts again drifted far afield. the act was nearly half finished before the star made her appearance. suddenly the door of the chalet opened, and a young woman emerged, attired in peasant costume, carelessly swinging a hat in her hand, her bright face smiling, her slender figure perfectly poised. she advanced to the very centre of the wide stage. the myriad of lights rippled over her, revealing the deep brown of her abundant hair, the dark, earnest eyes, the sweet winsomeness of expression. this was the moment for which that vast audience had been waiting. like an instantaneous explosion of artillery came the thunder of applause. her first attempted speech lost in that outburst of acclaim, the actress stood before them bowing and smiling, the red blood surging into her unrouged cheeks, her dark eyes flashing like two diamonds. again and again the house rose to her, the noise of greeting was deafening, and a perfect avalanche of flowers covered the stage. from boxes, from parquet, from crowded balcony, from top-most gallery the enthusiastic outburst came, spontaneous, ever growing in volume of sound, apparently never ending. she looked out upon them almost appealingly, her hands outstretched in greeting, her eyes filling with tears. slowly, as if drawn toward them by some impulse of gratitude, she came down to the footlights, and stood there bowing to left and right, the deep swelling of her bosom evidencing her agitation. as though some sudden remembrance had occurred to her in the midst of that turmoil, of what all this must mean to others, to those of her own blood, she turned to glance lovingly toward that box in which they sat. instantly she went white, her hands pressing her breast, her round throat swelling as though the effort of breathing choked her. possibly out in front they thought it acting, perhaps a sudden nervous collapse, for as she half reeled backward to the support of a bench, the clamor died away into dull murmur. almost with the ceasing of tumult she was upon her feet again, her lips still white, her face drawn as if in pain. before the startled audience could awaken and realize the truth, she had commenced the speaking of her lines, forcing them into silence, into a hushed and breathless expectancy. winston sat leaning forward, his hand gripping the rail, staring at her. but for that one slender figure the entire stage before him was a blank. suddenly he caught craig by the arm. "who is that?" he questioned, sharply. "the one in the costume of a peasant girl?" "who is it? are you crazy? why, that 's lizzie; read your programme, man. she must have had a faint spell just now. by jove, i thought for a moment she was going to flop. you 're looking pretty white about the lips yourself, ain't sick, are you?" he shook his head, sinking back into his seat. hastily he opened the pages of the crushed programme, his hand shaking so he was scarcely able to decipher the printed lines. ah! there it was in black-faced type: "renee la roux--_miss beth norvell_." chapter xxx the mission of a letter all through the remainder of the play he sat as one stunned, scarcely removing his eyes from the glittering stage, yet seeing nothing there excepting her. he could not later have recalled a single scene. between the acts he conversed rationally enough with those about him, congratulating her people upon the brilliant success of the evening, and warmly commending the work of the star. yet this was all mechanical, automatic, his mind scarcely realizing its own action. she never glanced in that direction again; during all the four acts not once did she permit her eyes to rest upon their box. the others may not have noticed the omission, but he did, his interpretation of the action becoming a pain. it served to strengthen the resolve which was taking possession of him. he noticed, also, that she played feverishly, vehemently, not with that quiet restraint, that promise of reserve power, always so noticeable in the old days. it caused him to realize that she was working upon her nerves, holding herself up to the strain by the sheer strength of will. the papers the next day commented upon this, hinting at nervousness, at exhilaration consequent upon so notable a greeting. but winston knew the cause better--he knew the spectre which had so suddenly risen before her, turning her white and frightened at the very moment of supreme triumph. there, in front of them all, under the full glare of the lights, herself the very focus of thousands of eyes, she had been compelled to fight down her heart, and win a victory greater than that of the actress. in that instant she had conquered herself, had trodden, smiling and confident, over the awakened memories of the past. after the curtain had fallen--fallen and lifted, again and again, to permit of her standing in the glare, smiling happily, and kissing her hands toward the enthusiastic multitude--he passed out with the others, still partially dazed, his mind remaining undecided, irresolute. with the cool night air fanning his cheeks as their car rolled southward, clearer consciousness came back, bringing with it firmer resolve. she had not wanted him; in all those years there had not come from her a single word. now, on this night of her triumph, in the midst of family rejoicing, he had no part. it had all been a mistake, a most unhappy mistake, yet he would do now everything in his power to remedy it. his further presence should not be allowed to detract from her happiness, should not continue to embarrass her. the past between them was dead; undoubtedly she wished it dead. very well, then, he would help her to bury it, now and forever. not through any neglect on his part should that past ever again rise up to haunt her in the hour of success. she had discovered her ideal, she had attained to the height of her ambition. she should be left to enjoy the victory undisturbed. within the hotel rotunda, under the multicolored lights, he halted craig, hurrying forward to a conference with the steward. "i am awfully sorry, old man," he explained apologetically, "but the fact is, i do not feel well enough to remain down here to the spread. nothing serious, you know--indigestion or something like that. i 'll run up to my room and lie down for a while; if i feel better i may wander in later." craig looked concerned. "thought you were mighty white about the gills all the evening, ned--the lobster salad, likely. i hate letting you go, awfully; upon my word, i do. i wanted lizzie to meet you; she 's always heard me singing your praises, and your not being there will prove quite a disappointment to her. but lord! if you 're sick, why, of course, there's no help for it. come down later, if you can, and i 'll run up there as soon as i can break away from the bunch. sure you don't need the house physician?" "perfectly sure; all i require is rest and a bit of sleep. been working too hard, and am dead tired." he sank down within the great arm-chair in the silence of his own room, not even taking trouble to turn on the lights; mechanically lit a cigar, and sat staring out of the window. before him the black, threatening cloud-shadows hung over the dark water of the lake; far below resounded the ceaseless clatter of hoofs along the fashionable avenue. he neither saw nor heard. over and over again he reviewed the past, bringing back to memory each word and glance which had ever, passed between them. he was again with the "heart of the world" strollers, he was struggling with burke in the depths of the mine, he was passing through that day and night of misfortune on the ridge overlooking echo canyon, he was riding for life--her life--across the trackless desert. it all came before him in unnatural vividness, seemingly as though each separate scene had been painted across that black sky without. then he perceived the great playhouse he had just left, the glorious glitter of lights, the reverberation of applause, the cheering mob of men and women, and her--her bowing and smiling at them, her dark eyes dancing with happiness and ignoring him utterly, her whole body trembling to the intoxication of success. oh, it was all over; even if there had been no gulf of death between them, it was all over. she had deliberately chosen to forget, under the inspiration of her art she had forgotten. it had usurped her thought, her ambition, her every energy. she had won her way through the throng, yet the very struggle of such winning had sufficed to crowd him out from memory had left the past as barren as was the desert amid the dreariness of which they had parted. he set his teeth hard, striking his clenched fist against the cushioned arm of the chair. then he sat silent, his cigar extinguished. once he glanced at his watch, but already the hour was too late for any hope of catching the west-bound train, and he dropped it back in his pocket, and sat motionless. suddenly some one rapped upon the outside door. it would be craig, probably, and he called out a regretful "come in." a bell-boy stood there, his buttoned-up figure silhouetted against the lights in the hall. "lady in parlor d asked me to hand you this, sir," the boy said. he accepted the slight bit of paper, scarcely comprehending what it could all mean, turned on an electric bulb over the dresser, and looked at it. a single line of delicate writing confronted him, so faint that he was compelled to bend closer to decipher: "_if you are waiting my word, i send it._" he caught at the dresser-top as though some one had struck him, staring down at the card in his hand, and then around the silent room, his breath grown rapid. at first the words were almost meaningless; then the blood came surging up into his face, and he walked toward the door. there he paused, his hand already upon the knob. what use? what use? why should he seek her, even although she bade him come? she might no longer care, but he did; to her such a meeting might be only a mere incident, an experience to be lightly talked over, but to him such an interview could only prove continual torture. but no! the thought wronged her; such an action would not be possible to beth norvell. if she despatched this message it had been done honestly, done graciously. he would show himself a craven if he failed to face whatever awaited him below. with tightly compressed lips, he closed the door, and walked to the elevator. she stood waiting him alone, slightly within the parlor door, her cheeks flushed, her red lips parted in an attempt to smile. with a single glance he saw her as of old, supremely happy, her dark eyes clear, her slender form swaying slightly toward him as if in welcome. for an instant their gaze met, his full of uncertainty, hers of confidence; then she stretched out to him her two ungloved hands. "you gave me a terrible scare to-night," she said, endeavoring to speak lightly, "and then, to make matters worse, you ran away. it was not like you to do that." "i could not bring myself to mar the further happiness of your night," he explained, feeling the words choke in his throat as he uttered them. "my being present at the opera house was all a mistake; i did not dream it was you until too late. but the supper was another thing." she looked intently at him, her expression clearly denoting surprise. "i really cannot believe you to be as indifferent as you strive to appear," she said at last, her breath quickening. "one does not forget entirely in three short years, and i--i caught that one glimpse of you in the box. it was that--that look upon your face which gave me courage to send my card to your room." she paused, dropping her eyes to the carpet, her fingers nervously playing with the trimming of her waist. "it may, perhaps, sound strange, yet in spite of my exhibit of feeling at first discovering your presence, i had faith all day that you would come." "is it possible you mean that you wished me there?" "quite possible; only it would have been ever so much better had i known before. it actually seemed when i saw your face to-night as if god had brought you--it was like a miracle. do you know why? because, for the first time in three years, i can welcome you with all my heart." "beth, beth," utterly forgetting everything but the mystery of her words, his gray eyes darkening from eagerness, "what is it you mean? for god's sake tell me! these years have been centuries; through them all i have been waiting your word." she drew in her breath sharply, reaching out one hand to grasp the back of a chair. "it--it could not be spoken," she said, her voice faltering. "not until to-day was it possible for me to break the silence." "and now--to-day?" she smiled suddenly up at him, her eyes filled with promise. "god has been good," she whispered, drawing from within the lace of her waist a crumpled envelope,--"oh, so good, even when i doubted him. see, i have kept this hidden there every moment since it first came, even on the stage in my changes of costume. i dared not part with it for a single instant--it was far too precious." she sank back upon the chair, holding out toward him the paper. "read that yourself, if my tears have not made the lines illegible." he took it from her, his hands trembling, and drew forth the enclosure, a single sheet of rough yellow paper. once he paused, glancing toward where she sat, her face buried in her arms across the chair-back. then he smoothed out the wrinkles, and read slowly, studying over each pencil-written, ill-spelled word, every crease and stain leaving an impression upon his brain: "san juan, col., dec. , . "deer miss: i see your name agin in a denver paper what bill brought out frum town ternight, an read thar that you wus goin ter play a piece in chicago. i aint seen yer name in ther papers afore fer a long time. so i thot i 'd write yer a line, cause bill thinks yer never got it straight bout ther way biff farnham died. he ses thet you an mister winston hes got ther whol affair all mixed up, an that maybe it's a keepin ther two of yer sorter sore on each other. now, i dont wanter butt in none in yer affairs, an then agin it aint overly plisent fer me to make a clean breast ov it this way on paper. not that i 'm afeard, er nothin, only it dont just look nice. no more do i want enything whut i did ter be makin you fokes a heep o trouble. that aint my style. i reckon i must a bin plum crazy whin i did it, fer i wus mighty nigh that fer six months after--et least bill ses so. but it wus me all right whut killed farnham. it wan't no murder es i see it, tho i was huntin him all right, fer he saw me furst, an hed his gun out, when i let drive. enyhow, he got whut wus comin ter him, an i aint got no regrets. we're a doin all right out yere now, me an bill--ther claim is payin big, but i never aint got over thinkin bout mercedes. i shore loved her, an i do yit. you was awful good to her, an i reckon she 'd sorter want me to tell you jist how it wus. hopin this will clar up som ov them troubles between you an mister winston, i am yours with respects, "william brown." winston stood there in silence, yet holding the paper in his hand. almost timidly she glanced up at him across the back of the chair. "and you have never suspected who i was until to-night?" "no, never; i had always thought of bob's sister as a mere child." she arose to her feet, taking a single step toward him. "i can only ask you to forgive me," she pleaded anxiously, her eyes uplifted. "that is all i can ask. i ought to be ashamed, i am ashamed, that i could ever have believed it possible for you to commit such a deed. it seems incredible now that i have so believed. yet how could i escape such conviction? i heard the voices, the shot, and then a man rushed past me through the darkness. some rash impulse, a desire to aid, sent me hastily forward. scarcely had i bent over the dead body, when some one came toward me from the very direction in which that man had fled. i supposed he was coming back to make sure of his work, and--and--it was you. oh, i did not want to believe, but i had to believe. you acted so strangely toward me, i accepted that as a sign of guilt; it was a horror unspeakable." "you thought--you actually thought i did that?" he asked, hardly trusting his own ears. "what else could i think? what else could i think?" this new conception stunned him, left him staring at her, utterly unable to control his speech. should he tell her? should he confess his own equally mad mistake? the reason why all these years had passed without his seeking her? it would be useless; it would only add to her pain, her sense of wounded pride. silence now would be mercy. "beth," he said, controlling his voice with an effort, "let us think of all this as passed away forever. let us not talk about it, let us not think about it any more. you have reached the height which you set out to gain; or, possibly you have not yet fully attained to your ideal, yet you have travelled far toward it. has it satisfied? has it filled the void in your life?" she returned his questioning look frankly. "do you remember what i once said in a cabin out in colorado?" "i think so; yet, to avoid mistake, repeat it now." "i told you i would give up gladly all ambition, all dreams of worldly success, just to be alone with the man i loved, and bring him happiness. to-night, as then, that is all i wish--everything." a moment neither moved nor spoke. "beth," he whispered, as though half afraid even yet to put the question, "am i all you wish--everything?" "yes, everything--only you must wait, ned. i belong still to the public, and must play out my engagement. after that it shall be home, and you." they stood there facing each other, the soft light from the shaded globes overhead sparkling in her dark hair, her cheeks flushed, her eyes smiling at him through a mist of tears. unresisted, he drew her to him. zane grey the last trail mcmix chapter i twilight of a certain summer day, many years ago, shaded softly down over the wild ohio valley bringing keen anxiety to a traveler on the lonely river trail. he had expected to reach fort henry with his party on this night, thus putting a welcome end to the long, rough, hazardous journey through the wilderness; but the swift, on-coming dusk made it imperative to halt. the narrow, forest-skirted trail, difficult to follow in broad daylight, apparently led into gloomy aisles in the woods. his guide had abandoned him that morning, making excuse that his services were no longer needed; his teamster was new to the frontier, and, altogether, the situation caused him much uneasiness. "i wouldn't so much mind another night in camp, if the guide had not left us," he said in a low tone to the teamster. that worthy shook his shaggy head, and growled while he began unhitching the horses. "uncle," said a young man, who had clambered out from the wagon, "we must be within a few miles of fort henry." "how d'ye know we're near the fort?" interrupted the teamster, "or safe, either, fer thet matter? i don't know this country." "the guide assured me we could easily make fort henry by sundown." "thet guide! i tell ye, mr. sheppard----" "not so loud. do not alarm my daughter," cautioned the man who had been called sheppard. "did ye notice anythin' queer about thet guide?" asked the teamster, lowering his voice. "did ye see how oneasy he was last night? did it strike ye he left us in a hurry, kind of excited like, in spite of his offhand manner?" "yes, he acted odd, or so it seemed to me," replied sheppard. "how about you, will?" "now that i think of it, i believe he was queer. he behaved like a man who expected somebody, or feared something might happen. i fancied, however, that it was simply the manner of a woodsman." "wal, i hev my opinion," said the teamster, in a gruff whisper. "ye was in a hurry to be a-goin', an' wouldn't take no advice. the fur-trader at fort pitt didn't give this guide jenks no good send off. said he wasn't well-known round pitt, 'cept he could handle a knife some." "what is your opinion?" asked sheppard, as the teamster paused. "wal, the valley below pitt is full of renegades, outlaws an' hoss-thieves. the redskins ain't so bad as they used to be, but these white fellers are wusser'n ever. this guide jenks might be in with them, that's all. mebbe i'm wrong. i hope so. the way he left us looks bad." "we won't borrow trouble. if we have come all this way without seeing either indian or outlaw--in fact, without incident--i feel certain we can perform the remainder of the journey in safety." then mr. sheppard raised his voice. "here, helen, you lazy girl, come out of that wagon. we want some supper. will, you gather some firewood, and we'll soon give this gloomy little glen a more cheerful aspect." as mr. sheppard turned toward the canvas-covered wagon a girl leaped lightly down beside him. she was nearly as tall as he. "is this fort henry?" she asked, cheerily, beginning to dance around him. "where's the inn? i'm _so_ hungry. how glad i am to get out of that wagon! i'd like to run. isn't this a lonesome, lovely spot?" a camp-fire soon crackled with hiss and sputter, and fragrant wood-smoke filled the air. steaming kettle, and savory steaks of venison cheered the hungry travelers, making them forget for the time the desertion of their guide and the fact that they might be lost. the last glow faded entirely out of the western sky. night enveloped the forest, and the little glade was a bright spot in the gloom. the flickering light showed mr. sheppard to be a well-preserved old man with gray hair and ruddy, kindly face. the nephew had a boyish, frank expression. the girl was a splendid specimen of womanhood. her large, laughing eyes were as dark as the shadows beneath the trees. suddenly a quick start on helen's part interrupted the merry flow of conversation. she sat bolt upright with half-averted face. "cousin, what is the matter?" asked will, quickly. helen remained motionless. "my dear," said mr. sheppard sharply. "i heard a footstep," she whispered, pointing with trembling finger toward the impenetrable blackness beyond the camp-fire. all could hear a soft patter on the leaves. then distinct footfalls broke the silence. the tired teamster raised his shaggy head and glanced fearfully around the glade. mr. sheppard and will gazed doubtfully toward the foliage; but helen did not change her position. the travelers appeared stricken by the silence and solitude of the place. the faint hum of insects, and the low moan of the night wind, seemed accentuated by the almost painful stillness. "a panther, most likely," suggested sheppard, in a voice which he intended should be reassuring. "i saw one to-day slinking along the trail." "i'd better get my gun from the wagon," said will. "how dark and wild it is here!" exclaimed helen nervously. "i believe i was frightened. perhaps i fancied it--there! again--listen. ah!" two tall figures emerged from the darkness into the circle of light, and with swift, supple steps gained the camp-fire before any of the travelers had time to move. they were indians, and the brandishing of their tomahawks proclaimed that they were hostile. "ugh!" grunted the taller savage, as he looked down upon the defenseless, frightened group. as the menacing figures stood in the glare of the fire gazing at the party with shifty eyes, they presented a frightful appearance. fierce lineaments, all the more so because of bars of paint, the hideous, shaven heads adorned with tufts of hair holding a single feather, sinewy, copper-colored limbs suggestive of action and endurance, the general aspect of untamed ferocity, appalled the travelers and chilled their blood. grunts and chuckles manifested the satisfaction with which the indians fell upon the half-finished supper. they caused it to vanish with astonishing celerity, and resembled wolves rather than human beings in their greediness. helen looked timidly around as if hoping to see those who would aid, and the savages regarded her with ill humor. a movement on the part of any member of the group caused muscular hands to steal toward the tomahawks. suddenly the larger savage clutched his companion's knee. then lifting his hatchet, shook it with a significant gesture in sheppard's face, at the same time putting a finger on his lips to enjoin silence. both indians became statuesque in their immobility. they crouched in an attitude of listening, with heads bent on one side, nostrils dilated, and mouths open. one, two, three moments passed. the silence of the forest appeared to be unbroken; but ears as keen as those of a deer had detected some sound. the larger savage dropped noiselessly to the ground, where he lay stretched out with his ear to the ground. the other remained immovable; only his beady eyes gave signs of life, and these covered every point. finally the big savage rose silently, pointed down the dark trail, and strode out of the circle of light. his companion followed close at his heels. the two disappeared in the black shadows like specters, as silently as they had come. "well!" breathed helen. "i am immensely relieved!" exclaimed will. "what do you make of such strange behavior?" sheppard asked of the teamster. "i'spect they got wind of somebody; most likely thet guide, an'll be back again. if they ain't, it's because they got switched off by some signs or tokens, skeered, perhaps, by the scent of the wind." hardly had he ceased speaking when again the circle of light was invaded by stalking forms. "i thought so! here comes the skulkin' varmints," whispered the teamster. but he was wrong. a deep, calm voice spoke the single word: "friends." two men in the brown garb of woodsmen approached. one approached the travelers; the other remained in the background, leaning upon a long, black rifle. thus exposed to the glare of the flames, the foremost woodsman presented a singularly picturesque figure. his costume was the fringed buckskins of the border. fully six feet tall, this lithe-limbed young giant had something of the wild, free grace of the indian in his posture. he surveyed the wondering travelers with dark, grave eyes. "did the reddys do any mischief?" he asked. "no, they didn't harm us," replied sheppard. "they ate our supper, and slipped off into the woods without so much as touching one of us. but, indeed, sir, we are mighty glad to see you." will echoed this sentiment, and helen's big eyes were fastened upon the stranger in welcome and wonder. "we saw your fire blazin' through the twilight, an' came up just in time to see the injuns make off." "might they not hide in the bushes and shoot us?" asked will, who had listened to many a border story at fort pitt. "it seems as if we'd make good targets in this light." the gravity of the woodsman's face relaxed. "you will pursue them?" asked helen. "they've melted into the night-shadows long ago," he replied. "who was your guide?" "i hired him at fort pitt. he left us suddenly this morning. a big man, with black beard and bushy eyebrows. a bit of his ear had been shot or cut out," sheppard replied. "jenks, one of bing legget's border-hawks." "you have his name right. and who may bing legget be?" "he's an outlaw. jenks has been tryin' to lead you into a trap. likely he expected those injuns to show up a day or two ago. somethin' went wrong with the plan, i reckon. mebbe he was waitin' for five shawnees, an' mebbe he'll never see three of 'em again." something suggestive, cold, and grim, in the last words did not escape the listeners. "how far are we from fort henry?" asked sheppard. "eighteen miles as a crow flies; longer by trail." "treachery!" exclaimed the old man. "we were no more than that this morning. it is indeed fortunate that you found us. i take it you are from fort henry, and will guide us there? i am an old friend of colonel zane's. he will appreciate any kindness you may show us. of course you know him?" "i am jonathan zane." sheppard suddenly realized that he was facing the most celebrated scout on the border. in revolutionary times zane's fame had extended even to the far atlantic colonies. "and your companion?" asked sheppard with keen interest. he guessed what might be told. border lore coupled jonathan zane with a strange and terrible character, a border nemesis, a mysterious, shadowy, elusive man, whom few pioneers ever saw, but of whom all knew. "wetzel," answered zane. with one accord the travelers gazed curiously at zane's silent companion. in the dim background of the glow cast by the fire, he stood a gigantic figure, dark, quiet, and yet with something intangible in his shadowy outline. suddenly he appeared to merge into the gloom as if he really were a phantom. a warning, "hist!" came from the bushes. with one swift kick zane scattered the camp-fire. the travelers waited with bated breaths. they could hear nothing save the beating of their own hearts; they could not even see each other. "better go to sleep," came in zane's calm voice. what a relief it was! "we'll keep watch, an' at daybreak guide you to fort henry." chapter ii colonel zane, a rugged, stalwart pioneer, with a strong, dark face, sat listening to his old friend's dramatic story. at its close a genial smile twinkled in his fine dark eyes. "well, well, sheppard, no doubt it was a thrilling adventure to you," he said. "it might have been a little more interesting, and doubtless would, had i not sent wetzel and jonathan to look you up." "you did? how on earth did you know i was on the border? i counted much on the surprise i should give you." "my indian runners leave fort pitt ahead of any travelers, and acquaint me with particulars." "i remembered a fleet-looking indian who seemed to be asking for information about us, when we arrived at fort pitt. i am sorry i did not take the fur-trader's advice in regard to the guide. but i was in such a hurry to come, and didn't feel able to bear the expense of a raft or boat that we might come by river. my nephew brought considerable gold, and i all my earthly possessions." "all's well that ends well," replied colonel zane cheerily. "but we must thank providence that wetzel and jonathan came up in the nick of time." "indeed, yes. i'm not likely to forget those fierce savages. how they slipped off into the darkness! i wonder if wetzel pursued them? he disappeared last night, and we did not see him again. in fact we hardly had a fair look at him. i question if i should recognize him now, unless by his great stature." "he was ahead of jonathan on the trail. that is wetzel's way. in times of danger he is seldom seen, yet is always near. but come, let us go out and look around. i am running up a log cabin which will come in handy for you." they passed out into the shade of pine and maples. a winding path led down a gentle slope. on the hillside under a spreading tree a throng of bearded pioneers, clad in faded buckskins and wearing white-ringed coonskin caps, were erecting a log cabin. "life here on the border is keen, hard, invigorating," said colonel zane. "i tell you, george sheppard, in spite of your gray hair and your pretty daughter, you have come out west because you want to live among men who do things." "colonel, i won't gainsay i've still got hot blood," replied sheppard; "but i came to fort henry for land. my old home in williamsburg has fallen into ruin together with the fortunes of my family. i brought my daughter and my nephew because i wanted them to take root in new soil." "well, george, right glad we are to have you. where are your sons? i remember them, though 'tis sixteen long years since i left old williamsburg." "gone. the revolution took my sons. helen is the last of the family." "well, well, indeed that's hard. independence has cost you colonists as big a price as border-freedom has us pioneers. come, old friend, forget the past. a new life begins for you here, and it will be one which gives you much. see, up goes a cabin; that will soon be your home." sheppard's eye marked the sturdy pioneers and a fast diminishing pile of white-oak logs. "ho-heave!" cried a brawny foreman. a dozen stout shoulders sagged beneath a well-trimmed log. "ho-heave!" yelled the foreman. "see, up she goes," cried the colonel, "and to-morrow night she'll shed rain." they walked down a sandy lane bounded on the right by a wide, green clearing, and on the left by a line of chestnuts and maples, outposts of the thick forests beyond. "yours is a fine site for a house," observed sheppard, taking in the clean-trimmed field that extended up the hillside, a brook that splashed clear and noisy over the stones to tarry in a little grass-bound lake which forced water through half-hollowed logs into a spring house. "i think so; this is the fourth time i've put up a' cabin on this land," replied the colonel. "how's that?" "the redskins are keen to burn things." sheppard laughed at the pioneer's reply. "it's not difficult, colonel zane, to understand why fort henry has stood all these years, with you as its leader. certainly the location for your cabin is the finest in the settlement. what a view!" high upon a bluff overhanging the majestic, slow-winding ohio, the colonel's cabin afforded a commanding position from which to view the picturesque valley. sheppard's eye first caught the outline of the huge, bold, time-blackened fort which frowned protectingly over surrounding log-cabins; then he saw the wide-sweeping river with its verdant islands, golden, sandy bars, and willow-bordered shores, while beyond, rolling pastures of wavy grass merging into green forests that swept upward with slow swell until lost in the dim purple of distant mountains. "sixteen years ago i came out of the thicket upon yonder bluff, and saw this valley. i was deeply impressed by its beauty, but more by its wonderful promise." "were you alone?" "i and my dog. there had been a few white men before me on the river; but i was the first to see this glorious valley from the bluff. now, george, i'll let you have a hundred acres of well-cleared land. the soil is so rich you can raise two crops in one season. with some stock, and a few good hands, you'll soon be a busy man." "i didn't expect so much land; i can't well afford to pay for it." "talk to me of payment when the farm yields an income. is this young nephew of yours strong and willing?" "he is, and has gold enough to buy a big farm." "let him keep his money, and make a comfortable home for some good lass. we marry our young people early out here. and your daughter, george, is she fitted for this hard border life?" "never fear for helen." "the brunt of this pioneer work falls on our women. god bless them, how heroic they've been! the life here is rough for a man, let alone a woman. but it is a man's game. we need girls, girls who will bear strong men. yet i am always saddened when i see one come out on the border." "i think i knew what i was bringing helen to, and she didn't flinch," said sheppard, somewhat surprised at the tone in which the colonel spoke. "no one knows until he has lived on the border. well, well, all this is discouraging to you. ah! here is miss helen with my sister." the colonel's fine, dark face lost its sternness, and brightened with a smile. "i hope you rested well after your long ride." "i am seldom tired, and i have been made most comfortable. i thank you and your sister," replied the girl, giving colonel zane her hand, and including both him and his sister in her grateful glance. the colonel's sister was a slender, handsome young woman, whose dark beauty showed to most effective advantage by the contrast with her companion's fair skin, golden hair, and blue eyes. beautiful as was helen sheppard, it was her eyes that held colonel zane irresistibly. they were unusually large, of a dark purple-blue that changed, shaded, shadowed with her every thought. "come, let us walk," colonel zane said abruptly, and, with mr. sheppard, followed the girls down the path. he escorted them to the fort, showed a long room with little squares cut in the rough-hewn logs, many bullet holes, fire-charred timbers, and dark stains, terribly suggestive of the pain and heroism which the defense of that rude structure had cost. under helen's eager questioning colonel zane yielded to his weakness for story-telling, and recited the history of the last siege of fort henry; how the renegade girty swooped down upon the settlement with hundreds of indians and british soldiers; how for three days of whistling bullets, flaming arrows, screeching demons, fire, smoke, and attack following attack, the brave defenders stood at their posts, there to die before yielding. "grand!" breathed helen, and her eyes glowed. "it was then betty zane ran with the powder? oh! i've heard the story." "let my sister tell you of that," said the colonel, smiling. "you! was it you?" and helen's eyes glowed brighter with the light of youth's glory in great deeds. "my sister has been wedded and widowed since then," said colonel zane, reading in helen's earnest scrutiny of his sister's calm, sad face a wonder if this quiet woman could be the fearless and famed elizabeth zane. impulsively helen's hand closed softly over her companion's. out of the girlish sympathetic action a warm friendship was born. "i imagine things do happen here," said mr. sheppard, hoping to hear more from colonel zane. the colonel smiled grimly. "every summer during fifteen years has been a bloody one on the border. the sieges of fort henry, and crawford's defeat, the biggest things we ever knew out here, are matters of history; of course you are familiar with them. but the numberless indian forays and attacks, the women who have been carried into captivity by renegades, the murdered farmers, in fact, ceaseless war never long directed at any point, but carried on the entire length of the river, are matters known only to the pioneers. within five miles of fort henry i can show you where the laurel bushes grow three feet high over the ashes of two settlements, and many a clearing where some unfortunate pioneer had staked his claim and thrown up a log cabin, only to die fighting for his wife and children. between here and fort pitt there is only one settlement, yellow creek, and most of its inhabitants are survivors of abandoned villages farther up the river. last summer we had the moravian massacre, the blackest, most inhuman deed ever committed. since then simon girty and his bloody redskins have lain low." "you must always have had a big force," said sheppard. "we've managed always to be strong enough, though there never were a large number of men here. during the last siege i had only forty in the fort, counting men, women and boys. but i had pioneers and women who could handle a rifle, and the best bordermen on the frontier." "do you make a distinction between pioneers and bordermen?" asked sheppard. "indeed, yes. i am a pioneer; a borderman is an indian hunter, or scout. for years my cabins housed andrew zane, sam and john mccollock, bill metzar, and john and martin wetzel, all of whom are dead. not one saved his scalp. fort henry is growing; it has pioneers, rivermen, soldiers, but only two bordermen. wetzel and jonathan are the only ones we have left of those great men." "they must be old," mused helen, with a dreamy glow still in her eyes. "well, miss helen, not in years, as you mean. life here is old in experience; few pioneers, and no bordermen, live to a great age. wetzel is about forty, and my brother jonathan still a young man; but both are old in border lore." earnestly, as a man who loves his subject, colonel zane told his listeners of these two most prominent characters of the border. sixteen years previously, when but boys in years, they had cast in their lot with his, and journeyed over the virginian mountains, wetzel to devote his life to the vengeful calling he had chosen, and jonathan to give rein to an adventurous spirit and love of the wilds. by some wonderful chance, by cunning, woodcraft, or daring, both men had lived through the years of border warfare which had brought to a close the careers of all their contemporaries. for many years wetzel preferred solitude to companionship; he roamed the wilderness in pursuit of indians, his life-long foes, and seldom appeared at the settlement except to bring news of an intended raid of the savages. jonathan also spent much time alone in the woods, or scouting along the river. but of late years a friendship had ripened between the two bordermen. mutual interest had brought them together on the trail of a noted renegade, and when, after many long days of patient watching and persistent tracking, the outlaw paid an awful penalty for his bloody deeds, these lone and silent men were friends. powerful in build, fleet as deer, fearless and tireless, wetzel's peculiar bloodhound sagacity, ferocity, and implacability, balanced by jonathan's keen intelligence and judgment caused these bordermen to become the bane of redmen and renegades. their fame increased with each succeeding summer, until now the people of the settlement looked upon wonderful deeds of strength and of woodcraft as a matter of course, rejoicing in the power and skill with which these men were endowed. by common consent the pioneers attributed any mysterious deed, from the finding of a fat turkey on a cabin doorstep, to the discovery of a savage scalped and pulled from his ambush near a settler's spring, to wetzel and jonathan. all the more did they feel sure of this conclusion because the bordermen never spoke of their deeds. sometimes a pioneer living on the outskirts of the settlement would be awakened in the morning by a single rifle shot, and on peering out would see a dead indian lying almost across his doorstep, while beyond, in the dim, gray mist, a tall figure stealing away. often in the twilight on a summer evening, while fondling his children and enjoying his smoke after a hard day's labor in the fields, this same settler would see the tall, dark figure of jonathan zane step noiselessly out of a thicket, and learn that he must take his family and flee at once to the fort for safety. when a settler was murdered, his children carried into captivity by indians, and the wife given over to the power of some brutal renegade, tragedies wofully frequent on the border, wetzel and jonathan took the trail alone. many a white woman was returned alive and, sometimes, unharmed to her relatives; more than one maiden lived to be captured, rescued, and returned to her lover, while almost numberless were the bones of brutal redmen lying in the deep and gloomy woods, or bleaching on the plains, silent, ghastly reminders of the stern justice meted out by these two heroes. "such are my two bordermen, miss sheppard. the fort there, and all these cabins, would be only black ashes, save for them, and as for us, our wives and children--god only knows." "haven't they wives and children, too?" asked helen. "no," answered colonel zane, with his genial smile. "such joys are not for bordermen." "why not? fine men like them deserve happiness," declared helen. "it is necessary we have such," said the colonel simply, "and they cannot be bordermen unless free as the air blows. wetzel and jonathan have never had sweethearts. i believe wetzel loved a lass once; but he was an indian-killer whose hands were red with blood. he silenced his heart, and kept to his chosen, lonely life. jonathan does not seem to realize that women exist to charm, to please, to be loved and married. once we twitted him about his brothers doing their duty by the border, whereupon he flashed out: 'my life is the border's: my sweetheart is the north star!'" helen dreamily watched the dancing, dimpling waves that broke on the stones of the river shore. all unconscious of the powerful impression the colonel's recital had made upon her, she was feeling the greatness of the lives of these bordermen, and the glory it would now be for her to share with others the pride in their protection. "say, sheppard, look here," said colonel zane, on the return to his cabin, "that girl of yours has a pair of eyes. i can't forget the way they flashed! they'll cause more trouble here among my garrison than would a swarm of redskins." "no! you don't mean it! out here in this wilderness?" queried sheppard doubtfully. "well, i do." "o lord! what a time i've had with that girl! there was one man especially, back home, who made our lives miserable. he was rich and well born; but helen would have none of him. he got around me, old fool that i am! practically stole what was left of my estate, and gambled it away when helen said she'd die before giving herself to him. it was partly on his account that i brought her away. then there were a lot of moon-eyed beggars after her all the time, and she's young and full of fire. i hoped i'd marry her to some farmer out here, and end my days in peace." "peace? with eyes like those? never on this green earth," and colonel zane laughed as he slapped his friend on the shoulder. "don't worry, old fellow. you can't help her having those changing dark-blue eyes any more than you can help being proud of them. they have won me, already, susceptible old backwoodsman! i'll help you with this spirited young lady. i've had experience, sheppard, and don't you forget it. first, my sister, a zane all through, which is saying enough. then as sweet and fiery a little indian princess as ever stepped in a beaded moccasin, and since, more than one beautiful, impulsive creature. being in authority, i suppose it's natural that all the work, from keeping the garrison ready against an attack, to straightening out love affairs, should fall upon me. i'll take the care off your shoulders; i'll keep these young dare-devils from killing each other over miss helen's favors. i certainly--hello! there are strangers at the gate. something's up." half a dozen rough-looking men had appeared from round the corner of the cabin, and halted at the gate. "bill elsing, and some of his men from yellow creek," said colonel zane, as he went toward the group. "hullo, kurnel," was the greeting of the foremost, evidently the leader. "we've lost six head of hosses over our way, an' are out lookin' 'em up." "the deuce you have! say, this horse-stealing business is getting interesting. what did you come in for?" "wal, we meets jonathan on the ridge about sunup, an' he sent us back lickety-cut. said he had two of the hosses corralled, an' mebbe wetzel could git the others." "that's strange," replied colonel zane thoughtfully. "'pears to me jack and wetzel hev some redskins treed, an' didn't want us to spile the fun. mebbe there wasn't scalps enough to go round. anyway, we come in, an' we'll hang up here to-day." "bill, who's doing this horse-stealing?" "damn if i know. it's a mighty pert piece of work. i've a mind it's some slick white fellar, with injuns backin' him." helen noted, when she was once more indoors, that colonel zane's wife appeared worried. her usual placid expression was gone. she put off the playful overtures of her two bright boys with unusual indifference, and turned to her husband with anxious questioning as to whether the strangers brought news of indians. upon being assured that such was not the case, she looked relieved, and explained to helen that she had seen armed men come so often to consult the colonel regarding dangerous missions and expeditions, that the sight of a stranger caused her unspeakable dread. "i am accustomed to danger, yet i can never control my fears for my husband and children," said mrs. zane. "the older i grow the more of a coward i am. oh! this border life is sad for women. only a little while ago my brother samuel mccolloch was shot and scalped right here on the river bank. he was going to the spring for a bucket of water. i lost another brother in almost the same way. every day during the summer a husband and a father fall victim to some murderous indian. my husband will go in the same way some day. the border claims them all." "bessie, you must not show your fears to our new friend. and, miss helen, don't believe she's the coward she would make out," said the colonel's sister smilingly. "betty is right, bess, don't frighten her," said colonel zane. "i'm afraid i talked too much to-day. but, miss helen, you were so interested, and are such a good listener, that i couldn't refrain. once for all let me say that you will no doubt see stirring life here; but there is little danger of its affecting you. to be sure i think you'll have troubles; but not with indians or outlaws." he winked at his wife and sister. at first helen did not understand his sally, but then she blushed red all over her fair face. some time after that, while unpacking her belongings, she heard the clatter of horses' hoofs on the rocky road, accompanied by loud voices. running to the window, she saw a group of men at the gate. "miss sheppard, will you come out?" called colonel zane's sister from the door. "my brother jonathan has returned." helen joined betty at the door, and looked over her shoulder. "wal, jack, ye got two on 'em, anyways," drawled a voice which she recognized as that of elsing's. a man, lithe and supple, slipped from the back of one of the horses, and, giving the halter to elsing with a single word, turned and entered the gate. colonel zane met him there. "well, jonathan, what's up?" "there's hell to pay," was the reply, and the speaker's voice rang clear and sharp. colonel zane laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, and thus they stood for a moment, singularly alike, and yet the sturdy pioneer was, somehow, far different from the dark-haired borderman. "i thought we'd trouble in store from the look on your face," said the colonel calmly. "i hope you haven't very bad news on the first day, for our old friends from virginia." "jonathan," cried betty when he did not answer the colonel. at her call he half turned, and his dark eyes, steady, strained like those of a watching deer, sought his sister's face. "betty, old jake lane was murdered by horse thieves yesterday, and mabel lane is gone." "oh!" gasped betty; but she said nothing more. colonel zane cursed inaudibly. "you know, eb, i tried to keep lane in the settlement for mabel's sake. but he wanted to work that farm. i believe horse-stealing wasn't as much of an object as the girl. pretty women are bad for the border, or any other place, i guess. wetzel has taken the trail, and i came in because i've serious suspicions--i'll explain to you alone." the borderman bowed gravely to helen, with a natural grace, and yet a manner that sat awkwardly upon him. the girl, slightly flushed, and somewhat confused by this meeting with the man around whom her romantic imagination had already woven a story, stood in the doorway after giving him a fleeting glance, the fairest, sweetest picture of girlish beauty ever seen. the men went into the house; but their voices came distinctly through the door. "eb, if bing legget or girty ever see that big-eyed lass, they'll have her even if fort henry has to be burned, an' in case they do get her, wetzel an' i'll have taken our last trail." chapter iii supper over, colonel zane led his guests to a side porch, where they were soon joined by mrs. zane and betty. the host's two boys, noah and sammy, who had preceded them, were now astride the porch-rail and, to judge by their antics, were riding wild indian mustangs. "it's quite cool," said colonel zane; "but i want you to see the sunset in the valley. a good many of your future neighbors may come over to-night for a word of welcome. it's the border custom." he was about to seat himself by the side of mr. sheppard, on a rustic bench, when a negro maid appeared in the doorway carrying a smiling, black-eyed baby. colonel zane took the child and, holding it aloft, said with fatherly pride: "this is rebecca zane, the first girl baby born to the zanes, and destined to be the belle of the border." "may i have her?" asked helen softly, holding out her arms. she took the child, and placed it upon her knee where its look of solemnity soon changed to one of infantile delight. "here come nell and jim," said mrs. zane, pointing toward the fort. "yes, and there comes my brother silas with his wife, too," added colonel zane. "the first couple are james douns, our young minister, and nell, his wife. they came out here a year or so ago. james had a brother joe, the finest young fellow who ever caught the border fever. he was killed by one of the girtys. his was a wonderful story, and some day you shall hear about the parson and his wife." "what's the border fever?" asked mr. sheppard. "it's what brought you out here," replied colonel zane with a hearty laugh. helen gazed with interest at the couple now coming into the yard, and when they gained the porch she saw that the man was big and tall, with a frank, manly bearing, while his wife was a slender little woman with bright, sunny hair, and a sweet, smiling face. they greeted helen and her father cordially. next came silas zane, a typical bronzed and bearded pioneer, with his buxom wife. presently a little group of villagers joined the party. they were rugged men, clad in faded buckskins, and sober-faced women who wore dresses of plain gray linsey. they welcomed the newcomers with simple, homely courtesy. then six young frontiersmen appeared from around a corner of the cabin, advancing hesitatingly. to helen they all looked alike, tall, awkward, with brown faces and big hands. when colonel zane cheerily cried out to them, they stumbled forward with evident embarrassment, each literally crushing helen's hand in his horny palm. afterward they leaned on the rail and stole glances at her. soon a large number of villagers were on the porch or in the yard. after paying their respects to helen and her father they took part in a general conversation. two or three girls, the latest callers, were surrounded by half a dozen young fellows, and their laughter sounded high above the hum of voices. helen gazed upon this company with mingled feelings of relief and pleasure. she had been more concerned regarding the young people with whom her lot might be cast, than the dangers of which others had told. she knew that on the border there was no distinction of rank. though she came of an old family, and, during her girlhood, had been surrounded by refinement, even luxury, she had accepted cheerfully the reverses of fortune, and was determined to curb the pride which had been hers. it was necessary she should have friends. warm-hearted, impulsive and loving, she needed to have around her those in whom she could confide. therefore it was with sincere pleasure she understood how groundless were her fears and knew that if she did not find good, true friends the fault would be her own. she saw at a glance that the colonel's widowed sister was her equal, perhaps her superior, in education and breeding, while nellie douns was as well-bred and gracious a little lady as she had ever met. then, the other girls, too, were charming, with frank wholesomeness and freedom. concerning the young men, of whom there were about a dozen, helen had hardly arrived at a conclusion. she liked the ruggedness, the signs of honest worth which clung to them. despite her youth, she had been much sought after because of her personal attractions, and had thus added experience to the natural keen intuition all women possess. the glances of several of the men, particularly the bold regard of one roger brandt, whom colonel zane introduced, she had seen before, and learned to dislike. on the whole, however, she was delighted with the prospect of new friends and future prosperity, and she felt even greater pleasure in the certainty that her father shared her gratification. suddenly she became aware that the conversation had ceased. she looked up to see the tall, lithe form of jonathan zane as he strode across the porch. she could see that a certain constraint had momentarily fallen upon the company. it was an involuntary acknowledgment of the borderman's presence, of a presence that worked on all alike with a subtle, strong magnetism. "ah, jonathan, come out to see the sunset? it's unusually fine to-night," said colonel zane. with hardly more than a perceptible bow to those present, the borderman took a seat near the rail, and, leaning upon it, directed his gaze westward. helen sat so near she could have touched him. she was conscious of the same strange feeling, and impelling sense of power, which had come upon her so strongly at first sight of him. more than that, a lively interest had been aroused in her. this borderman was to her a new and novel character. she was amused at learning that here was a young man absolutely indifferent to the charms of the opposite sex, and although hardly admitting such a thing, she believed it would be possible to win him from his indifference. on raising her eyelids, it was with the unconcern which a woman feigns when suspecting she is being regarded with admiring eyes. but jonathan zane might not have known of her presence, for all the attention he paid her. therefore, having a good opportunity to gaze at this borderman of daring deeds, helen regarded him closely. he was clad from head to foot in smooth, soft buckskin which fitted well his powerful frame. beaded moccasins, leggings bound high above the knees, hunting coat laced and fringed, all had the neat, tidy appearance due to good care. he wore no weapons. his hair fell in a raven mass over his shoulders. his profile was regular, with a long, straight nose, strong chin, and eyes black as night. they were now fixed intently on the valley. the whole face gave an impression of serenity, of calmness. helen was wondering if the sad, almost stern, tranquility of that face ever changed, when the baby cooed and held out its chubby little hands. jonathan's smile, which came quickly, accompanied by a warm light in the eyes, relieved helen of an unaccountable repugnance she had begun to feel toward the borderman. that smile, brief as a flash, showed his gentle kindness and told that he was not a creature who had set himself apart from human life and love. as he took little rebecca, one of his hands touched helen's. if he had taken heed of the contact, as any ordinary man might well have, she would, perhaps, have thought nothing about it, but because he did not appear to realize that her hand had been almost inclosed in his, she could not help again feeling his singular personality. she saw that this man had absolutely no thought of her. at the moment this did not awaken resentment, for with all her fire and pride she was not vain; but amusement gave place to a respect which came involuntarily. little rebecca presently manifested the faithlessness peculiar to her sex, and had no sooner been taken upon jonathan's knee than she cried out to go back to helen. "girls are uncommon coy critters," said he, with a grave smile in his eyes. he handed back the child, and once more was absorbed in the setting sun. helen looked down the valley to behold the most beautiful spectacle she had ever seen. between the hills far to the west, the sky flamed with a red and gold light. the sun was poised above the river, and the shimmering waters merged into a ruddy horizon. long rays of crimson fire crossed the smooth waters. a few purple clouds above caught the refulgence, until aided by the delicate rose and blue space beyond, they became many hued ships sailing on a rainbow sea. each second saw a gorgeous transformation. slowly the sun dipped into the golden flood; one by one the clouds changed from crimson to gold, from gold to rose, and then to gray; slowly all the tints faded until, as the sun slipped out of sight, the brilliance gave way to the soft afterglow of warm lights. these in turn slowly toned down into gray twilight. helen retired to her room soon afterward, and, being unusually thoughtful, sat down by the window. she reviewed the events of this first day of her new life on the border. her impressions had been so many, so varied, that she wanted to distinguish them. first she felt glad, with a sweet, warm thankfulness, that her father seemed so happy, so encouraged by the outlook. breaking old ties had been, she knew, no child's play for him. she realized also that it had been done solely because there had been nothing left to offer her in the old home, and in a new one were hope and possibilities. then she was relieved at getting away from the attentions of a man whose persistence had been most annoying to her. from thoughts of her father, and the old life, she came to her new friends of the present. she was so grateful for their kindness. she certainly would do all in her power to win and keep their esteem. somewhat of a surprise was it to her, that she reserved for jonathan zane the last and most prominent place in her meditations. she suddenly asked herself how she regarded this fighting borderman. she recalled her unbounded enthusiasm for the man as colonel zane had told of him; then her first glimpse, and her surprise and admiration at the lithe-limbed young giant; then incredulity, amusement, and respect followed in swift order, after which an unaccountable coldness that was almost resentment. helen was forced to admit that she did not know how to regard him, but surely he was a man, throughout every inch of his superb frame, and one who took life seriously, with neither thought nor time for the opposite sex. and this last brought a blush to her cheek, for she distinctly remembered she had expected, if not admiration, more than passing notice from this hero of the border. presently she took a little mirror from a table near where she sat. holding it to catch the fast-fading light, she studied her face seriously. "helen sheppard, i think on the occasion of your arrival in a new country a little plain talk will be wholesome. somehow or other, perhaps because of a crowd of idle men back there in the colonies, possibly from your own misguided fancy, you imagined you were fair to look at. it is well to be undeceived." scorn spoke in helen's voice. she was angry because of having been interested in a man, and allowed that interest to betray her into a girlish expectation that he would treat her as all other men had. the mirror, even in the dim light, spoke more truly than she, for it caught the golden tints of her luxuriant hair, the thousand beautiful shadows in her great, dark eyes, the white glory of a face fair as a star, and the swelling outline of neck and shoulders. with a sudden fiery impetuosity she flung the glass to the floor, where it was broken into several pieces. "how foolish of me! what a temper i have!" she exclaimed repentantly. "i'm glad i have another glass. wouldn't mr. jonathan zane, borderman, indian fighter, hero of a hundred battles and never a sweetheart, be flattered? no, most decidedly he wouldn't. he never looked at me. i don't think i expected that; i'm sure i didn't want it; but still he might have--oh! what am i thinking, and he a stranger?" before helen lost herself in slumber on that eventful evening, she vowed to ignore the borderman; assured herself that she did not want to see him again, and, rather inconsistently, that she would cure him of his indifference. * * * * * when colonel zane's guests had retired, and the villagers were gone to their homes, he was free to consult with jonathan. "well, jack," he said, "i'm ready to hear about the horse thieves." "wetzel makes it out the man who's runnin' this hoss-stealin' is located right here in fort henry," answered the borderman. the colonel had lived too long on the frontier to show surprise; he hummed a tune while the genial expression faded slowly from his face. "last count there were one hundred and ten men at the fort," he replied thoughtfully. "i know over a hundred, and can trust them. there are some new fellows on the boats, and several strangers hanging round metzar's." "'pears to lew an' me that this fellar is a slick customer, an' one who's been here long enough to know our hosses an' where we keep them." "i see. like miller, who fooled us all, even betty, when he stole our powder and then sold us to girty," rejoined colonel zane grimly. "exactly, only this fellar is slicker an' more desperate than miller." "right you are, jack, for the man who is trusted and betrays us, must be desperate. does he realize what he'll get if we ever find out, or is he underrating us?" "he knows all right, an' is matchin' his cunnin' against our'n." "tell me what you and wetzel learned." the borderman proceeded to relate the events that had occurred during a recent tramp in the forest with wetzel. while returning from a hunt in a swamp several miles over the ridge, back of fort henry, they ran across the trail of three indians. they followed this until darkness set in, when both laid down to rest and wait for the early dawn, that time most propitious for taking the savage by surprise. on resuming the trail they found that other indians had joined the party they were tracking. to the bordermen this was significant of some unusual activity directed toward the settlement. unable to learn anything definite from the moccasin traces, they hurried up on the trail to find that the indians had halted. wetzel and jonathan saw from their covert that the savages had a woman prisoner. a singular feature about it all was that the indians remained in the same place all day, did not light a camp-fire, and kept a sharp lookout. the bordermen crept up as close as safe, and remained on watch during the day and night. early next morning, when the air was fading from black to gray, the silence was broken by the snapping of twigs and a tremor of the ground. the bordermen believed another company of indians was approaching; but they soon saw it was a single white man leading a number of horses. he departed before daybreak. wetzel and jonathan could not get a clear view of him owing to the dim light; but they heard his voice, and afterwards found the imprint of his moccasins. they did, however, recognize the six horses as belonging to settlers in yellow creek. while jonathan and wetzel were consulting as to what it was best to do, the party of indians divided, four going directly west, and the others north. wetzel immediately took the trail of the larger party with the prisoner and four of the horses. jonathan caught two of the animals which the indians had turned loose, and tied them in the forest. he then started after the three indians who had gone northward. "well?" colonel zane said impatiently, when jonathan hesitated in his story. "one got away," he said reluctantly. "i barked him as he was runnin' like a streak through the bushes, an' judged that he was hard hit. i got the hosses, an' turned back on the trail of the white man." "where did it end?" "in that hard-packed path near the blacksmith shop. an' the fellar steps as light as an injun." "he's here, then, sure as you're born. we've lost no horses yet, but last week old sam heard a noise in the barn, and on going there found betty's mare out of her stall." "some one as knows the lay of the land had been after her," suggested jonathan. "you can bet on that. we've got to find him before we lose all the fine horse-flesh we own. where do these stolen animals go? indians would steal any kind; but this thief takes only the best." "i'm to meet wetzel on the ridge soon, an' then we'll know, for he's goin' to find out where the hosses are taken." "that'll help some. on the way back you found where the white girl had been taken from. murdered father, burned cabin, the usual deviltry." "exactly." "poor mabel! do you think this white thief had anything to do with carrying her away?" "no. wetzel says that's bing legget's work. the shawnees were members of his gang." "well, jack, what'll i do?" "keep quiet an' wait," was the borderman's answer. colonel zane, old pioneer and frontiersman though he was, shuddered as he went to his room. his brother's dark look, and his deadly calmness, were significant. chapter iv to those few who saw jonathan zane in the village, it seemed as if he was in his usual quiet and dreamy state. the people were accustomed to his silence, and long since learned that what little time he spent in the settlement was not given to sociability. in the morning he sometimes lay with colonel zane's dog, chief, by the side of a spring under an elm tree, and in the afternoon strolled aimlessly along the river bluff, or on the hillside. at night he sat on his brother's porch smoking a long indian pipe. since that day, now a week past, when he had returned with the stolen horses, his movements and habits were precisely what would have been expected of an unsuspicious borderman. in reality, however, jonathan was not what he seemed. he knew all that was going on in the settlement. hardly a bird could have entered the clearing unobserved. at night, after all the villagers were in bed, he stole cautiously about the stockade, silencing with familiar word the bristling watch-hounds, and went from barn to barn, ending his stealthy tramp at the corral where colonel zane kept his thoroughbreds. but all this scouting by night availed nothing. no unusual event occurred, not even the barking of a dog, a suspicious rustling among the thickets, or whistling of a night-hawk had been heard. vainly the borderman strained ears to catch some low night-signal given by waiting indians to the white traitor within the settlement. by day there was even less to attract the sharp-eyed watcher. the clumsy river boats, half raft, half sawn lumber, drifted down the ohio on their first and last voyage, discharged their cargoes of grain, liquor, or merchandise, and were broken up. their crews came back on the long overland journey to fort pitt, there to man another craft. the garrison at the fort performed their customary duties; the pioneers tilled the fields; the blacksmith scattered sparks, the wheelwright worked industriously at his bench, and the housewives attended to their many cares. no strangers arrived at fort henry. the quiet life of the village was uninterrupted. near sunset of a long day jonathan strolled down the sandy, well-trodden path toward metzar's inn. he did not drink, and consequently seldom visited the rude, dark, ill-smelling bar-room. when occasion demanded his presence there, he was evidently not welcome. the original owner, a sturdy soldier and pioneer, came to fort henry when colonel zane founded the settlement, and had been killed during girty's last attack. his successor, another metzar, was, according to jonathan's belief, as bad as the whiskey he dispensed. more than one murder had been committed at the inn; countless fatal knife and tomahawk fights had stained red the hard clay floor; and more than one desperate character had been harbored there. once colonel zane sent wetzel there to invite a thief and outlaw to quit the settlement, with the not unexpected result that it became necessary the robber be carried out. jonathan thought of the bad name the place bore all over the frontier, and wondered if metzar could tell anything about the horse-thieves. when the borderman bent his tall frame to enter the low-studded door he fancied he saw a dark figure disappear into a room just behind the bar. a roughly-clad, heavily-bearded man turned hastily at the same moment. "hullo," he said gruffly. "h' are you, metzar. i just dropped in to see if i could make a trade for your sorrel mare," replied jonathan. being well aware that the innkeeper would not part with his horse, the borderman had made this announcement as his reason for entering the bar-room. "nope, i'll allow you can't," replied metzar. as he turned to go, jonathan's eyes roamed around the bar-room. several strangers of shiftless aspect bleared at him. "they wouldn't steal a pumpkin," muttered jonathan to himself as he left the inn. then he added suspiciously, "metzar was talkin' to some one, an' 'peared uneasy. i never liked metzar. he'll bear watchin'." the borderman passed on down the path thinking of what he had heard against metzar. the colonel had said that the man was prosperous for an innkeeper who took pelts, grain or meat in exchange for rum. the village gossips disliked him because he was unmarried, taciturn, and did not care for their company. jonathan reflected also on the fact that indians were frequently coming to the inn, and this made him distrustful of the proprietor. it was true that colonel zane had red-skinned visitors, but there was always good reason for their coming. jonathan had seen, during the revolution, more than one trusted man proven to be a traitor, and the conviction settled upon him that some quiet scouting would show up the innkeeper as aiding the horse-thieves if not actually in league with them. "good evening, jonathan zane." this greeting in a woman's clear voice brought jonathan out from his reveries. he glanced up to see helen sheppard standing in the doorway of her father's cabin. "evenin', miss," he said with a bow, and would have passed on. "wait," she cried, and stepped out of the door. he waited by the gate with a manner which showed that such a summons was novel to him. helen, piqued at his curt greeting, had asked him to wait without any idea of what she would say. coming slowly down the path she felt again a subtle awe of this borderman. regretting her impulsiveness, she lost confidence. gaining the gate she looked up intending to speak; but was unable to do so as she saw how cold and grave was his face, and how piercing were his eyes. she flushed slightly, and then, conscious of an embarrassment new and strange to her, blushed rosy red, making, as it seemed to her, a stupid remark about the sunset. when he took her words literally, and said the sunset was fine, she felt guilty of deceitfulness. whatever helen's faults, and they were many, she was honest, and because of not having looked at the sunset, but only wanting him to see her as did other men, the innocent ruse suddenly appeared mean and trifling. then, with a woman's quick intuition, she understood that coquetries were lost on this borderman, and, with a smile, got the better of her embarrassment and humiliation by telling the truth. "i wanted to ask a favor of you, and i'm a little afraid." she spoke with girlish shyness, which increased as he stared at her. "why--why do you look at me so?" "there's a lake over yonder which the shawnees say is haunted by a woman they killed," he replied quietly. "you'd do for her spirit, so white an' beautiful in the silver moonlight." "so my white dress makes me look ghostly," she answered lightly, though deeply conscious of surprise and pleasure at such an unexpected reply from him. this borderman might be full of surprises. "such a time as i had bringing my dresses out here! i don't know when i can wear them. this is the simplest one." "an' it's mighty new an' bewilderin' for the border," he replied with a smile in his eyes. "when these are gone i'll get no more except linsey ones," she said brightly, yet her eyes shone with a wistful uncertainty of the future. "will you be happy here?" "i am happy. i have always wanted to be of some use in the world. i assure you, master zane, i am not the butterfly i seem. i have worked hard all day, that is, until your sister betty came over. all the girls have helped me fix up the cabin until it's more comfortable than i ever dreamed one could be on the frontier. father is well content here, and that makes me happy. i haven't had time for forebodings. the young men of fort henry have been--well, attentive; in fact, they've been here all the time." she laughed a little at this last remark, and looked demurely at him. "it's a frontier custom," he said. "oh, indeed? do all the young men call often and stay late?" "they do." "you didn't," she retorted. "you're the only one who hasn't been to see me." "i do not wait on the girls," he replied with a grave smile. "oh, you don't? do you expect them to wait on you?" she asked, feeling, now she had made this silent man talk, once more at her ease. "i am a borderman," replied jonathan. there was a certain dignity or sadness in his answer which reminded helen of colonel zane's portrayal of a borderman's life. it struck her keenly. here was this young giant standing erect and handsome before her, as rugged as one of the ash trees of his beloved forest. who could tell when his strong life might be ended by an indian's hatchet? "for you, then, is there no such thing as friendship?" she asked. "on the border men are serious." this recalled his sister's conversation regarding the attentions of the young men, that they would follow her, fight for her, and give her absolutely no peace until one of them had carried her to his cabin a bride. she could not carry on the usual conventional conversation with this borderman, but remained silent for a time. she realized more keenly than ever before how different he was from other men, and watched closely as he stood gazing out over the river. perhaps something she had said caused him to think of the many pleasures and joys he missed. but she could not be certain what was in his mind. she was not accustomed to impassive faces and cold eyes with unlit fires in their dark depths. more likely he was thinking of matters nearer to his wild, free life; of his companion wetzel somewhere out beyond those frowning hills. then she remembered that the colonel had told her of his brother's love for nature in all its forms; how he watched the shades of evening fall; lost himself in contemplation of the last copper glow flushing the western sky, or became absorbed in the bright stars. possibly he had forgotten her presence. darkness was rapidly stealing down upon them. the evening, tranquil and gray, crept over them with all its mystery. he was a part of it. she could not hope to understand him; but saw clearly that his was no common personality. she wanted to speak, to voice a sympathy strong within her; but she did not know what to say to this borderman. "if what your sister tells me of the border is true, i may soon need a friend," she said, after weighing well her words. she faced him modestly yet bravely, and looked him straight in the eyes. because he did not reply she spoke again. "i mean such a friend as you or wetzel." "you may count on both," he replied. "thank you," she said softly, giving him her hand. "i shall not forget. one more thing. will you break a borderman's custom, for my sake?" "how?" "come to see me when you are in the settlement?" helen said this in a low voice with just a sob in her breath; but she met his gaze fairly. her big eyes were all aglow, alight with girlish appeal, and yet proud with a woman's honest demand for fair exchange. promise was there, too, could he but read it, of wonderful possibilities. "no," he answered gently. helen was not prepared for such a rebuff. she was interested in him, and not ashamed to show it. she feared only that he might misunderstand her; but to refuse her proffered friendship, that was indeed unexpected. rude she thought it was, while from brow to curving throat her fair skin crimsoned. then her face grew pale as the moonlight. hard on her resentment had surged the swell of some new emotion strong and sweet. he refused her friendship because he did not dare accept it; because his life was not his own; because he was a borderman. while they stood thus, jonathan looking perplexed and troubled, feeling he had hurt her, but knowing not what to say, and helen with a warm softness in her eyes, the stalwart figure of a man loomed out of the gathering darkness. "ah, miss helen! good evening," he said. "is it you, mr. brandt?" asked helen. "of course you know mr. zane." brandt acknowledged jonathan's bow with an awkwardness which had certainly been absent in his greeting to helen. he started slightly when she spoke the borderman's name. a brief pause ensued. "good night," said jonathan, and left them. he had noticed brandt's gesture of surprise, slight though it was, and was thinking about it as he walked away. brandt may have been astonished at finding a borderman talking to a girl, and certainly, as far as jonathan was concerned, the incident was without precedent. but, on the other hand, brandt may have had another reason, and jonathan tried to study out what it might be. he gave but little thought to helen. that she might like him exceedingly well, did not come into his mind. he remembered his sister betty's gossip regarding helen and her admirers, and particularly roger brandt; but felt no great concern; he had no curiosity to know more of her. he admired helen because she was beautiful, yet the feeling was much the same he might have experienced for a graceful deer, a full-foliaged tree, or a dark mossy-stoned bend in a murmuring brook. the girl's face and figure, perfect and alluring as they were, had not awakened him from his indifference. on arriving at his brother's home, he found the colonel and betty sitting on the porch. "eb, who is this brandt?" he asked. "roger brandt? he's a french-canadian; came here from detroit a year ago. why do you ask?" "i want to know more about him." colonel zane reflected a moment, first as to this unusual request from jonathan, and secondly in regard to what little he really did know of roger brandt. "well, jack, i can't tell you much; nothing of him before he showed up here. he says he has been a pioneer, hunter, scout, soldier, trader--everything. when he came to the fort we needed men. it was just after girty's siege, and all the cabins had been burned. brandt seemed honest, and was a good fellow. besides, he had gold. he started the river barges, which came from fort pitt. he has surely done the settlement good service, and has prospered. i never talked a dozen times to him, and even then, not for long. he appears to like the young people, which is only natural. that's all i know; betty might tell you more, for he tried to be attentive to her." "did he, betty?" jonathan asked. "he followed me until i showed him i didn't care for company," answered betty. "what kind of a man is he?" "jack, i know nothing against him, although i never fancied him. he's better educated than the majority of frontiersmen; he's good-natured and agreeable, and the people like him." "why don't you?" betty looked surprised at his blunt question, and then said with a laugh: "i never tried to reason why; but since you have spoken i believe my dislike was instinctive." after betty had retired to her room the brothers remained on the porch smoking. "betty's pretty keen, jack. i never knew her to misjudge a man. why this sudden interest in roger brandt?" the borderman puffed his pipe in silence. "say, jack," colonel zane said suddenly, "do you connect brandt in any way with this horse-stealing?" "no more than some, an' less than others," replied jonathan curtly. nothing more was said for a time. to the brothers this hour of early dusk brought the same fullness of peace. from gray twilight to gloomy dusk quiet reigned. the insects of night chirped and chorused with low, incessant hum. from out the darkness came the peeping of frogs. suddenly the borderman straightened up, and, removing the pipe from his mouth, turned his ear to the faint breeze, while at the same time one hand closed on the colonel's knee with a warning clutch. colonel zane knew what that clutch signified. some faint noise, too low for ordinary ears, had roused the borderman. the colonel listened, but heard nothing save the familiar evening sounds. "jack, what'd you hear?" he whispered. "somethin' back of the barn," replied jonathan, slipping noiselessly off the steps, lying at full length with his ear close to the ground. "where's the dog?" he asked. "chief must have gone with sam. the old nigger sometimes goes at this hour to see his daughter." jonathan lay on the grass several moments; then suddenly he arose much as a bent sapling springs to place. "i hear footsteps. get the rifles," he said in a fierce whisper. "damn! there is some one in the barn." "no; they're outside. hurry, but softly." colonel zane had but just risen to his feet, when mrs. zane came to the door and called him by name. instantly from somewhere in the darkness overhanging the road, came a low, warning whistle. "a signal!" exclaimed colonel zane. "quick, eb! look toward metzar's light. one, two, three, shadows--injuns!" "by the lord harry! now they're gone; but i couldn't mistake those round heads and bristling feathers." "shawnees!" said the borderman, and his teeth shut hard like steel on flint. "jack, they were after the horses, and some one was on the lookout! by god! right under our noses!" "hurry," cried jonathan, pulling his brother off the porch. colonel zane followed the borderman out of the yard, into the road, and across the grassy square. "we might find the one who gave the signal," said the colonel. "he was near at hand, and couldn't have passed the house." colonel zane was correct, for whoever had whistled would be forced to take one of two ways of escape; either down the straight road ahead, or over the high stockade fence of the fort. "there he goes," whispered jonathan. "where? i can't see a blamed thing." "go across the square, run around the fort, an' head him off on the road. don't try to stop him for he'll have weapons, just find out who he is." "i see him now," replied colonel zane, as he hurried off into the darkness. during a few moments jonathan kept in view the shadow he had seen first come out of the gloom by the stockade, and thence pass swiftly down the road. he followed swiftly, silently. presently a light beyond threw a glare across the road. he thought he was approaching a yard where there was a fire, and the flames proved to be from pine cones burning in the yard of helen sheppard. he remembered then that she was entertaining some of the young people. the figure he was pursuing did not pass the glare. jonathan made certain it disappeared before reaching the light, and he knew his eyesight too well not to trust to it absolutely. advancing nearer the yard, he heard the murmur of voices in gay conversation, and soon saw figures moving about under the trees. no doubt was in his mind but that the man who gave the signal to warn the indians, was one of helen sheppard's guests. jonathan had walked across the street then down the path, before he saw the colonel coming from the opposite direction. halting under a maple he waited for his brother to approach. "i didn't meet any one. did you lose him?" whispered colonel zane breathlessly. "no; he's in there." "that's sheppard's place. do you mean he's hiding there?" "no!" colonel zane swore, as was his habit when exasperated. kind and generous man that he was, it went hard with him to believe in the guilt of any of the young men he had trusted. but jonathan had said there was a traitor among them, and colonel zane did not question this assertion. he knew the borderman. during years full of strife, and war, and blood had he lived beside this silent man who said little, but that little was the truth. therefore colonel zane gave way to anger. "well, i'm not so damned surprised! what's to be done?" "find out what men are there?" "that's easy. i'll go to see george and soon have the truth." "won't do," said the borderman decisively. "go back to the barn, an' look after the hosses." when colonel zane had obeyed jonathan dropped to his hands and knees, and swiftly, with the agile movements of an indian, gained a corner of the sheppard yard. he crouched in the shade of a big plum tree. then, at a favorable opportunity, vaulted the fence and disappeared under a clump of lilac bushes. the evening wore away no more tediously to the borderman, than to those young frontiersmen who were whispering tender or playful words to their partners. time and patience were the same to jonathan zane. he lay hidden under the fragrant lilacs, his eyes, accustomed to the dark from long practice, losing no movement of the guests. finally it became evident that the party was at an end. one couple took the initiative, and said good night to their hostess. "tom bennet, i hope it's not you," whispered the borderman to himself, as he recognized the young fellow. a general movement followed, until the merry party were assembled about helen near the front gate. "jim morrison, i'll bet it's not you," was jonathan's comment. "that soldier williams is doubtful; hart an' johnson being strangers, are unknown quantities around here, an' then comes brandt." all departed except brandt, who remained talking to helen in low, earnest tones. jonathan lay very quietly, trying to decide what should be his next move in the unraveling of the mystery. he paid little attention to the young couple, but could not help overhearing their conversation. "indeed, mr. brandt, you frontiersmen are not backward," helen was saying in her clear voice. "i am surprised to learn that you love me upon such short acquaintance, and am sorry, too, for i hardly know whether i even so much as like you." "i love you. we men of the border do things rapidly," he replied earnestly. "so it seems," she said with a soft laugh. "won't you care for me?" he pleaded. "nothing is surer than that i never know what i am going to do," helen replied lightly. "all these fellows are in love with you. they can't help it any more than i. you are the most glorious creature. please give me hope." "mr. brandt, let go my hand. i'm afraid i don't like such impulsive men." "please let me hold your hand." "certainly not." "but i will hold it, and if you look at me like that again i'll do more," he said. "what, bold sir frontiersman?" she returned, lightly still, but in a voice which rang with a deeper note. "i'll kiss you," he cried desperately. "you wouldn't dare." "wouldn't i though? you don't know us border fellows yet. you come here with your wonderful beauty, and smile at us with that light in your eyes which makes men mad. oh, you'll pay for it." the borderman listened to all this love-making half disgusted, until he began to grow interested. brandt's back was turned to him, and helen stood so that the light from the pine cones shone on her face. her eyes were brilliant, otherwise she seemed a woman perfectly self-possessed. brandt held her hand despite the repeated efforts she made to free it. but she did not struggle violently, or make an outcry. suddenly brandt grasped her other hand, pulling her toward him. "these other fellows will kiss you, and i'm going to be the first!" he declared passionately. helen drew back, now thoroughly alarmed by the man's fierce energy. she had been warned against this very boldness in frontiersmen; but had felt secure in her own pride and dignity. her blood boiled at the thought that she must exert strength to escape insult. she struggled violently when brandt bent his head. almost sick with fear, she had determined to call for help, when a violent wrench almost toppled her over. at the same instant her wrists were freed; she heard a fierce cry, a resounding blow, and then the sodden thud of a heavy body falling. recovering her balance, she saw a tall figure beside her, and a man in the act of rising from the ground. "you?" whispered helen, recognizing the tall figure as jonathan's. the borderman did not answer. he stepped forward, slipping his hand inside his hunting frock. brandt sprang nimbly to his feet, and with a face which, even in the dim light, could be seen distorted with fury, bent forward to look at the stranger. he, too, had his hand within his coat, as if grasping a weapon; but he did not draw it. "zane, a lighter blow would have been easier to forget," he cried, his voice clear and cutting. then he turned to the girl. "miss helen, i got what i deserved. i crave your forgiveness, and ask you to understand a man who was once a gentleman. if i am one no longer, the frontier is to blame. i was mad to treat you as i did." thus speaking, he bowed low with the grace of a man sometimes used to the society of ladies, and then went out of the gate. "where did you come from?" asked helen, looking up at jonathan. he pointed under the lilac bushes. "were you there?" she asked wonderingly. "did you hear all?" "i couldn't help hearin'." "it was fortunate for me; but why--why were you there?" helen came a step nearer, and regarded him curiously with her great eyes now black with excitement. the borderman was silent. helen's softened mood changed instantly. there was nothing in his cold face which might have betrayed in him a sentiment similar to that of her admirers. "did you spy on me?" she asked quickly, after a moment's thought. "no," replied jonathan calmly. helen gazed in perplexity at this strange man. she did not know how to explain it; she was irritated, but did her best to conceal it. he had no interest in her, yet had hidden under the lilacs in her yard. she was grateful because he had saved her from annoyance, yet could not fathom his reason for being so near. "did you come here to see me?" she asked, forgetting her vexation. "no." "what for, then?" "i reckon i won't say," was the quiet, deliberate refusal. helen stamped her foot in exasperation. "be careful that i do not put a wrong construction on your strange action," said she coldly. "if you have reasons, you might trust me. if you are only----" "sh-s-sh!" he breathed, grasping her wrist, and holding it firmly in his powerful hand. the whole attitude of the man had altered swiftly, subtly. the listlessness was gone. his lithe body became rigid as he leaned forward, his head toward the ground, and turned slightly in a manner that betokened intent listening. helen trembled as she felt his powerful frame quiver. whatever had thus changed him, gave her another glimpse of his complex personality. it seemed to her incredible that with one whispered exclamation this man could change from cold indifference to a fire and force so strong as to dominate her. statue-like she remained listening; but hearing no sound, and thrillingly conscious of the hand on her arm. far up on the hillside an owl hooted dismally, and an instant later, faint and far away, came an answer so low as to be almost indistinct. the borderman raised himself erect as he released her. "it's only an owl," she said in relief. his eyes gleamed like stars. "it's wetzel, an' it means injuns!" then he was gone into the darkness. chapter v in the misty morning twilight colonel zane, fully armed, paced to and fro before his cabin, on guard. all night he had maintained a watch. he had not considered it necessary to send his family into the fort, to which they had often been compelled to flee. on the previous night jonathan had come swiftly back to the cabin, and, speaking but two words, seized his weapons and vanished into the black night. the words were "injuns! wetzel!" and there were none others with more power to affect hearers on the border. the colonel believed that wetzel had signaled to jonathan. on the west a deep gully with precipitous sides separated the settlement from a high, wooded bluff. wetzel often returned from his journeying by this difficult route. he had no doubt seen indian signs, and had communicated the intelligence to jonathan by their system of night-bird calls. the nearness of the mighty hunter reassured colonel zane. when the colonel returned from his chase of the previous night, he went directly to the stable, there to find that the indians had made off with a thoroughbred, and betty's pony. colonel zane was furious, not on account of the value of the horses, but because bess was his favorite bay, and betty loved nothing more than her pony madcap. to have such a march stolen on him after he had heard and seen the thieves was indeed hard. high time it was that these horse thieves be run to earth. no indian had planned these marauding expeditions. an intelligent white man was at the bottom of the thieving, and he should pay for his treachery. the colonel's temper, however, soon cooled. he realized after thinking over the matter, that he was fortunate it passed off without bloodshed. very likely the intent had been to get all his horses, perhaps his neighbor's as well, and it had been partly frustrated by jonathan's keen sagacity. these shawnees, white leader or not, would never again run such risks. "it's like a skulking shawnee," muttered colonel zane, "to slip down here under cover of early dusk, when no one but an indian hunter could detect him. i didn't look for trouble, especially so soon after the lesson we gave girty and his damned english and redskins. it's lucky jonathan was here. i'll go back to the old plan of stationing scouts at the outposts until snow flies." while colonel zane talked to himself and paced the path he had selected to patrol, the white mists cleared, and a rosy hue followed the brightening in the east. the birds ceased twittering to break into gay songs, and the cock in the barnyard gave one final clarion-voiced salute to the dawn. the rose in the east deepened into rich red, and then the sun peeped over the eastern hilltops to drench the valley with glad golden light. a blue smoke curling lazily from the stone chimney of his cabin, showed that sam had made the kitchen fire, and a little later a rich, savory odor gave pleasing evidence that his wife was cooking breakfast. "any sign of jack?" a voice called from the open door, and betty appeared. "nary sign." "of the indians, then?" "well, betts, they left you a token of their regard," and colonel zane smiled as he took a broken halter from the fence. "madcap?" cried betty. "yes, they've taken madcap and bess." "oh, the villains! poor pony," exclaimed betty indignantly. "eb, i'll coax wetzel to fetch the pony home if he has to kill every shawnee in the valley." "now you're talking, betts," colonel zane replied. "if you could get lew to do that much, you'd be blessed from one end of the border to the other." he walked up the road; then back, keeping a sharp lookout on all sides, and bestowing a particularly keen glance at the hillside across the ravine, but could see no sign of the bordermen. as it was now broad daylight he felt convinced that further watch was unnecessary, and went in to breakfast. when he came out again the villagers were astir. the sharp strokes of axes rang out on the clear morning air, and a mellow anvil-clang pealed up from the blacksmith shop. colonel zane found his brother silas and jim douns near the gate. "morning, boys," he cried cheerily. "any glimpse of jack or lew?" asked silas. "no; but i'm expecting one of 'em any moment." "how about the indians?" asked douns. "silas roused me out last night; but didn't stay long enough to say more than 'indians.'" "i don't know much more than silas. i saw several of the red devils who stole the horses; but how many, where they've gone, or what we're to expect, i can't say. we've got to wait for jack or lew. silas, keep the garrison in readiness at the fort, and don't allow a man, soldier or farmer, to leave the clearing until further orders. perhaps there were only three of those shawnees, and then again the woods might have been full of them. i take it something's amiss, or jack and lew would be in by now." "here come sheppard and his girl," said silas, pointing down the lane. "'pears george is some excited." colonel zane had much the same idea as he saw sheppard and his daughter. the old man appeared in a hurry, which was sufficient reason to believe him anxious or alarmed, and helen looked pale. "ebenezer, what's this i hear about indians?" sheppard asked excitedly. "what with helen's story about the fort being besieged, and this brother of yours routing honest people from their beds, i haven't had a wink of sleep. what's up? where are the redskins?" "now, george, be easy," said colonel zane calmly. "and you, helen, mustn't be frightened. there's no danger. we did have a visit from indians last night; but they hurt no one, and got only two horses." "oh, i'm so relieved that it's not worse," said helen. "it's bad enough, helen," betty cried, her black eyes flashing, "my pony madcap is gone." "colonel zane, come here quick!" cried douns, who stood near the gate. with one leap colonel zane was at the gate, and, following with his eyes the direction indicated by douns' trembling finger, he saw two tall, brown figures striding down the lane. one carried two rifles, and the other a long bundle wrapped in a blanket. "it's jack and wetzel," whispered colonel zane to jim. "they've got the girl, and by god! from the way that bundle hangs, i think she's dead. here," he added, speaking loudly, "you women get into the house." mrs. zane, betty and helen stared. "go into the house!" he cried authoritatively. without a protest the three women obeyed. at that moment nellie douns came across the lane; sam shuffled out from the backyard, and sheppard arose from his seat on the steps. they joined colonel zane, silas and jim at the gate. "i wondered what kept you so late," colonel zane said to jonathan, as he and his companion came up. "you've fetched mabel, and she's----". the good man could say no more. if he should live an hundred years on the border amid savage murderers, he would still be tender-hearted. just now he believed the giant borderman by the side of jonathan held a dead girl, one whom he had danced, when a child, upon his knee. "mabel, an' jest alive," replied jonathan. "by god! i'm glad!" exclaimed colonel zane. "here, lew, give her to me." wetzel relinquished his burden to the colonel. "lew, any bad indian sign?" asked colonel zane as he turned to go into the house. the borderman shook his head. "wait for me," added the colonel. he carried the girl to that apartment in the cabin which served the purpose of a sitting-room, and laid her on a couch. he gently removed the folds of the blanket, disclosing to view a fragile, white-faced girl. "bess, hurry, hurry!" he screamed to his wife, and as she came running in, followed no less hurriedly by betty, helen and nellie, he continued, "here's mabel lane, alive, poor child; but in sore need of help. first see whether she has any bodily injury. if a bullet must be cut out, or a knife-wound sewed up, it's better she remained unconscious. betty, run for bess's instruments, and bring brandy and water. lively now!" then he gave vent to an oath and left the room. helen, her heart throbbing wildly, went to the side of mrs. zane, who was kneeling by the couch. she saw a delicate girl, not over eighteen years old, with a face that would have been beautiful but for the set lips, the closed eyelids, and an expression of intense pain. "oh! oh!" breathed helen. "nell, hand me the scissors," said mrs. zane, "and help me take off this dress. why, it's wet, but, thank goodness! 'tis not with blood. i know that slippery touch too well. there, that's right. betty, give me a spoonful of brandy. now heat a blanket, and get one of your linsey gowns for this poor child." helen watched mrs. zane as if fascinated. the colonel's wife continued to talk while with deft fingers she forced a few drops of brandy between the girl's closed teeth. then with the adroitness of a skilled surgeon, she made the examination. helen had heard of this pioneer woman's skill in setting broken bones and treating injuries, and when she looked from the calm face to the steady fingers, she had no doubt as to the truth of what had been told. "neither bullet wound, cut, bruise, nor broken bone," said mrs. zane. "it's fear, starvation, and the terrible shock." she rubbed mabel's hands while gazing at her pale face. then she forced more brandy between the tightly-closed lips. she was rewarded by ever so faint a color tinging the wan cheeks, to be followed by a fluttering of the eyelids. then the eyes opened wide. they were large, soft, dark and humid with agony. helen could not bear their gaze. she saw the shadow of death, and of worse than death. she looked away, while in her heart rose a storm of passionate fury at the brutes who had made of this tender girl a wreck. the room was full of women now, sober-faced matrons and grave-eyed girls, yet all wore the same expression, not alone of anger, nor fear, nor pity, but of all combined. helen instinctively felt that this was one of the trials of border endurance, and she knew from the sterner faces of the maturer women that such a trial was familiar. despite all she had been told, the shock and pain were too great, and she went out of the room sobbing. she almost fell over the broad back of jonathan zane who was sitting on the steps. near him stood colonel zane talking with a tall man clad in faded buckskin. "lass, you shouldn't have stayed," said colonel zane kindly. "it's--hurt--me--here," said helen, placing her hand over her heart. "yes, i know, i know; of course it has," he replied, taking her hand. "but be brave, helen, bear up, bear up. oh! this border is a stern place! do not think of that poor girl. come, let me introduce jonathan's friend, wetzel!" helen looked up and held out her hand. she saw a very tall man with extremely broad shoulders, a mass of raven-black hair, and a white face. he stepped forward, and took her hand in his huge, horny palm, pressing it, he stepped back without speaking. colonel zane talked to her in a soothing voice; but she failed to hear what he said. this wetzel, this indian-hunter whom she had heard called "deathwind of the border," this companion, guide, teacher of jonathan zane, this borderman of wonderful deeds, stood before her. helen saw a cold face, deathly in its pallor, lighted by eyes sloe-black but like glinting steel. striking as were these features, they failed to fascinate as did the strange tracings which apparently showed through the white, drawn skin. this first repelled, then drew her with wonderful force. suffering, of fire, and frost, and iron was written there, and, stronger than all, so potent as to cause fear, could be read the terrible purpose of this man's tragic life. "you avenged her! oh! i know you did!" cried helen, her whole heart leaping with a blaze to her eyes. she was answered by a smile, but such a smile! kindly it broke over the stern face, giving a glimpse of a heart still warm beneath that steely cold. behind it, too, there was something fateful, something deadly. helen knew, though the borderman spoke not, that somewhere among the grasses of the broad plains, or on the moss of the wooded hills, lay dead the perpetrators of this outrage, their still faces bearing the ghastly stamp of deathwind. chapter vi happier days than she had hoped for, dawned upon helen after the first touch of border sorrow. mabel lane did not die. helen and betty nursed the stricken girl tenderly, weeping for very joy when signs of improvement appeared. she had remained silent for several days, always with that haunting fear in her eyes, and then gradually came a change. tender care and nursing had due effect in banishing the dark shadow. one morning after a long sleep she awakened with a bright smile, and from that time her improvement was rapid. helen wanted mabel to live with her. the girl's position was pitiable. homeless, fatherless, with not a relative on the border, yet so brave, so patient that she aroused all the sympathy in helen's breast. village gossip was in substance, that mabel had given her love to a young frontiersman, by name alex bennet, who had an affection for her, so it was said, but as yet had made no choice between her and the other lasses of the settlement. what effect mabel's terrible experience might have on this lukewarm lover, helen could not even guess; but she was not hopeful as to the future. colonel zane and betty approved of helen's plan to persuade mabel to live with her, and the latter's faint protestations they silenced by claiming she could be of great assistance in the management of the house, therefore it was settled. finally the day came when mabel was ready to go with helen. betty had given her a generous supply of clothing, for all her belongings had been destroyed when the cabin was burned. with helen's strong young arm around her she voiced her gratitude to betty and mrs. zane and started toward the sheppard home. from the green square, where the ground was highest, an unobstructed view could be had of the valley. mabel gazed down the river to where her home formerly stood. only a faint, dark spot, like a blur on the green landscape, could be seen. her soft eyes filled with tears; but she spoke no word. "she's game and that's why she didn't go under," colonel zane said to himself as he mused on the strength and spirit of borderwomen. to their heroism, more than any other thing, he attributed the establishing of homes in this wilderness. in the days that ensued, as mabel grew stronger, the girls became very fond of each other. helen would have been happy at any time with such a sweet companion, but just then, when the poor girl's mind was so sorely disturbed she was doubly glad. for several days, after mabel was out of danger, helen's thoughts had dwelt on a subject which caused extreme vexation. she had begun to suspect that she encouraged too many admirers for whom she did not care, and thought too much of a man who did not reciprocate. she was gay and moody in turn. during the moody hours she suspected herself, and in her gay ones, scorned the idea that she might ever care for a man who was indifferent. but that thought once admitted, had a trick of returning at odd moments, clouding her cheerful moods. one sunshiny morning while the may flowers smiled under the hedge, when dew sparkled on the leaves, and the locust-blossoms shone creamy-white amid the soft green of the trees, the girls set about their much-planned flower gardening. helen was passionately fond of plants, and had brought a jar of seeds of her favorites all the way from her eastern home. "we'll plant the morning-glories so they'll run up the porch, and the dahlias in this long row and the nasturtiums in this round bed," helen said. "you have some trailing arbutus," added mabel, "and must have clematis, wild honeysuckle and golden-glow, for they are all sweet flowers." "this arbutus is so fresh, so dewy, so fragrant," said helen, bending aside a lilac bush to see the pale, creeping flowers. "i never saw anything so beautiful. i grow more and more in love with my new home and friends. i have such a pretty garden to look into, and i never tire of the view beyond." helen gazed with pleasure and pride at the garden with its fresh green and lavender-crested lilacs, at the white-blossomed trees, and the vine-covered log cabins with blue smoke curling from their stone chimneys. beyond, the great bulk of the fort stood guard above the willow-skirted river, and far away over the winding stream the dark hills, defiant, kept their secrets. "if it weren't for that threatening fort one could imagine this little hamlet, nestling under the great bluff, as quiet and secure as it is beautiful," said helen. "but that charred stockade fence with its scarred bastions and these lowering port-holes, always keep me alive to the reality." "it wasn't very quiet when girty was here," mabel replied thoughtfully. "were you in the fort then?" asked helen breathlessly. "oh, yes, i cooled the rifles for the men," replied mabel calmly. "tell me all about it." helen listened again to a story she had heard many times; but told by new lips it always gained in vivid interest. she never tired of hearing how the notorious renegade, girty, rode around the fort on his white horse, giving the defenders an hour in which to surrender; she learned again of the attack, when the british soldiers remained silent on an adjoining hillside, while the indians yelled exultantly and ran about in fiendish glee, when wetzel began the battle by shooting an indian chieftain who had ventured within range of his ever fatal rifle. and when it came to the heroic deeds of that memorable siege helen could not contain her enthusiasm. she shed tears over little harry bennet's death at the south bastion where, though riddled with bullets, he stuck to his post until relieved. clark's race, across the roof of the fort to extinguish a burning arrow, she applauded with clapping hands. her great eyes glowed and burned, but she was silent, when hearing how wetzel ran alone to a break in the stockade, and there, with an ax, the terrible borderman held at bay the whole infuriated indian mob until the breach was closed. lastly betty zane's never-to-be-forgotten run with the powder to the relief of the garrison and the saving of the fort was something not to cry over or applaud; but to dream of and to glorify. "down that slope from colonel zane's cabin is where betty ran with the powder," said mabel, pointing. "did you see her?" asked helen. "yes, i looked out of a port-hole. the indians stopped firing at the fort in their eagerness to shoot betty. oh, the banging of guns and yelling of savages was one fearful, dreadful roar! through all that hail of bullets betty ran swift as the wind." "i almost wish girty would come again," said helen. "don't; he might." "how long has betty's husband, mr. clarke, been dead?" inquired helen. "i don't remember exactly. he didn't live long after the siege. some say he inhaled the flames while fighting fire inside the stockade." "how sad!" "yes, it was. it nearly killed betty. but we border girls do not give up easily; we must not," replied mabel, an unquenchable spirit showing through the sadness of her eyes. merry voices interrupted them, and they turned to see betty and nell entering the gate. with nell's bright chatter and betty's wit, the conversation became indeed vivacious, running from gossip to gowns, and then to that old and ever new theme, love. shortly afterward the colonel entered the gate, with swinging step and genial smile. "well, now, if here aren't four handsome lasses," he said with an admiring glance. "eb, i believe if you were single any girl might well suspect you of being a flirt," said betty. "no girl ever did. i tell you i was a lady-killer in my day," replied colonel zane, straightening his fine form. he was indeed handsome, with his stalwart frame, dark, bronzed face and rugged, manly bearing. "bess said you were; but that it didn't last long after you saw her," cried betty, mischief gleaming in her dark eye. "well, that's so," replied the colonel, looking a trifle crest-fallen; "but you know every dog has his day." then advancing to the porch, he looked at mabel with a more serious gaze as he asked, "how are you to-day?" "thank you, colonel zane, i am getting quite strong." "look up the valley. there's a raft coming down the river," said he softly. far up the broad ohio a square patch showed dark against the green water. colonel zane saw mabel start, and a dark red flush came over her pale face. for an instant she gazed with an expression of appeal, almost fear. he knew the reason. alex bennet was on that raft. "i came over to ask if i can be of any service?" "tell him," she answered simply. "i say, betts," colonel zane cried, "has helen's cousin cast any more such sheep eyes at you?" "oh, eb, what nonsense!" exclaimed betty, blushing furiously. "well, if he didn't look sweet at you i'm an old fool." "you're one anyway, and you're horrid," said betty, tears of anger glistening in her eyes. colonel zane whistled softly as he walked down the lane. he went into the wheelwright's shop to see about some repairs he was having made on a wagon, and then strolled on down to the river. two indians were sitting on the rude log wharf, together with several frontiersmen and rivermen, all waiting for the raft. he conversed with the indians, who were friendly chippewas, until the raft was tied up. the first person to leap on shore was a sturdy young fellow with a shock of yellow hair, and a warm, ruddy skin. "hello, alex, did you have a good trip?" asked colonel zane of the youth. "h'are ye, colonel zane. yes, first-rate trip," replied young bennet. "say, i've a word for you. come aside," and drawing colonel zane out of earshot of the others, he continued, "i heard this by accident, not that i didn't spy a bit when i got interested, for i did; but the way it came about was all chance. briefly, there's a man, evidently an englishman, at fort pitt whom i overheard say he was out on the border after a sheppard girl. i happened to hear from one of brandt's men, who rode into pitt just before we left, that you had new friends here by that name. this fellow was a handsome chap, no common sort, but lordly, dissipated and reckless as the devil. he had a servant traveling with him, a sailor, by his gab, who was about the toughest customer i've met in many a day. he cut a fellow in bad shape at pitt. these two will be on the next boat, due here in a day or so, according to river and weather conditions, an' i thought, considerin' how unusual the thing was, i'd better tell ye." "well, well," said colonel zane reflectively. he recalled sheppard's talk about an englishman. "alex, you did well to tell me. was the man drunk when he said he came west after a woman?" "sure he was," replied alex. "but not when he spoke the name. ye see i got suspicious, an' asked about him. it's this way: jake wentz, the trader, told me the fellow asked for the sheppards when he got off the wagon-train. when i first seen him he was drunk, and i heard jeff lynn say as how the border was a bad place to come after a woman. that's what made me prick up my ears. then the englishman said: 'it is, eh? by god! i'd go to hell after a woman i wanted.' an' colonel, he looked it, too." colonel zane remained thoughtful while alex made up a bundle and forced the haft of an ax under the string; but as the young man started away the colonel suddenly remembered his errand down to the wharf. "alex, come back here," he said, and wondered if the lad had good stuff in him. the boatman's face was plain, but not evil, and a close scrutiny of it rather prepossessed the colonel. "alex, i've some bad news for you," and then bluntly, with his keen gaze fastened on the young man's face, he told of old lane's murder, of mabel's abduction, and of her rescue by wetzel. alex began to curse and swear vengeance. "stow all that," said the colonel sharply. "wetzel followed four indians who had mabel and some stolen horses. the redskins quarreled over the girl, and two took the horses, leaving mabel to the others. wetzel went after these last, tomahawked them, and brought mabel home. she was in a bad way, but is now getting over the shock." "say, what'd we do here without wetzel?" alex said huskily, unmindful of the tears that streamed from his eyes and ran over his brown cheeks. "poor old jake! poor mabel! damn me! it's my fault. if i'd 'a done right an' married her as i should, as i wanted to, she wouldn't have had to suffer. but i'll marry her yet, if she'll have me. it was only because i had no farm, no stock, an' only that little cabin as is full now, that i waited." "alex, you know me," said colonel zane in kindly tones. "look there, down the clearing half a mile. see that green strip of land along the river, with the big chestnut in the middle and a cabin beyond. there's as fine farming land as can be found on the border, eighty acres, well watered. the day you marry mabel that farm is yours." alex grew red, stammered, and vainly tried to express his gratitude. "come along, the sooner you tell mabel the better," said the colonel with glowing face. he was a good matchmaker. he derived more pleasure from a little charity bestowed upon a deserving person, than from a season's crops. when they arrived at the sheppard house the girls were still on the porch. mabel rose when she saw alex, standing white and still. he, poor fellow, was embarrassed by the others, who regarded him with steady eyes. colonel zane pushed alex up on the porch, and said in a low voice: "mabel, i've just arranged something you're to give alex. it's a nice little farm, and it'll be a wedding present." mabel looked in a bewildered manner from colonel zane's happy face to the girls, and then at the red, joyous features of her lover. only then did she understand, and uttering a strange little cry, put her trembling hands to her bosom as she swayed to and fro. but she did not fall, for alex, quick at the last, leaped forward and caught her in his arms. * * * * * that evening helen denied herself to mr. brandt and several other callers. she sat on the porch with her father while he smoked his pipe. "where's will?" she asked. "gone after snipe, so he said," replied her father. "snipe? how funny! imagine will hunting! he's surely catching the wild fever colonel zane told us about." "he surely is." then came a time of silence. mr. sheppard, accustomed to helen's gladsome spirit and propensity to gay chatter, noted how quiet she was, and wondered. "why are you so still?" "i'm a little homesick," helen replied reluctantly. "no? well, i declare! this is a glorious country; but not for such as you, dear, who love music and gaiety. i often fear you'll not be happy here, and then i long for the old home, which reminds me of your mother." "dearest, forget what i said," cried helen earnestly. "i'm only a little blue to-day; perhaps not at all homesick." "indeed, you always seemed happy." "father, i am happy. it's only--only a girl's foolish sentiment." "i've got something to tell you, helen, and it has bothered me since colonel zane spoke of it to-night. mordaunt is coming to fort henry." "mordaunt? oh, impossible! who said so? how did you learn?" "i fear 'tis true, my dear. colonel zane told me he had heard of an englishman at fort pitt who asked after us. moreover, the fellow answers the description of mordaunt. i am afraid it is he, and come after you." "suppose he has--who cares? we owe him nothing. he cannot hurt us." "but, helen, he's a desperate man. aren't you afraid of him?" "not i," cried helen, laughing in scorn. "he'd better have a care. he can't run things with a high hand out here on the border. i told him i would have none of him, and that ended it." "i'm much relieved. i didn't want to tell you; but it seemed necessary. well, child, good night, i'll go to bed." long after mr. sheppard had retired helen sat thinking. memories of the past, and of the unwelcome suitor, mordaunt, thronged upon her thick and fast. she could see him now with his pale, handsome face, and distinguished bearing. she had liked him, as she had other men, until he involved her father, with himself, in financial ruin, and had made his attention to her unpleasantly persistent. then he had followed the fall of fortune with wild dissipation, and became a gambler and a drunkard. but he did not desist in his mad wooing. he became like her shadow, and life grew to be unendurable, until her father planned to emigrate west, when she hailed the news with joy. and now mordaunt had tracked her to her new home. she was sick with disgust. then her spirit, always strong, and now freer for this new, wild life of the frontier, rose within her, and she dismissed all thoughts of this man and his passion. the old life was dead and buried. she was going to be happy here. as for the present, it was enough to think of the little border village, now her home; of her girl friends; of the quiet borderman: and, for the moment, that the twilight was somber and beautiful. high up on the wooded bluff rising so gloomily over the village, she saw among the trees something silver-bright. she watched it rise slowly from behind the trees, now hidden, now white through rifts in the foliage, until it soared lovely and grand above the black horizon. the ebony shadows of night seemed to lift, as might a sable mantle moved by invisible hands. but dark shadows, safe from the moon-rays, lay under the trees, and a pale, misty vapor hung below the brow of the bluff. mysterious as had grown the night before darkness yielded to the moon, this pale, white light flooding the still valley, was even more soft and strange. to one of helen's temperament no thought was needed; to see was enough. yet her mind was active. she felt with haunting power the beauty of all before her; in fancy transporting herself far to those silver-tipped clouds, and peopling the dells and shady nooks under the hills with spirits and fairies, maidens and valiant knights. to her the day was as a far-off dream. the great watch stars grew wan before the radiant moon; it reigned alone. the immensity of the world with its glimmering rivers, pensive valleys and deep, gloomy forests lay revealed under the glory of the clear light. absorbed in this contemplation helen remained a long time gazing with dreamy ecstasy at the moonlit valley until a slight chill disturbed her happy thoughts. she knew she was not alone. trembling, she stood up to see, easily recognizable in the moonlight, the tall buckskin-garbed figure of jonathan zane. "well, sir," she called, sharply, yet with a tremor in her voice. the borderman came forward and stood in front of her. somehow he appeared changed. the long, black rifle, the dull, glinting weapons made her shudder. wilder and more untamable he looked than ever. the very silence of the forest clung to him; the fragrance of the grassy plains came faintly from his buckskin garments. "evenin', lass," he said in his slow, cool manner. "how did you get here?" asked helen presently, because he made no effort to explain his presence at such a late hour. "i was able to walk." helen observed, with a vaulting spirit, one ever ready to rise in arms, that master zane was disposed to add humor to his penetrating mysteriousness. she flushed hot and then paled. this borderman certainly possessed the power to vex her, and, reluctantly she admitted, to chill her soul and rouse her fear. she strove to keep back sharp words, because she had learned that this singular individual always gave good reason for his odd actions. "i think in kindness to me," she said, choosing her words carefully, "you might tell me why you appear so suddenly, as if you had sprung out of the ground." "are you alone?" "yes. father is in bed; so is mabel, and will has not yet come home. why?" "has no one else been here?" "mr. brandt came, as did some others; but wishing to be alone, i did not see them," replied helen in perplexity. "have you seen brandt since?" "since when?" "the night i watched by the lilac bush." "yes, several times," replied helen. something in his tone made her ashamed. "i couldn't very well escape when he called. are you surprised because after he insulted me i'd see him?" "yes." helen felt more ashamed. "you don't love him?" he continued. helen was so surprised she could only look into the dark face above her. then she dropped her gaze, abashed by his searching eyes. but, thinking of his question, she subdued the vague stirrings of pleasure in her breast, and answered coldly: "no, i do not; but for the service you rendered me i should never have answered such a question." "i'm glad, an' hope you care as little for the other five men who were here that night." "i declare, master zane, you seem exceedingly interested in the affairs of a young woman whom you won't visit, except as you have come to-night." he looked at her with his piercing eyes. "you spied upon my guests," she said, in no wise abashed now that her temper was high. "did you care so very much?" "care?" he asked slowly. "yes; you were interested to know how many of my admirers were here, what they did, and what they said. you even hint disparagingly of them." "true, i wanted to know," he replied; "but i don't hint about any man." "you are so interested you wouldn't call on me when i invited you," said helen, with poorly veiled sarcasm. it was this that made her bitter; she could never forget that she had asked this man to come to see her, and he had refused. "i reckon you've mistook me," he said calmly. "why did you come? why do you shadow my friends? this is twice you have done it. goodness knows how many times you've been here! tell me." the borderman remained silent. "answer me," commanded helen, her eyes blazing. she actually stamped her foot. "borderman or not, you have no right to pry into my affairs. if you are a gentleman, tell me why you came here?" the eyes jonathan turned on helen stilled all the angry throbbing of her blood. "i come here to learn which of your lovers is the dastard who plotted the abduction of mabel lane, an' the thief who stole our hosses. when i find the villain i reckon wetzel an' i'll swing him to some tree." the borderman's voice rang sharp and cold, and when he ceased speaking she sank back upon the step, shocked, speechless, to gaze up at him with staring eyes. "don't look so, lass; don't be frightened," he said, his voice gentle and kind as it had been hard. he took her hand in his. "you nettled me into replyin'. you have a sharp tongue, lass, and when i spoke i was thinkin' of him. i'm sorry." "a horse-thief and worse than murderer among my friends!" murmured helen, shuddering, yet she never thought to doubt his word. "i followed him here the night of your company." "do you know which one?" "no." he still held her hand, unconsciously, but helen knew it well. a sense of his strength came with the warm pressure, and comforted her. she would need that powerful hand, surely, in the evil days which seemed to darken the horizon. "what shall i do?" she whispered, shuddering again. "keep this secret between you an' me." "how can i? how can i?" "you must," his voice was deep and low. "if you tell your father, or any one, i might lose the chance to find this man, for, lass, he's desperate cunnin'. then he'd go free to rob others, an' mebbe help make off with other poor girls. lass, keep my secret." "but he might try to carry me away," said helen in fearful perplexity. "most likely he might," replied the borderman with the smile that came so rarely. "oh! knowing all this, how can i meet any of these men again? i'd betray myself." "no; you've got too much pluck. it so happens you are the one to help me an' wetzel rid the border of these hell-hounds, an' you won't fail. i know a woman when it comes to that." "i--i help you and wetzel?" "exactly." "gracious!" cried helen, half-laughing, half-crying. "and poor me with more trouble coming on the next boat." "lass, the colonel told me about the englishman. it'll be bad for him to annoy you." helen thrilled with the depth of meaning in the low voice. fate surely was weaving a bond between her and this borderman. she felt it in his steady, piercing gaze; in her own tingling blood. then as her natural courage dispelled all girlish fears, she faced him, white, resolute, with a look in her eyes that matched his own. "i will do what i can," she said. chapter vii westward from fort henry, far above the eddying river, jonathan zane slowly climbed a narrow, hazel-bordered, mountain trail. from time to time he stopped in an open patch among the thickets and breathed deep of the fresh, wood-scented air, while his keen gaze swept over the glades near by, along the wooded hillsides, and above at the timber-strewn woodland. this june morning in the wild forest was significant of nature's brightness and joy. broad-leaved poplars, dense foliaged oaks, and vine-covered maples shaded cool, mossy banks, while between the trees the sunshine streamed in bright spots. it shone silver on the glancing silver-leaf, and gold on the colored leaves of the butternut tree. dewdrops glistened on the ferns; ripples sparkled in the brooks; spider-webs glowed with wondrous rainbow hues, and the flower of the forest, the sweet, pale-faced daisy, rose above the green like a white star. yellow birds flitted among the hazel bushes caroling joyously, and cat-birds sang gaily. robins called; bluejays screeched in the tall, white oaks; wood-peckers hammered in the dead hard-woods, and crows cawed overhead. squirrels chattered everywhere. ruffed grouse rose with great bustle and a whirr, flitting like brown flakes through the leaves. from far above came the shrill cry of a hawk, followed by the wilder scream of an eagle. wilderness music such as all this fell harmoniously on the borderman's ear. it betokened the gladsome spirit of his wild friends, happy in the warm sunshine above, or in the cool depths beneath the fluttering leaves, and everywhere in those lonely haunts unalarmed and free. familiar to jonathan, almost as the footpath near his home, was this winding trail. on the height above was a safe rendezvous, much frequented by him and wetzel. every lichen-covered stone, mossy bank, noisy brook and giant oak on the way up this mountain-side, could have told, had they spoken their secrets, stories of the bordermen. the fragile ferns and slender-bladed grasses peeping from the gray and amber mosses, and the flowers that hung from craggy ledges, had wisdom to impart. a borderman lived under the green tree-tops, and, therefore, all the nodding branches of sassafras and laurel, the grassy slopes and rocky cliffs, the stately ash trees, kingly oaks and dark, mystic pines, together with the creatures that dwelt among them, save his deadly red-skinned foes, he loved. other affection as close and true as this, he had not known. hearkening thus with single heart to nature's teachings, he learned her secrets. certain it was, therefore, that the many hours he passed in the woods apart from savage pursuits, were happy and fruitful. slowly he pressed on up the ascent, at length coming into open light upon a small plateau marked by huge, rugged, weather-chipped stones. on the eastern side was a rocky promontory, and close to the edge of this cliff, an hundred feet in sheer descent, rose a gnarled, time and tempest-twisted chestnut tree. here the borderman laid down his rifle and knapsack, and, half-reclining against the tree, settled himself to rest and wait. this craggy point was the lonely watch-tower of eagles. here on the highest headland for miles around where the bordermen were wont to meet, the outlook was far-reaching and grand. below the gray, splintered cliffs sheered down to meet the waving tree-tops, and then hill after hill, slope after slope, waved and rolled far, far down to the green river. open grassy patches, bright little islands in that ocean of dark green, shone on the hillsides. the rounded ridges ran straight, curved, or zigzag, but shaped their graceful lines in the descent to make the valley. long, purple-hued, shadowy depressions in the wide expanse of foliage marked deep clefts between ridges where dark, cool streams bounded on to meet the river. lower, where the land was level, in open spaces could be seen a broad trail, yellow in the sunlight, winding along with the curves of the water-course. on a swampy meadow, blue in the distance, a herd of buffalo browsed. beyond the river, high over the green island, fort henry lay peaceful and solitary, the only token of the works of man in all that vast panorama. jonathan zane was as much alone as if one thousand miles, instead of five, intervened between him and the settlement. loneliness was to him a passion. other men loved home, the light of woman's eyes, the rattle of dice or the lust of hoarding; but to him this wild, remote promontory, with its limitless view, stretching away to the dim hazy horizon, was more than all the aching joys of civilization. hours here, or in the shady valley, recompensed him for the loss of home comforts, the soft touch of woman's hands, the kiss of baby lips, and also for all he suffered in his pitiless pursuits, the hard fare, the steel and blood of a borderman's life. soon the sun shone straight overhead, dwarfing the shadow of the chestnut on the rock. during such a time it was rare that any connected thought came into the borderman's mind. his dark eyes, now strangely luminous, strayed lingeringly over those purple, undulating slopes. this intense watchfulness had no object, neither had his listening. he watched nothing; he hearkened to the silence. undoubtedly in this state of rapt absorption his perceptions were acutely alert; but without thought, as were those of the savage in the valley below, or the eagle in the sky above. yet so perfectly trained were these perceptions that the least unnatural sound or sight brought him wary and watchful from his dreamy trance. the slight snapping of a twig in the thicket caused him to sit erect, and reach out toward his rifle. his eyes moved among the dark openings in the thicket. in another moment a tall figure pressed the bushes apart. jonathan let fall his rifle, and sank back against the tree once more. wetzel stepped over the rocks toward him. "come from blue pond?" asked jonathan as the newcomer took a seat beside him. wetzel nodded as he carefully laid aside his long, black rifle. "any injun sign?" continued jonathan, pushing toward his companion the knapsack of eatables he had brought from the settlement. "nary shawnee track west of this divide," answered wetzel, helping himself to bread and cheese. "lew, we must go eastward, over bing legget's way, to find the trail of the stolen horses." "likely, an' it'll be a long, hard tramp." "who's in legget's gang now beside old horse, the chippewa, an' his shawnee pard, wildfire? i don't know bing; but i've seen some of his injuns an' they remember me." "never seen legget but onct," replied wetzel, "an' that time i shot half his face off. i've been told by them as have seen him since, that he's got a nasty scar on his temple an' cheek. he's a big man an' knows the woods. i don't know who all's in his gang, nor does anybody. he works in the dark, an' for cunnin' he's got some on jim girty, deerin', an' several more renegades we know of lyin' quiet back here in the woods. we never tackled as bad a gang as his'n; they're all experienced woodsmen, old fighters, an' desperate, outlawed as they be by injuns an' whites. it wouldn't surprise me to find that it's him an' his gang who are runnin' this hoss-thievin'; but bad or no, we're goin' after 'em." jonathan told of his movements since he had last seen his companion. "an' the lass helen is goin' to help us," said wetzel, much interested. "it's a good move. women are keen. betty put miller's schemin' in my eye long 'afore i noticed it. but girls have chances we men'd never get." "yes, an' she's like betts, quicker'n lightnin'. she'll find out this hoss-thief in fort henry; but lew, when we do get him we won't be much better off. where do them hosses go? who's disposin' of 'em for this fellar?" "where's brandt from?" asked wetzel. "detroit; he's a french-canadian." wetzel swung sharply around, his eyes glowing like wakening furnaces. "bing legget's a french-canadian, an' from detroit. metzar was once thick with him down fort pitt way 'afore he murdered a man an' became an outlaw. we're on the trail, jack." "brandt an' metzar, with legget backin' them, an' the horses go overland to detroit?" "i calkilate you've hit the mark." "what'll we do?" asked jonathan. "wait; that's best. we've no call to hurry. we must know the truth before makin' a move, an' as yet we're only suspicious. this lass'll find out more in a week than we could in a year. but jack, have a care she don't fall into any snare. brandt ain't any too honest a lookin' chap, an' them renegades is hell for women. the scars you wear prove that well enough. she's a rare, sweet, bloomin' lass, too. i never seen her equal. i remember how her eyes flashed when she said she knew i'd avenged mabel. jack, they're wonderful eyes; an' that girl, however sweet an' good as she must be, is chain-lightnin' wrapped up in a beautiful form. aren't the boys at the fort runnin' arter her?" "like mad; it'd make you laugh to see 'em," replied jonathan calmly. "there'll be some fights before she's settled for, an' mebbe arter thet. have a care for her, jack, an' see that she don't ketch you." "no more danger than for you." "i was ketched onct," replied wetzel. jonathan zane looked up at his companion. wetzel's head was bowed; but there was no merriment in the serious face exposed to the borderman's scrutiny. "lew, you're jokin'." "not me. some day, when you're ketched good, an' i have to go back to the lonely trail, as i did afore you an' me become friends, mebbe then, when i'm the last borderman, i'll tell you." "lew, 'cordin' to the way settlers are comin', in a few more years there won't be any need for a borderman. when the injuns are all gone where'll be our work?" "'tain't likely either of us'll ever see them times," said wetzel, "an' i don't want to. wal, jack, i'm off now, an' i'll meet you here every other day." wetzel shouldered his long rifle, and soon passed out of sight down the mountain-side. jonathan arose, shook himself as a big dog might have done, and went down into the valley. only once did he pause in his descent, and that was when a crackling twig warned him some heavy body was moving near. silently he sank into the bushes bordering the trail. he listened with his ear close to the ground. presently he heard a noise as of two hard substances striking together. he resumed his walk, having recognized the grating noise of a deer-hoof striking a rock. farther down he espied a pair grazing. the buck ran into the thicket; but the doe eyed him curiously. less than an hour's rapid walking brought him to the river. here he plunged into a thicket of willows, and emerged on a sandy strip of shore. he carefully surveyed the river bank, and then pulled a small birch-bark canoe from among the foliage. he launched the frail craft, paddled across the river and beached it under a reedy, over-hanging bank. the distance from this point in a straight line to his destination was only a mile; but a rocky bluff and a ravine necessitated his making a wide detour. while lightly leaping over a brook his keen eye fell on an imprint in the sandy loam. instantly he was on his knees. the footprint was small, evidently a woman's, and, what was more unusual, instead of the flat, round moccasin-track, it was pointed, with a sharp, square heel. such shoes were not worn by border girls. true betty and nell had them; but they never went into the woods without moccasins. jonathan's experienced eye saw that this imprint was not an hour old. he gazed up at the light. the day was growing short. already shadows lay in the glens. he would not long have light enough to follow the trail; but he hurried on hoping to find the person who made it before darkness came. he had not traveled many paces before learning that the one who made it was lost. the uncertainty in those hasty steps was as plain to the borderman's eyes, as if it had been written in words on the sand. the course led along the brook, avoiding the rough places; and leading into the open glades and glens; but it drew no nearer to the settlement. a quarter of an hour of rapid trailing enabled jonathan to discern a dark figure moving among the trees. abandoning the trail, he cut across a ridge to head off the lost woman. stepping out of a sassafras thicket, he came face to face with helen sheppard. "oh!" she cried in alarm, and then the expression of terror gave place to one of extreme relief and gladness. "oh! thank goodness! you've found me. i'm lost!" "i reckon," answered jonathan grimly. "the settlement's only five hundred yards over that hill." "i was going the wrong way. oh! suppose you hadn't come!" exclaimed helen, sinking on a log and looking up at him with warm, glad eyes. "how did you lose your way?" jonathan asked. he saw neither the warmth in her eyes nor the gladness. "i went up the hillside, only a little way, after flowers, keeping the fort in sight all the time. then i saw some lovely violets down a little hill, and thought i might venture. i found such loads of them i forgot everything else, and i must have walked on a little way. on turning to go back i couldn't find the little hill. i have hunted in vain for the clearing. it seems as if i have been wandering about for hours. i'm so glad you've found me!" "weren't you told to stay in the settlement, inside the clearing?" demanded jonathan. "yes," replied helen, with her head up. "why didn't you?" "because i didn't choose." "you ought to have better sense." "it seems i hadn't," helen said quietly, but her eyes belied that calm voice. "you're a headstrong child," jonathan added curtly. "mr. zane!" cried helen with pale face. "i suppose you've always had your own sweet will; but out here on the border you ought to think a little of others, if not of yourself." helen maintained a proud silence. "you might have run right into prowlin' shawnees." "that dreadful disaster would not have caused you any sorrow," she flashed out. "of course it would. i might have lost my scalp tryin' to get you back home," said jonathan, beginning to hesitate. plainly he did not know what to make of this remarkable young woman. "such a pity to have lost all your fine hair," she answered with a touch of scorn. jonathan flushed, perhaps for the first time in his life. if there was anything he was proud of, it was his long, glossy hair. "miss helen, i'm a poor hand at words," he said, with a pale, grave face. "i was only speakin' for your own good." "you are exceedingly kind; but need not trouble yourself." "say," jonathan hesitated, looking half-vexed at the lovely, angry face. then an idea occurred to him. "well, i won't trouble. find your way home yourself." abruptly he turned and walked slowly away. he had no idea of allowing her to go home alone; but believed it might be well for her to think so. if she did not call him back he would remain near at hand, and when she showed signs of anxiety or fear he could go to her. helen determined she would die in the woods, or be captured by shawnees, before calling him back. but she watched him. slowly the tall, strong figure, with its graceful, springy stride, went down the glade. he would be lost to view in a moment, and then she would be alone. how dark it had suddenly become! the gray cloak of twilight was spread over the forest, and in the hollows night already had settled down. a breathless silence pervaded the woods. how lonely! thought helen, with a shiver. surely it would be dark before she could find the settlement. what hill hid the settlement from view? she did not know, could not remember which he had pointed out. suddenly she began to tremble. she had been so frightened before he had found her, and so relieved afterward; and now he was going away. "mr. zane," she cried with a great effort. "come back." jonathan kept slowly on. "come back, jonathan, please." the borderman retraced his steps. "please take me home," she said, lifting a fair face all flushed, tear-stained, and marked with traces of storm. "i was foolish, and silly to come into the woods, and so glad to see you! but you spoke to me--in--in a way no one ever used before. i'm sure i deserved it. please take me home. papa will be worried." softer eyes and voice than hers never entreated man. "come," he said gently, and, taking her by the hand, he led her up the ridge. thus they passed through the darkening forest, hand in hand, like a dusky redman and his bride. he helped her over stones and logs, but still held her hand when there was no need of it. she looked up to see him walking, so dark and calm beside her, his eyes ever roving among the trees. deepest remorse came upon her because of what she had said. there was no sentiment for him in this walk under the dark canopy of the leaves. he realized the responsibility. any tree might hide a treacherous foe. she would atone for her sarcasm, she promised herself, while walking, ever conscious of her hand in his, her bosom heaving with the sweet, undeniable emotion which came knocking at her heart. soon they were out of the thicket, and on the dusty lane. a few moments of rapid walking brought them within sight of the twinkling lights of the village, and a moment later they were at the lane leading to helen's home. releasing her hand, she stopped him with a light touch and said: "please don't tell papa or colonel zane." "child, i ought. some one should make you stay at home." "i'll stay. please don't tell. it will worry papa." jonathan zane looked down into her great, dark, wonderful eyes with an unaccountable feeling. he really did not hear what she asked. something about that upturned face brought to his mind a rare and perfect flower which grew in far-off rocky fastnesses. the feeling he had was intangible, like no more than a breath of fragrant western wind, faint with tidings of some beautiful field. "promise me you won't tell." "well, lass, have it your own way," replied jonathan, wonderingly conscious that it was the first pledge ever asked of him by a woman. "thank you. now we have two secrets, haven't we?" she laughed, with eyes like stars. "run home now, lass. be careful hereafter. i do fear for you with such spirit an' temper. i'd rather be scalped by shawnees than have bing legget so much as set eyes on you." "you would? why?" her voice was like low, soft music. "why?" he mused. "it'd seem like a buzzard about to light on a doe." "good-night," said helen abruptly, and, wheeling, she hurried down the lane. chapter viii "jack," said colonel zane to his brother next morning, "to-day is saturday and all the men will be in. there was high jinks over at metzar's place yesterday, and i'm looking for more to-day. the two fellows alex bennet told me about, came on day-before-yesterday's boat. sure enough, one's a lordly englishman, and the other, the cussedest-looking little chap i ever saw. they started trouble immediately. the englishman, his name is mordaunt, hunted up the sheppards and as near as i can make out from george's story, helen spoke her mind very plainly. mordaunt and case, that's his servant, the little cuss, got drunk and raised hell down at metzar's where they're staying. brandt and williams are drinking hard, too, which is something unusual for brandt. they got chummy at once with the englishman, who seems to have plenty of gold and is fond of gambling. this mordaunt is a gentleman, or i never saw one. i feel sorry for him. he appears to be a ruined man. if he lasts a week out here i'll be surprised. case looks ugly, as if he were spoiling to cut somebody. i want you to keep your eye peeled. the day may pass off as many other days of drinking bouts have, without anything serious, and on the other hand there's liable to be trouble." jonathan's preparations were characteristic of the borderman. he laid aside his rifle, and, removing his short coat, buckled on a second belt containing a heavier tomahawk and knife than those he had been wearing. then he put on his hunting frock, or shirt, and wore it loose with the belts underneath, instead of on the outside. unfastened, the frock was rather full, and gave him the appearance of a man unarmed and careless. jonathan zane was not so reckless as to court danger, nor, like many frontiersmen, fond of fighting for its own sake. colonel zane was commandant of the fort, and, in a land where there was no law, tried to maintain a semblance of it. for years he had kept thieves, renegades and outlaws away from his little settlement by dealing out stern justice. his word was law, and his bordermen executed it as such. therefore jonathan and wetzel made it their duty to have a keen eye on all that was happening. they kept the colonel posted, and never interfered in any case without orders. the morning passed quietly. jonathan strolled here or loitered there; but saw none of the roisterers. he believed they were sleeping off the effects of their orgy on the previous evening. after dinner he smoked his pipe. betty and helen passed, and helen smiled. it struck him suddenly that she had never looked at him in such a way before. there was meaning in that warm, radiant flash. a little sense of vexation, the source of which he did not understand, stirred in him against this girl; but with it came the realization that her white face and big, dark eyes had risen before him often since the night before. he wished, for the first time, that he could understand women better. "everything quiet?" asked colonel zane, coming out on the steps. "all quiet," answered jonathan. "they'll open up later, i suspect. i'm going over to sheppard's for a while, and, later, will drop into metzar's. i'll make him haul in a yard or two. i don't like things i hear about his selling the youngsters rum. i'd like you to be within call." the borderman strolled down the bluff and along the path which overhung the river. he disliked metzar more than his brother suspected, and with more weighty reason than that of selling rum to minors. jonathan threw himself at length on the ground and mused over the situation. "we never had any peace in this settlement, an' never will in our day. eb is hopeful an' looks at the bright side, always expectin' to-morrow will be different. what have the past sixteen years been? one long bloody fight, an' the next sixteen won't be any better. i make out that we'll have a mix-up soon. metzar an' brandt with their allies, whoever they are, will be in it, an' if bing legget's in the gang, we've got, as wetzel said, a long, hard trail, which may be our last. more'n that, there'll be trouble about this chain-lightnin' girl, as wetzel predicted. women make trouble anyways; an' when they're winsome an' pretty they cause more; but if they're beautiful an' fiery, bent on havin' their way, as this new lass is, all hell couldn't hold a candle to them. we don't need the shawnees an' girtys, an' hoss thieves round this here settlement to stir up excitin' times, now we've got this dark-eyed lass. an' yet any fool could see she's sweet, an' good, an' true as gold." toward the middle of the afternoon jonathan sauntered in the direction of metzar's inn. it lay on the front of the bluff, with its main doors looking into the road. a long, one-story log structure with two doors, answered as a bar-room. the inn proper was a building more pretentious, and joined the smaller one at its western end. several horses were hitched outside, and two great oxen yoked to a cumbersome mud-crusted wagon stood patiently by. jonathan bent his tall head as he entered the noisy bar-room. the dingy place reeked with tobacco smoke and the fumes of vile liquor. it was crowded with men. the lawlessness of the time and place was evident. gaunt, red-faced frontiersmen reeled to and fro across the sawdust floor; hunters and fur-traders, raftsmen and farmers, swelled the motley crowd; young men, honest-faced, but flushed and wild with drink, hung over the bar; a group of sullen-visaged, serpent-eyed indians held one corner. the black-bearded proprietor dealt out the rum. from beyond the bar-room, through a door entering upon the back porch, came the rattling of dice. jonathan crossed the bar-room apparently oblivious to the keen glance metzar shot at him, and went out upon the porch. this also was crowded, but there was more room because of greater space. at one table sat some pioneers drinking and laughing; at another were three men playing with dice. colonel zane, silas, and sheppard were among the lookers-on at the game. jonathan joined them, and gazed at the gamesters. brandt he knew well enough; he had seen that set, wolfish expression in the riverman's face before. he observed, however, that the man had flushed cheeks and trembling hands, indications of hard drinking. the player sitting next to brandt was williams, one of the garrison, and a good-natured fellow, but garrulous and wickedly disposed when drunk. the remaining player jonathan at once saw was the englishman, mordaunt. he was a handsome man, with fair skin, and long, silken, blond mustache. heavy lines, and purple shades under his blue eyes, were die unmistakable stamp of dissipation. reckless, dissolute, bad as he looked, there yet clung something favorable about the man. perhaps it was his cool, devil-may-care way as he pushed over gold piece after gold piece from the fast diminishing pile before him. his velvet frock and silken doublet had once been elegant; but were now sadly the worse for border roughing. behind the englishman's chair jonathan saw a short man with a face resembling that of a jackal. the grizzled, stubbly beard, the protruding, vicious mouth, the broad, flat nose, and deep-set, small, glittering eyes made a bad impression on the observer. this man, jonathan concluded, was the servant, case, who was so eager with his knife. the borderman made the reflection, that if knife-play was the little man's pastime, he was not likely to go short of sport in that vicinity. colonel zane attracted jonathan's attention at this moment. the pioneers had vacated the other table, and silas and sheppard now sat by it. the colonel wanted his brother to join them. "here, johnny, bring drinks," he said to the serving boy. "tell metzar who they're for." then turning to sheppard he continued: "he keeps good whiskey; but few of these poor devils ever see it." at the same time colonel zane pressed his foot upon that of jonathan's. the borderman understood that the signal was intended to call attention to brandt. the latter had leaned forward, as jonathan passed by to take a seat with his brother, and said something in a low tone to mordaunt and case. jonathan knew by the way the englishman and his man quickly glanced up at him, that he had been the subject of the remark. suddenly williams jumped to his feet with an oath. "i'm cleaned out," he cried. "shall we play alone?" asked brandt of mordaunt. "as you like," replied the englishman, in a tone which showed he cared not a whit whether he played or not. "i've got work to do. let's have some more drinks, and play another time," said brandt. the liquor was served and drank. brandt pocketed his pile of spanish and english gold, and rose to his feet. he was a trifle unsteady; but not drunk. "will you gentlemen have a glass with me?" mordaunt asked of colonel zane's party. "thank you, some other time, with pleasure. we have our drink now," colonel zane said courteously. meantime brandt had been whispering in case's ear. the little man laughed at something the riverman said. then he shuffled from behind the table. he was short, his compact build gave promise of unusual strength and agility. "what are you going to do now?" asked mordaunt, rising also. he looked hard at case. "shiver my sides, cap'n, if i don't need another drink," replied the sailor. "you have had enough. come upstairs with me," said mordaunt. "easy with your hatch, cap'n," grinned case. "i want to drink with that ther' injun killer. i've had drinks with buccaneers, and bad men all over the world, and i'm not going to miss this chance." "come on; you will get into trouble. you must not annoy these gentlemen," said mordaunt. "trouble is the name of my ship, and she's a trim, fast craft," replied the man. his loud voice had put an end to the convention. men began to crowd in from the bar-room. metzar himself came to see what had caused the excitement. the little man threw up his cap, whooped, and addressed himself to jonathan: "injun-killer, bad man of the border, will you drink with a jolly old tar from england?" suddenly a silence reigned, like that in the depths of the forest. to those who knew the borderman, and few did not know him, the invitation was nothing less than an insult. but it did not appear to them, as to him, like a pre-arranged plot to provoke a fight. "will you drink, redskin-hunter?" bawled the sailor. "no," said jonathan in his quiet voice. "maybe you mean that against old england?" demanded case fiercely. the borderman eyed him steadily, inscrutable as to feeling or intent, and was silent. "go out there and i'll see the color of your insides quicker than i'd take a drink," hissed the sailor, with his brick-red face distorted and hideous to look upon. he pointed with a long-bladed knife that no one had seen him draw, to the green sward beyond the porch. the borderman neither spoke, nor relaxed a muscle. "ho! ho! my brave pirate of the plains!" cried case, and he leered with braggart sneer into the faces of jonathan and his companions. it so happened that sheppard sat nearest to him, and got the full effect of the sailor's hot, rum-soaked breath. he arose with a pale face. "colonel, i can't stand this," he said hastily. "let's get away from that drunken ruffian." "who's a drunken ruffian?" yelled case, more angry than ever. "i'm not drunk; but i'm going to be, and cut some of you white-livered border mates. here, you old masthead, drink this to my health, damn you!" the ruffian had seized a tumbler of liquor from the table, and held it toward sheppard while he brandished his long knife. white as snow, sheppard backed against the wall; but did not take the drink. the sailor had the floor; no one save him spoke a word. the action had been so rapid that there had hardly been time. colonel zane and silas were as quiet and tense as the borderman. "drink!" hoarsely cried the sailor, advancing his knife toward sheppard's body. when the sharp point all but pressed against the old man, a bright object twinkled through the air. it struck case's wrist, knocked the knife from his fingers, and, bounding against the wall, fell upon the floor. it was a tomahawk. the borderman sprang over the table like a huge catamount, and with movement equally quick, knocked case with a crash against the wall; closed on him before he could move a hand, and flung him like a sack of meal over the bluff. the tension relieved, some of the crowd laughed, others looked over the embankment to see how case had fared, and others remarked that for some reason he had gotten off better than they expected. the borderman remained silent. he leaned against a post, with broad breast gently heaving, but his eyes sparkled as they watched brandt, williams, mordaunt and metzar. the englishman alone spoke. "handily done," he said, cool and suave. "sir, yours is an iron hand. i apologize for this unpleasant affair. my man is quarrelsome when under the influence of liquor." "metzar, a word with you," cried colonel zane curtly. "come inside, kunnel," said the innkeeper, plainly ill at ease. "no; listen here. i'll speak to the point. you've got to stop running this kind of a place. no words, now, you've got to stop. understand? you know as well as i, perhaps better, the character of your so-called inn. you'll get but one more chance." "wal, kunnel, this is a free country," growled metzar. "i can't help these fellars comin' here lookin' fer blood. i runs an honest place. the men want to drink an' gamble. what's law here? what can you do?" "you know me, metzar," colonel zane said grimly. "i don't waste words. 'to hell with law!' so you say. i can say that, too. remember, the next drunken boy i see, or shady deal, or gambling spree, out you go for good." metzar lowered his shaggy head and left the porch. brandt and his friends, with serious faces, withdrew into the bar-room. the borderman walked around the corner of the inn, and up the lane. the colonel, with silas and sheppard, followed in more leisurely fashion. at a shout from some one they turned to see a dusty, bloody figure, with ragged clothes, stagger up from the bluff. "there's that blamed sailor now," said sheppard. "he's a tough nut. my! what a knock on the head jonathan gave him. strikes me, too, that tomahawk came almost at the right time to save me a whole skin." "i was furious, but not at all alarmed," rejoined colonel zane. "i wondered what made you so quiet." "i was waiting. jonathan never acts until the right moment, and then--well, you saw him. the little villain deserved killing. i could have shot him with pleasure. do you know, sheppard, jonathan's aversion to shedding blood is a singular thing. he'd never kill the worst kind of a white man until driven to it." "that's commendable. how about wetzel?" "well, lew is different," replied colonel zane with a shudder. "if i told him to take an ax and clean out metzar's place--god! what a wreck he'd make of it. maybe i'll have to tell him, and if i do, you'll see something you can never forget." chapter ix on sunday morning under the bright, warm sun, the little hamlet of fort henry lay peacefully quiet, as if no storms had ever rolled and thundered overhead, no roistering ever disturbed its stillness, and no indian's yell ever horribly broke the quiet. "'tis a fine morning," said colonel zane, joining his sister on the porch. "well, how nice you look! all in white for the first time since--well, you do look charming. you're going to church, of course." "yes, i invited helen and her cousin to go. i've persuaded her to teach my sunday-school class, and i'll take another of older children," replied betty. "that's well. the youngsters don't have much chance to learn out here. but we've made one great stride. a church and a preacher means very much to young people. next shall come the village school." "helen and i might teach our classes an hour or two every afternoon." "it would be a grand thing if you did! fancy these tots growing up unable to read or write. i hate to think of it; but the lord knows i've done my best. i've had my troubles in keeping them alive." "helen suggested the day school. she takes the greatest interest in everything and everybody. her energy is remarkable. she simply must move, must do something. she overflows with kindness and sympathy. yesterday she cried with happiness when mabel told her alex was eager to be married very soon. i tell you, eb, helen is a fine character." "yes, good as she is pretty, which is saying some," mused the colonel. "i wonder who'll be the lucky fellow to win her." "it's hard to say. not that englishman, surely. she hates him. jonathan might. you should see her eyes when he is mentioned." "say, betts, you don't mean it?" eagerly asked her brother. "yes, i do," returned betty, nodding her head positively. "i'm not easily deceived about those things. helen's completely fascinated with jack. she might be only a sixteen-year-old girl for the way she betrays herself to me." "betty, i have a beautiful plan." "no doubt; you're full of them." "we can do it, betty, we can, you and i," he said, as he squeezed her arm. "my dear old matchmaking brother," returned betty, laughing, "it takes two to make a bargain. jack must be considered." "bosh!" exclaimed the colonel, snapping his fingers. "you needn't tell me any young man--any man, could resist that glorious girl." "perhaps not; i couldn't if i were a man. but jack's not like other people. he'd never realize that she cared for him. besides, he's a borderman." "i know, and that's the only serious obstacle. but he could scout around the fort, even if he was married. these long, lonely, terrible journeys taken by him and wetzel are mostly unnecessary. a sweet wife could soon make him see that. the border will be civilized in a few years, and because of that he'd better give over hunting for indians. i'd like to see him married and settled down, like all the rest of us, even isaac. you know jack's the last of the zanes, that is, the old zanes. the difficulty arising from his extreme modesty and bashfulness can easily be overcome." "how, most wonderful brother?" "easy as pie. tell jack that helen is dying of love for him, and tell her that jack loves----" "but, dear eb, that latter part is not true," interposed betty. "true, of course it's true, or would be in any man who wasn't as blind as a bat. we'll tell her jack cares for her; but he is a borderman with stern ideas of duty, and so slow and backward he'd never tell his love even if he had overcome his tricks of ranging. that would settle it with any girl worth her salt, and this one will fetch jack in ten days, or less." "eb, you're a devil," said betty gaily, and then she added in a more sober vein, "i understand, eb. your idea is prompted by love of jack, and it's all right. i never see him go out of the clearing but i think it may be for the last time, even as on that day so long ago when brother andrew waved his cap to us, and never came back. jack is the best man in the world, and i, too, want to see him happy, with a wife, and babies, and a settled occupation in life. i think we might weave a pretty little romance. shall we try?" "try? we'll do it! now, betts, you explain it to both. you can do it smoother than i, and telling them is really the finest point of our little plot. i'll help the good work along afterwards. he'll be out presently. nail him at once." jonathan, all unconscious of the deep-laid scheme to make him happy, soon came out on the porch, and stretched his long arms as he breathed freely of the morning air. "hello, jack, where are you bound?" asked betty, clasping one of his powerful, buckskin-clad knees with her arm. "i reckon i'll go over to the spring," he replied, patting her dark, glossy head. "do you know i want to tell you something, jack, and it's quite serious," she said, blushing a little at her guilt; but resolute to carry out her part of the plot. "well, dear?" he asked as she hesitated. "do you like helen?" "that is a question," jonathan replied after a moment. "never mind; tell me," she persisted. he made no answer. "well, jack, she's--she's wildly in love with you." the borderman stood very still for several moments. then, with one step he gained the lawn, and turned to confront her. "what's that you say?" betty trembled a little. he spoke so sharply, his eyes were bent on her so keenly, and he looked so strong, so forceful that she was almost afraid. but remembering that she had said only what, to her mind, was absolutely true, she raised her eyes and repeated the words: "helen is wildly'in love with you." "betty, you wouldn't joke about such a thing; you wouldn't lie to me, i know you wouldn't." "no, jack dear." she saw his powerful frame tremble, even as she had seen more than one man tremble, during the siege, under the impact of a bullet. without speaking, he walked rapidly down the path toward the spring. colonel zane came out of his hiding-place behind the porch and, with a face positively electrifying in its glowing pleasure, beamed upon his sister. "gee! didn't he stalk off like an indian chief!" he said, chuckling with satisfaction. "by george! betts, you must have got in a great piece of work. i never in my life saw jack look like that." colonel zane sat down by betty's side and laughed softly but heartily. "we'll fix him all right, the lonely hill-climber! why, he hasn't a ghost of a chance. wait until she sees him after hearing your story! i tell you, betty--why--damme! you're crying!" he had turned to find her head lowered, while she shaded her face with her hand. "now, betty, just a little innocent deceit like that--what harm?" he said, taking her hand. he was as tender as a woman. "oh, eb, it wasn't that. i didn't mind telling him. only the flash in his eyes reminded me of--of alfred." "surely it did. why not? almost everything brings up a tender memory for some one we've loved and lost. but don't cry, betty." she laughed a little, and raised a face with its dark cheeks flushed and tear-stained. "i'm silly, i suppose; but i can't help it. i cry at least once every day." "brace up. here come helen and will. don't let them see you grieved. my! helen in pure white, too! this is a conspiracy to ruin the peace of the masculine portion of fort henry." betty went forward to meet her friends while colonel zane continued talking, but now to himself. "what a fatal beauty she has!" his eyes swept over helen with the pleasure of an artist. the fair richness of her skin, the perfect lips, the wavy, shiny hair, the wondrous dark-blue, changing eyes, the tall figure, slender, but strong and swelling with gracious womanhood, made a picture he delighted in and loved to have near him. the girl did not possess for him any of that magnetism, so commonly felt by most of her admirers; but he did feel how subtly full she was of something, which for want of a better term he described in wetzel's characteristic expression, as "chain-lightning." he reflected that as he was so much older, that she, although always winsome and earnest, showed nothing of the tormenting, bewildering coquetry of her nature. colonel zane prided himself on his discernment, and he had already observed that helen had different sides of character for different persons. to betty, mabel, nell, and the children, she was frank, girlish, full of fun and always lovable; to her elders quiet and earnestly solicitous to please; to the young men cold; but with a penetrating, mocking promise haunting that coldness, and sometimes sweetly agreeable, often wilful, and changeable as april winds. at last the colonel concluded that she needed, as did all other spirited young women, the taming influence of a man whom she loved, a home to care for, and children to soften and temper her spirit. "well, young friends, i see you count on keeping the sabbath," he said cheerily. "for my part, will, i don't see how jim douns can preach this morning, before this laurel blossom and that damask rose." "how poetical! which is which?" asked betty. "flatterer!" laughed helen, shaking her finger. "and a married man, too!" continued betty. "well, being married has not affected my poetical sentiment, nor impaired my eyesight." "but it has seriously inconvenienced your old propensity of making love to the girls. not that you wouldn't if you dared," replied betty with mischief in her eye. "now, will, what do you think of that? isn't it real sisterly regard? come, we'll go and look at my thoroughbreds," said colonel zane. "where is jonathan?" helen asked presently. "something happened at metzar's yesterday. papa wouldn't tell me, and i want to ask jonathan." "jack is down by the spring. he spends a great deal of his time there. it's shady and cool, and the water babbles over the stones." "how much alone he is," said helen. betty took her former position on the steps, but did not raise her eyes while she continued speaking. "yes, he's more alone than ever lately, and quieter, too. he hardly ever speaks now. there must be something on his mind more serious than horse-thieves." "what?" helen asked quickly. "i'd better not tell--you." a long moment passed before helen spoke. "please tell me!" "well, helen, we think, eb and i, that jack is in love for the first time in his life, and with you, you adorable creature. but jack's a borderman; he is stern in his principles, thinks he is wedded to his border life, and he knows that he has both red and white blood on his hands. he'd die before he'd speak of his love, because he cannot understand that would do any good, even if you loved him, which is, of course, preposterous." "loves me!" breathed helen softly. she sat down rather beside betty, and turned her face away. she still held the young woman's hand which she squeezed so tightly as to make its owner wince. betty stole a look at her, and saw the rich red blood mantling her cheeks, and her full bosom heave. helen turned presently, with no trace of emotion except a singular brilliance of the eyes. she was so slow to speak again that colonel zane and will returned from the corral before she found her voice. "colonel zane, please tell me about last night. when papa came home to supper he was pale and very nervous. i knew something had happened. but he would not explain, which made me all the more anxious. won't you please tell me?" colonel zane glanced again at her, and knew what had happened. despite her self-possession those tell-tale eyes told her secret. ever-changing and shadowing with a bounding, rapturous light, they were indeed the windows of her soul. all the emotion of a woman's heart shone there, fear, beauty, wondering appeal, trembling joy, and timid hope. "tell you? indeed i will," replied colonel zane, softened and a little remorseful under those wonderful eyes. no one liked to tell a story better than colonel zane. briefly and graphically he related the circumstances of the affair leading to the attack on helen's father, and, as the tale progressed, he became quite excited, speaking with animated face and forceful gestures. "just as the knife-point touched your father, a swiftly-flying object knocked the weapon to the floor. it was jonathan's tomahawk. what followed was so sudden i hardly saw it. like lightning, and flexible as steel, jonathan jumped over the table, smashed case against the wall, pulled him up and threw him over the bank. i tell you, helen, it was a beautiful piece of action; but not, of course, for a woman's eyes. now that's all. your father was not even hurt." "he saved papa's life," murmured helen, standing like a statue. she wheeled suddenly with that swift bird-like motion habitual to her, and went quickly down the path leading to the spring. * * * * * jonathan zane, solitary dreamer of dreams as he was, had never been in as strange and beautiful a reverie as that which possessed him on this sabbath morning. deep into his heart had sunk betty's words. the wonder of it, the sweetness, that alone was all he felt. the glory of this girl had begun, days past, to spread its glamour round him. swept irresistibly away now, he soared aloft in a dream-castle of fancy with its painted windows and golden walls. for the first time in his life on the border he had entered the little glade and had no eye for the crystal water flowing over the pebbles and mossy stones, or the plot of grassy ground inclosed by tall, dark trees and shaded by a canopy of fresh green and azure blue. nor did he hear the music of the soft rushing water, the warbling birds, or the gentle sighing breeze moving the leaves. gone, vanished, lost to-day was that sweet companionship of nature. that indefinable and unutterable spirit which flowed so peacefully to him from his beloved woods; that something more than merely affecting his senses, which existed for him in the stony cliffs, and breathed with life through the lonely aisles of the forest, had fled before the fateful power of a woman's love and beauty. a long time that seemed only a moment passed while he leaned against a stone. a light step sounded on the path. a vision in pure white entered the glade; two little hands pressed his, and two dark-blue eyes of misty beauty shed their light on him. "jonathan, i am come to thank you." sweet and tremulous, the voice sounded far away. "thank me? for what?" "you saved papa's life. oh! how can i thank you?" no voice answered for him. "i have nothing to give but this." a flower-like face was held up to him; hands light as thistledown touched his shoulders; dark-blue eyes glowed upon him with all tenderness. "may i thank you--so?" soft lips met his full and lingeringly. then came a rush as of wind, a flash of white, and the patter of flying feet. he was alone in the glade. chapter x june passed; july opened with unusually warm weather, and fort henry had no visits from indians or horse-thieves, nor any inconvenience except the hot sun. it was the warmest weather for many years, and seriously dwarfed the settlers' growing corn. nearly all the springs were dry, and a drouth menaced the farmers. the weather gave helen an excuse which she was not slow to adopt. her pale face and languid air perplexed and worried her father and her friends. she explained to them that the heat affected her disagreeably. long days had passed since that sunday morning when she kissed the borderman. what transports of sweet hope and fear were hers then! how shame had scorched her happiness! yet still she gloried in the act. by that kiss had she awakened to a full consciousness of her love. with insidious stealth and ever-increasing power this flood had increased to full tide, and, bursting its bonds, surged over her with irresistible strength. during the first days after the dawning of her passion, she lived in its sweetness, hearing only melodious sounds chiming in her soul. the hours following that sunday were like long dreams. but as all things reach fruition, so this girlish period passed, leaving her a thoughtful woman. she began to gather up the threads of her life where love had broken them, to plan nobly, and to hope and wait. weeks passed, however, and her lover did not come. betty told her that jonathan made flying trips at break of day to hold council with colonel zane; that he and wetzel were on the trail of shawnees with stolen horses, and both bordermen were in their dark, vengeful, terrible moods. in these later days helen passed through many stages of feeling. after the exalting mood of hot, young love, came reaction. she fell into the depths of despair. sorrow paled her face, thinned her cheeks and lent another shadow, a mournful one, to her great eyes. the constant repression of emotion, the strain of trying to seem cheerful when she was miserable, threatened even her magnificent health. she answered the solicitude of her friends by evasion, and then by that innocent falsehood in which a sensitive soul hides its secrets. shame was only natural, because since the borderman came not, nor sent her a word, pride whispered that she had wooed him, forgetting modesty. pride, anger, shame, despair, however, finally fled before affection. she loved this wild borderman, and knew he loved her in return although he might not understand it himself. his simplicity, his lack of experience with women, his hazardous life and stern duty regarding it, pleaded for him and for her love. for the lack of a little understanding she would never live unhappy and alone while she was loved. better give a thousand times more than she had sacrificed. he would return to the village some day, when the indians and the thieves were run down, and would be his own calm, gentle self. then she would win him, break down his allegiance to this fearful border life, and make him happy in her love. while helen was going through one of the fires of life to come out sweeter and purer, if a little pensive and sad, time, which waits not for love, nor life, nor death, was hastening onward, and soon the golden fields of grain were stored. september came with its fruitful promise fulfilled. helen entered once more into the quiet, social life of the little settlement, taught her class on sundays, did all her own work, and even found time to bring a ray of sunshine to more than one sick child's bed. yet she did not forget her compact with jonathan, and bent all her intelligence to find some clew that might aid in the capture of the horse-thief. she was still groping in the darkness. she could not, however, banish the belief that the traitor was brandt. she blamed herself for this, because of having no good reasons for suspicion; but the conviction was there, fixed by intuition. because a man's eyes were steely gray, sharp like those of a cat's, and capable of the same contraction and enlargement, there was no reason to believe their owner was a criminal. but that, helen acknowledged with a smile, was the only argument she had. to be sure brandt had looked capable of anything, the night jonathan knocked him down; she knew he had incited case to begin the trouble at metzar's, and had seemed worried since that time. he had not left the settlement on short journeys, as had been his custom before the affair in the bar-room. and not a horse had disappeared from fort henry since that time. brandt had not discontinued his attentions to her; if they were less ardent it was because she had given him absolutely to understand that she could be his friend only. and she would not have allowed even so much except for jonathan's plan. she fancied it was possible to see behind brandt's courtesy, the real subtle, threatening man. stripped of his kindliness, an assumed virtue, the iron man stood revealed, cold, calculating, cruel. mordaunt she never saw but once and then, shocking and pitiful, he lay dead drunk in the grass by the side of the road, his pale, weary, handsome face exposed to the pitiless rays of the sun. she ran home weeping over this wreck of what had once been so fine a gentleman. ah! the curse of rum! he had learned his soft speech and courtly bearing in the refinement of a home where a proud mother adored, and gentle sisters loved him. and now, far from the kindred he had disgraced, he lay in the road like a log. how it hurt her! she almost wished she could have loved him, if love might have redeemed. she was more kind to her other admirers, more tolerant of brandt, and could forgive the englishman, because the pangs she had suffered through love had softened her spirit. during this long period the growing friendship of her cousin for betty had been a source of infinite pleasure to helen. she hoped and believed a romance would develop between the young widow and will, and did all in her power, slyly abetted by the matchmaking colonel, to bring the two together. one afternoon when the sky was clear with that intense blue peculiar to bright days in early autumn, helen started out toward betty's, intending to remind that young lady she had promised to hunt for clematis and other fall flowers. about half-way to betty's home she met brandt. he came swinging round a corner with his quick, firm step. she had not seen him for several days, and somehow he seemed different. a brightness, a flash, as of daring expectation, was in his face. the poise, too, of the man had changed. "well, i am fortunate. i was just going to your home," he said cheerily. "won't you come for a walk with me?" "you may walk with me to betty's," helen answered. "no, not that. come up the hillside. we'll get some goldenrod. i'd like to have a chat with you. i may go away--i mean i'm thinking of making a short trip," he added hurriedly. "please come." "i promised to go to betty's." "you won't come?" his voice trembled with mingled disappointment and resentment. "no," helen replied in slight surprise. "you have gone with the other fellows. why not with me?" he was white now, and evidently laboring under powerful feelings that must have had their origin in some thought or plan which hinged on the acceptance of his invitation. "because i choose not to," helen replied coldly, meeting his glance fully. a dark red flush swelled brandt's face and neck; his gray eyes gleamed balefully with wolfish glare; his teeth were clenched. he breathed hard and trembled with anger. then, by a powerful effort, he conquered himself; the villainous expression left his face; the storm of rage subsided. great incentive there must have been for him thus to repress his emotions so quickly. he looked long at her with sinister, intent regard; then, with the laugh of a desperado, a laugh which might have indicated contempt for the failure of his suit, and which was fraught with a world of meaning, of menace, he left her without so much as a salute. helen pondered over this sudden change, and felt relieved because she need make no further pretense of friendship. he had shown himself to be what she had instinctively believed. she hurried on toward betty's, hoping to find colonel zane at home, and with jonathan, for brandt's hint of leaving fort henry, and his evident chagrin at such a slip of speech, had made her suspicious. she was informed by mrs. zane that the colonel had gone to a log-raising; jonathan had not been in for several days, and betty went away with will. "where did they go?" asked helen. "i'm not sure; i think down to the spring." helen followed the familiar path through the grove of oaks into the glade. it was quite deserted. sitting on the stone against which jonathan had leaned the day she kissed him, she gave way to tender reflection. suddenly she was disturbed by the sound of rapid footsteps, and looking up, saw the hulking form of metzar, the innkeeper, coming down the path. he carried a bucket, and meant evidently to get water. helen did not desire to be seen, and, thinking he would stay only a moment, slipped into a thicket of willows behind the stone. she could see plainly through the foliage. metzar came into the glade, peered around in the manner of a man expecting to see some one, and then, filling his bucket at the spring, sat down on the stone. not a minute elapsed before soft, rapid footsteps sounded in the distance. the bushes parted, disclosing the white, set face and gray eyes of roger brandt. with a light spring he cleared the brook and approached metzar. before speaking he glanced around the glade with the fugitive, distrustful glance of a man who suspects even the trees. then, satisfied by the scrutiny he opened his hunting frock, taking forth a long object which he thrust toward metzar. it was an indian arrow. metzar's dull gaze traveled from this to the ominous face of brandt. "see there, you! look at this arrow! shot by the best indian on the border into the window of my room. i hadn't been there a minute when it came from the island. god! but it was a great shot!" "hell!" gasped metzar, his dull face quickening with some awful thought. "i guess it is hell," replied brandt, his face growing whiter and wilder. "our game's up?" questioned metzar with haggard cheek. "up? man! we haven't a day, maybe less, to shake fort henry." "what does it mean?" asked metzar. he was the calmer of the two. "it's a signal. the shawnees, who were in hiding with the horses over by blueberry swamp, have been flushed by those bordermen. some of them have escaped; at least one, for no one but ashbow could shoot that arrow across the river." "suppose he hadn't come?" whispered metzar hoarsely. brandt answered him with a dark, shuddering gaze. a twig snapped in the thicket. like foxes at the click of a trap, these men whirled with fearsome glances. "ugh!" came a low, guttural voice from the bushes, and an indian of magnificent proportions and somber, swarthy features, entered the glade. chapter xi the savage had just emerged from the river, for his graceful, copper-colored body and scanty clothing were dripping with water. he carried a long bow and a quiver of arrows. brandt uttered an exclamation of surprise, and metzar a curse, as the lithe indian leaped the brook. he was not young. his swarthy face was lined, seamed, and terrible with a dark impassiveness. "paleface-brother-get-arrow," he said in halting english, as his eyes flashed upon brandt. "chief-want-make-sure." the white man leaned forward, grasped the indian's arm, and addressed him in an indian language. this questioning was evidently in regard to his signal, the whereabouts of others of the party, and why he took such fearful risks almost in the village. the indian answered with one english word. "deathwind!" brandt drew back with drawn, white face, while a whistling breath escaped him. "i knew it, metz. wetzel!" he exclaimed in a husky voice. the blood slowly receded from metzar's evil, murky face, leaving it haggard. "deathwind-on-chief's-trail-up-eagle rock," continued the indian. "deathwind-fooled-not-for-long. chief-wait-paleface-brothers at two islands." the indian stepped into the brook, parted the willows, and was gone as he had come, silently. "we know what to expect," said brandt in calmer tone as the daring cast of countenance returned to him. "there's an indian for you! he got away, doubled like an old fox on his trail, and ran in here to give us a chance at escape. now you know why bing legget can't be caught." "let's dig at once," replied metzar, with no show of returning courage such as characterized his companion. brandt walked to and fro with bent brows, like one in deep thought. suddenly he turned upon metzar eyes which were brightly hard, and reckless with resolve. "by heaven! i'll do it! listen. wetzel has gone to the top of eagle mountain, where he and zane have a rendezvous. even he won't suspect the cunning of this indian; anyway it'll be after daylight to-morrow before he strikes the trail. i've got twenty-four hours, and more, to get this girl, and i'll do it!" "bad move to have weight like her on a march," said metzar. "bah! the thing's easy. as for you, go on, push ahead after we're started. all i ask is that you stay by me until the time to cut loose." "i ain't agoin' to crawfish now," growled metzar. "strikes me, too, i'm losin' more'n you." "you won't be a loser if you can get back to detroit with your scalp. i'll pay you in horses and gold. once we reach legget's place we're safe." "what's yer plan about gittin' the gal?" asked metzar. brandt leaned forward and spoke eagerly, but in a low tone. "git away on hoss-back?" questioned metzar, visibly brightening. "wal, that's some sense. kin ye trust ther other party?" "i'm sure i can," rejoined brandt. "it'll be a good job, a good job an' all done in daylight, too. bing legget couldn't plan better," metzar said, rubbing his hands, "we've fooled these zanes and their fruit-raising farmers for a year, and our time is about up," brandt muttered. "one more job and we've done. once with legget we're safe, and then we'll work slowly back towards detroit. let's get out of here now, for some one may come at any moment." the plotters separated, brandt going through the grove, and metzar down the path by which he had come. * * * * * helen, trembling with horror of what she had heard, raised herself cautiously from the willows where she had lain, and watched the innkeeper's retreating figure. when it had disappeared she gave a little gasp of relief. free now to run home, there to plan what course must be pursued, she conquered her fear and weakness, and hurried from the glade. luckily, so far as she was able to tell, no one saw her return. she resolved that she would be cool, deliberate, clever, worthy of the borderman's confidence. first she tried to determine the purport of this interview between brandt and metzar. she recalled to mind all that was said, and supplied what she thought had been suggested. brandt and metzar were horse-thieves, aids of bing legget. they had repaired to the glade to plan. the indian had been a surprise. wetzel had routed the shawnees, and was now on the trail of this chieftain. the indian warned them to leave fort henry and to meet him at a place called two islands. brandt's plan, presumably somewhat changed by the advent of the red-man, was to steal horses, abduct a girl in broad daylight, and before tomorrow's sunset escape to join the ruffian legget. "i am the girl," murmured helen shudderingly, as she relapsed momentarily into girlish fears. but at once she rose above selfish feelings. secondly, while it was easy to determine what the outlaws meant, the wisest course was difficult to conceive. she had promised the borderman to help him, and not speak of anything she learned to any but himself. she could not be true to him if she asked advice. the point was clear; either she must remain in the settlement hoping for jonathan's return in time to frustrate brandt's villainous scheme, or find the borderman. suddenly she remembered metzar's allusion to a second person whom brandt felt certain he could trust. this meant another traitor in fort henry, another horse-thief, another desperado willing to make off with helpless women. helen's spirit rose in arms. she had their secret, and could ruin them. she would find the borderman. wetzel was on the trail at eagle rock. what for? trailing an indian who was then five miles east of that rock? not wetzel! he was on that track to meet jonathan. otherwise, with the redskins near the river, he would have been closer to them. he would meet jonathan there at sunset to-day, helen decided. she paced the room, trying to still her throbbing heart and trembling hands. "i must be calm," she said sternly. "time is precious. i have not a moment to lose. i will find him. i've watched that mountain many a time, and can find the trail and the rock. i am in more danger here, than out there in the forest. with wetzel and jonathan on the mountain side, the indians have fled it. but what about the savage who warned brandt? let me think. yes, he'll avoid the river; he'll go round south of the settlement, and, therefore, can't see me cross. how fortunate that i have paddled a canoe many times across the river. how glad that i made colonel zane describe the course up the mountains!" her resolution fixed, helen changed her skirt for one of buckskin, putting on leggings and moccasins of the same serviceable material. she filled the pockets of a short, rain-proof jacket with biscuits, and, thus equipped, sallied forth with a spirit and exultation she could not subdue. only one thing she feared, which was that brandt or metzar might see her cross the river. she launched her canoe and paddled down stream, under cover of the bluff, to a point opposite the end of the island, then straight across, keeping the island between her and the settlement. gaining the other shore, helen pulled the canoe into the willows, and mounted the bank. a thicket of willow and alder made progress up the steep incline difficult, but once out of it she faced a long stretch of grassy meadowland. a mile beyond began the green, billowy rise of that mountain which she intended to climb. helen's whole soul was thrown into the adventure. she felt her strong young limbs in accord with her heart. "now, mr. brandt, horse-thief and girl-snatcher, we'll see," she said with scornful lips. "if i can't beat you now i'm not fit to be betty zane's friend; and am unworthy of a borderman's trust." she traversed the whole length of meadowland close under the shadow of the fringed bank, and gained the forest. here she hesitated. all was so wild and still. no definite course through the woods seemed to invite, and yet all was open. trees, trees, dark, immovable trees everywhere. the violent trembling of poplar and aspen leaves, when all others were so calm, struck her strangely, and the fearful stillness awed her. drawing a deep breath she started forward up the gently rising ground. as she advanced the open forest became darker, and of wilder aspect. the trees were larger and closer together. still she made fair progress without deviating from the course she had determined upon. before her rose a ridge, with a ravine on either side, reaching nearly to the summit of the mountain. here the underbrush was scanty, the fallen trees had slipped down the side, and the rocks were not so numerous, all of which gave her reason to be proud, so far, of her judgment. helen, pressing onward and upward, forgot time and danger, while she reveled in the wonder of the forestland. birds and squirrels fled before her; whistling and wheezing of alarm, or heavy crashings in the bushes, told of frightened wild beasts. a dull, faint roar, like a distant wind, suggested tumbling waters. a single birch tree, gleaming white among the black trees, enlivened the gloomy forest. patches of sunlight brightened the shade. giant ferns, just tinging with autumn colors, waved tips of sculptured perfection. most wonderful of all were the colored leaves, as they floated downward with a sad, gentle rustle. helen was brought to a realization of her hazardous undertaking by a sudden roar of water, and the abrupt termination of the ridge in a deep gorge. grasping a tree she leaned over to look down. it was fully an hundred feet deep, with impassable walls, green-stained and damp, at the bottom of which a brawling, brown brook rushed on its way. fully twenty feet wide, it presented an insurmountable barrier to further progress in that direction. but helen looked upon it merely as a difficulty to be overcome. she studied the situation, and decided to go to the left because higher ground was to be seen that way. abandoning the ridge, she pressed on, keeping as close to the gorge as she dared, and came presently to a fallen tree lying across the dark cleft. without a second's hesitation, for she knew such would be fatal, she stepped upon the tree and started across, looking at nothing but the log under her feet, while she tried to imagine herself walking across the water-gate, at home in virginia. she accomplished the venture without a misstep. when safely on the ground once more she felt her knees tremble and a queer, light feeling came into her head. she laughed, however, as she rested a moment. it would take more than a gorge to discourage her, she resolved with set lips, as once again she made her way along the rising ground. perilous, if not desperate, work was ahead of her. broken, rocky ground, matted thicket, and seemingly impenetrable forest, rose darkly in advance. but she was not even tired, and climbed, crawled, twisted and turned on her way upward. she surmounted a rocky ledge, to face a higher ridge covered with splintered, uneven stones, and the fallen trees of many storms. once she slipped and fell, spraining her wrist. at length this uphill labor began to weary her. to breathe caused a pain in her side and she was compelled to rest. already the gray light of coming night shrouded the forest. she was surprised at seeing the trees become indistinct; because the shadows hovered over the thickets, and noted that the dark, dim outline of the ridges was fading into obscurity. she struggled on up the uneven slope with a tightening at her heart which was not all exhaustion. for the first time she doubted herself, but it was too late. she could not turn back. suddenly she felt that she was on a smoother, easier course. not to strike a stone or break a twig seemed unusual. it might be a path worn by deer going to a spring. then into her troubled mind flashed the joyful thought, she had found a trail. soft, wiry grass, springing from a wet soil, rose under her feet. a little rill trickled alongside the trail. mossy, soft-cushioned stones lay imbedded here and there. young maples and hickories grew breast-high on either side, and the way wound in and out under the lowering shade of forest monarchs. swiftly ascending this path she came at length to a point where it was possible to see some distance ahead. the ascent became hardly noticeable. then, as she turned a bend of the trail, the light grew brighter and brighter, until presently all was open and clear. an oval space, covered with stones, lay before her. a big, blasted chestnut stood near by. beyond was the dim, purple haze of distance. above, the pale, blue sky just faintly rose-tinted by the setting sun. far to her left the scraggly trees of a low hill were tipped with orange and russet shades. she had reached the summit. desolate and lonely was this little plateau. helen felt immeasurably far away from home. yet she could see in the blue distance the glancing river, the dark fort, and that cluster of cabins which marked the location of fort henry. sitting upon the roots of the big chestnut tree she gazed around. there were the remains of a small camp-fire. beyond, a hollow under a shelving rock. a bed of dry leaves lay packed in this shelter. some one had been here, and she doubted not that it was the borderman. she was so tired and her wrist pained so severely that she lay back against the tree-trunk, closed her eyes and rested. a weariness, the apathy of utter exhaustion, came over her. she wished the bordermen would hurry and come before she went to sleep. drowsily she was sinking into slumber when a long, low rumble aroused her. how dark it had suddenly become! a sheet of pale light flared across the overcast heavens. "a storm!" exclaimed helen. "alone on this mountain-top with a storm coming. am i frightened? i don't believe it. at least i'm safe from that ruffian brandt. oh! if my borderman would only come!" helen changed her position from beside the tree, to the hollow under the stone. it was high enough to permit of her sitting upright, and offered a safe retreat from the storm. the bed of leaves was soft and comfortable. she sat there peering out at the darkening heavens. all beneath her, southward and westward was gray twilight. the settlement faded from sight; the river grew wan and shadowy. the ruddy light in the west was fast succumbing to the rolling clouds. darker and darker it became, until only one break in the overspreading vapors admitted the last crimson gleam of sunshine over hills and valley, brightening the river until it resembled a stream of fire. then the light failed, the glow faded. the intense blackness of night prevailed. out of the ebon west came presently another flare of light, a quick, spreading flush, like a flicker from a monster candle; it was followed by a long, low, rumbling roll. helen felt in those intervals of unutterably vast silence, that she must shriek aloud. the thunder was a friend. she prayed for the storm to break. she had withstood danger and toilsome effort with fortitude; but could not brave this awful, boding, wilderness stillness. flashes of lightning now revealed the rolling, pushing, turbulent clouds, and peals of thunder sounded nearer and louder. a long swelling moan, sad, low, like the uneasy sigh of the sea, breathed far in the west. it was the wind, the ominous warning of the storm. sheets of light were now mingled with long, straggling ropes of fire, and the rumblings were often broken by louder, quicker detonations. then a period, longer than usual, of inky blackness succeeded the sharp flaring of light. a faint breeze ruffled the leaves of the thicket, and fanned helen's hot cheek. the moan of the wind became more distinct, then louder, and in another instant like the far-off roar of a rushing river. the storm was upon her. helen shrank closer against the stone, and pulled her jacket tighter around her trembling form. a sudden, intense, dazzling, blinding, white light enveloped her. the rocky promontory, the weird, giant chestnut tree, the open plateau, and beyond, the stormy heavens, were all luridly clear in the flash of lightning. she fancied it was possible to see a tall, dark figure emerging from the thicket. as the thunderclap rolled and pealed overhead, she strained her eyes into the blackness waiting for the next lightning flash. it came with brilliant, dazing splendor. the whole plateau and thicket were as light as in the day. close by the stone where she lay crept the tall, dark figure of an indian. with starting eyes she saw the fringed clothing, the long, flying hair, and supple body peculiar to the savage. he was creeping upon her. helen's blood ran cold; terror held her voiceless. she felt herself sinking slowly down upon the leaves. chapter xii the sun had begun to cast long shadows the afternoon of helen's hunt for jonathan, when the borderman, accompanied by wetzel, led a string of horses along the base of the very mountain she had ascended. "last night's job was a good one, i ain't gainsayin'; but the redskin i wanted got away," wetzel said gloomily. "he's safe now as a squirrel in a hole. i saw him dartin' among the trees with his white eagle feathers stickin' up like a buck's flag," replied jonathan. "he can run. if i'd only had my rifle loaded! but i'm not sure he was that arrow-shootin' shawnee." "it was him. i saw his bow. we ought'er taken more time an' picked him out," wetzel replied, shaking his head gravely. "though mebbe that'd been useless. i think he was hidin'. he's precious shy of his red skin. i've been after him these ten year, an' never ketched him nappin' yet. we'd have done much toward snuffin' out legget an' his gang if we'd winged the shawnee." "he left a plain trail." "one of his tricks. he's slicker on a trail than any other injun on the border, unless mebbe it's old wingenund, the huron. this shawnee'd lead us many a mile for nuthin', if we'd stick to his trail. i'm long ago used to him. he's doubled like an old fox, run harder'n a skeered fawn, an', if needs be, he'll lay low as cunnin' buck. i calkilate once over the mountain, he's made a bee-line east. we'll go on with the hosses, an' then strike across country to find his trail." "it 'pears to me, lew, that we've taken a long time in makin' a show against these hoss-thieves," said jonathan. "i ain't sayin' much; but i've felt it," replied wetzel. "all summer, an' nothin' done. it was more luck than sense that we run into those injuns with the hosses. we only got three out of four, an' let the best redskin give us the slip. here fall is nigh on us, with winter comin' soon, an' still we don't know who's the white traitor in the settlement." "i said it's be a long, an' mebbe, our last trail." "why?" "because these fellars red or white, are in with a picked gang of the best woodsmen as ever outlawed the border. we'll get the fort henry hoss-thief. i'll back the bright-eyed lass for that." "i haven't seen her lately, an' allow she'd left me word if she learned anythin'." "wal, mebbe it's as well you hain't seen so much of her." in silence they traveled and, arriving at the edge of the meadow, were about to mount two of the horses, when wetzel said in a sharp tone: "look!" he pointed to a small, well-defined moccasin track in the black earth on the margin of a rill. "lew, it's a woman's, sure's you're born," declared jonathan. wetzel knelt and closely examined the footprint; "yes, a woman's, an' no injun." "what?" jonathan exclaimed, as he knelt to scrutinize the imprint. "this ain't half a day old," added wetzel. "an' not a redskin's moccasin near. what d'you reckon?" "a white girl, alone," replied jonathan as he followed the trail a short distance along the brook. "see, she's makin' upland. wetzel, these tracks could hardly be my sister's, an' there's only one other girl on the border whose feet will match 'em! helen sheppard has passed here, on her way up the mountain to find you or me." "i like your reckonin'." "she's suddenly discovered somethin', injuns, hoss-thieves, the fort henry traitor, or mebbe, an' most likely, some plottin'. bein' bound to secrecy by me, she's not told my brother. an' it must be call for hurry. she knows we frequent this mountain-top; said eb told her about the way we get here." "i'd calkilate about the same." "what'll you do? go with me after her?" asked jonathan. "i'll take the hosses, an' be at the fort inside of an hour. if helen's gone, i'll tell her father you're close on her trail. now listen! it'll be dark soon, an' a storm's comin'. don't waste time on her trail. hurry up to the rock. she'll be there, if any lass could climb there. if not, come back in the mornin', hunt her trail out, an' find her. i'm thinkin', jack, we'll find the shawnee had somethin' to do with this. whatever happens after i get back to the fort, i'll expect you hard on my trail." jonathan bounded across the brook and with an easy lope began the gradual ascent. soon he came upon a winding path. he ran along this for perhaps a quarter of an hour, until it became too steep for rapid traveling, when he settled down to a rapid walk. the forest was already dark. a slight rustling of the leaves beneath his feet was the only sound, except at long intervals the distant rumbling of thunder. the mere possibility of helen's being alone on that mountain seeking him, made jonathan's heart beat as it never had before. for weeks he had avoided her, almost forgot her. he had conquered the strange, yearning weakness which assailed him after that memorable sunday, and once more the silent shaded glens, the mystery of the woods, the breath of his wild, free life had claimed him. but now as this evidence of her spirit, her recklessness, was before him, and he remembered betty's avowal, a pain, which was almost physical, tore at his heart. how terrible it would be if she came to her death through him! he pictured the big, alluring eyes, the perfect lips, the haunting face, cold in death. and he shuddered. the dim gloom of the woods soon darkened into blackness. the flashes of lightning, momentarily streaking the foliage, or sweeping overhead in pale yellow sheets, aided jonathan in keeping the trail. he gained the plateau just as a great flash illumined it, and distinctly saw the dark hollow where he had taken refuge in many a storm, and where he now hoped to find the girl. picking his way carefully over the sharp, loose stones, he at last put his hand on the huge rock. another blue-white, dazzling flash enveloped the scene. under the rock he saw a dark form huddled, and a face as white as snow, with wide, horrified eyes. "lass," he said, when the thunder had rumbled away. he received no answer, and called again. kneeling, he groped about until touching helen's dress. he spoke again; but she did not reply. jonathan crawled under the ledge beside the quiet figure. he touched her hands; they were very cold. bending over, he was relieved to hear her heart beating. he called her name, but still she made no reply. dipping his hand into a little rill that ran beside the stone, he bathed her face. soon she stirred uneasily, moaned, and suddenly sat up. "'tis jonathan," he said quickly; "don't be scared." another illuminating flare of lightning brightened the plateau. "oh! thank heaven!" cried helen. "i thought you were an indian!" helen sank trembling against the borderman, who enfolded her in his long arms. her relief and thankfulness were so great that she could not speak. her hands clasped and unclasped round his strong fingers. her tears flowed freely. the storm broke with terrific fury. a seething torrent of rain and hail came with the rushing wind. great heaven-broad sheets of lightning played across the black dome overhead. zigzag ropes, steel-blue in color, shot downward. crash, and crack, and boom the thunder split and rolled the clouds above. the lightning flashes showed the fall of rain in columns like white waterfalls, borne on the irresistible wind. the grandeur of the storm awed, and stilled helen's emotion. she sat there watching the lightning, listening to the peals of thunder, and thrilling with the wonder of the situation. gradually the roar abated, the flashes became less frequent, the thunder decreased, as the storm wore out its strength in passing. the wind and rain ceased on the mountain-top almost as quickly as they had begun, and the roar died slowly away in the distance. far to the eastward flashes of light illumined scowling clouds, and brightened many a dark, wooded hill and valley. "lass, how is't i find you here?" asked jonathan gravely. with many a pause and broken phrase, helen told the story of what she had seen and heard at the spring. "child, why didn't you go to my brother?" asked jonathan. "you don't know what you undertook!" "i thought of everything; but i wanted to find you myself. besides, i was just as safe alone on this mountain as in the village." "i don't know but you're right," replied jonathan thoughtfully. "so brandt planned to make off with you to-morrow?" "yes, and when i heard it i wanted to run away from the village." "you've done a wondrous clever thing, lass. this brandt is a bad man, an' hard to match. but if he hasn't shaken fort henry by now, his career'll end mighty sudden, an' his bad trails stop short on the hillside among the graves, for eb will always give outlaws or injuns decent burial." "what will the colonel, or anyone, think has become of me?" "wetzel knows, lass, for he found your trail below." "then he'll tell papa you came after me? oh! poor papa! i forgot him. shall we stay here until daylight?" "we'd gain nothin' by startin' now. the brooks are full, an' in the dark we'd make little distance. you're dry here, an' comfortable. what's more, lass, you're safe." "i feel perfectly safe, with you," helen said softly. "aren't you tired, lass?" "tired? i'm nearly dead. my feet are cut and bruised, my wrist is sprained, and i ache all over. but, jonathan, i don't care. i am so happy to have my wild venture turn out successfully." "you can lie here an' sleep while i keep watch." jonathan made a move to withdraw his arm, which was still between helen and the rock but had dropped from her waist. "i am very comfortable. i'll sit here with you, watching for daybreak. my! how dark it is! i cannot see my hand before my eyes." helen settled herself back upon the stone, leaned a very little against his shoulder, and tried to think over her adventure. but her mind refused to entertain any ideas, except those of the present. mingled with the dreamy lassitude that grew stronger every moment, was a sense of delight in her situation. she was alone on a wild mountain, in the night, with this borderman, the one she loved. by chance and her own foolhardiness this had come about, yet she was fortunate to have it tend to some good beyond her own happiness. all she would suffer from her perilous climb would be aching bones, and, perhaps, a scolding from her father. what she might gain was more than she had dared hope. the breaking up of the horse-thief gang would be a boon to the harassed settlement. how proudly colonel zane would smile! her name would go on that long roll of border honor and heroism. that was not, however, one thousandth part so pleasing, as to be alone with her borderman. with a sigh of mingled weariness and content, helen leaned her head on jonathan's shoulder and fell asleep. the borderman trembled. the sudden nestling of her head against him, the light caress of her fragrant hair across his cheek, revived a sweet, almost-conquered, almost-forgotten emotion. he felt an inexplicable thrill vibrate through him. no untrodden, ambushed wild, no perilous trail, no dark and bloody encounter had ever made him feel fear as had the kiss of this maiden. he had sternly silenced faint, unfamiliar, yet tender, voices whispering in his heart; and now his rigorous discipline was as if it were not, for at her touch he trembled. still he did not move away. he knew she had succumbed to weariness, and was fast asleep. he could, gently, without awakening her, have laid her head upon the pillow of leaves; indeed, he thought of doing it, but made no effort. a woman's head softly lying against him was a thing novel, strange, wonderful. for all the power he had then, each tumbling lock of her hair might as well have been a chain linking him fast to the mountain. with the memory of his former yearning, unsatisfied moods, and the unrest and pain his awakening tenderness had caused him, came a determination to look things fairly in the face, to be just in thought toward this innocent, impulsive girl, and be honest with himself. duty commanded that he resist all charm other than that pertaining to his life in the woods. years ago he had accepted a borderman's destiny, well content to be recompensed by its untamed freedom from restraint; to be always under the trees he loved so well; to lend his cunning and woodcraft in the pioneer's cause; to haunt the savage trails; to live from day to day a menace to the foes of civilization. that was the life he had chosen; it was all he could ever have. in view of this, justice demanded that he allow no friendship to spring up between himself and this girl. if his sister's belief was really true, if helen really was interested in him, it must be a romantic infatuation which, not encouraged, would wear itself out. what was he, to win the love of any girl? an unlettered borderman, who knew only the woods, whose life was hard and cruel, whose hands were red with indian blood, whose vengeance had not spared men even of his own race. he could not believe she really loved him. wildly impulsive as girls were at times, she had kissed him. she had been grateful, carried away by a generous feeling for him as the protector of her father. when she did not see him for a long time, as he vowed should be the case after he had carried her safely home, she would forget. then honesty demanded that he probe his own feelings. sternly, as if judging a renegade, he searched out in his simple way the truth. this big-eyed lass with her nameless charm would bewitch even a borderman, unless he avoided her. so much he had not admitted until now. love he had never believed could be possible for him. when she fell asleep her hand had slipped from his arm to his fingers, and now rested there lightly as a leaf. the contact was delight. the gentle night breeze blew a tress of hair across his lips. he trembled. her rounded shoulder pressed against him until he could feel her slow, deep breathing. he almost held his own breath lest he disturb her rest. no, he was no longer indifferent. as surely as those pale stars blinked far above, he knew the delight of a woman's presence. it moved him to study the emotion, as he studied all things, which was the habit of his borderman's life. did it come from knowledge of her beauty, matchless as that of the mountain-laurel? he recalled the dark glance of her challenging eyes, her tall, supple figure, and the bewildering excitation and magnetism of her presence. beauty was wonderful, but not everything. beauty belonged to her, but she would have been irresistible without it. was it not because she was a woman? that was the secret. she was a woman with all a woman's charm to bewitch, to twine round the strength of men as the ivy encircles the oak; with all a woman's weakness to pity and to guard; with all a woman's wilful burning love, and with all a woman's mystery. at last so much of life was intelligible to him. the renegade committed his worst crimes because even in his outlawed, homeless state, he could not exist without the companionship, if not the love, of a woman. the pioneer's toil and privation were for a woman, and the joy of loving her and living for her. the indian brave, when not on the war-path, walked hand in hand with a dusky, soft-eyed maiden, and sang to her of moonlit lakes and western winds. even the birds and beasts mated. the robins returned to their old nest; the eagles paired once and were constant in life and death. the buck followed the doe through the forest. all nature sang that love made life worth living. love, then, was everything. the borderman sat out the long vigil of the night watching the stars, and trying to decide that love was not for him. if wetzel had locked a secret within his breast, and never in all these years spoke of it to his companion, then surely that companion could as well live without love. stern, dark, deadly work must stain and blot all tenderness from his life, else it would be unutterably barren. the joy of living, of unharassed freedom he had always known. if a fair face and dark, mournful eyes were to haunt him on every lonely trail, then it were better an indian should end his existence. the darkest hour before dawn, as well as the darkest of doubt and longing in jonathan's life, passed away. a gray gloom obscured the pale, winking stars; the east slowly whitened, then brightened, and at length day broke misty and fresh. the borderman rose to stretch his cramped limbs. when he turned to the little cavern the girl's eyes were wide open. all the darkness, the shadow, the beauty, and the thought of the past night, lay in their blue depths. he looked away across the valley where the sky was reddening and a pale rim of gold appeared above the hill-tops. "well, if i haven't been asleep!" exclaimed helen, with a low, soft laugh. "you're rested, i hope," said jonathan, with averted eyes. he dared not look at her. "oh, yes, indeed. i am ready to start at once. how gray, how beautiful the morning is! shall we be long? i hope papa knows." in silence the borderman led the way across the rocky plateau, and into the winding, narrow trail. his pale, slightly drawn and stern, face did not invite conversation, therefore helen followed silently in his footsteps. the way was steep, and at times he was forced to lend her aid. she put her hand in his and jumped lightly as a fawn. presently a brawling brook, over-crowding its banks, impeded further progress. "i'll have to carry you across," said jonathan. "i'm very heavy," replied helen, with a smile in her eyes. she flushed as the borderman put his right arm around her waist. then a clasp as of steel enclosed her; she felt herself swinging easily into the air, and over the muddy brook. farther down the mountain this troublesome brook again crossed the trail, this time much wider and more formidable. helen looked with some vexation and embarrassment into the borderman's face. it was always the same, stern, almost cold. "perhaps i'd better wade," she said hesitatingly. "why? the water's deep an' cold. you'd better not get wet." helen flushed, but did not answer. with downcast eyes she let herself be carried on his powerful arm. the wading was difficult this time. the water foamed furiously around his knees. once he slipped on a stone, and nearly lost his balance. uttering a little scream helen grasped at him wildly, and her arm encircled his neck. what was still more trying, when he put her on her feet again, it was found that her hair had become entangled in the porcupine quills on his hunting-coat. she stood before him while with clumsy fingers he endeavored to untangle the shimmering strands; but in vain. helen unwound the snarl of wavy hair. most alluring she was then, with a certain softness on her face, and light and laughter, and something warm in her eyes. the borderman felt that he breathed a subtle exhilaration which emanated from her glowing, gracious beauty. she radiated with the gladness of life, with an uncontainable sweetness and joy. but, giving no token of his feeling, he turned to march on down through the woods. from this point the trail broadened, descending at an easier angle. jonathan's stride lengthened until helen was forced to walk rapidly, and sometimes run, in order to keep close behind him. a quick journey home was expedient, and in order to accomplish this she would gladly have exerted herself to a greater extent. when they reached the end of the trail where the forest opened clear of brush, finally to merge into the broad, verdant plain, the sun had chased the mist-clouds from the eastern hill-tops, and was gloriously brightening the valley. with the touch of sentiment natural to her, helen gazed backward for one more view of the mountain-top. the wall of rugged rock she had so often admired from her window at home, which henceforth would ever hold a tender place of remembrance in her heart, rose out of a gray-blue bank of mist. the long, swelling slope lay clear to the sunshine. with the rays of the sun gleaming and glistening upon the variegated foliage, and upon the shiny rolling haze above, a beautiful picture of autumn splendor was before her. tall pines, here and there towered high and lonely over the surrounding trees. their dark, green, graceful heads stood in bold relief above the gold and yellow crests beneath. maples, tinged from faintest pink to deepest rose, added warm color to the scene, and chestnuts with their brown-white burrs lent fresher beauty to the undulating slope. the remaining distance to the settlement was short. jonathan spoke only once to helen, then questioning her as to where she had left her canoe. they traversed the meadow, found the boat in the thicket of willows, and were soon under the frowning bluff of fort henry. ascending the steep path, they followed the road leading to colonel zane's cabin. a crowd of boys, men and women loitering near the bluff arrested helen's attention. struck by this unusual occurrence, she wondered what was the cause of such idleness among the busy pioneer people. they were standing in little groups. some made vehement gestures, others conversed earnestly, and yet more were silent. on seeing jonathan, a number shouted and pointed toward the inn. the borderman hurried helen along the path, giving no heed to the throng. but helen had seen the cause of all this excitement. at first glance she thought metzar's inn had been burned; but a second later it could be seen that the smoke came from a smoldering heap of rubbish in the road. the inn, nevertheless, had been wrecked. windows stared with that vacantness peculiar to deserted houses. the doors were broken from their hinges. a pile of furniture, rude tables, chairs, beds, and other articles, were heaped beside the smoking rubbish. scattered around lay barrels and kegs all with gaping sides and broken heads. liquor had stained the road, where it had been soaked up by the thirsty dust. upon a shattered cellar-door lay a figure covered with a piece of rag carpet. when helen's quick eyes took in this last, she turned away in horror. that motionless form might be brandt's. remorse and womanly sympathy surged over her, for bad as the man had shown himself, he had loved her. she followed the borderman, trying to compose herself. as they neared colonel zane's cabin she saw her father, will, the colonel, betty, nell, mrs. zane, silas zane, and others whom she did not recognize. they were all looking at her. helen's throat swelled, and her eyes filled when she got near enough to see her father's haggard, eager face. the others were grave. she wondered guiltily if she had done much wrong. in another moment she was among them. tears fell as her father extended his trembling hands to clasp her, and as she hid her burning face on his breast, he cried: "my dear, dear child!" then betty gave her a great hug, and nell flew about them like a happy bird. colonel zane's face was pale, and wore a clouded, stern expression. she smiled timidly at him through her tears. "well! well! well!" he mused, while his gaze softened. that was all he said; but he took her hand and held it while he turned to jonathan. the borderman leaned on his long rifle, regarding him with expectant eyes. "well, jack, you missed a little scrimmage this morning. wetzel got in at daybreak. the storm and horses held him up on the other side of the river until daylight. he told me of your suspicions, with the additional news that he'd found a fresh indian trail on the island just across from the inn. we went down not expecting to find any one awake; but metzar was hurriedly packing some of his traps. half a dozen men were there, having probably stayed all night. that little english cuss was one of them, and another, an ugly fellow, a stranger to us, but evidently a woodsman. things looked bad. metzar told a decidedly conflicting story. wetzel and i went outside to talk over the situation, with the result that i ordered him to clean out the place." here colonel zane paused to indulge in a grim, meaning laugh. "well, he cleaned out the place all right. the ugly stranger got rattlesnake-mad, and yanked out a big knife. sam is hitching up the team now to haul what's left of him up on the hillside. metzar resisted arrest, and got badly hurt. he's in the guardhouse. case, who has been drunk for a week, got in wetzel's way and was kicked into the middle of next week. he's been spitting blood for the last hour, but i guess he's not much hurt. brandt flew the coop last night. wetzel found this hid in his room." colonel zane took a long, feathered arrow from where it lay on a bench, and held it out to jonathan. "the shawnee signal! wetzel had it right," muttered the borderman. "exactly. lew found where the arrow struck in the wall of brandt's room. it was shot from the island at the exact spot where lew came to an end of the indian's trail in the water." "that shawnee got away from us." "so lew said. well, he's gone now. so is brandt. we're well rid of the gang, if only we never hear of them again." the borderman shook his head. during the colonel's recital his face changed. the dark eyes had become deadly; the square jaw was shut, the lines of the cheek had grown tense, and over his usually expressive countenance had settled a chill, lowering shade. "lew thinks brandt's in with bing legget. well, d--- his black traitor heart! he's a good man for the worst and strongest gang that ever tracked the border." the borderman was silent; but the furtive, restless shifting of his eyes over the river and island, hill and valley, spoke more plainly than words. "you're to take his trail at once," added colonel zane. "i had bess put you up some bread, meat and parched corn. no doubt you'll have a long, hard tramp. good luck." the borderman went into the cabin, presently emerging with a buckskin knapsack strapped to his shoulder. he set off eastward with a long, swinging stride. the women had taken helen within the house where, no doubt, they could discuss with greater freedom the events of the previous day. "sheppard," said colonel zane, turning with a sparkle in his eyes. "brandt was after helen sure as a bad weed grows fast. and certain as death jonathan and wetzel will see him cold and quiet back in the woods. that's a border saying, and it means a good deal. i never saw wetzel so implacable, nor jonathan so fatally cold but once, and that was when miller, another traitor, much like brandt, tried to make away with betty. it would have chilled your blood to see wetzel go at that fool this morning. why did he want to pull a knife on the borderman? it was a sad sight. well, these things are justifiable. we must protect ourselves, and above all our women. we've had bad men, and a bad man out here is something you cannot yet appreciate, come here and slip into the life of the settlement, because on the border you can never tell what a man is until he proves himself. there have been scores of criminals spread over the frontier, and some better men, like simon girty, who were driven to outlaw life. simon must not be confounded with jim girty, absolutely the most fiendish desperado who ever lived. why, even the indians feared jim so much that after his death his skeleton remained unmolested in the glade where he was killed. the place is believed to be haunted now, by all indians and many white hunters, and i believe the bones stand there yet." "stand?" asked sheppard, deeply interested. "yes, it stands where girty stood and died, upright against a tree, pinned, pinned there by a big knife." "heavens, man! who did it?" sheppard cried in horror. again colonel zane's laugh, almost metallic, broke grimly from his lips. "who? why, wetzel, of course. lew hunted jim girty five long years. when he caught him--god! i'll tell you some other time. jonathan saw wetzel handle jim and his pal, deering, as if they were mere boys. well, as i said, the border has had, and still has, its bad men. simon girty took mckee and elliott, the tories, from fort pitt, when he deserted, and ten men besides. they're all, except those who are dead, outlaws of the worst type. the other bad men drifted out here from lord only knows where. they're scattered all over. simon girty, since his crowning black deed, the massacre of the christian indians, is in hiding. bing legget now has the field. he's a hard nut, a cunning woodsman, and capable leader who surrounds himself with only the most desperate indians and renegades. brandt is an agent of legget's and i'll bet we'll hear from him again." chapter xiii jonathan traveled toward the east straight as a crow flies. wetzel's trail as he pursued brandt had been left designedly plain. branches of young maples had been broken by the borderman; they were glaring evidences of his passage. on open ground, or through swampy meadows he had contrived to leave other means to facilitate his comrade's progress. bits of sumach lay strewn along the way, every red, leafy branch a bright marker of the course; crimson maple leaves served their turn, and even long-bladed ferns were scattered at intervals. ten miles east of fort henry, at a point where two islands lay opposite each other, wetzel had crossed the ohio. jonathan removed his clothing, and tying these, together with his knapsack, to the rifle, held them above the water while he swam the three narrow channels. he took up the trail again, finding here, as he expected, where brandt had joined the waiting shawnee chief. the borderman pressed on harder to the eastward. about the middle of the afternoon signs betokened that wetzel and his quarry were not far in advance. fresh imprints in the grass; crushed asters and moss, broken branches with unwithered leaves, and plots of grassy ground where jonathan saw that the blades of grass were yet springing back to their original position, proved to the borderman's practiced eye that he was close upon wetzel. in time he came to a grove of yellow birch trees. the ground was nearly free from brush, beautifully carpeted with flowers and ferns, and, except where bushy windfalls obstructed the way, was singularly open to the gaze for several hundred yards ahead. upon entering this wood wetzel's plain, intentional markings became manifest, then wavered, and finally disappeared. jonathan pondered a moment. he concluded that the way was so open and clear, with nothing but grass and moss to mark a trail, that wetzel had simply considered it waste of time for, perhaps, the short length of this grove. jonathan knew he was wrong after taking a dozen steps more. wetzel's trail, known so well to him, as never to be mistaken, sheered abruptly off to the left, and, after a few yards, the distance between the footsteps widened perceptibly. then came a point where they were so far apart that they could only have been made by long leaps. on the instant the borderman knew that some unforeseen peril or urgent cause had put wetzel to flight, and he now bent piercing eyes around the grove. retracing his steps to where he had found the break in the trail, he followed up brandt's tracks for several rods. not one hundred paces beyond where wetzel had quit the pursuit, were the remains of a camp fire, the embers still smoldering, and moccasin tracks of a small band of indians. the trail of brandt and his shawnee guide met the others at almost right angles. the indian, either by accident or design, had guided brandt to a band of his fellows, and thus led wetzel almost into an ambush. evidence was not clear, however, that the indians had discovered the keen tracker who had run almost into their midst. while studying the forest ahead jonathan's mind was running over the possibilities. how close was wetzel? was he still in flight? had the savages an inkling of his pursuit? or was he now working out one of his cunning tricks of woodcraft? the borderman had no other idea than that of following the trail to learn all this. taking the desperate chances warranted under the circumstances, he walked boldly forward in his comrade's footsteps. deep and gloomy was the forest adjoining the birch grove. it was a heavy growth of hardwood trees, interspersed with slender ash and maples, which with their scanty foliage resembled a labyrinth of green and yellow network, like filmy dotted lace, hung on the taller, darker oaks. jonathan felt safer in this deep wood. he could still see several rods in advance. following the trail, he was relieved to see that wetzel's leaps had become shorter and shorter, until they once again were about the length of a long stride. the borderman was, moreover, swinging in a curve to the northeast. this was proof that the borderman had not been pursued, but was making a wide detour to get ahead of the enemy. five hundred yards farther on the trail turned sharply toward the birch grove in the rear. the trail was fresh. wetzel was possibly within signal call; surely within sound of a rifle shot. but even more stirring was the certainty that brandt and his indians were inside the circle wetzel had made. once again in sight of the more open woodland, jonathan crawled on his hands and knees, keeping close to the cluster of ferns, until well within the eastern end of the grove. he lay for some minutes listening. a threatening silence, like the hush before a storm, permeated the wilderness. he peered out from his covert; but, owing to its location in a little hollow, he could not see far. crawling to the nearest tree he rose to his feet slowly, cautiously. no unnatural sight or sound arrested his attention. repeatedly, with the acute, unsatisfied gaze of the borderman who knew that every tree, every patch of ferns, every tangled brush-heap might harbor a foe, he searched the grove with his eyes; but the curly-barked birches, the clumps of colored ferns, the bushy windfalls kept their secrets. for the borderman, however, the whole aspect of the birch-grove had changed. over the forest was a deep calm. a gentle, barely perceptible wind sighed among the leaves, like rustling silk. the far-off drowsy drum of a grouse intruded on the vast stillness. the silence of the birds betokened a message. that mysterious breathing, that beautiful life of the woods lay hushed, locked in a waiting, brooding silence. far away among the somber trees, where the shade deepened into impenetrable gloom, lay a menace, invisible and indefinable. a wind, a breath, a chill, terribly potent, seemed to pass over the borderman. long experience had given him intuition of danger. as he moved slightly, with lynx-eyes fixed on the grove before him, a sharp, clear, perfect bird-note broke the ominous quiet. it was like the melancholy cry of an oriole, short, deep, suggestive of lonely forest dells. by a slight variation in the short call, jonathan recognized it as a signal from wetzel. the borderman smiled as he realized that with all his stealth, wetzel had heard or seen him re-enter the grove. the signal was a warning to stand still or retreat. jonathan's gaze narrowed down to the particular point whence had come the signal. some two hundred yards ahead in this direction were several large trees standing in a group. with one exception, they all had straight trunks. this deviated from the others in that it possessed an irregular, bulging trunk, or else half-shielded the form of wetzel. so indistinct and immovable was this irregularity, that the watcher could not be certain. out of line, somewhat, with this tree which he suspected screened his comrade, lay a huge windfall large enough to conceal in ambush a whole band of savages. even as he gazed a sheet of flame flashed from this covert. _crack!_ a loud report followed; then the whistle and zip of a bullet as it whizzed close by his head. "shawnee lead!" muttered jonathan. unfortunately the tree he had selected did not hide him sufficiently. his shoulders were so wide that either one or the other was exposed, affording a fine target for a marksman. a quick glance showed him a change in the knotty tree-trunk; the seeming bulge was now the well-known figure of wetzel. jonathan dodged as some object glanced slantingly before his eyes. _twang. whizz. thud._ three familiar and distinct sounds caused him to press hard against the tree. a tufted arrow quivered in the bark not a foot from his head. "close shave! damn that arrow-shootin' shawnee!" muttered jonathan. "an' he ain't in that windfall either." his eyes searched to the left for the source of this new peril. another sheet of flame, another report from the windfall. a bullet sang, close overhead, and, glancing on a branch, went harmlessly into the forest. "injuns all around; i guess i'd better be makin' tracks," jonathan said to himself, peering out to learn if wetzel was still under cover. he saw the tall figure straighten up; a long, black rifle rise to a level and become rigid; a red fire belch forth, followed by a puff of white smoke. _spang!_ an indian's horrible, strangely-breaking death yell rent the silence. then a chorus of plaintive howls, followed by angry shouts, rang through the forest. naked, painted savages darted out of the windfall toward the tree that had sheltered wetzel. quick as thought jonathan covered the foremost indian, and with the crack of his rifle saw the redskin drop his gun, stop in his mad run, stagger sideways, and fall. then the borderman looked to see what had become of his ally. the cracking of the indian's rifle told him that wetzel had been seen by his foes. with almost incredible fleetness a brown figure with long black hair streaming behind, darted in and out among the trees, flashed through the sunlit glade, and vanished in the dark depths of the forest. jonathan turned to flee also, when he heard again the twanging of an indian's bow. a wind smote his cheek, a shock blinded him, an excruciating pain seized upon his breast. a feathered arrow had pinned his shoulder to the tree. he raised his hand to pull it out; but, slippery with blood, it afforded a poor hold for his fingers. violently exerting himself, with both hands he wrenched away the weapon. the flint-head lacerating his flesh and scraping his shoulder bones caused sharpest agony. the pain gave away to a sudden sense of giddiness; he tried to run; a dark mist veiled his sight; he stumbled and fell. then he seemed to sink into a great darkness, and knew no more. when consciousness returned to jonathan it was night. he lay on his back, and knew because of his cramped limbs that he had been securely bound. he saw the glimmer of a fire, but could not raise his head. a rustling of leaves in the wind told that he was yet in the woods, and the distant rumble of a waterfall sounded familiar. he felt drowsy; his wound smarted slightly, still he did not suffer any pain. presently he fell asleep. broad daylight had come when again he opened his eyes. the blue sky was directly above, and before him he saw a ledge covered with dwarfed pine trees. he turned his head, and saw that he was in a sort of amphitheater of about two acres in extent enclosed by low cliffs. a cleft in the stony wall let out a brawling brook, and served, no doubt, as entrance to the place. several rude log cabins stood on that side of the enclosure. jonathan knew he had been brought to bing legget's retreat. voices attracted his attention, and, turning his head to the other side, he saw a big indian pacing near him, and beyond, seven savages and three white men reclining in the shade. the powerful, dark-visaged savage near him he at once recognized as ashbow, the shawnee chief, and noted emissary of bing legget. of the other indians, three were delawares, and four shawnees, all veterans, with swarthy, somber faces and glistening heads on which the scalp-locks were trimmed and tufted. their naked, muscular bodies were painted for the war-path with their strange emblems of death. a trio of white men, nearly as bronzed as their savage comrades, completed the group. one, a desperate-looking outlaw, jonathan did not know. the blond-bearded giant in the center was legget. steel-blue, inhuman eyes, with the expression of a free but hunted animal; a set, mastiff-like jaw, brutal and coarse, individualized him. the last man was the haggard-faced brandt. "i tell ye, brandt, i ain't agoin' against this injun," legget was saying positively. "he's the best reddy on the border, an' has saved me scores of times. this fellar zane belongs to him, an' while i'd much rather see the scout knifed right here an' now, i won't do nothin' to interfere with the shawnee's plans." "why does the redskin want to take him away to his village?" brandt growled. "all injun vanity and pride." "it's injun ways, an' we can't do nothin' to change 'em." "but you're boss here. you could make him put this borderman out of the way." "wal, i ain't agoin' ter interfere. anyways, brandt, the shawnee'll make short work of the scout when he gits him among the tribe. injuns is injuns. it's a great honor fer him to git zane, an' he wants his own people to figger in the finish. quite nat'r'l, i reckon." "i understand all that; but it's not safe for us, and it's courting death for ashbow. why don't he keep zane here until you can spare more than three indians to go with him? these bordermen can't be stopped. you don't know them, because you're new in this part of the country." "i've been here as long as you, an' agoin' some, too, i reckon," replied legget complacently. "but you've not been hunted until lately by these bordermen, and you've had little opportunity to hear of them except from indians. what can you learn from these silent redskins? i tell you, letting this fellow get out of here alive, even for an hour is a fatal mistake. it's two full days' tramp to the shawnee village. you don't suppose wetzel will be afraid of four savages? why, he sneaked right into eight of us, when we were ambushed, waiting for him. he killed one and then was gone like a streak. it was only a piece of pure luck we got zane." "i've reason to know this wetzel, this deathwind, as the delawares call him. i never seen him though, an' anyways, i reckon i can handle him if ever i get the chance." "man, you're crazy!" cried brandt. "he'd cut you to pieces before you'd have time to draw. he could give you a tomahawk, then take it away and split your head. i tell you i know! you remember jake deering? he came from up your way. wetzel fought deering and jim girty together, and killed them. you know how he left girty." "i'll allow he must be a fighter; but i ain't afraid of him." "that's not the question. i am talking sense. you've got a chance now to put one of these bordermen out of the way. do it quick! that's my advice." brandt spoke so vehemently that legget seemed impressed. he stroked his yellow beard, and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. presently he addressed the shawnee chief in the native tongue. "will ashbow take five horses for his prisoner?" the indian shook his head. "how many will he take?" the chief strode with dignity to and fro before his captive. his dark, impassive face gave no clew to his thoughts; but his lofty bearing, his measured, stately walk were indicative of great pride. then he spoke in his deep bass: "the shawnee knows the woods from the great lakes where the sun sets, to the blue hills where it rises. he has met the great paleface hunters. only for deathwind will ashbow trade his captive." "see? it ain't no use," said legget, spreading out his hands, "let him go. he'll outwit the bordermen if any redskin's able to. the sooner he goes the quicker he'll git back, an' we can go to work. you ought'er be satisfied to git the girl----" "shut up!" interrupted brandt sharply. "'pears to me, brandt, bein' in love hes kinder worked on your nerves. you used to be game. now you're afeerd of a bound an' tied man who ain't got long to live." "i fear no man," answered brandt, scowling darkly. "but i know what you don't seem to have sense enough to see. if this zane gets away, which is probable, he and wetzel will clean up your gang." "haw! haw! haw!" roared legget, slapping his knees. "then you'd hev little chanst of gittin' the lass, eh?" "all right. i've no more to say," snapped brandt, rising and turning on his heel. as he passed jonathan he paused. "zane, if i could, i'd get even with you for that punch you once gave me. as it is, i'll stop at the shawnee village on my way west----" "with the pretty lass," interposed legget. "where i hope to see your scalp drying in the chief's lodge." the borderman eyed him steadily; but in silence. words could not so well have conveyed his thought as did the cold glance of dark scorn and merciless meaning. brandt shuffled on with a curse. no coward was he. no man ever saw him flinch. but his intelligence was against him as a desperado. while such as these bordermen lived, an outlaw should never sleep, for he was a marked and doomed man. the deadly, cold-pointed flame which scintillated in the prisoner's eyes was only a gleam of what the border felt towards outlaws. while jonathan was considering all he had heard, three more shawnees entered the retreat, and were at once called aside in consultation by ashbow. at the conclusion of this brief conference the chief advanced to jonathan, cut the bonds round his feet, and motioned for him to rise. the prisoner complied to find himself weak and sore, but able to walk. he concluded that his wound, while very painful, was not of a serious nature, and that he would be taken at once on the march toward the shawnee village. he was correct, for the chief led him, with the three shawnees following, toward the outlet of the enclosure. jonathan's sharp eye took in every detail of legget's rendezvous. in a corral near the entrance, he saw a number of fine horses, and among them his sister's pony. a more inaccessible, natural refuge than legget's, could hardly have been found in that country. the entrance was a narrow opening in the wall, and could be held by half a dozen against an army of besiegers. it opened, moreover, on the side of a barren hill, from which could be had a good survey of the surrounding forests and plains. as jonathan went with his captors down the hill his hopes, which while ever alive, had been flagging, now rose. the long journey to the shawnee town led through an untracked wilderness. the delaware villages lay far to the north; the wyandot to the west. no likelihood was there of falling in with a band of indians hunting, because this region, stony, barren, and poorly watered, afforded sparse pasture for deer or bison. from the prisoner's point of view this enterprise of ashbow's was reckless and vainglorious. cunning as the chief was, he erred in one point, a great warrior's only weakness, love of show, of pride, of his achievement. in indian nature this desire for fame was as strong as love of life. the brave risked everything to win his eagle feathers, and the matured warrior found death while keeping bright the glory of the plumes he had won. wetzel was in the woods, fleet as a deer, fierce and fearless as a lion. somewhere among those glades he trod, stealthily, with the ears of a doe and eyes of a hawk strained for sound or sight of his comrade's captors. when he found their trail he would stick to it as the wolf to that of a bleeding buck's. the rescue would not be attempted until the right moment, even though that came within rifle-shot of the shawnee encampment. wonderful as his other gifts, was the borderman's patience. chapter xiv "good morning, colonel zane," said helen cheerily, coming into the yard where the colonel was at work. "did will come over this way?" "i reckon you'll find him if you find betty," replied colonel zane dryly. "come to think of it, that's true," helen said, laughing. "i've a suspicion will ran off from me this morning." "he and betty have gone nutting." "i declare it's mean of will," helen said petulantly. "i have been wanting to go so much, and both he and betty promised to take me." "say, helen, let me tell you something," said the colonel, resting on his spade and looking at her quizzically. "i told them we hadn't had enough frost yet to ripen hickory-nuts and chestnuts. but they went anyhow. will did remember to say if you came along, to tell you he'd bring the colored leaves you wanted." "how extremely kind of him. i've a mind to follow them." "now see here, helen, it might be a right good idea for you not to," returned the colonel, with a twinkle and a meaning in his eye. "oh, i understand. how singularly dull i've been." "it's this way. we're mighty glad to have a fine young fellow like will come along and interest betty. lord knows we had a time with her after alfred died. she's just beginning to brighten up now, and, helen, the point is that young people on the border must get married. no, my dear, you needn't laugh, you'll have to find a husband same as the other girls. it's not here as it was back east, where a lass might have her fling, so to speak, and take her time choosing. an unmarried girl on the border is a positive menace. i saw, not many years ago, two first-rate youngsters, wild with border fire and spirit, fight and kill each other over a lass who wouldn't choose. like as not, if she had done so, the three would have been good friends, for out here we're like one big family. remember this, helen, and as far as betty and will are concerned you will be wise to follow our example: leave them to themselves. nothing else will so quickly strike fire between a boy and a girl." "betty and will! i'm sure i'd love to see them care for each other." then with big, bright eyes bent gravely on him she continued, "may i ask, colonel zane, who you have picked out for me?" "there, now you've said it, and that's the problem. i've looked over every marriageable young man in the settlement, except jack. of course you couldn't care for him, a borderman, a fighter and all that; but i can't find a fellow i think quite up to you." "colonel zane, is not a borderman such as jonathan worthy a woman's regard?" helen asked a little wistfully. "bless your heart, lass, yes!" replied colonel zane heartily. "people out here are not as they are back east. an educated man, polished and all that, but incapable of hard labor, or shrinking from dirt and sweat on his hands, or even blood, would not help us in the winning of the west. plain as jonathan is, and with his lack of schooling, he is greatly superior to the majority of young men on the frontier. but, unlettered or not, he is as fine a man as ever stepped in moccasins, or any other kind of foot gear." "then why did you say--that--what you did?" "well, it's this way," replied colonel zane, stealing a glance at her pensive, downcast face. "girls all like to be wooed. almost every one i ever knew wanted the young man of her choice to outstrip all her other admirers, and then, for a spell, nearly die of love for her, after which she'd give in. now, jack, being a borderman, a man with no occupation except scouting, will never look at a girl, let alone make up to her. i imagine, my dear, it'd take some mighty tall courting to fetch home helen sheppard a bride. on the other hand, if some pretty and spirited lass, like, say for instance, helen sheppard, would come along and just make jack forget indians and fighting, she'd get the finest husband in the world. true, he's wild; but only in the woods. a simpler, kinder, cleaner man cannot be found." "i believe that, colonel zane; but where is the girl who would interest him?" helen asked with spirit. "these bordermen are unapproachable. imagine a girl interesting that great, cold, stern wetzel! all her flatteries, her wiles, the little coquetries that might attract ordinary men, would not be noticed by him, or jonathan either." "i grant it'd not be easy, but woman was made to subjugate man, and always, everlastingly, until the end of life here on this beautiful earth, she will do it." "do you think jonathan and wetzel will catch brandt?" asked helen, changing the subject abruptly. "i'd stake my all that this year's autumn leaves will fall on brandt's grave." colonel zane's calm, matter-of-fact coldness made helen shiver. "why, the leaves have already begun to fall. papa told me brandt had gone to join the most powerful outlaw band on the border. how can these two men, alone, cope with savages, as i've heard they do, and break up such an outlaw band as legget's?" "that's a question i've heard daniel boone ask about wetzel, and boone, though not a borderman in all the name implies, was a great indian fighter. i've heard old frontiersmen, grown grizzled on the frontier, use the same words. i've been twenty years with that man, yet i can't answer it. jonathan, of course, is only a shadow of him; wetzel is the type of these men who have held the frontier for us. he was the first borderman, and no doubt he'll be the last." "what have jonathan and wetzel that other men do not possess?" "in them is united a marvelously developed woodcraft, with wonderful physical powers. imagine a man having a sense, almost an animal instinct, for what is going on in the woods. take for instance the fleetness of foot. that is one of the greatest factors. it is absolutely necessary to run, to get away when to hold ground would be death. whether at home or in the woods, the bordermen retreat every day. you wouldn't think they practiced anything of the kind, would you? well, a man can't be great in anything without keeping at it. jonathan says he exercises to keep his feet light. wetzel would just as soon run as walk. think of the magnificent condition of these men. when a dash of speed is called for, when to be fleet of foot is to elude vengeance-seeking indians, they must travel as swiftly as the deer. the zanes were all sprinters. i could do something of the kind; betty was fast on her feet, as that old fort will testify until the logs rot; isaac was fleet, too, and jonathan can get over the ground like a scared buck. but, even so, wetzel can beat him." "goodness me, helen!" exclaimed the colonel's buxom wife, from the window, "don't you ever get tired hearing eb talk of wetzel, and jack, and indians? come in with me. i venture to say my gossip will do you more good than his stories." therefore helen went in to chat with mrs. zane, for she was always glad to listen to the colonel's wife, who was so bright and pleasant, so helpful and kindly in her womanly way. in the course of their conversation, which drifted from weaving linsey, mrs. zane's occupation at the tune, to the costly silks and satins of remembered days, and then to matters of more present interest, helen spoke of colonel zane's hint about will and betty. "isn't eb a terror? he's the worst matchmatcher you ever saw," declared the colonel's good spouse. "there's no harm in that." "no, indeed; it's a good thing, but he makes me laugh, and betty, he sets her furious." "the colonel said he had designs on me." "of course he has, dear old eb! how he'd love to see you happily married. his heart is as big as that mountain yonder. he has given this settlement his whole life." "i believe you. he has such interest, such zeal for everybody. only the other day he was speaking to me of mr. mordaunt, telling how sorry he was for the englishman, and how much he'd like to help him. it does seem a pity a man of mordaunt's blood and attainments should sink to utter worthlessness." "yes,'tis a pity for any man, blood or no, and the world's full of such wrecks. i always liked that man's looks. i never had a word with him, of course; but i've seen him often, and something about him appealed to me. i don't believe it was just his handsome face; still i know women are susceptible that way." "i, too, liked him once as a friend," said helen feelingly. "well, i'm glad he's gone." "gone?" "yes, he left fort henry yesterday. he came to say good-bye to me, and, except for his pale face and trembling hands, was much as he used to be in virginia. said he was going home to england, and wanted to tell me he was sorry--for--for all he'd done to make papa and me suffer. drink had broken him, he said, and surely he looked 'a broken man. i shook hands with him, and then slipped upstairs and cried." "poor fellow!" sighed mrs. zane. "papa said he left fort pitt with one of metzar's men as a guide." "then he didn't take the 'little cuss,' as eb calls his man case?" "no, if i remember rightly papa said case wouldn't go." "i wish he had. he's no addition to our village." voices outside attracted their attention. mrs. zane glanced from the window and said: "there come betty and will." helen went on the porch to see her cousin and betty entering the yard, and colonel zane once again leaning on his spade. "gather any hickory-nuts from birch or any other kind of trees?" asked the colonel grimly. "no," replied will cheerily, "the shells haven't opened yet." "too bad the frost is so backward," said colonel zane with a laugh. "but i can't see that it makes any difference." "where are my leaves?" asked helen, with a smile and a nod to betty. "what leaves?" inquired that young woman, plainly mystified. "why, the autumn leaves will promised to gather with me, then changed his mind, and said he'd bring them." "i forgot," will replied a little awkwardly. colonel zane coughed, and then, catching betty's glance, which had begun to flash, he plied his spade vigorously. betty's face had colored warmly at her brother's first question; it toned down slightly when she understood that he was not going to tease her as usual, and suddenly, as she looked over his head, it paled white as snow. "eb, look down the lane!" she cried. two tall men were approaching with labored tread, one half-supporting his companion. "wetzel! jack! and jack's hurt!" cried betty. "my dear, be calm," said colonel zane, in that quiet tone he always used during moments of excitement. he turned toward the bordermen, and helped wetzel lead jonathan up the walk into the yard. from wetzel's clothing water ran, his long hair was disheveled, his aspect frightful. jonathan's face was white and drawn. his buckskin hunting coat was covered with blood, and the hand which he held tightly against his left breast showed dark red stains. helen shuddered. almost fainting, she leaned against the porch, too horrified to cry out, with contracting heart and a chill stealing through her veins. "jack! jack!" cried betty, in agonized appeal. "betty, it's nothin'," said wetzel. "now, betts, don't be scared of a little blood," jonathan said with a faint smile flitting across his haggard face. "bring water, shears an' some linsey cloth," added wetzel, as mrs. zane came running out. "come inside," cried the colonel's wife, as she disappeared again immediately. "no," replied the borderman, removing his coat, and, with the assistance of his brother, he unlaced his hunting shirt, pulling it down from a wounded shoulder. a great gory hole gaped just beneath his left collar-bone. although stricken with fear, when helen saw the bronzed, massive shoulder, the long, powerful arm with its cords of muscles playing under the brown skin, she felt a thrill of admiration. "just missed the lung," said mrs. zane. "eb, no bullet ever made that hole." wetzel washed the bloody wound, and, placing on it a wad of leaves he took from his pocket, bound up the shoulder tightly. "what made that hole?" asked colonel zane. wetzel lifted the quiver of arrows jonathan had laid on the porch, and, selecting one, handed it to the colonel. the flint-head and a portion of the shaft were stained with blood. "the shawnee!" exclaimed colonel zane. then he led wetzel aside, and began conversing in low tones while jonathan, with betty holding his arm, ascended the steps and went within the dwelling. helen ran home, and, once in her room, gave vent to her emotions. she cried because of fright, nervousness, relief, and joy. then she bathed her face, tried to rub some color into her pale cheeks, and set about getting dinner as one in a trance. she could not forget that broad shoulder with its frightful wound. what a man jonathan must be to receive a blow like that and live! exhausted, almost spent, had been his strength when he reached home, yet how calm and cool he was! what would she not have given for the faint smile that shone in his eyes for betty? the afternoon was long for helen. when at last supper was over she changed her gown, and, asking will to accompany her, went down the lane toward colonel zane's cabin. at this hour the colonel almost invariably could be found sitting on his doorstep puffing a long indian pipe, and gazing with dreamy eyes over the valley. "well, well, how sweet you look!" he said to helen; then with a wink of his eyelid, "hello, willie, you'll find elizabeth inside with jack." "how is he?" asked helen eagerly, as will with a laugh and a retort mounted the steps. "jack's doing splendidly. he slept all day. i don't think his injury amounts to much, at least not for such as him or wetzel. it would have finished ordinary men. bess says if complications don't set in, blood-poison or something to start a fever, he'll be up shortly. wetzel believes the two of 'em will be on the trail inside of a week." "did they find brandt?" asked helen in a low voice. "yes, they ran him to his hole, and, as might have been expected, it was bing legget's camp. the indians took jonathan there." "then jack was captured?" colonel zane related the events, as told briefly by wetzel, that had taken place during the preceding three days. "the indian i saw at the spring carried that bow jonathan brought back. he must have shot the arrow. he was a magnificent savage." "he was indeed a great, and a bad indian, one of the craftiest spies who ever stepped in moccasins; but he lies quiet now on the moss and the leaves. bing legget will never find another runner like that shawnee. let us go indoors." he led helen into the large sitting-room where jonathan lay on a couch, with betty and will sitting beside him. the colonel's wife and children, silas zane, and several neighbors, were present. "here, jack, is a lady inquiring after your health. betts, this reminds me of the time isaac came home wounded, after his escape from the hurons. strikes me he and his indian bride should be about due here on a visit." helen forgot every one except the wounded man lying so quiet and pale upon the couch. she looked down upon him with eyes strangely dilated, and darkly bright. "how are you?" she asked softly. "i'm all right, thank you, lass," answered jonathan. colonel zane contrived, with inimitable skill, to get betty, will, silas, bessie and the others interested in some remarkable news he had just heard, or made up, and this left jonathan and helen comparatively alone for the moment. the wise old colonel thought perhaps this might be the right time. he saw helen's face as she leaned over jonathan, and that was enough for him. he would have taxed his ingenuity to the utmost to keep the others away from the young couple. "i was so frightened," murmured helen. "why?" asked jonathan. "oh! you looked so deathly--the blood, and that awful wound!" "it's nothin', lass." helen smiled down upon him. whether or not the hurt amounted to anything in the borderman's opinion, she knew from his weakness, and his white, drawn face, that the strain of the march home had been fearful. his dark eyes held now nothing of the coldness and glitter so natural to them. they were weary, almost sad. she did not feel afraid of him now. he lay there so helpless, his long, powerful frame as quiet as a sleeping child's! hitherto an almost indefinable antagonism in him had made itself felt; now there was only gentleness, as of a man too weary to fight longer. helen's heart swelled with pity, and tenderness, and love. his weakness affected her as had never his strength. with an involuntary gesture of sympathy she placed her hand softly on his. jonathan looked up at her with eyes no longer blind. pain had softened him. for the moment he felt carried out of himself, as it were, and saw things differently. the melting tenderness of her gaze, the glowing softness of her face, the beauty, bewitched him; and beyond that, a sweet, impelling gladness stirred within him and would not be denied. he thrilled as her fingers lightly, timidly touched his, and opened his broad hand to press hers closely and warmly. "lass," he whispered, with a huskiness and unsteadiness unnatural to his deep voice. helen bent her head closer to him; she saw his lips tremble, and his nostrils dilate; but an unutterable sadness shaded the brightness in his eyes. "i love you." the low whisper reached helen's ears. she seemed to float dreamily away to some beautiful world, with the music of those words ringing in her ears. she looked at him again. had she been dreaming? no; his dark eyes met hers with a love that he could no longer deny. an exquisite emotion, keen, strangely sweet and strong, yet terrible with sharp pain, pulsated through her being. the revelation had been too abrupt. it was so wonderfully different from what she had ever dared hope. she lowered her head, trembling. the next moment she felt colonel zane's hand on her chair, and heard him say in a cheery voice: "well, well, see here, lass, you mustn't make jack talk too much. see how white and tired he looks." chapter xv in forty-eight hours jonathan zane was up and about the cabin as though he had never been wounded; the third day he walked to the spring; in a week he was waiting for wetzel, ready to go on the trail. on the eighth day of his enforced idleness, as he sat with betty and the colonel in the yard, wetzel appeared on a ridge east of the fort. soon he rounded the stockade fence, and came straight toward them. to colonel zane and betty, wetzel's expression was terrible. the stern kindliness, the calm, though cold, gravity of his countenance, as they usually saw it, had disappeared. yet it showed no trace of his unnatural passion to pursue and slay. no doubt that terrible instinct, or lust, was at white heat; but it wore a mask of impenetrable stone-gray gloom. wetzel spoke briefly. after telling jonathan to meet him at sunset on the following day at a point five miles up the river, he reported to the colonel that legget with his band had left their retreat, moving southward, apparently on a marauding expedition. then he shook hands with colonel zane and turned to betty. "good-bye, betty," he said, in his deep, sonorous voice. "good-bye, lew," answered betty slowly, as if surprised. "god save you," she added. he shouldered his rifle, and hurried down the lane, halting before entering the thicket that bounded the clearing, to look back at the settlement. in another moment his dark figure had disappeared among the bushes. "betts, i've seen wetzel go like that hundreds of times, though he never shook hands before; but i feel sort of queer about it now. wasn't he strange?" betty did not answer until jonathan, who had started to go within, was out of hearing. "lew looked and acted the same the morning he struck miller's trail," betty replied in a low voice. "i believe, despite his indifference to danger, he realizes that the chances are greatly against him, as they were when he began the trailing of miller, certain it would lead him into girty's camp. then i know lew has an affection for us, though it is never shown in ordinary ways. i pray he and jack will come home safe." "this is a bad trail they're taking up; the worst, perhaps, in border warfare," said colonel zane gloomily. "did you notice how jack's face darkened when his comrade came? much of this borderman-life of his is due to wetzel's influence." "eb, i'll tell you one thing," returned betty, with a flash of her old spirit. "this is jack's last trail." "why do you think so?" "if he doesn't return he'll be gone the way of all bordermen; but if he comes back once more he'll never get away from helen." "ugh!" exclaimed zane, venting his pleasure in characteristic indian way. "that night after jack came home wounded," continued betty, "i saw him, as he lay on the couch, gaze at helen. such a look! eb, she has won." "i hope so, but i fear, i fear," replied her brother gloomily. "if only he returns, that's the thing! betts, be sure he sees helen before he goes away." "i shall try. here he comes now," said betty. "hello, jack!" cried the colonel, as his brother came out in somewhat of a hurry. "what have you got? by george! it's that blamed arrow the shawnee shot into you. where are you going with it? what the deuce--say--betts, eh?" betty had given him a sharp little kick. the borderman looked embarrassed. he hesitated and flushed. evidently he would have liked to avoid his brother's question; but the inquiry came direct. dissimulation with him was impossible. "helen wanted this, an' i reckon that's where i'm goin' with it," he said finally, and walked away. "eb, you're a stupid!" exclaimed betty. "hang it! who'd have thought he was going to give her that blamed, bloody arrow?" as helen ushered jonathan, for the first time, into her cosy little sitting-room, her heart began to thump so hard she could hear it. she had not seen him since the night he whispered the words which gave such happiness. she had stayed at home, thankful beyond expression to learn every day of his rapid improvement, living in the sweetness of her joy, and waiting for him. and now as he had come, so dark, so grave, so unlike a lover to woo, that she felt a chill steal over her. "i'm so glad you've brought the arrow," she faltered, "for, of course, coming so far means that you're well once more." "you asked me for it, an' i've fetched it over. to-morrow i'm off on a trail i may never return from," he answered simply, and his voice seemed cold. an immeasurable distance stretched once more between them. helen's happiness slowly died. "i thank you," she said with a voice that was tremulous despite all her efforts. "it's not much of a keepsake." "i did not ask for it as a keepsake, but because--because i wanted it. i need nothing tangible to keep alive my memory. a few words whispered to me not many days ago will suffice for remembrance--or--or did i dream them?" bitter disappointment almost choked helen. this was not the gentle, soft-voiced man who had said he loved her. it was the indifferent borderman. again he was the embodiment of his strange, quiet woods. once more he seemed the comrade of the cold, inscrutable wetzel. "no, lass, i reckon you didn't dream," he replied. helen swayed from sick bitterness and a suffocating sense of pain, back to her old, sweet, joyous, tumultuous heart-throbbing. "tell me, if i didn't dream," she said softly, her face flashing warm again. she came close to him and looked up with all her heart in her great dark eyes, and love trembling on her red lips. calmness deserted the borderman after one glance at her. he paced the floor; twisted and clasped his hands while his eyes gleamed. "lass, i'm only human," he cried hoarsely, facing her again. but only for a moment did he stand before her; but it was long enough for him to see her shrink a little, the gladness in her eyes giving way to uncertainty and a fugitive hope. suddenly he began to pace the room again, and to talk incoherently. with the flow of words he gradually grew calmer, and, with something of his natural dignity, spoke more rationally. "i said i loved you, an' it's true, but i didn't mean to speak. i oughtn't have done it. somethin' made it so easy, so natural like. i'd have died before letting you know, if any idea had come to me of what i was sayin'. i've fought this feelin' for months. i allowed myself to think of you at first, an' there's the wrong. i went on the trail with your big eyes pictured in my mind, an' before i'd dreamed of it you'd crept into my heart. life has never been the same since--that kiss. betty said as how you cared for me, an' that made me worse, only i never really believed. today i came over here to say good-bye, expectin' to hold myself well in hand; but the first glance of your eyes unmans me. nothin' can come of it, lass, nothin' but trouble. even if you cared, an' i don't dare believe you do, nothin' can come of it! i've my own life to live, an' there's no sweetheart in it. mebbe, as lew says, there's one in heaven. oh! girl, this has been hard on me. i see you always on my lonely tramps; i see your glorious eyes in the sunny fields an' in the woods, at gray twilight, an' when the stars shine brightest. they haunt me. ah! you're the sweetest lass as ever tormented a man, an' i love you, i love you!" he turned to the window only to hear a soft, broken cry, and a flurry of skirts. a rush of wind seemed to envelop him. then two soft, rounded arms encircled his neck, and a golden head lay on his breast. "my borderman! my hero! my love!" jonathan clasped the beautiful, quivering girl to his heart. "lass, for god's sake don't say you love me," he implored, thrilling with contact of her warm arms. "ah!" she breathed, and raised her head. her radiant eyes darkly wonderful with unutterable love, burned into his. he had almost pressed his lips to the sweet red ones so near his, when he drew back with a start, and his frame straightened. "am i a man, or only a coward?" he muttered. "lass, let me think. don't believe i'm harsh, nor cold, nor nothin' except that i want to do what's right." he leaned out of the window while helen stood near him with a hand on his quivering shoulder. when at last he turned, his face was colorless, white as marble, and sad, and set, and stern. "lass, it mustn't be; i'll not ruin your life." "but you will if you give me up." "no, no, lass." "i cannot live without you." "you must. my life is not mine to give." "but you love me." "i am a borderman." "i will not live without you." "hush! lass, hush!" "i love you." jonathan breathed hard; once more the tremor, which seemed pitiful in such a strong man, came upon him. his face was gray. "i love you," she repeated, her rich voice indescribably deep and full. she opened wide her arms and stood before him with heaving bosom, with great eyes dark with woman's sadness, passionate with woman's promise, perfect in her beauty, glorious in her abandonment. the borderman bowed and bent like a broken reed. "listen," she whispered, coming closer to him, "go if you must leave me; but let this be your last trail. come back to me, jack, come back to me! you have had enough of this terrible life; you have won a name that will never be forgotten; you have done your duty to the border. the indians and outlaws will be gone soon. take the farm your brother wants you to have, and live for me. we will be happy. i shall learn to keep your home. oh! my dear, i will recompense you for the loss of all this wild hunting and fighting. let me persuade you, as much for your sake as for mine, for you are my heart, and soul, and life. go out upon your last trail, jack, and come back to me." "an' let wetzel go always alone?" "he is different; he lives only for revenge. what are those poor savages to you? you have a better, nobler life opening." "lass, i can't give him up." "you need not; but give up this useless seeking of adventure. that, you know, is half a borderman's life. give it up, jack, it not for your own, then for my sake." "no-no-never-i can't-i won't be a coward! after all these years i won't desert him. no-no----" "do not say more," she pleaded, stealing closer to him until she was against his breast. she slipped her arms around his neck. for love and more than life she was fighting now. "good-bye, my love." she kissed him, a long, lingering pressure of her soft full lips on his. "dearest, do not shame me further. dearest jack, come back to me, for i love you." she released him, and ran sobbing from the room. unsteady as a blind man, he groped for the door, found it, and went out. chapter xvi the longest day in jonathan zane's life, the oddest, the most terrible and complex with unintelligible emotions, was that one in which he learned that the wilderness no longer sufficed for him. he wandered through the forest like a man lost, searching for, he knew not what. rambling along the shady trails he looked for that contentment which had always been his, but found it not. he plunged into the depths of deep, gloomy ravines; into the fastnesses of heavy-timbered hollows where the trees hid the light of day; he sought the open, grassy hillsides, and roamed far over meadow and plain. yet something always eluded him. the invisible and beautiful life of all inanimate things sang no more in his heart. the springy moss, the quivering leaf, the tell-tale bark of the trees, the limpid, misty, eddying pools under green banks, the myriads of natural objects from which he had learned so much, and the manifold joyous life around him, no longer spoke with soul-satisfying faithfulness. the environment of his boyish days, of his youth, and manhood, rendered not a sweetness as of old. his intelligence, sharpened by the pain of new experience, told him he had been vain to imagine that he, because he was a borderman, could escape the universal destiny of human life. dimly he could feel the broadening, the awakening into a fuller existence, but he did not welcome this new light. he realized that men had always turned, at some time in their lives, to women even as the cypress leans toward the sun. this weakening of the sterner stuff in him; this softening of his heart, and especially the inquietude, and lack of joy and harmony in his old pursuits of the forest trails bewildered him, and troubled him some. thousands of times his borderman's trail had been crossed, yet never to his sorrow until now when it had been crossed by a woman. sick at heart, hurt in his pride, darkly savage, sad, remorseful, and thrilling with awakened passion, all in turn, he roamed the woodland unconsciously visiting the scenes where he had formerly found contentment. he paused by many a shady glen, and beautiful quiet glade; by gray cliffs and mossy banks, searching with moody eyes for the spirit which evaded him. here in the green and golden woods rose before him a rugged, giant rock, moss-stained, and gleaming with trickling water. tangled ferns dressed in autumn's russet hue lay at the base of the green-gray cliff, and circled a dark, deep pool dotted with yellow leaves. half-way up, the perpendicular ascent was broken by a protruding ledge upon which waved broad-leaved plants and rusty ferns. above, the cliff sheered out with many cracks and seams in its weather-beaten front. the forest grew to the verge of the precipice. a full foliaged oak and a luxuriant maple, the former still fresh with its dark green leaves, the latter making a vivid contrast with its pale yellow, purple-red, and orange hues, leaned far out over the bluff. a mighty chestnut grasped with gnarled roots deep into the broken cliff. dainty plumes of goldenrod swayed on the brink; red berries, amber moss, and green trailing vines peeped over the edge, and every little niche and cranny sported fragile ferns and pale-faced asters. a second cliff, higher than the first, and more heavily wooded, loomed above, and over it sprayed a transparent film of water, thin as smoke, and iridescent in the sunshine. far above where the glancing rill caressed the mossy cliff and shone like gleaming gold against the dark branches with their green and red and purple leaves, lay the faint blue of the sky. jonathan pulled on down the stream with humbler heart. his favorite waterfall had denied him. the gold that had gleamed there was his sweetheart's hair; the red was of her lips; the dark pool with its lights and shades, its unfathomable mystery, was like her eyes. he came at length to another scene of milder aspect. an open glade where the dancing, dimpling brook raced under dark hemlocks, and where blood-red sumach leaves, and beech leaves like flashes of sunshine, lay against the green. under a leaning birch he found a patch of purple asters, and a little apart from them, by a mossy stone, a lonely fringed gentian. its deep color brought to him the dark blue eyes that haunted him, and once again, like one possessed of an evil spirit, he wandered along the merry water-course. but finally pain and unrest left him. when he surrendered to his love, peace returned. though he said in his heart that helen was not for him, he felt he did not need to torture himself by fighting against resistless power. he could love her without being a coward. he would take up his life where it had been changed, and live it, carrying this bitter-sweet burden always. memory, now that he admitted himself conquered, made a toy of him, bringing the sweetness of fragrant hair, and eloquent eyes, and clinging arms, and dewy lips. a thousand-fold harder to fight than pain was the seductive thought that he had but to go back to helen to feel again the charm of her presence, to see the grace of her person, to hear the music of her voice, to have again her lips on his. jonathan knew then that his trial had but begun; that the pain and suffering of a borderman's broken pride and conquered spirit was nothing; that to steel his heart against the joy, the sweetness, the longing of love was everything. so a tumult raged within his heart. no bitterness, nor wretchedness stabbed him as before, but a passionate yearning, born of memory, and unquenchable as the fires of the sun, burned there. helen's reply to his pale excuses, to his duty, to his life, was that she loved him. the wonder of it made him weak. was not her answer enough? "i love you!" three words only; but they changed the world. a beautiful girl loved him, she had kissed him, and his life could never again be the same. she had held out her arms to him--and he, cold, churlish, unfeeling brute, had let her shame herself, fighting for her happiness, for the joy that is a woman's divine right. he had been blind; he had not understood the significance of her gracious action; he had never realized until too late, what it must have cost her, what heartburning shame and scorn his refusal brought upon her. if she ever looked tenderly at him again with her great eyes; or leaned toward him with her beautiful arms outstretched, he would fall at her feet and throw his duty to the winds, swearing his love was hers always and his life forever. so love stormed in the borderman's heart. slowly the melancholy indian-summer day waned as jonathan strode out of the woods into a plain beyond, where he was to meet wetzel at sunset. a smoky haze like a purple cloud lay upon the gently waving grass. he could not see across the stretch of prairie-land, though at this point he knew it was hardly a mile wide. with the trilling of the grasshoppers alone disturbing the serene quiet of this autumn afternoon, all nature seemed in harmony with the declining season. he stood a while, his thoughts becoming the calmer for the silence and loneliness of this breathing meadow. when the shadows of the trees began to lengthen, and to steal far out over the yellow grass, he knew the time had come, and glided out upon the plain. he crossed it, and sat down upon a huge stone which lay with one shelving end overhanging the river. far in the west the gold-red sun, too fiery for his direct gaze, lost the brilliance of its under circle behind the fringe of the wooded hill. slowly the red ball sank. when the last bright gleam had vanished in the dark horizon jonathan turned to search wood and plain. wetzel was to meet him at sunset. even as his first glance swept around a light step sounded behind him. he did not move, for that step was familiar. in another moment the tall form of wetzel stood beside him. "i'm about as much behind as you was ahead of time," said wetzel. "we'll stay here fer the night, an' be off early in the mornin'." under the shelving side of the rock, and in the shade of the thicket, the bordermen built a little fire and roasted strips of deer-meat. then, puffing at their long pipes they sat for a long time in silence, while twilight let fall a dark, gray cloak over river and plain. "legget's move up the river was a blind, as i suspected," said wetzel, presently. "he's not far back in the woods from here, an' seems to be waitin' fer somethin' or somebody. brandt an' seven redskins are with him. we'd hev a good chance at them in the mornin'; now we've got 'em a long ways from their camp, so we'll wait, an' see what deviltry they're up to." "mebbe he's waitin' for some injun band," suggested jonathan. "thar's redskins in the valley an' close to him; but i reckon he's barkin' up another tree." "suppose we run into some of these injuns?" "we'll hev to take what comes," replied wetzel, lying down on a bed of leaves. when darkness enveloped the spot wetzel lay wrapped in deep slumber, while jonathan sat against the rock, watching the last flickerings of the camp-fire. chapter xvii will and helen hurried back along the river road. beguiled by the soft beauty of the autumn morning they ventured farther from the fort than ever before, and had been suddenly brought to a realization of the fact by a crackling in the underbrush. instantly their minds reverted to bears and panthers, such as they had heard invested the thickets round the settlement. "oh! will! i saw a dark form stealing along in the woods from tree to tree!" exclaimed helen in a startled whisper. "so did i. it was an indian, or i never saw one. walk faster. once round the bend in the road we'll be within sight of the fort; then we'll run," replied will. he had turned pale, but maintained his composure. they increased their speed, and had almost come up to the curve in the road, marked by dense undergrowth on both sides, when the branches in the thicket swayed violently, a sturdy little man armed with a musket appeared from among them. "avast! heave to!" he commanded in a low, fierce voice, leveling his weapon. "one breeze from ye, an' i let sail this broadside." "what do you want? we have no valuables," said will, speaking low. helen stared at the little man. she was speechless with terror. it flashed into her mind as soon as she recognized the red, evil face of the sailor, that he was the accomplice upon whom brandt had told metzar he could rely. "shut up! it's not ye i want, nor valuables, but this wench," growled case. he pushed will around with the muzzle of the musket, which action caused the young man to turn a sickly white and shrink involuntarily with fear. the hammer of the musket was raised, and might fall at the slightest jar. "for god's sake! will, do as he says," cried helen, who saw murder in case's eyes. capture or anything was better than sacrifice of life. "march!" ordered case, with the musket against will's back. will hurriedly started forward, jostling helen, who had preceded him. he was forced to hurry, because every few moments case pressed the gun to his back or side. without another word the sailor marched them swiftly along the road, which now narrowed down to a trail. his intention, no doubt, was to put as much distance between him and the fort as was possible. no more than a mile had been thus traversed when two indians stepped into view. "my god! my god!" cried will as the savages proceeded first to bind helen's arms behind her, and then his in the same manner. after this the journey was continued in silence, the indians walking beside the prisoners, and case in the rear. helen was so terrified that for a long time she could not think coherently. it seemed as if she had walked miles, yet did not feel tired. always in front wound the narrow, leaf-girt trail, and to the left the broad river gleamed at intervals through open spaces in the thickets. flocks of birds rose in the line of march. they seemed tame, and uttered plaintive notes as if in sympathy. about noon the trail led to the river bank. one of the savages disappeared in a copse of willows, and presently reappeared carrying a birch-bark canoe. case ordered helen and will into the boat, got in himself, and the savages, taking stations at bow and stern, paddled out into the stream. they shot over under the lee of an island, around a rocky point, and across a strait to another island. beyond this they gained the ohio shore, and beached the canoe. "ahoy! there, cap'n," cried case, pushing helen up the bank before him, and she, gazing upward, was more than amazed to see mordaunt leaning against a tree. "mordaunt, had you anything to do with this?" cried helen breathlessly. "i had all to do with it," answered the englishman. "what do you mean?" he did not meet her gaze, nor make reply; but turned to address a few words in a low tone to a white man sitting on a log. helen knew she had seen this person before, and doubted not he was one of metzar's men. she saw a rude, bark lean-to, the remains of a camp-fire, and a pack tied in blankets. evidently mordaunt and his men had tarried here awaiting such developments as had come to pass. "you white-faced hound!" hissed will, beside himself with rage when he realized the situation. bound though he was, he leaped up and tried to get at mordaunt. case knocked him on the head with the handle of his knife. will fell with blood streaming from a cut over the temple. the dastardly act aroused all helen's fiery courage. she turned to the englishman with eyes ablaze. "so you've at last found your level. border-outlaw! kill me at once. i'd rather be dead than breathe the same air with such a coward!" "i swore i'd have you, if not by fair means then by foul," he answered, with dark and haggard face. "what do you intend to do with me now that i am tied?" she demanded scornfully. "keep you a prisoner in the woods till you consent to marry me." helen laughed in scorn. desperate as was the plight, her natural courage had arisen at the cruel blow dealt her cousin, and she faced the englishman with flashing eyes and undaunted mien. she saw he was again unsteady, and had the cough and catching breath habitual to certain men under the influence of liquor. she turned her attention to will. he lay as he had fallen, with blood streaming over his pale face and fair hair. while she gazed at him case whipped out his long knife, and looked up at mordaunt. "cap'n, i'd better loosen a hatch fer him," he said brutally. "he's dead cargo fer us, an' in the way." he lowered the gleaming point upon will's chest. "oh-h-h!" breathed helen in horror. she tried to close her eyes but was so fascinated she could not. "get up. i'll have no murder," ordered mordaunt. "leave him here." "he's not got a bad cut," said the man sitting on the log. "he'll come to arter a spell, go back to ther fort, an' give an alarm." "what's that to me?" asked mordaunt sharply. "we shall be safe. i won't have him with us because some indian or another will kill him. it's not my purpose to murder any one." "ugh!" grunted one of the savages, and pointed eastward with his hand. "hurry-long-way-go," he said in english. with the indians in the lead the party turned from the river into the forest. helen looked back into the sandy glade and saw will lying as they had left him, unconscious, with his hands still bound tightly behind him, and blood running over his face. painful as was the thought of leaving him thus, it afforded her relief. she assured herself he had not been badly hurt, would recover consciousness before long, and, even bound as he was, could make his way back to the settlement. her own situation, now that she knew mordaunt had instigated the abduction, did not seem hopeless. although dreading brandt with unspeakable horror, she did not in the least fear the englishman. he was mad to carry her off like this into the wilderness, but would force her to do nothing. he could not keep her a prisoner long while jonathan zane and wetzel were free to take his trail. what were his intentions? where was he taking her? such questions as these, however, troubled helen more than a little. they brought her thoughts back to the indians leading the way with lithe and stealthy step. how had mordaunt associated himself with these savages? then, suddenly, it dawned upon her that brandt also might be in this scheme to carry her off. she scouted the idea; but it returned. perhaps mordaunt was only a tool; perhaps he himself was being deceived. helen turned pale at the very thought. she had never forgotten the strange, unreadable, yet threatening, expression which brandt had worn the day she had refused to walk with him. meanwhile the party made rapid progress through the forest. not a word was spoken, nor did any noise of rustling leaves or crackling twigs follow their footsteps. the savage in the lead chose the open and less difficult ground; he took advantage of glades, mossy places, and rocky ridges. this careful choosing was, evidently, to avoid noise, and make the trail as difficult to follow as possible. once he stopped suddenly, and listened. helen had a good look at the savage while he was in this position. his lean, athletic figure resembled, in its half-clothed condition, a bronzed statue; his powerful visage was set, changeless like iron. his dark eyes seemed to take in all points of the forest before him. whatever had caused the halt was an enigma to all save his red-skinned companion. the silence of the wood was the silence of the desert. no bird chirped; no breath of wind sighed in the tree-tops; even the aspens remained unagitated. pale yellow leaves sailed slowly, reluctantly down from above. but some faint sound, something unusual had jarred upon the exquisitely sensitive ears of the leader, for with a meaning shake of the head to his followers, he resumed the march in a direction at right angles with the original course. this caution, and evident distrust of the forest ahead, made helen think again of jonathan and wetzel. those great bordermen might already be on the trail of her captors. the thought thrilled her. presently she realized, from another long, silent march through forest thickets, glades, aisles, and groves, over rock-strewn ridges, and down mossy-stoned ravines, that her strength was beginning to fail. "i can go no further with my arms tied in this way," she declared, stopping suddenly. "ugh!" uttered the savage before her, turning sharply. he brandished a tomahawk before her eyes. mordaunt hurriedly set free her wrists. his pale face flushed a dark, flaming red when she shrank from his touch as if he were a viper. after they had traveled what seemed to helen many miles, the vigilance of the leaders relaxed. on the banks of the willow-skirted stream the indian guide halted them, and proceeded on alone to disappear in a green thicket. presently he reappeared, and motioned for them to come on. he led the way over smooth, sandy paths between clumps of willows, into a heavy growth of alder bushes and prickly thorns, at length to emerge upon a beautiful grassy plot enclosed by green and yellow shrubbery. above the stream, which cut the edge of the glade, rose a sloping, wooded ridge, with huge rocks projecting here and there out of the brown forest. several birch-bark huts could be seen; then two rough bearded men lolling upon the grass, and beyond them a group of painted indians. a whoop so shrill, so savage, so exultant, that it seemingly froze her blood, rent the silence. a man, unseen before, came crashing through the willows on the side of the ridge. he leaped the stream with the spring of a wild horse. he was big and broad, with disheveled hair, keen, hard face, and wild, gray eyes. helen's sight almost failed her; her head whirled dizzily; it was as if her heart had stopped beating and was become a cold, dead weight. she recognized in this man the one whom she feared most of all--brandt. he cast one glance full at her, the same threatening, cool, and evil-meaning look she remembered so well, and then engaged the indian guide in low conversation. helen sank at the foot of a tree, leaning against it. despite her weariness she had retained some spirit until this direful revelation broke her courage. what worse could have happened? mordaunt had led her, for some reason that she could not divine, into the clutches of brandt, into the power of legget and his outlaws. but helen was not one to remain long dispirited or hopeless. as this plot thickened, as every added misfortune weighed upon her, when just ready to give up to despair she remembered the bordermen. then colonel zane's tales of their fearless, implacable pursuit when bent on rescue or revenge, recurred to her, and fortitude returned. while she had life she would hope. the advent of the party with their prisoner enlivened legget's gang. a great giant of a man, blond-bearded, and handsome in a wild, rugged, uncouth way, a man helen instinctively knew to be legget, slapped brandt on the shoulder. "damme, roge, if she ain't a regular little daisy! never seed such a purty lass in my life." brandt spoke hurriedly, and legget laughed. all this time case had been sitting on the grass, saying nothing, but with his little eyes watchful. mordaunt stood near him, his head bowed, his face gloomy. "say, cap'n, i don't like this mess," whispered case to his master. "they ain't no crew fer us. i know men, fer i've sailed the seas, an' you're goin' to get what metz calls the double-cross." mordaunt seemed to arouse from his gloomy reverie. he looked at brandt and legget who were now in earnest council. then his eyes wandered toward helen. she beckoned him to come to her. "why did you bring me here?" she asked. "brandt understood my case. he planned this thing, and seemed to be a good friend of mine. he said if i once got you out of the settlement, he would give me protection until i crossed the border into canada. there we could be married," replied mordaunt unsteadily. "then you meant marriage by me, if i could be made to consent?" "of course. i'm not utterly vile," he replied, with face lowered in shame. "have you any idea what you've done?" "done? i don't understand." "you have ruined yourself, lost your manhood, become an outlaw, a fugitive, made yourself the worst thing on the border--a girl-thief, and all for nothing." "no, i have you. you are more to me than all." "but can't you see? you've brought me out here for brandt!" "my god!" exclaimed mordaunt. he rose slowly to his feet and gazed around like a man suddenly wakened from a dream. "i see it all now! miserable, drunken wretch that i am!" helen saw his face change and lighten as if a cloud of darkness had passed away from it. she understood that love of liquor had made him a party to this plot. brandt had cunningly worked upon his weakness, proposed a daring scheme; and filled his befogged mind with hopes that, in a moment of clear-sightedness, he would have seen to be vain and impossible. and helen understood also that the sudden shock of surprise, pain, possible fury, had sobered mordaunt, probably for the first time in weeks. the englishman's face became exceedingly pale. seating himself on a stone near case, he bowed his head, remaining silent and motionless. the conference between legget and brandt lasted for some time. when it ended the latter strode toward the motionless figure on the rock. "mordaunt, you and case will do well to follow this indian at once to the river, where you can strike the fort pitt trail," said brandt. he spoke arrogantly and authoritatively. his keen, hard face, his steely eyes, bespoke the iron will and purpose of the man. mordaunt rose with cold dignity. if he had been a dupe, he was one no longer, as could be plainly read on his calm, pale face. the old listlessness, the unsteadiness had vanished. he wore a manner of extreme quietude; but his eyes were like balls of blazing blue steel. "mr. brandt, i seem to have done you a service, and am no longer required," he said in a courteous tone. brandt eyed his man; but judged him wrongly. an english gentleman was new to the border-outlaw. "i swore the girl should be mine," he hissed. "doomed men cannot be choosers!" cried helen, who had heard him. her dark eyes burned with scorn and hatred. all the party heard her passionate outburst. case arose as if unconcernedly, and stood by the side of his master. legget and the other two outlaws came up. the indians turned their swarthy faces. "hah! ain't she sassy?" cried legget. brandt looked at helen, understood the meaning of her words, and laughed. but his face paled, and involuntarily his shifty glance sought the rocks and trees upon the ridge. "you played me from the first?" asked mordaunt quietly. "i did," replied brandt. "you meant nothing of your promise to help me across the border?" "no." "you intended to let me shift for myself out here in this wilderness?" "yes, after this indian guides you to the river-trail," said brandt, indicating with his finger the nearest savage. "i get what you frontier men call the double-cross'?" "that's it," replied brandt with a hard laugh, in which legget joined. a short pause ensued. "what will you do with the girl?" "that's my affair." "marry her?" mordaunt's voice was low and quiet. "no!" cried brandt. "she flaunted my love in my face, scorned me! she saw that borderman strike me, and by god! i'll get even. i'll keep her here in the woods until i'm tired of her, and when her beauty fades i'll turn her over to legget." scarcely had the words dropped from his vile lips when mordaunt moved with tigerish agility. he seized a knife from the belt of one of the indians. "die!" he screamed. brandt grasped his tomahawk. at the same instant the man who had acted as mordaunt's guide grasped the englishman from behind. brandt struck ineffectually at the struggling man. "fair play!" roared case, leaping at mordaunt's second assailant. his long knife sheathed its glittering length in the man's breast. without even a groan he dropped. "clear the decks!" case yelled, sweeping round in a circle. all fell back before that whirling knife. several of the indians started as if to raise their rifles; but legget's stern command caused them to desist. the englishman and the outlaw now engaged in a fearful encounter. the practiced, rugged, frontier desperado apparently had found his match in this pale-faced, slender man. his border skill with the hatchet seemed offset by mordaunt's terrible rage. brandt whirled and swung the weapon as he leaped around his antagonist. with his left arm the englishman sought only to protect his head, while with his right he brandished the knife. whirling here and there they struggled across the cleared space, plunging out of sight among the willows. during a moment there was a sound as of breaking branches; then a dull blow, horrible to hear, followed by a low moan, and then deep silence. chapter xviii a black weight was seemingly lifted from helen's weary eyelids. the sun shone; the golden forest surrounded her; the brook babbled merrily; but where were the struggling, panting men? she noticed presently, when her vision had grown more clear, that the scene differed entirely from the willow-glade where she had closed her eyes upon the fight. then came the knowledge that she had fainted, and, during the time of unconsciousness, been moved. she lay upon a mossy mound a few feet higher than a swiftly running brook. a magnificent chestnut tree spread its leafy branches above her. directly opposite, about an hundred feet away, loomed a gray, ragged, moss-stained cliff. she noted this particularly because the dense forest encroaching to its very edge excited her admiration. such wonderful coloring seemed unreal. dead gold and bright red foliage flamed everywhere. two indians stood near by silent, immovable. no other of legget's band was visible. helen watched the red men. sinewy, muscular warriors they were, with bodies partially painted, and long, straight hair, black as burnt wood, interwoven with bits of white bone, and plaited around waving eagle plumes. at first glance their dark faces and dark eyes were expressive of craft, cunning, cruelty, courage, all attributes of the savage. yet wild as these savages appeared, helen did not fear them as she did the outlaws. brandt's eyes, and legget's, too, when turned on her, emitted a flame that seemed to scorch and shrivel her soul. when the savages met her gaze, which was but seldom, she imagined she saw intelligence, even pity, in their dusky eyes. certain it was she did not shrink from them as from brandt. suddenly, with a sensation of relief and joy, she remembered mordaunt's terrible onslaught upon brandt. although she could not recollect the termination of that furious struggle, she did recall brandt's scream of mortal agony, and the death of the other at case's hands. this meant, whether brandt was dead or not, that the fighting strength of her captors had been diminished. surely as the sun had risen that morning, helen believed jonathan and wetzel lurked on the trail of these renegades. she prayed that her courage, hope, strength, might be continued. "ugh!" exclaimed one of the savages, pointing across the open space. a slight swaying of the bushes told that some living thing was moving among them, and an instant later the huge frame of the leader came into view. the other outlaw, and case, followed closely. farther down the margin of the thicket the indians appeared; but without the slightest noise or disturbance of the shrubbery. it required but a glance to show helen that case was in high spirits. his repulsive face glowed with satisfaction. he carried a bundle, which helen saw, with a sickening sense of horror, was made up of mordaunt's clothing. brandt had killed the englishman. legget also had a package under his arm, which he threw down when he reached the chestnut tree, to draw from his pocket a long, leather belt, such as travelers use for the carrying of valuables. it was evidently heavy, and the musical clink which accompanied his motion proclaimed the contents to be gold. brandt appeared next; he was white and held his hand to his breast. there were dark stains on his hunting coat, which he removed to expose a shirt blotched with red. "you ain't much hurt, i reckon?" inquired legget solicitously. "no; but i'm bleeding bad," replied brandt coolly. he then called an indian and went among the willows skirting the stream. "so i'm to be in this border crew?" asked case, looking up at legget. "sure," replied the big outlaw. "you're a handy fellar, case, an' after i break you into border ways you will fit in here tip-top. now you'd better stick by me. when eb zane, his brother jack, an' wetzel find out this here day's work, hell will be a cool place compared with their whereabouts. you'll be safe with me, an' this is the only place on the border, i reckon, where you can say your life is your own." "i'm yer mate, cap'n. i've sailed with soldiers, pirates, sailors, an' i guess i can navigate this borderland. do we mess here? you didn't come far." "wal, i ain't pertikuler, but i don't like eatin' with buzzards," said legget, with a grin. "thet's why we moved a bit." "what's buzzards?" "ho! ho! mebbe you'll hev 'em closer'n you'd like, some day, if you'd only know it. buzzards are fine birds, most particular birds, as won't eat nothin' but flesh, an' white man or injun is pie fer 'em." "cap'n, i've seed birds as wouldn't wait till a man was dead," said case. "haw! haw! you can't come no sailor yarns on this fellar. wal, now, we've got ther englishman's gold. one or t'other of us might jest as well hev it all." "right yer are, cap'n. dice, cards, anyways, so long as i knows the game." "here, jenks, hand over yer clickers, an' bring us a flat stone," said legget, sitting on the moss and emptying the belt in front of him. case took a small bag from the dark blue jacket that had so lately covered mordaunt's shoulders, and poured out its bright contents. "this coat ain't worth keepin'," he said, holding it up. the garment was rent and slashed, and under the left sleeve was a small, blood-stained hole where one of brandt's blows had fallen. "hullo, what's this?" muttered the sailor, feeling in the pocket of the jacket. "blast my timbers, hooray!" he held up a small, silver-mounted whiskey flask, unscrewed the lid, and lifted the vessel to his mouth. "i'm kinder thirsty myself," suggested legget. "cap'n, a nip an' no more," case replied, holding the flask to legget's lips. the outlaw called jenks now returned with a flat stone which he placed between the two men. the indians gathered around. with greedy eyes they bent their heads over the gamblers, and watched every movement with breathless interest. at each click of the dice, or clink of gold, they uttered deep exclamations. "luck's again' ye, cap'n," said case, skilfully shaking the ivory cubes. "hain't i got eyes?" growled the outlaw. steadily his pile of gold diminished, and darker grew his face. "cap'n, i'm a bad wind to draw," case rejoined, drinking again from the flask. his naturally red face had become livid, his skin moist, and his eyes wild with excitement. "hullo! if them dice wasn't jenks's, an' i hadn't played afore with him, i'd swear they's loaded." "you ain't insinuatin' nothin', cap'n?" inquired case softly, hesitating with the dice in his hands, his evil eyes glinting at legget. "no, you're fair enough," growled the leader. "it's my tough luck." the game progressed with infrequent runs of fortune for the outlaw, and presently every piece of gold lay in a shining heap before the sailor. "clean busted!" exclaimed legget in disgust. "can't you find nothin' more?" asked case. the outlaw's bold eyes wandered here and there until they rested upon the prisoner. "i'll play ther lass against yer pile of gold," he growled. "best two throws out 'en three. see here, she's as much mine as brandt's." "make it half my pile an' i'll go you." "nary time. bet, or give me back what yer win," replied legget gruffly. "she's a trim little craft, no mistake," said case, critically surveying helen. "all right, cap'n, i've sportin' blood, an' i'll bet. yer throw first." legget won the first cast, and case the second. with deliberation the outlaw shook the dice in his huge fist, and rattled them out upon the stone. "hah!" he cried in delight. he had come within one of the highest score possible. case nonchalantly flipped the little white blocks. the indians crowded forward, their dusky eyes shining. legget swore in a terrible voice which re-echoed from the stony cliff. the sailor was victorious. the outlaw got up, kicked the stone and dice in the brook, and walked away from the group. he strode to and fro under one of the trees. gruffly he gave an order to the indians. several of them began at once to kindle a fire. presently he called jenks, who was fishing the dice out of the brook, and began to converse earnestly with him, making fierce gestures and casting lowering glances at the sailor. case was too drunk now to see that he had incurred the enmity of the outlaw leader. he drank the last of the rum, and tossed the silver flask to an indian, who received the present with every show of delight. case then, with the slow, uncertain movements of a man whose mind is befogged, began to count his gold; but only to gather up a few pieces when they slipped out of his trembling hands to roll on the moss. laboriously, seriously, he kept at it with the doggedness of a drunken man. apparently he had forgotten the others. failing to learn the value of the coins by taking up each in turn, he arranged them in several piles, and began to estimate his wealth in sections. in the meanwhile helen, who had not failed to take in the slightest detail of what was going on, saw that a plot was hatching which boded ill to the sailor. moreover, she heard legget and jenks whispering. "i kin take him from right here 'atwixt his eyes," said jenks softly, and tapped his rifle significantly. "wal, go ahead, only i ruther hev it done quieter," answered legget. "we're yet a long ways, near thirty miles, from my camp, an' there's no tellin' who's in ther woods. but we've got ter git rid of ther fresh sailor, an' there's no surer way." cautiously cocking his rifle, jenks deliberately raised it to his shoulder. one of the indian sentinels who stood near at hand, sprang forward and struck up the weapon. he spoke a single word to legget, pointed to the woods above the cliff, and then resumed his statue-like attitude. "i told yer, jenks, that it wouldn't do. the redskin scents somethin' in the woods, an' ther's an injun i never seed fooled. we mustn't make a noise. take yer knife an' tomahawk, crawl down below the edge o' the bank an' slip up on him. i'll give half ther gold fer ther job." jenks buckled his belt more tightly, gave one threatening glance at the sailor, and slipped over the bank. the bed of the brook lay about six feet below the level of the ground. this afforded an opportunity for the outlaw to get behind case without being observed. a moment passed. jenks disappeared round a bend of the stream. presently his grizzled head appeared above the bank. he was immediately behind the sailor; but still some thirty feet away. this ground must be covered quickly and noiselessly. the outlaw began to crawl. in his right hand he grasped a tomahawk, and between his teeth was a long knife. he looked like a huge, yellow bear. the savages, with the exception of the sentinel who seemed absorbed in the dense thicket on the cliff, sat with their knees between their hands, watching the impending tragedy. nothing but the merest chance, or some extraordinary intervention, could avert case's doom. he was gloating over his gold. the creeping outlaw made no more noise than a snake. nearer and nearer he came; his sweaty face shining in the sun; his eyes tigerish; his long body slipping silently over the grass. at length he was within five feet of the sailor. his knotty hands were dug into the sward as he gathered energy for a sudden spring. at that very moment case, with his hand on his knife, rose quickly and turned round. the outlaw, discovered in the act of leaping, had no alternative, and spring he did, like a panther. the little sailor stepped out of line with remarkable quickness, and as the yellow body whirled past him, his knife flashed blue-bright in the sunshine. jenks fell forward, his knife buried in the grass beneath him, and his outstretched hand still holding the tomahawk. "tryin' ter double-cross me fer my gold," muttered the sailor, sheathing his weapon. he never looked to see whether or no his blow had been fatal. "these border fellars might think a man as sails the seas can't handle a knife." he calmly began gathering up his gold, evidently indifferent to further attack. helen saw legget raise his own rifle, but only to have it struck aside as had jenks's. this time the savage whispered earnestly to legget, who called the other indians around him. the sentinel's low throaty tones mingled with the soft babbling of the stream. no sooner had he ceased speaking than the effect of his words showed how serious had been the information, warning or advice. the indians cast furtive glances toward the woods. two of them melted like shadows into the red and gold thicket. another stealthily slipped from tree to tree until he reached the open ground, then dropped into the grass, and was seen no more until his dark body rose under the cliff. he stole along the green-stained wall, climbed a rugged corner, and vanished amid the dense foliage. helen felt that she was almost past discernment or thought. the events of the day succeeding one another so swiftly, and fraught with panic, had, despite her hope and fortitude, reduced her to a helpless condition of piteous fear. she understood that the savages scented danger, or had, in their mysterious way, received intelligence such as rendered them wary and watchful. "come on, now, an' make no noise," said legget to case. "bring the girl, an' see that she steps light." "ay, ay, cap'n," replied the sailor. "where's brandt?" "he'll be comin' soon's his cut stops bleedin'. i reckon he's weak yet." case gathered up his goods, and, tucking it under his arm, grasped helen's arm. she was leaning against the tree, and when he pulled her, she wrenched herself free, rising with difficulty. his disgusting touch and revolting face had revived her sensibilities. "yer kin begin duty by carryin' thet," said case, thrusting the package into helen's arms. she let it drop without moving a hand. "i'm runnin' this ship. yer belong to me," hissed case, and then he struck her on the head. helen uttered a low cry of distress, and half staggered against the tree. the sailor picked up the package. this time she took it, trembling with horror. "thet's right. now, give ther cap'n a kiss," he leered, and jostled against her. helen pushed him violently. with agonized eyes she appealed to the indians. they were engaged tying up their packs. legget looked on with a lazy grin. "oh! oh!" breathed helen as case seized her again. she tried to scream, but could not make a sound. the evil eyes, the beastly face, transfixed her with terror. case struck her twice, then roughly pulled her toward him. half-fainting, unable to move, helen gazed at the heated, bloated face approaching hers. when his coarse lips were within a few inches of her lips something hot hissed across her brow. following so closely as to be an accompaniment, rang out with singular clearness the sharp crack of a rifle. case's face changed. the hot, surging flush faded; the expression became shaded, dulled into vacant emptiness; his eyes rolled wildly, then remained fixed, with a look of dark surprise. he stood upright an instant, swayed with the regular poise of a falling oak, and then plunged backward to the ground. his face, ghastly and livid, took on the awful calm of death. a very small hole, reddish-blue round the edges, dotted the center of his temple. legget stared aghast at the dead sailor; then he possessed himself of the bag of gold. "saved me ther trouble," he muttered, giving case a kick. the indians glanced at the little figure, then out into the flaming thickets. each savage sprang behind a tree with incredible quickness. legget saw this, and grasping helen, he quickly led her within cover of the chestnut. brandt appeared with his indian companion, and both leaped to shelter behind a clump of birches near where legget stood. brandt's hawk eyes flashed upon the dead jenks and case. without asking a question he seemed to take in the situation. he stepped over and grasped helen by the arm. "who killed case?" he asked in a whisper, staring at the little blue hole in the sailor's temple. no one answered. the two indians who had gone into the woods to the right of the stream, now returned. hardly were they under the trees with their party, when the savage who had gone off alone arose out of the grass in the left of the brook, took it with a flying leap, and darted into their midst. he was the sentinel who had knocked up the weapons, thereby saving case's life twice. he was lithe and supple, but not young. his grave, shadowy-lined, iron visage showed the traces of time and experience. all gazed at him as at one whose wisdom was greater than theirs. "old horse," said brandt in english. "haven't i seen bullet holes like this?" the chippewa bent over case, and then slowly straightened his tall form. "_deathwind!_" he replied, answering in the white man's language. his indian companions uttered low, plaintive murmurs, not signifying fear so much as respect. brandt turned as pale as the clean birch-bark on the tree near him. the gray flare of his eyes gave out a terrible light of certainty and terror. "legget, you needn't try to hide your trail," he hissed, and it seemed as if there was a bitter, reckless pleasure in these words. then the chippewa glided into the low bushes bordering the creek. legget followed him, with brandt leading helen, and the other indians brought up the rear, each one sending wild, savage glances into the dark, surrounding forest. chapter xix a dense white fog rose from the river, obscuring all objects, when the bordermen rolled out of their snug bed of leaves. the air was cool and bracing, faintly fragrant with dying foliage and the damp, dewy luxuriance of the ripened season. wetzel pulled from under the protecting ledge a bundle of bark and sticks he had put there to keep dry, and built a fire, while jonathan fashioned a cup from a green fruit resembling a gourd, filling it at a spring near by. "lew, there's a frosty nip in the water this mornin'," said jonathan. "i reckon. it's gettin' along into fall now. any clear, still night'll fetch all the leaves, an' strip the trees bare as burned timber," answered wetzel, brushing the ashes off the strip of meat he had roasted. "get a stick, an' help me cook the rest of this chunk of bison. the sun'll be an hour breakin' up thet mist, an' we can't clear out till then. mebbe we won't have no chance to light another fire soon." with these bordermen everything pertaining to their lonely lives, from the lighting of a fire to the trailing of a redskin, was singularly serious. no gladsome song ever came from their lips; there was no jollity around their camp-fire. hunters had their moments of rapturous delight; bordermen knew the peace, the content of the wilderness, but their pursuits racked nerve and heart. wetzel had his moments of frenzied joy, but they passed with the echo of his vengeful yell. jonathan's happiness, such as it was, had been to roam the forests. that, before a woman's eyes had dispelled it, had been enough, and compensated him for the gloomy, bloody phantoms which haunted him. the bordermen, having partaken of the frugal breakfast, stowed in their spacious pockets all the meat that was left, and were ready for the day's march. they sat silent for a time waiting for the mist to lift. it broke in places, rolled in huge billows, sailed aloft like great white clouds, and again hung tenaciously to the river and the plain. away in the west blue patches of sky shone through the rifts, and eastward banks of misty vapor reddened beneath the rising sun. suddenly from beneath the silver edge of the rising pall the sun burst gleaming gold, disclosing the winding valley with its steaming river. "we'll make up stream fer two islands, an' cross there if so be we've reason," wetzel had said. through the dewy dells, avoiding the wet grass and bushes, along the dark, damp glades with their yellow carpets, under the thinning arches of the trees, down the gentle slopes of the ridges, rich with green moss, the bordermen glided like gray shadows. the forest was yet asleep. a squirrel frisked up an oak and barked quarrelsomely at these strange, noiseless visitors. a crow cawed from somewhere overhead. these were the only sounds disturbing the quiet early hour. as the bordermen advanced the woods lightened and awoke to life and joy. birds sang, trilled, warbled, or whistled their plaintive songs, peculiar to the dying season, and in harmony with the glory of the earth. birds that in earlier seasons would have screeched and fought, now sang and fluttered side by side, in fraternal parade on their slow pilgrimage to the far south. "bad time fer us, when the birds are so tame, an' chipper. we can't put faith in them these days," said wetzel. "seems like they never was wild. i can tell, 'cept at this season, by the way they whistle an' act in the woods, if there's been any injuns along the trails." the greater part of the morning passed thus with the bordermen steadily traversing the forest; here, through a spare and gloomy wood, blasted by fire, worn by age, with many a dethroned monarch of bygone times rotting to punk and duff under the ferns, with many a dark, seamed and ragged king still standing, but gray and bald of head and almost ready to take his place in the forest of the past; there, through a maze of young saplings where each ash, maple, hickory and oak added some new and beautiful hue to the riot of color. "i just had a glimpse of the lower island, as we passed an opening in the thicket," said jonathan. "we ain't far away," replied wetzel. the bordermen walked less rapidly in order to proceed with more watchfulness. every rod or two they stopped to listen. "you think legget's across the river?" asked jonathan. "he was two days back, an' had his gang with him. he's up to some bad work, but i can't make out what. one thing, i never seen his trail so near fort henry." they emerged at length into a more open forest which skirted the river. at a point still some distance ahead, but plainly in sight, two small islands rose out of the water. "hist! what's that?" whispered wetzel, slipping his hand in jonathan's arm. a hundred yards beyond lay a long, dark figure stretched at full length under one of the trees close to the bank. "looks like a man," said jonathan. "you've hit the mark. take a good peep roun' now, jack, fer we're comin' somewhere near the trail we want." minutes passed while the patient bordermen searched the forest with their eyes, seeking out every tree within rifle range, or surveyed the level glades, scrutinized the hollows, and bent piercing eyes upon the patches of ferns. "if there's a redskin around he ain't big enough to hold a gun," said wetzel, moving forward again, yet still with that same stealthy step and keen caution. finally they were gazing down upon the object which had attracted wetzel's attention. "will sheppard!" cried jonathan. "is he dead? what's this mean?" wetzel leaned over the prostrate lad, and then quickly turned to his companion. "get some water. take his cap. no, he ain't even hurt bad, unless he's got some wound as don't show." jonathan returned with the water, and wetzel bathed the bloody face. when the gash on will's forehead was clean, it told the bordermen much. "not an hour old, that blow," muttered wetzel. "he's comin' to," said jonathan as will stirred uneasily and moaned. presently the lad opened his eyes and sat bolt upright. he looked bewildered for a moment, and felt of his head while gazing vaguely at the bordermen. suddenly he cried: "i remember! we were captured, brought here, and i was struck down by that villain case." "we? who was with you?" asked jonathan slowly. "helen. we came after flowers and leaves. while in full sight of the fort i saw an indian. we hurried back," he cried, and proceeded with broken, panting voice to tell his story. jonathan zane leaped to his feet with face deathly white and eyes blue-black, like burning stars. "jack, study the trail while i get the lad acrost the river, an' steered fer home," said wetzel, and then he asked will if he could swim. "yes; but you will find a canoe there in those willows." "come, lad, we've no time to spare," added wetzel, sliding down the bank and entering the willows. he came out almost immediately with the canoe which he launched. will turned that he might make a parting appeal to jonathan to save helen; but could not speak. the expression on the borderman's face frightened him. motionless and erect jonathan stood, his arms folded and his white, stern face distorted with the agony of remorse, fear, and anguish, which, even as will gazed, froze into an awful, deadly look of fateful purpose. wetzel pushed the canoe off, and paddled with powerful strokes; he left will on the opposite bank, and returned as swiftly as he could propel the light craft. the bordermen met each other's glance, and had little need of words. wetzel's great shoulders began to sag slightly, and his head lowered as his eyes sought the grass; a dark and gloomy shade overcast his features. thus he passed from borderman to deathwind. the sough of the wind overhead among the almost naked branches might well have warned indians and renegades that deathwind was on the trail! "brandt's had a hand in this, an' the englishman's a fool!" said wetzel. "an hour ahead; can we come up with them before they join brandt an' legget?" "we can try, but like as not we'll fail. legget's gang is thirteen strong by now. i said it! somethin' told me--a hard trail, a long trail, an' our last trail." "it's over thirty miles to legget's camp. we know the woods, an' every stream, an' every cover," hissed jonathan zane. with no further words wetzel took the trail on the run, and so plain was it to his keen eyes that he did not relax his steady lope except to stop and listen at regular intervals. jonathan followed with easy swing. through forest and meadow, over hill and valley, they ran, fleet and tireless. once, with unerring instinct, they abruptly left the broad trail and cut far across a wide and rugged ridge to come again upon the tracks of the marching band. then, in open country they reduced their speed to a walk. ahead, in a narrow valley, rose a thicket of willows, yellow in the sunlight, and impenetrable to human vision. like huge snakes the bordermen crept into this copse, over the sand, under the low branches, hard on the trail. finally, in a light, open space, where the sun shone through a network of yellow branches and foliage, wetzel's hand was laid upon jonathan's shoulder. "listen! hear that!" he whispered. jonathan heard the flapping of wings, and a low, hissing sound, not unlike that made by a goose. "buzzards!" he said, with a dark, grim smile. "mebbe brandt has begun our work. come." out into the open they crawled to put to flight a flock of huge black birds with grisly, naked necks, hooked beaks, and long, yellow claws. upon the green grass lay three half-naked men, ghastly, bloody, in terribly limp and lifeless positions. "metzar's man smith, jenks, the outlaw, and mordaunt!" jonathan zane gazed darkly into the steely, sightless eyes of the traitor. death's awful calm had set the expression; but the man's whole life was there, its better part sadly shining forth among the cruel shadows. his body was mutilated in a frightful manner. cuts, stabs, and slashes told the tale of a long encounter, brought to an end by one clean stroke. "come here, lew. you've seen men chopped up; but look at this dead englishman," called zane. mordaunt lay weltering in a crimson tide. strangely though, his face was uninjured. a black bruise showed under his fair hair. the ghost of a smile seemed to hover around his set lips, yet almost intangible though it was, it showed that at last he had died a man. his left shoulder, side and arm showed where the brunt of brandt's attack had fallen. "how'd he ever fight so?" mused jonathan. "you never can tell," replied wetzel. "mebbe he killed this other fellar, too; but i reckon not. come, we must go slow now, fer legget is near at hand." jonathan brought huge, flat stones from the brook, and laid them over mordaunt; then, cautiously he left the glade on wetzel's trail. five hundred yards farther on wetzel had ceased following the outlaw's tracks to cross the creek and climb a ridge. he was beginning his favorite trick of making a wide detour. jonathan hurried forward, feeling he was safe from observation. soon he distinguished the tall, brown figure of his comrade gliding ahead from tree to tree, from bush to bush. "see them maples an' chestnuts down thar," said wetzel when jonathan had come up, pointing through an opening in the foliage. "they've stopped fer some reason." on through the forest the bordermen glided. they kept near the summit of the ridge, under the best cover they could find, and passed swiftly over this half-circle. when beginning once more to draw toward the open grove in the valley, they saw a long, irregular cliff, densely wooded. they swerved a little, and made for this excellent covert. they crawled the last hundred yards and never shook a fern, moved a leaf, or broke a twig. having reached the brink of the low precipice, they saw the grassy meadow below, the straggling trees, the brook, the group of indians crowding round the white men. "see that point of rock thar? it's better cover," whispered wetzel. patiently, with no hurry or excitement, they slowly made their difficult way among the rocks and ferns to the vantage point desired. taking a position like this was one the bordermen strongly favored. they could see everywhere in front, and had the thick woods at their backs. "what are they up to?" whispered jonathan, as he and wetzel lay close together under a mass of grapevine still tenacious of its broad leaves. "dicin'," answered wetzel. "i can see 'em throw; anyways, nothin' but bettin' ever makes redskins act like that." "who's playin'? where's brandt?" "i can make out legget; see his shaggy head. the other must be case. brandt ain't in sight. nursin' a hurt perhaps. ah! see thar! over under the big tree as stands dark-like agin the thicket. thet's an injun, an' he looks too quiet an' keen to suit me. we'll have a care of him." "must be playin' fer mordaunt's gold." "like as not, for where'd them ruffians get any 'cept they stole it." "aha! they're gettin' up! see legget walk away shakin' his big head. he's mad. mebbe he'll be madder presently," growled jonathan. "case's left alone. he's countin' his winnin's. jack, look out fer more work took off our hands." "by gum! see that injun knock up a leveled rifle." "i told you, an' thet redskin has his suspicions. he's seen us down along ther ridge. there's helen, sittin' behind the biggest tree. thet injun guard, 'afore he moved, kept us from seein' her." jonathan made no answer to this; but his breath literally hissed through his clenched teeth. "thar goes the other outlaw," whispered wetzel, as if his comrade could not see. "it's all up with case. see the sneak bendin' down the bank. now, thet's a poor way. it'd better be done from the front, walkin' up natural-like, instead of tryin' to cover thet wide stretch. case'll see him or hear him sure. thar, he's up now, an' crawlin'. he's too slow, too slow. aha! i knew it--case turns. look at the outlaw spring! well, did you see thet little cuss whip his knife? one more less fer us to quiet. thet makes four, jack, an' mebbe, soon, it'll be five." "they're holdin' a council," said jonathan. "i see two injuns sneakin' off into the woods, an' here comes thet guard. he's a keen redskin, jack, fer we did come light through the brush. mebbe it'd be well to stop his scoutin'." "lew, that villain case is bullyin' helen!" cried jonathan. "sh-sh-h," whispered wetzel. "see! he's pulled her to her feet. oh! he struck her! oh!" jonathan leveled his rifle and would have fired, but for the iron grasp on his wrist. "hev you lost yer senses? it's full two hundred paces, an' too far fer your piece," said wetzel in a whisper. "an' it ain't sense to try from here." "lend me your gun! lend me your gun!" silently wetzel handed him the long, black rifle. jonathan raised it, but trembled so violently that the barrel wavered like a leaf in the breeze. "take it, i can't cover him," groaned jonathan. "this is new to me. i ain't myself. god! lew, he struck her again! _again!_ he's tryin' to kiss her! wetzel, if you're my friend, kill him!" "jack, it'd be better to wait, an'----" "i love her," breathed jonathan. the long, black barrel swept up to a level and stopped. white smoke belched from among the green leaves; the report rang throughout the forest. "ah! i saw him stop an' pause," hissed jonathan. "he stands, he sways, he falls! death for yours, you sailor-beast!" chapter xx the bordermen watched legget and his band disappear into the thicket adjoining the grove. when the last dark, lithe form glided out of sight among the yellowing copse, jonathan leaped from the low cliff, and had hardly reached the ground before wetzel dashed down to the grassy turf. again they followed the outlaw's trail darker-faced, fiercer-visaged than ever, with cocked, tightly-gripped rifles thrust well before them, and light feet that scarcely brushed the leaves. wetzel halted after a long tramp up and down the ridges, and surveyed with keen intent the lay of the land ahead. "sooner or later we'll hear from that redskin as discovered us a ways back," whispered he. "i wish we might get a crack at him afore he hinders us bad. i ain't seen many keener injuns. it's lucky we fixed ther arrow-shootin' shawnee. we'd never hev beat thet combination. an' fer all of thet i'm worrin' some about the goin' ahead." "ambush?" jonathan asked. "like as not. legget'll send thet injun back, an' mebbe more'n him. jack, see them little footprints? they're helen's. look how she's draggin' along. almost tuckered out. legget can't travel many more miles to-day. he'll make a stand somewheres, an' lose all his redskins afore he gives up the lass." "i'll never live through to-night with her in that gang. she'll be saved, or dead, before the stars pale in the light of the moon." "i reckon we're nigh the end for some of us. it'll be moonlight an hour arter dusk, an' now it's only the middle of the arternoon; we've time enough fer anythin'. now, jack, let's not tackle the trail straight. we'll split, an' go round to head 'em off. see thet dead white oak standin' high over thar?" jonathan looked out between the spreading branches of a beech, and saw, far over a low meadow, luxuriant with grasses and rushes and bright with sparkling ponds and streams, a dense wood out of which towered a bare, bleached tree-top. "you slip around along the right side of this meader, an' i'll take the left side. go slow, an' hev yer eyes open. we'll meet under thet big dead tree. i allow we can see it from anywhere around. we'll leave the trail here, an' take it up farther on. legget's goin' straight for his camp; he ain't losin' an inch. he wants to get in that rocky hole of his'n." wetzel stepped off the trail, glided into the woods, and vanished. jonathan turned to the right, traversed the summit of the ridge, softly traveled down its slope, and, after crossing a slow, eddying, quiet stream, gained the edge of the forest on that side of the swamp. a fringe of briars and prickly thorns bordered this wood affording an excellent cover. on the right the land rose rather abruptly. he saw that by walking up a few paces he could command a view of the entire swamp, as well as the ridge beyond, which contained wetzel, and, probably, the outlaw and his band. remembering his comrade's admonition, jonathan curbed his unusual impatience and moved slowly. the wind swayed the tree-tops, and rustled the fallen leaves. birds sang as if thinking the warm, soft weather was summer come again. squirrels dropped heavy nuts that cracked on the limbs, or fell with a thud to the ground, and they scampered over the dry earth, scratching up the leaves as they barked and scolded. crows cawed clamorously after a hawk that had darted under the tree-tops to escape them; deer loped swiftly up the hill, and a lordly elk rose from a wallow in the grassy swamp, crashing into the thicket. when two-thirds around this oval plain, which was a mile long and perhaps one-fourth as wide, jonathan ascended the hill to make a survey. the grass waved bright brown and golden in the sunshine, swished in the wind, and swept like a choppy sea to the opposite ridge. the hill was not densely wooded. in many places the red-brown foliage opened upon irregular patches, some black, as if having been burned over, others showing the yellow and purple colors of the low thickets and the gray, barren stones. suddenly jonathan saw something darken one of these sunlit plots. it might have been a deer. he studied the rolling, rounded tree-tops, the narrow strips between the black trunks, and the open places that were clear in the sunshine. he had nearly come to believe he had seen a small animal or bird flit across the white of the sky far in the background, when he distinctly saw dark figures stealing along past a green-gray rock, only to disappear under colored banks of foliage. presently, lower down, they reappeared and crossed an open patch of yellow fern. jonathan counted them. two were rather yellow in color, the hue of buckskin; another, slight of stature as compared with the first, and light gray by contrast. then six black, slender, gliding forms crossed the space. jonathan then lost sight of them, and did not get another glimpse. he knew them to be legget and his band. the slight figure was helen. jonathan broke into a run, completed the circle around the swamp, and slowed into a walk when approaching the big dead tree where he was to wait for wetzel. several rods beyond the lowland he came to a wood of white oaks, all giants rugged and old, with scarcely a sapling intermingled with them. although he could not see the objective point, he knew from his accurate sense of distance that he was near it. as he entered the wood he swept its whole length and width with his eyes, he darted forward twenty paces to halt suddenly behind a tree. he knew full well that a sharply moving object was more difficult to see in the woods, than one stationary. again he ran, fleet and light, a few paces ahead to take up a position as before behind a tree. thus he traversed the forest. on the other side he found the dead oak of which wetzel had spoken. its trunk was hollow. jonathan squeezed himself into the blackened space, with his head in a favorable position behind a projecting knot, where he could see what might occur near at hand. he waited for what seemed to him a long while, during which he neither saw nor heard anything, and then, suddenly, the report of a rifle rang out. a single, piercing scream followed. hardly had the echo ceased when three hollow reports, distinctly different in tone from the first, could be heard from the same direction. in quick succession short, fierce yells attended rather than succeeded, the reports. jonathan stepped out of the hiding-place, cocked his rifle, and fixed a sharp eye on the ridge before him whence those startling cries had come. the first rifle-shot, unlike any other in its short, spiteful, stinging quality, was unmistakably wetzel's. zane had heard it, followed many times, as now, by the wild death-cry of a savage. the other reports were of indian guns, and the yells were the clamoring, exultant cries of indians in pursuit. far down where the open forest met the gloom of the thickets, a brown figure flashed across the yellow ground. darting among the trees, across the glades, it moved so swiftly that jonathan knew it was wetzel. in another instant a chorus of yelps resounded from the foliage, and three savages burst through the thicket almost at right angles with the fleeing borderman, running to intercept him. the borderman did not swerve from his course; but came on straight toward the dead tree, with the wonderful fleetness that so often had served him well. even in that moment jonathan thought of what desperate chances his comrade had taken. the trick was plain. wetzel had, most likely, shot the dangerous scout, and, taking to his heels, raced past the others, trusting to his speed and their poor marksmanship to escape with a whole skin. when within a hundred yards of the oak wetzel's strength apparently gave out. his speed deserted him; he ran awkwardly, and limped. the savages burst out into full cry like a pack of hungry wolves. they had already emptied their rifles at him, and now, supposing one of the shots had taken effect, redoubled their efforts, making the forest ring with their short, savage yells. one gaunt, dark-bodied indian with a long, powerful, springy stride easily distanced his companions, and, evidently sure of gaining the coveted scalp of the borderman, rapidly closed the gap between them as he swung aloft his tomahawk, yelling the war-cry. the sight on jonathan's rifle had several times covered this savage's dark face; but when he was about to press the trigger wetzel's fleeting form, also in line with the savage, made it extremely hazardous to take a shot. jonathan stepped from his place of concealment, and let out a yell that pealed high over the cries of the savages. wetzel suddenly dropped flat on the ground. with a whipping crack of jonathan's rifle, the big indian plunged forward on his face. the other indians, not fifty yards away, stopped aghast at the fate of their comrade, and were about to seek the shelter of trees when, with his terrible yell, wetzel sprang up and charged upon them. he had left his rifle where he fell; but his tomahawk glittered as he ran. the lameness had been a trick, for now he covered ground with a swiftness which caused his former progress to seem slow. the indians, matured and seasoned warriors though they were, gave but one glance at this huge, brown figure bearing down upon them like a fiend, and, uttering the indian name of _deathwind_, wavered, broke and ran. one, not so fleet as his companion, wetzel overtook and cut down with a single stroke. the other gained an hundred-yard start in the slight interval of wetzel's attack, and, spurred on by a pealing, awful cry in the rear, sped swiftly in and out among the trees until he was lost to view. wetzel scalped the two dead savages, and, after returning to regain his rifle, joined jonathan at the dead oak. "jack, you can never tell how things is comin' out. thet redskin i allowed might worry us a bit, fooled me as slick as you ever saw, an' i hed to shoot him. knowin' it was a case of runnin', i just cut fer this oak, drew the redskins' fire, an' hed 'em arter me quicker 'n you'd say jack robinson. i was hopin' you'd be here; but wasn't sure till i'd seen your rifle. then i kinder got a kink in my leg jest to coax the brutes on." "three more quiet," said jonathan zane. "what now?" "we've headed legget, an' we'll keep nosin' him off his course. already he's lookin' fer a safe campin' place for the night." "there is none in these woods, fer him." "we didn't plan this gettin' between him an' his camp; but couldn't be better fixed. a mile farther along the ridge, is a campin' place, with a spring in a little dell close under a big stone, an' well wooded. legget's headin' straight fer it. with a couple of injuns guardin' thet spot, he'll think he's safe. but i know the place, an' can crawl to thet rock the darkest night thet ever was an' never crack a stick." * * * * * in the gray of the deepening twilight jonathan zane sat alone. an owl hooted dismally in the dark woods beyond the thicket where the borderman crouched waiting for wetzel. his listening ear detected a soft, rustling sound like the play of a mole under the leaves. a branch trembled and swung back; a soft footstep followed and wetzel came into the retreat. "well?" asked jonathan impatiently, as wetzel deliberately sat down and laid his rifle across his knees. "easy, jack, easy. we've an hour to wait." "the time i've already waited has been long for me." "they're thar," said wetzel grimly. "how far from here?" "a half-hour's slow crawl." "close by?" hissed jonathan. "too near fer you to get excited." "let us go; it's as light now as in the gray of mornin'." "mornin' would be best. injuns get sleepy along towards day. i've ever found thet time the best. but we'll be lucky if we ketch these redskins asleep." "lew, i can't wait here all night. i won't leave her longer with that renegade. i've got to free or kill her." "most likely it'll be the last," said wetzel simply. "well, so be it then," and the borderman hung his head. "you needn't worry none, 'bout helen. i jest had a good look at her, not half an hour back. she's fagged out; but full of spunk yet. i seen thet when brandt went near her. legget's got his hands full jest now with the redskins. he's hevin' trouble keepin' them on this slow trail. i ain't sayin' they're skeered; but they're mighty restless." "will you take the chance now?" "i reckon you needn't hev asked thet." "tell me the lay of the land." "wai, if we get to this rock i spoke 'bout, we'll be right over 'em. it's ten feet high, an' we can jump straight amongst 'em. most likely two or three'll be guardin' the openin' which is a little ways to the right. ther's a big tree, the only one, low down by the spring. helen's under it, half-sittin', half-leanin' against the roots. when i first looked, her hands were free; but i saw brandt bind her feet. an' he had to get an injun to help him, fer she kicked like a spirited little filly. there's moss under the tree an' there's where the redskins'll lay down to rest." "i've got that; now out with your plan." "wal, i calkilate it's this. the moon'll be up in about an hour. we'll crawl as we've never crawled afore, because helen's life depends as much on our not makin' a noise, as it does on fightin' when the time comes. if they hear us afore we're ready to shoot, the lass'll be tomahawked quicker'n lightnin'. if they don't suspicion us, when the right moment comes you shoot brandt, yell louder'n you ever did afore, leap amongst 'em, an' cut down the first injun thet's near you on your way to helen. swing her over your arm, an' dig into the woods." "well?" asked jonathan when wetzel finished. "that's all," the borderman replied grimly. "an' leave you all alone to fight legget an' the rest of 'em?" "i reckon." "not to be thought of." "ther's no other way." "there must be! let me think; i can't, i'm not myself." "no other way," repeated wetzel curtly. jonathan's broad hand fastened on wetzel's shoulder and wheeled him around. "have i ever left you alone?" "this's different," and wetzel turned away again. his voice was cold and hard. "how is it different? we've had the same thing to do, almost, more than once." "we've never had as bad a bunch to handle as legget's. they're lookin' fer us, an' will be hard to beat." "that's no reason." "we never had to save a girl one of us loved." jonathan was silent. "i said this'd be my last trail," continued wetzel. "i felt it, an' i know it'll be yours." "why?" "if you get away with the girl she'll keep you at home, an' it'll be well. if you don't succeed, you'll die tryin', so it's sure your last trail." wetzel's deep, cold voice rang with truth. "lew, i can't run away an' leave you to fight those devils alone, after all these years we've been together, i can't." "no other chance to save the lass." jonathan quivered with the force of his emotion. his black eyes glittered; his hands grasped at nothing. once more he was between love and duty. again he fought over the old battle, but this time it left him weak. "you love the big-eyed lass, don't you?" asked wetzel, turning with softened face and voice. "i have gone mad!" cried jonathan, tortured by the simple question of his friend. those big, dear, wonderful eyes he loved so well, looked at him now from the gloom of the thicket. the old, beautiful, soft glow, the tender light, was there, and more, a beseeching prayer to save her. jonathan bowed his head, ashamed to let his friend see the tears that dimmed his eyes. "jack, we've follered the trail fer years together. always you've been true an' staunch. this is our last, but whatever bides we'll break up legget's band to-night, an' the border'll be cleared, mebbe, for always. at least his race is run. let thet content you. our time'd have to come, sooner or later, so why not now? i know how it is, that you want to stick by me; but the lass draws you to her. i understand, an' want you to save her. mebbe you never dreamed it; but i can tell jest how you feel. all the tremblin', an' softness, an' sweetness, an' delight you've got for thet girl, is no mystery to lew wetzel." "you loved a lass?" wetzel bowed his head, as perhaps he had never before in all his life. "betty--always," he answered softly. "my sister!" exclaimed jonathan, and then his hand closed hard on his comrade's, his mind going back to many things, strange in the past, but now explained. wetzel had revealed his secret. "an' it's been all my life, since she wasn't higher 'n my knee. there was a time when i might hev been closer to you than i am now. but i was a mad an' bloody injun hater, so i never let her know till i seen it was too late. wal, wal, no more of me. i only told it fer you." jonathan was silent. "an' now to come back where we left off," continued wetzel. "let's take a more hopeful look at this comin' fight. sure i said it was my last trail, but mebbe it's not. you can never tell. feelin' as we do, i imagine they've no odds on us. never in my life did i say to you, least of all to any one else, what i was goin' to do; but i'll tell it now. if i land uninjured amongst thet bunch, i'll kill them all." the giant borderman's low voice hissed, and stung. his eyes glittered with unearthly fire. his face was cold and gray. he spread out his brawny arms and clenched his huge fists, making the muscles of his broad shoulders roll and bulge. "i hate the thought, lew, i hate the thought. ain't there no other way?" "no other way." "i'll do it, lew, because i'd do the same for you; because i have to, because i love her; but god! it hurts." "thet's right," answered wetzel, his deep voice softening until it was singularly low and rich. "i'm glad you've come to it. an' sure it hurts. i want you to feel so at leavin' me to go it alone. if we both get out alive, i'll come many times to see you an' helen. if you live an' i don't, think of me sometimes, think of the trails we've crossed together. when the fall comes with its soft, cool air, an' smoky mornin's an' starry nights, when the wind's sad among the bare branches, an' the leaves drop down, remember they're fallin' on my grave." twilight darkened into gloom; the red tinge in the west changed to opal light; through the trees over a dark ridge a rim of silver glinted and moved. the moon had risen; the hour was come. the bordermen tightened their belts, replaced their leggings, tied their hunting coats, loosened their hatchets, looked to the priming of their rifles, and were ready. wetzel walked twenty paces and turned. his face was white in the moonlight; his dark eyes softened into a look of love as he gripped his comrade's outstretched hand. then he dropped flat on the ground, carefully saw to the position of his rifle, and began to creep. jonathan kept close at his heels. slowly but steadily they crawled, minute after minute. the hazel-nut bushes above them had not yet shed their leaves; the ground was clean and hard, and the course fatefully perfect for their deadly purpose. a slight rustling of their buckskin garments sounded like the rustling of leaves in a faint breeze. the moon came out above the trees and still wetzel advanced softly, steadily, surely. the owl, lonely sentinel of that wood, hooted dismally. even his night eyes, which made the darkness seem clear as day, missed those gliding figures. even he, sure guardian of the wilderness, failed the savages. jonathan felt soft moss beneath him; he was now in the woods under the trees. the thicket had been passed. wetzel's moccasin pressed softly against jonathan's head. the first signal! jonathan crawled forward, and slightly raised himself. he was on a rock. the trees were thick and gloomy. below, the little hollow was almost in the wan moonbeams. dark figures lay close together. two savages paced noiselessly to and fro. a slight form rolled in a blanket lay against a tree. jonathan felt his arm gently squeezed. the second signal! slowly he thrust forward his rifle, and raised it in unison with wetzel's. slowly he rose to his feet as if the same muscles guided them both. over his head a twig snapped. in the darkness he had not seen a low branch. the indian guards stopped suddenly, and became motionless as stone. they had heard; but too late. with the blended roar of the rifles both dropped, lifeless. almost under the spouting flame and white cloud of smoke, jonathan leaped behind wetzel, over the bank. his yells were mingled with wetzel's vengeful cry. like leaping shadows the bordermen were upon their foes. an indian sprang up, raised a weapon, and fell beneath jonathan's savage blow, to rise no more. over his prostrate body the borderman bounded. a dark, nimble form darted upon the captive. he swung high a blade that shone like silver in the moonlight. his shrill war-cry of death rang out with helen's scream of despair. even as he swung back her head with one hand in her long hair, his arm descended; but it fell upon the borderman's body. jonathan and the indian rolled upon the moss. there was a terrific struggle, a whirling blade, a dull blow which silenced the yell, and the borderman rose alone. he lifted helen as if she were a child, leaped the brook, and plunged into the thicket. the noise of the fearful conflict he left behind, swelled high and hideously on the night air. above the shrill cries of the indians, and the furious yells of legget, rose the mad, booming roar of wetzel. no rifle cracked; but sodden blows, the clash of steel, the threshing of struggling men, told of the dreadful strife. jonathan gained the woods, sped through the moonlit glades, and far on under light and shadow. the shrill cries ceased; only the hoarse yells and the mad roar could be heard. gradually these also died away, and the forest was still. chapter xxi next morning, when the mist was breaking and rolling away under the warm rays of the indian-summer sun, jonathan zane beached his canoe on the steep bank before fort henry. a pioneer, attracted by the borderman's halloo, ran to the bluff and sounded the alarm with shrill whoops. among the hurrying, brown-clad figures that answered this summons, was colonel zane. "it's jack, kurnel, an' he's got her!" cried one. the doughty colonel gained the bluff to see his brother climbing the bank with a white-faced girl in his arms. "well?" he asked, looking darkly at jonathan. nothing kindly or genial was visible in his manner now; rather grim and forbidding he seemed, thus showing he had the same blood in his veins as the borderman. "lend a hand," said jonathan. "as far as i know she's not hurt." they carried helen toward colonel zane's cabin. many women of the settlement saw them as they passed, and looked gravely at one another, but none spoke. this return of an abducted girl was by no means a strange event. "somebody run for sheppard," ordered colonel zane, as they entered his cabin. betty, who was in the sitting-room, sprang up and cried: "oh! eb! eb! don't say she's----" "no, no, betts, she's all right. where's my wife? ah! bess, here, get to work." the colonel left helen in the tender, skilful hands of his wife and sister, and followed jonathan into the kitchen. "i was just ready for breakfast when i heard some one yell," said he. "come, jack, eat something." they ate in silence. from the sitting-room came excited whispers, a joyous cry from betty, and a faint voice. then heavy, hurrying footsteps, followed by sheppard's words of thanks-giving. "where's wetzel?" began colonel zane. the borderman shook his head gloomily. "where did you leave him?" "we jumped legget's bunch last night, when the moon was about an hour high. i reckon about fifteen miles northeast. i got away with the lass." "ah! left lew fighting?" the borderman answered the question with bowed head. "you got off well. not a hurt that i can see, and more than lucky to save helen. well, jack, what do you think about lew?" "i'm goin' back," replied jonathan. "no! no!" the door opened to admit mrs. zane. she looked bright and cheerful, "hello, jack; glad you're home. helen's all right, only faint from hunger and over-exertion. i want something for her to eat--well! you men didn't leave much." colonel zane went into the sitting-room. sheppard sat beside the couch where helen lay, white and wan. betty and nell were looking on with their hearts in their eyes. silas zane was there, and his wife, with several women neighbors. "betty, go fetch jack in here," whispered the colonel in his sister's ear. "drag him, if you have to," he added fiercely. the young woman left the room, to reappear directly with her brother. he came in reluctantly. as the stern-faced borderman crossed the threshold a smile, beautiful to see, dawned in helen's eyes. "i'm glad to see you're comin' round," said jonathan, but he spoke dully as if his mind was on other things. "she's a little flighty; but a night's sleep will cure that," cried mrs. zane from the kitchen. "what do you think?" interrupted the colonel. "jack's not satisfied to get back with helen unharmed, and a whole skin himself; but he's going on the trail again." "no, jack, no, no!" cried betty. "what's that i hear?" asked mrs. zane as she came in. "jack's going out again? well, all i want to say is that he's as mad as a march hare." "jonathan, look here," said silas seriously. "can't you stay home now?" "jack, listen," whispered betty, going close to him. "not one of us ever expected to see either you or helen again, and oh! we are so happy. do not go away again. you are a man; you do not know, you cannot understand all a woman feels. she must sit and wait, and hope, and pray for the safe return of husband or brother or sweetheart. the long days! oh, the long sleepless nights, with the wail of the wind in the pines, and the rain on the roof! it is maddening. do not leave us! do not leave me! do not leave helen! say you will not, jack." to these entreaties the borderman remained silent. he stood leaning on his rifle, a tall, dark, strangely sad and stern man. "helen, beg him to stay!" implored betty. colonel zane took helen's hand, and stroked it. "yes," he said, "you ask him, lass. i'm sure you can persuade him to stay." helen raised her head. "is brandt dead?" she whispered faintly. still the borderman failed to speak, but his silence was not an affirmative. "you said you loved me," she cried wildly. "you said you loved me, yet you didn't kill that monster!" the borderman, moving quickly like a startled indian, went out of the door. * * * * * once more jonathan zane entered the gloomy, quiet aisles of the forest with his soft, tireless tread hardly stirring the leaves. it was late in the afternoon when he had long left two islands behind, and arrived at the scene of mordaunt's death. satisfied with the distance he had traversed, he crawled into a thicket to rest. daybreak found him again on the trail. he made a short cut over the ridges and by the time the mist had lifted from the valley he was within stalking distance of the glade. he approached this in the familiar, slow, cautious manner, and halted behind the big rock from which he and wetzel had leaped. the wood was solemnly quiet. no twittering of birds could be heard. the only sign of life was a gaunt timber-wolf slinking away amid the foliage. under the big tree the savage who had been killed as he would have murdered helen, lay a crumpled mass where he had fallen. two dead indians were in the center of the glade, and on the other side were three more bloody, lifeless forms. wetzel was not there, nor legget, nor brandt. "i reckoned so," muttered jonathan as he studied the scene. the grass had been trampled, the trees barked, the bushes crushed aside. jonathan went out of the glade a short distance, and, circling it, began to look for wetzel's trail. he found it, and near the light footprints of his comrade were the great, broad moccasin tracks of the outlaw. further searching disclosed the fact that brandt must have traveled in line with the others. with the certainty that wetzel had killed three of the indians, and, in some wonderful manner characteristic of him, routed the outlaws of whom he was now in pursuit, jonathan's smoldering emotion burst forth into full flame. love for his old comrade, deadly hatred of the outlaws, and passionate thirst for their blood, rioted in his heart. like a lynx scenting its quarry, the borderman started on the trail, tireless and unswervable. the traces left by the fleeing outlaws and their pursuer were plain to jonathan. it was not necessary for him to stop. legget and brandt, seeking to escape the implacable nemesis, were traveling with all possible speed, regardless of the broad trail such hurried movements left behind. they knew full well it would be difficult to throw this wolf off the scent; understood that if any attempt was made to ambush the trail, they must cope with woodcraft keener than an indian's. flying in desperation, they hoped to reach the rocky retreat, where, like foxes in their burrows, they believed themselves safe. when the sun sloped low toward the western horizon, lengthening jonathan's shadow, he slackened pace. he was entering the rocky, rugged country which marked the approach to the distant alleghenies. from the top of a ridge he took his bearings, deciding that he was within a few miles of legget's hiding-place. at the foot of this ridge, where a murmuring brook sped softly over its bed, he halted. here a number of horses had forded the brook. they were iron-shod, which indicated almost to a certainty, that they were stolen horses, and in the hands of indians. jonathan saw where the trail of the steeds was merged into that of the outlaws. he suspected that the indians and legget had held a short council. as he advanced the borderman found only the faintest impression of wetzel's trail. legget and brandt no longer left any token of their course. they were riding the horses. all the borderman cared to know was if wetzel still pursued. he passed on swiftly up a hill, through a wood of birches where the trail showed on a line of broken ferns, then out upon a low ridge where patches of grass grew sparsely. here he saw in this last ground no indication of his comrade's trail; nothing was to be seen save the imprints of the horses' hoofs. jonathan halted behind the nearest underbrush. this sudden move on the part of wetzel was token that, suspecting an ambush, he had made a detour somewhere, probably in the grove of birches. all the while his eyes searched the long, barren reach ahead. no thicket, fallen tree, or splintered rocks, such as indians utilized for an ambush, could be seen. indians always sought the densely matted underbrush, a windfall, or rocky retreat and there awaited a pursuer. it was one of the borderman's tricks of woodcraft that he could recognize such places. far beyond the sandy ridge jonathan came to a sloping, wooded hillside, upon which were scattered big rocks, some mossy and lichen-covered, and one, a giant boulder, with a crown of ferns and laurel gracing its flat surface. it was such a place as the savages would select for ambush. he knew, however, that if an indian had hidden himself there wetzel would have discovered him. when opposite the rock jonathan saw a broken fern hanging over the edge. the heavy trail of the horses ran close beside it. then with that thoroughness of search which made the borderman what he was, jonathan leaped upon the rock. there, lying in the midst of the ferns, lay an indian with sullen, somber face set in the repose of death. in his side was a small bullet hole. jonathan examined the savage's rifle. it had been discharged. the rock, the broken fern, the dead indian, the discharged rifle, told the story of that woodland tragedy. wetzel had discovered the ambush. leaving the trail, he had tricked the redskin into firing, then getting a glimpse of the indian's red body through the sights of his fatal weapon, the deed was done. with greater caution jonathan advanced once more. not far beyond the rock he found wetzel's trail. the afternoon was drawing to a close. he could not travel much farther, yet he kept on, hoping to overtake his comrade before darkness set in. from time to time he whistled; but got no answering signal. when the tracks of the horses were nearly hidden by the gathering dusk, jonathan decided to halt for the night. he whistled one more note, louder and clearer, and awaited the result with strained ears. the deep silence of the wilderness prevailed, suddenly to be broken by a faint, far-away, melancholy call of the hermit-thrush. it was the answering signal the borderman had hoped to hear. not many moments elapsed before he heard another call, low, and near at hand, to which he replied. the bushes parted noiselessly on his left, and the tall form of wetzel appeared silently out of the gloom. the two gripped hands in silence. "hev you any meat?" wetzel asked, and as jonathan handed him his knapsack, he continued, "i was kinder lookin' fer you. did you get out all right with the lass?" "nary a scratch." the giant borderman grunted his satisfaction. "how'd legget and brandt get away?" asked jonathan. "cut an' run like scared bucks. never got a hand on either of 'em." "how many redskins did they meet back here a spell?" "they was seven; but now there are only six, an' all snug in legget's place by this time." "i reckon we're near his den." "we're not far off." night soon closing down upon the bordermen found them wrapped in slumber, as if no deadly foes were near at hand. the soft night wind sighed dismally among the bare trees. a few bright stars twinkled overhead. in the darkness of the forest the bordermen were at home. chapter xxii in legget's rude log cabin a fire burned low, lightening the forms of the two border outlaws, and showing in the background the dark forms of indians sitting motionless on the floor. their dusky eyes emitted a baleful glint, seemingly a reflection of their savage souls caught by the firelight. legget wore a look of ferocity and sullen fear strangely blended. brandt's face was hard and haggard, his lips set, his gray eyes smoldering. "safe?" he hissed. "safe you say? you'll see that it's the same now as on the other night, when those border-tigers jumped us and we ran like cowards. i'd have fought it out here, but for you." "thet man wetzel is ravin' mad, i tell you," growled legget. "i reckon i've stood my ground enough to know i ain't no coward. but this fellar's crazy. he hed the injuns slashin' each other like a pack of wolves round a buck." "he's no more mad than you or i," declared brandt. "i know all about him. his moaning in the woods, and wild yells are only tricks. he knows the indian nature, and he makes their very superstition and religion aid him in his fighting. i told you what he'd do. didn't i beg you to kill zane when we had a chance? wetzel would never have taken our trail alone. now they've beat me out of the girl, and as sure as death will round us up here." "you don't believe they'll rush us here?" asked legget. "they're too keen to take foolish chances, but something will be done we don't expect. zane was a prisoner here; he had a good look at this place, and you can gamble he'll remember." "zane must hev gone back to fort henry with the girl." "mark what i say, he'll come back!" "wal, we kin hold this place against all the men eb zane may put out." "he won't send a man," snapped brandt passionately. "remember this, legget, we're not to fight against soldiers, settlers, or hunters; but bordermen--understand--bordermen! such as have been developed right here on this bloody frontier, and nowhere else on earth. they haven't fear in them. both are fleet as deer in the woods. they can't be seen or trailed. they can snuff a candle with a rifle ball in the dark. i've seen zane do it three times at a hundred yards. and wetzel! he wouldn't waste powder on practicing. they can't be ambushed, or shaken off a track; they take the scent like buzzards, and have eyes like eagles." "we kin slip out of here under cover of night," suggested legget. "well, what then? that's all they want. they'd be on us again by sunset. no! we've got to stand our ground and fight. we'll stay as long as we can; but they'll rout us out somehow, be sure of that. and if one of us pokes his nose out to the daylight, it will be shot off." "you're sore, an' you've lost your nerve," said legget harshly. "sore at me 'cause i got sweet on the girl. ho! ho!" brandt shot a glance at legget which boded no good. his strong hands clenched in an action betraying the reckless rage in his heart. then he carefully removed his hunting coat, and examined his wound. he retied the bandage, muttering gloomily, "i'm so weak as to be light-headed. if this cut opens again, it's all day for me." after that the inmates of the hut were quiet. the huge outlaw bowed his shaggy head for a while, and then threw himself on a pile of hemlock boughs. brandt was not long in seeking rest. soon both were fast asleep. two of the savages passed out with cat-like step, leaving the door open. the fire had burned low, leaving a bed of dead coals. outside in the dark a waterfall splashed softly. the darkest hour came, and passed, and paled slowly to gray. birds began to twitter. through the door of the cabin the light of day streamed in. the two indian sentinels were building a fire on the stone hearth. one by one the other savages got up, stretched and yawned, and began the business of the day by cooking their breakfast. it was, apparently, every one for himself. legget arose, shook himself like a shaggy dog, and was starting for the door when one of the sentinels stopped him. brandt, who was now awake, saw the action, and smiled. in a few moments indians and outlaws were eating for breakfast roasted strips of venison, with corn meal baked brown, which served as bread. it was a somber, silent group. presently the shrill neigh of a horse startled them. following it, the whip-like crack of a rifle stung and split the morning air. hard on this came an indian's long, wailing death-cry. "hah!" exclaimed brandt. legget remained immovable. one of the savages peered out through a little port-hole at the rear of the hut. the others continued their meal. "whistler'll come in presently to tell us who's doin' thet shootin'," said legget. "he's a keen injun." "he's not very keen now," replied brandt, with bitter certainty. "he's what the settlers call a good indian, which is to say, dead!" legget scowled at his lieutenant. "i'll go an' see," he replied and seized his rifle. he opened the door, when another rifle-shot rang out. a bullet whistled in the air, grazing the outlaw's shoulder, and imbedded itself in the heavy door-frame. legget leaped back with a curse. "close shave!" said brandt coolly. "that bullet came, probably, straight down from the top of the cliff. jack zane's there. wetzel is lower down watching the outlet. we're trapped." "trapped," shouted legget with an angry leer. "we kin live here longer'n the bordermen kin. we've meat on hand, an' a good spring in the back of the hut. how'er we trapped?" "we won't live twenty-four hours," declared brandt. "why?" "because we'll be routed out. they'll find some way to do it, and we'll never have another chance to fight in the open, as we had the other night when they came after the girl. from now on there'll be no sleep, no time to eat, the nameless fear of an unseen foe who can't be shaken off, marching by night, hiding and starving by day, until----! i'd rather be back in fort henry at colonel zane's mercy." legget turned a ghastly face toward brandt. "look a here. you're takin' a lot of glee in sayin' these things. i believe you've lost your nerve, or the lettin' out of a little blood hes made you wobbly. we've injuns here, an' ought to be a match fer two men." brandt gazed at him with a derisive smile. "we kin go out an' fight these fellars," continued legget. "we might try their own game, hidin' an' crawlin' through the woods." "we two would have to go it alone. if you still had your trusty, trained band of experienced indians, i'd say that would be just the thing. but ashbow and the chippewa are dead; so are the others. this bunch of redskins here may do to steal a few horses; but they don't amount to much against zane and wetzel. besides, they'll cut and run presently, for they're scared and suspicious. look at the chief; ask him." the savage brandt indicated was a big indian just coming into manhood. his swarthy face still retained some of the frankness and simplicity of youth. "chief," said legget in the indian tongue. "the great paleface hunter, deathwind, lies hid in the woods." "last night the shawnee heard the wind of death mourn through the trees," replied the chief gloomily. "see! what did i say?" cried brandt. "the superstitious fool! he would begin his death-chant almost without a fight. we can't count on the redskins. what's to be done?" the outlaw threw himself upon the bed of boughs, and legget sat down with his rifle across his knees. the indians maintained the same stoical composure. the moments dragged by into hours. "ugh!" suddenly exclaimed the indian at the end of the hut. legget ran to him, and acting upon a motion of the indian's hand, looked out through the little port-hole. the sun was high. he saw four of the horses grazing by the brook; then gazed scrutinizingly from the steep waterfall, along the green-stained cliff to the dark narrow cleft in the rocks. here was the only outlet from the inclosure. he failed to discover anything unusual. the indian grunted again, and pointed upward. "smoke! there's smoke risin' above the trees," cried legget. "brandt, come here. what's thet mean?" brandt hurried, looked out. his face paled, his lower jaw protruded, quivered, and then was shut hard. he walked away, put his foot on a bench and began to lace his leggings. "wal?" demanded legget. "the game's up! get ready to run and be shot at," cried brandt with a hiss of passion. almost as he spoke the roof of the hut shook under a heavy blow. "what's thet?" no one replied. legget glanced from brandt's cold, determined face to the uneasy savages. they were restless, and handling their weapons. the chief strode across the floor with stealthy steps. "thud!" a repetition of the first blow caused the indians to jump, and drew a fierce imprecation from their outlaw leader. brandt eyed him narrowly. "it's coming to you, legget. they are shooting arrows of fire into the roof from the cliff. zane is doin' that. he can make a bow and draw one, too. we're to be burned out. now, damn you! take your medicine! i wanted you to kill him when you had the chance. if you had done so we'd never have come to this. burned out, do you get that? burned out!" "fire!" exclaimed legget. he sat down as if the strength had left his legs. the indians circled around the room like caged tigers. "ugh!" the chief suddenly reached up and touched the birch-bark roof of the hut. his action brought the attention of all to a faint crackling of burning wood. "it's caught all right," cried brandt in a voice which cut the air like a blow from a knife. "i'll not be smoked like a ham, fer all these tricky bordermen," roared legget. drawing his knife he hacked at the heavy buckskin hinges of the rude door. when it dropped free he measured it against the open space. sheathing the blade, he grasped his rifle in his right hand and swung the door on his left arm. heavy though it was he carried it easily. the roughly hewn planks afforded a capital shield for all except the lower portion of his legs and feet. he went out of the hut with the screen of wood between himself and the cliff, calling for the indians to follow. they gathered behind him, breathing hard, clutching their weapons, and seemingly almost crazed by excitement. brandt, with no thought of joining this foolhardy attempt to escape from the inclosure, ran to the little port-hole that he might see the outcome. legget and his five redskins were running toward the narrow outlet in the gorge. the awkward and futile efforts of the indians to remain behind the shield were almost pitiful. they crowded each other for favorable positions, but, struggle as they might, one or two were always exposed to the cliff. suddenly one, pushed to the rear, stopped simultaneously with the crack of a rifle, threw up his arms and fell. another report, differing from the first, rang out. a savage staggered from behind the speeding group with his hand at his side. then he dropped into the brook. evidently legget grasped this as a golden opportunity, for he threw aside the heavy shield and sprang forward, closely followed by his red-skinned allies. immediately they came near the cliff, where the trail ran into the gorge, a violent shaking of the dry ferns overhead made manifest the activity of some heavy body. next instant a huge yellow figure, not unlike a leaping catamount, plunged down with a roar so terrible as to sound inhuman. legget, indians, and newcomer rolled along the declivity toward the brook in an indistinguishable mass. two of the savages shook themselves free, and bounded to their feet nimbly as cats, but legget and the other redskin became engaged in a terrific combat. it was a wrestling whirl, so fierce and rapid as to render blows ineffectual. the leaves scattered as if in a whirlwind. legget's fury must have been awful, to judge from his hoarse screams; the indians' fear maddening, as could be told by their shrieks. the two savages ran wildly about the combatants, one trying to level a rifle, the other to get in a blow with a tomahawk. but the movements of the trio, locked in deadly embrace, were too swift. above all the noise of the contest rose that strange, thrilling roar. "wetzel!" muttered brandt, with a chill, creeping shudder as he gazed upon the strife with fascinated eyes. "bang!" again from the cliff came that heavy bellow. the savage with the rifle shrunk back as if stung, and without a cry fell limply in a heap. his companion, uttering a frightened cry, fled from the glen. the struggle seemed too deadly, too terrible, to last long. the indian and the outlaw were at a disadvantage. they could not strike freely. the whirling conflict grew more fearful. during one second the huge, brown, bearish figure of legget appeared on top; then the dark-bodied, half-naked savage, spotted like a hyena, and finally the lithe, powerful, tiger-shape of the borderman. finally legget wrenched himself free at the same instant that the bloody-stained indian rolled, writhing in convulsions, away from wetzel. the outlaw dashed with desperate speed up the trail, and disappeared in the gorge. the borderman sped toward the cliff, leaped on a projecting ledge, grasped an overhanging branch, and pulled himself up. he was out of sight almost as quickly as legget. "after his rifle," brandt muttered, and then realized that he had watched the encounter without any idea of aiding his comrade. he consoled himself with the knowledge that such an attempt would have been useless. from the moment the borderman sprang upon legget, until he scaled the cliff, his movements had been incredibly swift. it would have been hardly possible to cover him with a rifle, and the outlaw grimly understood that he needed to be careful of that charge in his weapon. "by heavens, wetzel's a wonder!" cried brandt in unwilling admiration. "now he'll go after legget and the redskin, while zane stays here to get me. well, he'll succeed, most likely, but i'll never quit. what's this?" he felt something slippery and warm on his hand. it was blood running from the inside of his sleeve. a slight pain made itself felt in his side. upon examination he found, to his dismay, that his wound had reopened. with a desperate curse he pulled a linsey jacket off a peg, tore it into strips, and bound up the injury as tightly as possible. then he grasped his rifle, and watched the cliff and the gorge with flaring eyes. suddenly he found it difficult to breathe; his throat was parched, his eyes smarted. then the odor of wood-smoke brought him to a realization that the cabin was burning. it was only now he understood that the room was full of blue clouds. he sank into the corner, a wolf at bay. not many moments passed before the outlaw understood that he could not withstand the increasing heat and stifling vapor of the room. pieces of burning birch dropped from the roof. the crackling above grew into a steady roar. "i've got to run for it," he gasped. death awaited him outside the door, but that was more acceptable than death by fire. yet to face the final moment when he desired with all his soul to live, required almost super-human courage. sweating, panting, he glared around. "god! is there no other way?" he cried in agony. at this moment he saw an ax on the floor. seizing it he attacked the wall of the cabin. beyond this partition was a hut which had been used for a stable. half a dozen strokes of the ax opened a hole large enough for him to pass through. with his rifle, and a piece of venison which hung near, he literally fell through the hole, where he lay choking, almost fainting. after a time he crawled across the floor to a door. outside was a dense laurel thicket, into which he crawled. the crackling and roaring of the fire grew louder. he could see the column of yellow and black smoke. once fairly under way, the flames rapidly consumed the pitch-pine logs. in an hour legget's cabins were a heap of ashes. the afternoon waned. brandt lay watchful, slowly recovering his strength. he felt secure under this cover, and only prayed for night to come. as the shadows began to creep down the sides of the cliffs, he indulged in hope. if he could slip out in the dark he had a good chance to elude the borderman. in the passionate desire to escape, he had forgotten his fatalistic words to legget. he reasoned that he could not be trailed until daylight; that a long night's march would put him far in the lead, and there was just a possibility of zane's having gone away with wetzel. when darkness had set in he slipped out of the covert and began his journey for life. within a few yards he reached the brook. he had only to follow its course in order to find the outlet to the glen. moreover, its rush and gurgle over the stones would drown any slight noise he might make. slowly, patiently he crawled, stopping every moment to listen. what a long time he was in coming to the mossy stones over which the brook dashed through the gorge! but he reached them at last. here if anywhere zane would wait for him. with teeth clenched desperately, and an inward tightening of his chest, for at any moment he expected to see the red flame of a rifle, he slipped cautiously over the mossy stones. finally his hands touched the dewy grass, and a breath of cool wind fanned his hot cheek. he had succeeded in reaching the open. crawling some rods farther on, he lay still a while and listened. the solemn wilderness calm was unbroken. rising, he peered about. behind loomed the black hill with its narrow cleft just discernible. facing the north star, he went silently out into the darkness. chapter xxiii at daylight jonathan zane rolled from his snug bed of leaves under the side of a log, and with the flint, steel and punk he always carried, began building a fire. his actions were far from being hurried. they were deliberate, and seemed strange on the part of a man whose stern face suggested some dark business to be done. when his little fire had been made, he warmed some slices of venison which had already been cooked, and thus satisfied his hunger. carefully extinguishing the fire and looking to the priming of his rifle, he was ready for the trail. he stood near the edge of the cliff from which he could command a view of the glen. the black, smoldering ruins of the burned cabins defaced a picturesque scene. "brandt must have lit out last night, for i could have seen even a rabbit hidin' in that laurel patch. he's gone, an' it's what i wanted," thought the borderman. he made his way slowly around the edge of the inclosure and clambered down on the splintered cliff at the end of the gorge. a wide, well-trodden trail extended into the forest below. jonathan gave scarcely a glance to the beaten path before him; but bent keen eyes to the north, and carefully scrutinized the mossy stones along the brook. upon a little sand bar running out from the bank he found the light imprint of a hand. "it was a black night. he'd have to travel by the stars, an' north's the only safe direction for him," muttered the borderman. on the bank above he found oblong indentations in the grass, barely perceptible, but owing to the peculiar position of the blades of grass, easy for him to follow. "he'd better have learned to walk light as an injun before he took to outlawin'," said the borderman in disdain. then he returned to the gorge and entered the inclosure. at the foot of the little rise of ground where wetzel had leaped upon his quarry, was one of the dead indians. another lay partly submerged in the brown water. jonathan carried the weapons of the savages to a dry place under a projecting ledge in the cliff. passing on down the glen, he stopped a moment where the cabins had stood. not a log remained. the horses, with the exception of two, were tethered in the copse of laurel. he recognized colonel zane's thoroughbred, and betty's pony. he cut them loose, positive they would not stray from the glen, and might easily be secured at another time. he set out upon the trail of brandt with a long, swinging stride. to him the outcome of that pursuit was but a question of time. the consciousness of superior endurance, speed, and craft, spoke in his every movement. the consciousness of being in right, a factor so powerfully potent for victory, spoke in the intrepid front with which he faced the north. it was a gloomy november day. gray, steely clouds drifted overhead. the wind wailed through the bare trees, sending dead leaves scurrying and rustling over the brown earth. the borderman advanced with a step that covered glade and glen, forest and field, with astonishing swiftness. long since he had seen that brandt was holding to the lowland. this did not strike him as singular until for the third time he found the trail lead a short distance up the side of a ridge, then descend, seeking a level. with this discovery came the certainty that brandt's pace was lessening. he had set out with a hunter's stride, but it had begun to shorten. the outlaw had shirked the hills, and shifted from his northern course. why? the man was weakening; he could not climb; he was favoring a wound. what seemed more serious for the outlaw, was the fact that he had left a good trail, and entered the low, wild land north of the ohio. even the indians seldom penetrated this tangled belt of laurel and thorn. owing to the dry season the swamps were shallow, which was another factor against brandt. no doubt he had hoped to hide his trail by wading, and here it showed up like the track of a bison. jonathan kept steadily on, knowing the farther brandt penetrated into this wilderness the worse off he would be. the outlaw dared not take to the river until below fort henry, which was distant many a weary mile. the trail grew more ragged as the afternoon wore away. when twilight rendered further tracking impossible, the borderman built a fire in a sheltered place, ate his supper, and went to sleep. in the dim, gray morning light he awoke, fancying he had been startled by a distant rifle shot. he roasted his strips of venison carefully, and ate with a hungry hunter's appreciation, yet sparingly, as befitted a borderman who knew how to keep up his strength upon a long trail. hardly had he traveled a mile when brandt's footprints covered another's. nothing surprised the borderman; but he had expected this least of all. a hasty examination convinced him that legget and his indian ally had fled this way with wetzel in pursuit. the morning passed slowly. the borderman kept to the trail like a hound. the afternoon wore on. over sandy reaches thick with willows, and through long, matted, dried-out cranberry marshes and copses of prickly thorn, the borderman hung to his purpose. his legs seemed never to lose their spring, but his chest began to heave, his head bent, and his face shone with sweat. at dusk he tired. crawling into a dry thicket, he ate his scanty meal and fell asleep. when he awoke it was gray daylight. he was wet and chilled. again he kindled a fire, and sat over it while cooking breakfast. suddenly he was brought to his feet by the sound of a rifle shot; then two others followed in rapid succession. though they were faint, and far away to the west, jonathan recognized the first, which could have come only from wetzel's weapon, and he felt reasonably certain of the third, which was brandt's. there might have been, he reflected grimly, a good reason for legget's not shooting. however, he knew that wetzel had rounded up the fugitives, and again he set out. it was another dismal day, such a one as would be fitting for a dark deed of border justice. a cold, drizzly rain blew from the northwest. jonathan wrapped a piece of oil-skin around his rifle-breech, and faced the downfall. soon he was wet to the skin. he kept on, but his free stride had shortened. even upon his iron muscles this soggy, sticky ground had begun to tell. the morning passed but the storm did not; the air grew colder and darker. the short afternoon would afford him little time, especially as the rain and running rills of water were obliterating the trail. in the midst of a dense forest of great cottonwoods and sycamores he came upon a little pond, hidden among the bushes, and shrouded in a windy, wet gloom. jonathan recognized the place. he had been there in winter hunting bears when all the swampland was locked by ice. the borderman searched along the banks for a time, then went back to the trail, patiently following it. around the pond it led to the side of a great, shelving rock. he saw an indian leaning against this, and was about to throw forward his rifle when the strange, fixed, position of the savage told of the tragedy. a wound extended from his shoulder to his waist. near by on the ground lay legget. he, too, was dead. his gigantic frame weltered in blood. his big feet were wide apart; his arms spread, and from the middle of his chest protruded the haft of a knife. the level space surrounding the bodies showed evidence of a desperate struggle. a bush had been rolled upon and crushed by heavy bodies. on the ground was blood as on the stones and leaves. the blade legget still clutched was red, and the wrist of the hand which held it showed a dark, discolored band, where it had felt the relentless grasp of wetzel's steel grip. the dead man's buckskin coat was cut into ribbons. on his broad face a demoniacal expression had set in eternal rigidity; the animal terror of death was frozen in his wide staring eyes. the outlaw chief had died as he had lived, desperately. jonathan found wetzel's trail leading directly toward the river, and soon understood that the borderman was on the track of brandt. the borderman had surprised the worn, starved, sleepy fugitives in the gray, misty dawn. the indian, doubtless, was the sentinel, and had fallen asleep at his post never to awaken. legget and brandt must have discharged their weapons ineffectually. zane could not understand why his comrade had missed brandt at a few rods' distance. perhaps he had wounded the younger outlaw; but certainly he had escaped while wetzel had closed in on legget to meet the hardest battle of his career. while going over his version of the attack, jonathan followed brandt's trail, as had wetzel, to where it ended in the river. the old borderman had continued on down stream along the sandy shore. the outlaw remained in the water to hide his trail. at one point wetzel turned north. this move puzzled jonathan, as did also the peculiar tracks. it was more perplexing because not far below zane discovered where the fugitive had left the water to get around a ledge of rock. the trail was approaching fort henry. jonathan kept on down the river until arriving at the head of the island which lay opposite the settlement. still no traces of wetzel! here zane lost brandt's trail completely. he waded the first channel, which was shallow and narrow, and hurried across the island. walking out upon a sand-bar he signaled with his well-known indian cry. almost immediately came an answering shout. while waiting he glanced at the sand, and there, pointing straight toward the fort, he found brandt's straggling trail! chapter xxiv colonel zane paced to and fro on the porch. his genial smile had not returned; he was grave and somber. information had just reached him that jonathan had hailed from the island, and that one of the settlers had started across the river in a boat. betty came out accompanied by mrs. zane. "what's this i hear?" asked betty, flashing an anxious glance toward the river. "has jack really come in?" "yes," replied the colonel, pointing to a throng of men on the river bank. "now there'll be trouble," said mrs. zane nervously. "i wish with all my heart brandt had not thrown himself, as he called it, on your mercy." "so do i," declared colonel zane. "what will be done?" she asked. "there! that's jack! silas has hold of his arm." "he's lame. he has been hurt," replied her husband. a little procession of men and boys followed the borderman from the river, and from the cabins appeared the settlers and their wives. but there was no excitement except among the children. the crowd filed into the colonel's yard behind jonathan and silas. colonel zane silently greeted his brother with an iron grip of the hand which was more expressive than words. no unusual sight was it to see the borderman wet, ragged, bloody, worn with long marches, hollow-eyed and gloomy; yet he had never before presented such an appearance at fort henry. betty ran forward, and, though she clasped his arm, shrank back. there was that in the borderman's presence to cause fear. "wetzel?" jonathan cried sharply. the colonel raised both hands, palms open, and returned his brother's keen glance. then he spoke. "lew hasn't come in. he chased brandt across the river. that's all i know." "brandt's here, then?" hissed the borderman. the colonel nodded gloomily. "where?" "in the long room over the fort. i locked him in there." "why did he come here?" colonel zane shrugged his shoulders. "it's beyond me. he said he'd rather place himself in my hands than be run down by wetzel or you. he didn't crawl; i'll say that for him. he just said, 'i'm your prisoner.' he's in pretty bad shape; barked over the temple, lame in one foot, cut under the arm, starved and worn out." "take me to him," said the borderman, and he threw his rifle on a bench. "very well. come along," replied the colonel. he frowned at those following them. "here, you women, clear out!" but they did not obey him. it was a sober-faced group that marched in through the big stockade gate, under the huge, bulging front of the fort, and up the rough stairway. colonel zane removed a heavy bar from before a door, and thrust it open with his foot. the long guardroom brilliantly lighted by sunshine coming through the portholes, was empty save for a ragged man lying on a bench. the noise aroused him; he sat up, and then slowly labored to his feet. it was the same flaring, wild-eyed brandt, only fiercer and more haggard. he wore a bloody bandage round his head. when he saw the borderman he backed, with involuntary, instinctive action, against the wall, yet showed no fear. in the dark glance jonathan shot at brandt shone a pitiless implacability; no scorn, nor hate, nor passion, but something which, had it not been so terrible, might have been justice. "i think wetzel was hurt in the fight with legget," said jonathan deliberately, "an' ask if you know?" "i believe he was," replied brandt readily. "i was asleep when he jumped us, and was awakened by the indian's yell. wetzel must have taken a snap shot at me as i was getting up, which accounts, probably, for my being alive. i fell, but did not lose consciousness. i heard wetzel and legget fighting, and at last struggled to my feet. although dizzy and bewildered, i could see to shoot; but missed. for a long time, it seemed to me, i watched that terrible fight, and then ran, finally reaching the river, where i recovered somewhat." "did you see wetzel again?" "once, about a quarter of a mile behind me. he was staggering along on my trail." at this juncture there was a commotion among the settlers crowding behind colonel zane and jonathan, and helen sheppard appeared, white, with her big eyes strangely dilated. "oh!" she cried breathlessly, clasping both hands around jonathan's arm. "i'm not too late? you're not going to----" "helen, this is no place for you," said colonel zane sternly. "this is business for men. you must not interfere." helen gazed at him, at brandt, and then up at the borderman. she did not loose his arm. "outside some one told me you intended to shoot him. is it true?" colonel zane evaded the searching gaze of those strained, brilliant eyes. nor did he answer. as helen stepped slowly back a hush fell upon the crowd. the whispering, the nervous coughing, and shuffling of feet, ceased. in those around her helen saw the spirit of the border. colonel zane and silas wore the same look, cold, hard, almost brutal. the women were strangely grave. nellie douns' sweet face seemed changed; there was pity, even suffering on it, but no relenting. even betty's face, always so warm, piquant, and wholesome, had taken on a shade of doubt, of gloom, of something almost sullen, which blighted its dark beauty. what hurt helen most cruelly was the borderman's glittering eyes. she fought against a shuddering weakness which threatened to overcome her. "whose prisoner is brandt?" she asked of colonel zane. "he gave himself up to me, naturally, as i am in authority here," replied the colonel. "but that signifies little. i can do no less than abide by jonathan's decree, which, after all, is the decree of the border." "and that is?" "death to outlaws and renegades." "but cannot you spare him?" implored helen. "i know he is a bad man; but he might become a better one. it seems like murder to me. to kill him in cold blood, wounded, suffering as he is, when he claimed your mercy. oh! it is dreadful!" the usually kind-hearted colonel, soft as wax in the hands of a girl, was now colder and harder than flint. "it is useless," he replied curtly. "i am sorry for you. we all understand your feelings, that yours are not the principles of the border. if you had lived long here you could appreciate what these outlaws and renegades have done to us. this man is a hardened criminal; he is a thief, a murderer." "he did not kill mordaunt," replied helen quickly. "i saw him draw first and attack brandt." "no matter. come, helen, cease. no more of this," colonel zane cried with impatience. "but i will not!" exclaimed helen, with ringing voice and flashing eye. she turned to her girl friends and besought them to intercede for the outlaw. but nell only looked sorrowfully on, while betty met her appealing glance with a fire in her eyes that was no dim reflection of her brother's. "then i must make my appeal to you," said helen, facing the borderman. there could be no mistaking how she regarded him. respect, honor and love breathed from every line of her beautiful face. "why do you want him to go free?" demanded jonathan. "you told me to kill him." "oh, i know. but i was not in my right mind. listen to me, please. he must have been very different once; perhaps had sisters. for their sake give him another chance. i know he has a better nature. i feared him, hated him, scorned him, as if he were a snake, yet he saved me from that monster legget!" "for himself!" "well, yes, i can't deny that. but he could have ruined me, wrecked me, yet he did not. at least, he meant marriage by me. he said if i would marry him he would flee over the border and be an honest man." "have you no other reason?" "yes." helen's bosom swelled and a glory shone in her splendid eyes. "the other reason is, my own happiness!" plain to all, if not through her words, from the light in her eyes, that she could not love a man who was a party to what she considered injustice. the borderman's white face became flaming red. it was difficult to refuse this glorious girl any sacrifice she demanded for the sake of the love so openly avowed. sweetly and pityingly she turned to brandt: "will not you help me?" "lass, if it were for me you were asking my life i'd swear it yours for always, and i'd be a man," he replied with bitterness; "but not to save my soul would i ask anything of him." the giant passions, hate and jealousy, flamed in his gray eyes. "if i persuade them to release you, will you go away, leave this country, and never come back?" "i'll promise that, lass, and honestly," he replied. she wheeled toward jonathan, and now the rosy color chased the pallor from her cheeks. "jack, do you remember when we parted at my home; when you left on this terrible trail, now ended, thank god! do you remember what an ordeal that was for me? must i go through it again?" bewitchingly sweet she was then, with the girlish charm of coquetry almost lost in the deeper, stranger power of the woman. the borderman drew his breath sharply; then he wrapped his long arms closely round her. she, understanding that victory was hers, sank weeping upon his breast. for a moment he bowed his face over her, and when he lifted it the dark and terrible gloom had gone. "eb, let him go, an' at once," ordered jonathan. "give him a rifle, some meat, an' a canoe, for he can't travel, an' turn him loose. only be quick about it, because if wetzel comes in, god himself couldn't save the outlaw." it was an indescribable glance that brandt cast upon the tearful face of the girl who had saved his life. but without a word he followed colonel zane from the room. the crowd slowly filed down the steps. betty and nell lingered behind, their eyes beaming through happy tears. jonathan, long so cold, showed evidence of becoming as quick and passionate a lover as he had been a borderman. at least, helen had to release herself from his embrace, and it was a blushing, tear-stained face she turned to her friends. when they reached the stockade gate colonel zane was hurrying toward the river with a bag in one hand, and a rifle and a paddle in the other. brandt limped along after him, the two disappearing over the river bank. betty, nell, and the lovers went to the edge of the bluff. they saw colonel zane choose a canoe from among a number on the beach. he launched it, deposited the bag in the bottom, handed the rifle and paddle to brandt, and wheeled about. the outlaw stepped aboard, and, pushing off slowly, drifted down and out toward mid-stream. when about fifty yards from shore he gave a quick glance around, and ceased paddling. his face gleamed white, and his eyes glinted like bits of steel in the sun. suddenly he grasped the rifle, and, leveling it with the swiftness of thought, fired at jonathan. the borderman saw the act, even from the beginning, and must have read the outlaw's motive, for as the weapon flashed he dropped flat on the bank. the bullet sang harmlessly over him, imbedding itself in the stockade fence with a distinct thud. the girls were so numb with horror that they could not even scream. colonel zane swore lustily. "where's my gun? get me a gun. oh! what did i tell you?" "look!" cried jonathan as he rose to his feet. upon the sand-bar opposite stood a tall, dark, familiar figure. "by all that's holy, wetzel!" exclaimed colonel zane. they saw the giant borderman raise a long, black rifle, which wavered and fell, and rose again. a little puff of white smoke leaped out, accompanied by a clear, stinging report. brandt dropped the paddle he had hurriedly begun plying after his traitor's act. his white face was turned toward the shore as it sank forward to rest at last upon the gunwale of the canoe. then his body slowly settled, as if seeking repose. his hand trailed outside in the water, drooping inert and lifeless. the little craft drifted down stream. "you see, helen, it had to be," said colonel zane gently. "what a dastard! a long shot, jack! fate itself must have glanced down the sights of wetzel's rifle." chapter xxv a year rolled round; once again indian summer veiled the golden fields and forests in a soft, smoky haze. once more from the opal-blue sky of autumn nights, shone the great white stars, and nature seemed wrapped in a melancholy hush. november the third was the anniversary of a memorable event on the frontier--the marriage of the younger borderman. colonel zane gave it the name of "independence day," and arranged a holiday, a feast and dance where all the settlement might meet in joyful thankfulness for the first year of freedom on the border. with the wiping out of legget's fierce band, the yoke of the renegades and outlaws was thrown off forever. simon girty migrated to canada and lived with a few indians who remained true to him. his confederates slowly sank into oblivion. the shawnee tribe sullenly retreated westward, far into the interior of ohio; the delawares buried the war hatchet, and smoked the pipe of peace they had ever before refused. for them the dark, mysterious, fatal wind had ceased to moan along the trails, or sigh through tree-tops over lonely indian camp-fires. the beautiful ohio valley had been wrested from the savages and from those parasites who for years had hung around the necks of the red men. this day was the happiest of colonel zane's life. the task he had set himself, and which he had hardly ever hoped to see completed, was ended. the west had been won. what boone achieved in kentucky he had accomplished in ohio and west virginia. the feast was spread on the colonel's lawn. every man, woman and child in the settlement was there. isaac zane, with his indian wife and child, had come from the far-off huron town. pioneers from yellow creek and eastward to fort pitt attended. the spirit of the occasion manifested itself in such joyousness as had never before been experienced in fort henry. the great feast was equal to the event. choice cuts of beef and venison, savory viands, wonderful loaves of bread and great plump pies, sweet cider and old wine, delighted the merry party. "friends, neighbors, dear ones," said colonel zane, "my heart is almost too full for speech. this occasion, commemorating the day of our freedom on the border, is the beginning of the reward for stern labor, hardship, silenced hearths of long, relentless years. i did not think i'd live to see it. the seed we have sown has taken root; in years to come, perhaps, a great people will grow up on these farms we call our homes. and as we hope those coming afterward will remember us, we should stop a moment to think of the heroes who have gone before. many there are whose names will never be written on the roll of fame, whose graves will be unmarked in history. but we who worked, fought, bled beside them, who saw them die for those they left behind, will render them all justice, honor and love. to them we give the victory. they were true; then let us, who begin to enjoy the freedom, happiness and prosperity they won with their lives, likewise be true in memory of them, in deed to ourselves, and in grace to god." by no means the least of the pleasant features of this pleasant day was the fact that three couples blushingly presented themselves before the colonel, and confided to him their sudden conclusions in regard to the felicitousness of the moment. the happy colonel raced around until he discovered jim douns, the minister, and there amid the merry throng he gave the brides away, being the first to kiss them. it was late in the afternoon when the villagers dispersed to their homes and left the colonel to his own circle. with his strong, dark face beaming, he mounted the old porch step. "where are my zane babies?" he asked. "ah! here you are! did anybody ever see anything to beat that? four wonderful babies! mother, here's your daniel--if you'd only named him eb! silas, come for silas junior, bad boy that he is. isaac, take your indian princess; ah! little myeerah with the dusky face. woe be to him who looks into those eyes when you come to age. jack, here's little jonathan, the last of the bordermen; he, too, has beautiful eyes, big like his mother's. ah! well, i don't believe i have left a wish, unless----" "unless?" suggested betty with her sweet smile. "it might be----" he said and looked at her. betty's warm cheek was close to his as she whispered: "dear eb!" the rest only the colonel heard. "well! by all that's glorious!" he exclaimed, and attempted to seize her; but with burning face betty fled. * * * * * "jack, dear, how the leaves are falling!" exclaimed helen. "see them floating and whirling. it reminds me of the day i lay a prisoner in the forest glade praying, waiting for you." the borderman was silent. they passed down the sandy lane under the colored maple trees, to a new cottage on the hillside. "i am perfectly happy to-day," continued helen. "everybody seems to be content, except you. for the first time in weeks i see that shade on your face, that look in your eyes. jack, you do not regret the new life?" "my love, no, a thousand times no," he answered, smiling down into her eyes. they were changing, shadowing with thought; bright as in other days, and with an added beauty. the wilful spirit had been softened by love. "ah, i know, you miss the old friend." the yellow thicket on the slope opened to let out a tall, dark man who came down with lithe and springy stride. "jack, it's wetzel!" said helen softly. no words were spoken as the comrades gripped hands. "let me see the boy?" asked wetzel, turning to helen. little jonathan blinked up at the grave borderman with great round eyes, and pulled with friendly, chubby fingers at the fringed buckskin coat. "when you're a man the forest trails will be corn fields," muttered wetzel. the bordermen strolled together up the brown hillside, and wandered along the river bluff. the air was cool; in the west the ruddy light darkened behind bold hills; a blue mist streaming in the valley shaded into gray as twilight fell. (this file was produced from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions (www.canadiana.org)) lords of the north by a. c. laut toronto william briggs entered according to act of the parliament of canada, in the year one thousand nine hundred, by william briggs, at the department of agriculture. [illustration: lords of the north by a. c. laut] to the pioneers and their descendants whose heroism won the land, this work is respectfully dedicated. acknowledgment. the author desires to express thanks to pioneers and fur traders of the west for information, details and anecdotes bearing on the old life, which are herein embodied; and would also acknowledge the assistance of the history of the north-west company and manuscripts of the _bourgeois_, compiled by senator l. r. masson; and the value of such early works as those of dr. george bryce, gunn, hargraves, ross and others. the trapper's defiance. "the adventurous spirits, who haunted the forest and plain, grew fond of their wild life and affected a great contempt for civilization." you boxed-up, mewed-up artificials, pent in your piles of mortar and stone, hugging your finely spun judicials, adorning externals, externals alone, vaunting in prideful ostentation of the juggernaut car, called civilization-- what know ye of freedom and life and god? monkeys, that follow a showman's string, know more of freedom and less of care, cage birds, that flutter from perch to ring, have less of worry and surer fare. cursing the burdens, yourselves have bound, in a maze of wants, running round and round-- are ye free men, or manniken slaves? costly patches, adorning your walls, are all of earth's beauty ye care to know; but ye strut about in soul-stifled halls to play moth-life by a candle-glow-- what soul has space for upward fling, what manhood room for shoulder-swing, coffined and cramped from the vasts of god? the spirit of life, o atrophied soul, in trappings of ease is not confined; that touch from infinite will 'neath the whole in nature's temple, not man's, is shrined! from hovel-shed come out and be strong! be ye free! be redeemed from the wrong, of soul-guilt, i charge you as sons of god! introduction. i, rufus gillespie, trader and clerk for the north-west company, which ruled over an empire broader than europe in the beginning of this century, and with indian allies and its own riotous _bois-brulés_, carried war into the very heart of the vast territory claimed by its rivals, the honorable hudson's bay company, have briefly related a few stirring events of those boisterous days. should the account here set down be questioned, i appeal for confirmation to that missionary among northern tribes, the famous priest, who is the son of the ill-fated girl stolen by the wandering iroquois. lord selkirk's narration of lawless conflict with the nor'-westers and the verbal testimony of red river settlers, who are still living, will also substantiate what i have stated; though allowance must be made for the violent partisan leaning of witnesses, and from that, i--as a nor'-wester--do not claim to be free. on the charges and counter-charges of cruelty bandied between white men and red, i have nothing to say. remembering how white soldiers from eastern cities took the skin of a native chief for a trophy of victory, and recalling the fiendish glee of mandanes over a victim, i can only conclude that neither race may blamelessly point the finger of reproach at the other. any variations in detail from actual occurrences as seen by my own eyes are solely for the purpose of screening living descendants of those whose lives are here portrayed from prying curiosity; but, in truth, many experiences during the thrilling days of the fur companies were far too harrowing for recital. i would fain have tempered some of the incidents herein related to suit the sentiments of a milk-and-water age; but that could be done only at the cost of truth. there is no french strain in my blood, so i have not that passionate devotion to the wild daring of _l'ancien régime_, in which many of my rugged companions under _les bourgeois de la compagnie du nord-ouest_ gloried; but he would be very sluggish, indeed, who could not look back with some degree of enthusiasm to the days of gentlemen adventurers in no-man's-land, in a word, to the workings of the great fur trading companies. theirs were the trappers and runners, the _coureurs des bois_ and _bois-brulés_, who traversed the immense solitudes of the pathless west; theirs, the brigades of gay _voyageurs_ chanting hilarious refrains in unison with the rhythmic sweep of paddle blades and following unknown streams until they had explored from st. lawrence to mackenzie river; and theirs, the merry lads of the north, blazing a track through the wilderness and leaving from atlantic to pacific lonely stockaded fur posts--footprints for the pioneers' guidance. the whitewashed palisades of many little settlements on the rivers and lakes of the far north are poor relics of the fur companies' ancient grandeur. that broad domain stretching from hudson bay to the pacific ocean, reclaimed from savagery for civilization, is the best monument to the unheralded forerunners of empire. rufus gillespie. winnipeg--one time fort garry formerly red river settlement, _ th june, --_ transcriber's note: minor typos have been corrected. contents page chapter i. wherein a lad sees makers of history chapter ii. a strong man is bowed chapter iii. novice and expert chapter iv. launched into the unknown chapter v. civilization's veneer rubs off chapter vi. a girdle of agates recalled chapter vii. the lords of the north in council chapter viii. the little statue animate chapter ix. decorating a bit of statuary chapter x. more studies in statuary chapter xi. a shuffling of allegiance chapter xii. how a youth became a king chapter xiii. the buffalo hunt chapter xiv. in slippery places chapter xv. the good white father chapter xvi. le grand diable sends back our messenger chapter xvii. the price of blood chapter xviii. laplante and i renew acquaintance chapter xix. wherein louis intrigues chapter xx. plots and counter-plots chapter xxi. louis pays me back chapter xxii. a day of reckoning chapter xxiii. the iroquois plays his last card chapter xxiv. fort douglas changes masters chapter xxv. his lordship to the rescue chapter xxvi. father holland and i in the toils chapter xxvii. under one roof chapter xxviii. the last of louis' adventures chapter xxix. the priest journeys to a far country lords of the north chapter i wherein a lad sees makers of history "has any one seen eric hamilton?" i asked. for an hour, or more, i had been lounging about the sitting-room of a club in quebec city, waiting for my friend, who had promised to join me at dinner that night. i threw aside a news-sheet, which i had exhausted down to minutest advertisements, stretched myself and strolled across to a group of old fur-traders, retired partners of the north-west company, who were engaged in heated discussion with some officers from the citadel. "has any one seen eric hamilton?" i repeated, indifferent to the merits of their dispute. "that's the tenth time you've asked that question," said my uncle jack mackenzie, looking up sharply, "the tenth time, sir, by actual count," and he puckered his brows at the interruption, just as he used to when i was a little lad on his knee and chanced to break into one of his hunting stories with a question at the wrong place. "hang it," drawled colonel adderly, a squatty man with an over-fed look on his bulging, red cheeks, "hang it, you don't expect hamilton? the baby must be teething," and he added more chaff at the expense of my friend, who had been the subject of good-natured banter among club members for devotion to his first-born. i saw adderly's object was more to get away from the traders' arguments than to answer me; and i returned the insolent challenge of his unconcealed yawn in the faces of the elder men by drawing a chair up to the company of mctavishes and frobishers and mcgillivrays and mackenzies and other retired veterans of the north country. "i beg your pardon, gentlemen," said i, "what were you saying to colonel adderly?" "talk of your military conquests, sir," my uncle continued, "why, sir, our men have transformed a wilderness into an empire. they have blazed a path from labrador on the atlantic to that rock on the pacific, where my esteemed kinsman, sir alexander mackenzie, left his inscription of discovery. mark my words, sir, the day will come when the names of david thompson and simon fraser and sir alexander mackenzie will rank higher in english annals than braddock's and----" "egad!" laughed the officer, amused at my uncle, who had been a leading spirit in the north-west company and whose enthusiasm knew no bounds, "egad! you gentlemen adventurers wouldn't need to have accomplished much to eclipse braddock." and he paused with a questioning supercilious smile. "sir alexander was a first cousin of yours, was he not?" my uncle flushed hotly. that slighting reference to gentlemen adventurers, with just a perceptible emphasis of the _adventurers_, was not to his taste. "pardon me, sir," said he stiffly, "you forget that by the terms of their charter, the ancient and honorable hudson's bay company have the privilege of being known as gentlemen adventurers. and by the lord, sir, 'tis a gentleman adventurer and nothing else, that stock-jobbing scoundrel of a selkirk has proved himself! and he, sir, was neither nor'-wester, nor canadian, but an englishman, like the commander of the citadel." my uncle puffed out these last words in the nature of a defiance to the english officer, whose cheeks took on a deeper purplish shade; but he returned the charge good-humoredly enough. "nonsense, mackenzie, my good friend," laughed he patronizingly, "if the right honorable, the earl of selkirk, were such an adventurer, why the deuce did the beaver club down at montreal receive him with open mouths and open arms and----" "and open hearts, sir, you may say," interrupted my uncle mackenzie. "and i'd thank you not to 'good-friend' me," he added tartly. now, the beaver club was an organization at nor'-westers renowned for its hospitality. founded in , originally composed of but nineteen members and afterwards extended only to men who had served in the _pays d'en haut_, it soon acquired a reputation for entertaining in regal style. why the vertebrae of colonial gentlemen should sometimes lose the independent, upright rigidity of self-respect on contact with old world nobility, i know not. but instantly, colonel adderly's reference to lord selkirk and the beaver club called up the picture of a banquet in montreal, when i was a lad of seven, or thereabouts. i had been tricked out in some highland costume especially pleasing to the earl--cap, kilts, dirk and all--and was taken by my uncle jack mackenzie to the beaver club. here, in a room, that glittered with lights, was a table steaming with things, which caught and held my boyish eyes; and all about were crowds of guests, gentlemen, who had been invited in the quaint language of the club, "to discuss the merits of bear, beaver and venison." the great sir alexander mackenzie, with his title fresh from the king, and his feat of exploring the river now known by his name and pushing through the mountain fastnesses to the pacific on all men's lips--was to my uncle jack's right. simon fraser and david thompson and other famous explorers, who were heroes to my imagination, were there too. in these men and what they said of their wonderful voyages i was far more interested than in the young, keen-faced man with a tie, that came up in ruffles to his ears, and with an imperial decoration on his breast, which told me he was lord selkirk. i remember when the huge salvers and platters were cleared away, i was placed on the table to execute the sword dance. i must have acquitted myself with some credit; for the gentlemen set up a prodigious clapping, though i recall nothing but a snapping of my fingers, a wave of my cap and a whirl of lights and faces around my dizzy head. then my uncle took me between his knees, promising to let me sit up to the end if i were good, and more wine was passed. "that's enough for you, you young cub," says my kinsman, promptly inverting the wine-glass before me. "o uncle mackenzie," said i with a wry face, "do you measure your own wine so?" whereat, the noble earl shouted, "bravo! here's for you, mr. mackenzie." and all the gentlemen set up a laugh and my uncle smiled and called to the butler, "here, johnson, toddy for one, glass of hot water, pure, for other." but when johnson brought back the glasses, i observed uncle mackenzie kept the toddy. "there, my boy, there's adam's ale for you," said he, and into the glass of hot water he popped a peppermint lozenge. "fie!" laughed sir alexander to my uncle's right, "fie to cheat the little man!" "his is the best wine of the cellar," vowed his lordship; and i drank my peppermint with as much gusto and self-importance as any man of them. then followed toasts, such a list of toasts as only men inured to tests of strength could take. ironical toasts to the north-west passage, whose myth sir alexander had dispelled; toasts to the discoverer of the mackenzie river, which brought storms of applause that shook the house; toasts to "our distinguished guest," whose suave response disarmed all suspicion; toasts to the "northern winterers," poor devils, who were serving the cause by undergoing a life-long term of arctic exile; toasts to "the merry lads of the north," who only served in the ranks without attaining to the honor of partnership; toasts enough, in all conscience, to drown the memory of every man present. thanks to my uncle jack mackenzie, all my toasts were taken in peppermint, and the picture in my mind of that banquet is as clear to-day as it was when i sat at the table. what would i not give to be back at the beaver club, living it all over again and hearing sir alexander mackenzie with his flashing hero-eyes and quick, passionate gestures, recounting that wonderful voyage of his with a sulky crew into a region of hostiles; telling of those long interminable winters of arctic night, when the great explorer sounded the depths of utter despair in service for the company and knew not whether he faced madness or starvation; and thrilling the whole assembly with a description of his first glimpse of the pacific! perhaps it was what i heard that night--who can tell--that drew me to the wild life of after years. but i was too young, then, to recognize fully the greatness of those men. indeed, my country was then and is yet too young; for if their greatness be recognized, it is forgotten and unhonored. i think i must have fallen asleep on my uncle's knee; for i next remember sleepily looking about and noticing that many of the gentlemen had slid down in their chairs and with closed eyes were breathing heavily. others had slipped to the floor and were sound asleep. this shocked me and i was at once wide awake. my uncle was sitting very erect and his arm around my waist had the tight grasp that usually preceded some sharp rebuke. i looked up and found his face grown suddenly so hard and stern, i was all affright lest my sleeping had offended him. his eyes were fastened on lord selkirk with a piercing, angry gaze. his lordship was not nodding, not a bit of it. how brilliant he seemed to my childish fancy! he was leaning forward, questioning those nor'-westers, who had received him with open arms, and open hearts. and the wine had mounted to the head of the good nor'-westers and they were now also receiving the strange nobleman with open mouths, pouring out to him a full account of their profits, the extent of the vast, unknown game preserve, and how their methods so far surpassed those of the hudson's bay, their rival's stock had fallen in value from to per cent. the more information they gave, the more his lordship plied them with questions. "i must say," whispered uncle jack to sir alexander mackenzie, "if any hudson's bay man asked such pointed questions on north-west business, i'd give myself the pleasure of ejecting him from this room." then, i knew his anger was against lord selkirk and not against me for sleeping. "nonsense," retorted sir alexander, who had cut active connection with the nor'-westers some years before, "there's no ground for suspicion." but he seemed uneasy at the turn things had taken. "has your lordship some colonization scheme that you ask such pointed questions?" demanded my uncle, addressing the earl. the nobleman turned quickly to him and said something about the highlanders and prince edward's island, which i did not understand. the rest of that evening fades from my thoughts; for i was carried home in mr. jack mackenzie's arms. and all these things happened some ten or twelve years before that wordy sword-play between this same uncle of mine and the english colonel from the citadel. "we erred, sir, through too great hospitality," my uncle was saying to the colonel. "how could we know that selkirk would purchase controlling interest in hudson's bay stock? how could we know he'd secure a land grant in the very heart of our domain?" "i don't object to his land, nor to his colonists, nor to his dower of ponies and muskets and bayonets to every mother's son of them," broke in another of the retired traders, "but i do object to his drilling those same colonists, to his importing a field battery and bringing out that little ram of a mcdonell from the army to egg the settlers on! it's bad enough to pillage our fort; but this proclamation to expel nor'-westers from what is claimed as hudson's bay territory----" "just listen to this," cries my uncle pulling out a copy of the obnoxious proclamation and reading aloud an order for the expulsion of all rivals to the hudson's bay company from the northern territory. "where can hamilton be?" said i, losing interest in the traders' quarrel as soon as they went into details. "home with his wifie," half sneered the officer in a nagging way, that irritated me, though the remark was, doubtless, true. "home with his wifie," he repeated in a sing-song, paying no attention to the elucidation of a subject he had raised. "good old man, hamilton, but since marriage, utterly gone to the bad!" "to the what?" i queried, taking him up short. this officer, with the pudding cheeks and patronizing insolence, had a provoking trick of always keeping just inside the bounds of what one might resent. "to the what, did you say hamilton had gone?" "to the domestics," says he laughing, then to the others, as if he had listened to every word of the explanations, "and if his little excellency, governor macdonell, by the grace of lord selkirk, ruler over gentlemen adventurers in no-man's-land, expels the good nor'-westers from nowhere to somewhere else, what do the good nor'-westers intend doing to the little tyrant?" "charles the first him," responds a wag of the club. "where's your cromwell?" laughs the colonel. "our cromwell's a cameron, temper of a lucifer, oaths before action," answers the wag. "tuts!" exclaims uncle jack testily. "we'll settle his lordship's little martinet of the plains. warrant for his arrest! fetch him out!" "warrant rd king george iii. will do it," added one of the partners who had looked the matter up. " rd king george iii. doesn't give jurisdiction for trial in lower canada, if offense be committed elsewhere," interjects a lawyer with show of importance. "a daniel come to judgment," laughs the colonel, winking as my uncle's wrath rose. "pah!" says mr. jack mackenzie in disgust, stamping on the floor with both feet. "you lawyers needn't think you'll have your pickings when fur companies quarrel. we'll ship him out, that's all. neither of the companies wants to advertise its profits--" "or its methods--ahem!" interjects the colonel. "and its private business," adds my uncle, looking daggers at adderly, "by going to court." then they all rose to go to the dining-room; and as i stepped out to have a look down the street for hamilton, i heard colonel adderly's last fling--"pretty rascals, you gentlemen adventurers are, so shy and coy about law courts." it was a dark night, with a few lonely stars in mid-heaven, a sickle moon cutting the horizon cloud-rim and a noisy march wind that boded snow from the labrador, or sleet from the gulf. when eric hamilton left the hudson's bay company's service at york factory on hudson bay and came to live in quebec, i was but a student at laval. it was at my uncle mackenzie's that i met the tall, dark, sinewy, taciturn man, whose influence was to play such a strange part in my life; and when these two talked of their adventures in the far, lone land of the north, i could no more conceal my awe-struck admiration than a girl could on first discovering her own charms in a looking-glass. i think he must have noticed my boyish reverence, for once he condescended to ask about the velvet cap and green sash and long blue coat which made up the laval costume, and in a moment i was talking to him as volubly as if he were the boy and i, the great hudson's bay trader. "it makes me feel quite like a boy again," he had said on resuming conversation with mr. mackenzie. "by jove! sir, i can hardly realize i went into that country a lad of fifteen, like your nephew, and here i am, out of it, an old man." "pah, eric man," says my uncle, "you'll be finding a wife one of these days and renewing your youth." "uncle," i broke out when the hudson's bay man had gone home, "how old is mr. hamilton?" "fifteen years older than you are, boy, and i pray heaven you may have half as much of the man in you at thirty as he has," returns my uncle mentally measuring me with that stern eye of his. at that information, my heart gave a curious, jubilant thud. henceforth, i no longer looked upon mr. hamilton with the same awe that a choir boy entertains for a bishop. something of comradeship sprang up between us, and before that year had passed we were as boon companions as man and boy could be. but hamilton presently spoiled it all by fulfilling my uncle's prediction and finding a wife, a beautiful, fair-haired, frail slip of a girl, near enough the twenties to patronize me and too much of the young lady to find pleasure in an awkward lad. that meant an end to our rides and walks and sails down the st. lawrence and long evening talks; but i took my revenge by assuming the airs of a man of forty, at which hamilton quizzed me not a little and his wife, miriam, laughed. when i surprised them all by jumping suddenly from boyhood to manhood--"like a tadpole into a mosquito," as my uncle jack facetiously remarked. meanwhile, a son and heir came to my friend's home and i had to be thankful for a humble third place. and so it came that i was waiting for eric's arrival at the quebec club that night, peering from the porch for sight of him and calculating how long it would take to ride from the chateau bigot above charlesbourg, where he was staying. stepping outside, i was surprised to see the form of a horse beneath the lantern of the arched gateway; and my surprise increased on nearer inspection. as i walked up, the creature gave a whinny and i recognized hamilton's horse, lathered with sweat, unblanketed and shivering. the possibility of an accident hardly suggested itself before i observed the bridle-rein had been slung over the hitching-post and heard steps hurrying to the side door of the club-house. "is that you, eric?" i called. there was no answer; so i led the horse to the stable boy and hurried back to see if hamilton were inside. the sitting room was deserted; but eric's well-known, tall figure was entering the dining-room. and a curious figure he presented to the questioning looks of the club men. in one hand was his riding whip, in the other, his gloves. he wore the buckskin coat of a trapper and in the belt were two pistols. one sleeve was torn from wrist to elbow and his boots were scratched as if they had been combed by an iron rake. his broad-brimmed hat was still on, slouched down over his eyes like that of a scout. "gad! hamilton," exclaimed uncle jack mackenzie, who was facing eric as i came up behind, "have you been in a race or a fight?" and he gave him the look of suspicion one might give an intoxicated man. "is it a cold night?" asked the colonel punctiliously, gazing hard at the still-strapped hat. not a word came from hamilton. "how's the cold in your head?" continued adderly, pompously trying to stare hamilton's hat off. "here i am, old man! what's kept you?" and i rushed forward but quickly checked myself; for hamilton turned slowly towards me and instead of erect bearing, clear glance, firm mouth, i saw a head that was bowed, eyes that burned like fire, and parched, parted, wordless lips. if the colonel had not been stuffing himself like the turkey guzzler that he was, he would have seen something unspeakably terrible written on hamilton's silent face. "did the little wifie let him off for a night's play?" sneered adderly. barely were the words out, when hamilton's teeth clenched behind the open lips, giving him an ugly, furious expression, strange to his face. he took a quick stride towards the officer, raised his whip and brought it down with the full strength of his shoulder in one cutting blow across the baggy, purplish cheeks of the insolent speaker. chapter ii a strong man is bowed the whole thing was so unexpected that for one moment not a man in the room drew breath. then the colonel sprang up with the bellow of an enraged bull, overturning the table in his rush, and a dozen club members were pulling him back from eric. "eric hamilton, are you mad?" i cried. "what do you mean?" but hamilton stood motionless as if he saw none of us. except that his breath was labored, he wore precisely the same strange, distracted air he had on entering the club. "hold back!" i implored; for adderly was striking right and left to get free from the men. "hold back! there's a mistake! something's wrong!" "reptile!" roared the colonel. "cowardly reptile, you shall pay for this!" "there's a mistake," i shouted, above the clamor of exclamations. "glad the mistake landed where it did, all the same," whispered uncle jack mackenzie in my ear, "but get him out of this. drunk--or a scandal," says my uncle, who always expressed himself in explosives when excited. "side room--here--lead him in--drunk--by jove--drunk!" "never," i returned passionately. i knew both hamilton and his wife too well to tolerate either insinuation. but we led him like a dazed being into a side office, where mr. jack mackenzie promptly turned the key and took up a posture with his back against the door. "now, sir," he broke out sternly, "if it's neither drink, nor a scandal----" there, he stopped; for hamilton, utterly unconscious of us, moved, rather than walked, automatically across the room. throwing his hat down, he bowed his head over both arms above the mantel-piece. my uncle and i looked from the silent man to each other. raising his brows in question, mr. jack mackenzie touched his forehead and whispered across to me--"mad?" at that, though the word was spoken barely above a breath, eric turned slowly round and faced us with blood-shot, gleaming eyes. he made as though he would speak, sank into the armchair before the grate and pressed both hands against his forehead. "mad," he repeated in a voice low as a moan, framing his words slowly and with great effort. "by jove, men, you should know me better than to mouth such rot under your breath. to-night, i'd sell my soul, sell my soul to be mad, really mad, to know that all i think has happened, hadn't happened at all--" and his speech was broken by a sharp intake of breath. "out with it, man, for the lord's sake," shouted my uncle, now convinced that eric was not drunk and jumping to conclusions--as he was wont to do when excited--regarding a possible scandal. "out with it, man! we'll stand by you! has that blasted red-faced turkey----" "pray, spare your histrionics, for the present," eric cut in with the icy self-possession bred by a lifetime's danger, dispelling my uncle's second suspicion with a quiet scorn that revealed nothing. "what the----" began my kinsman, "what did you strike him for?" "did i strike somebody?" asked hamilton absently. again my uncle flashed a questioning look at me, but this time his face showed his conviction so plainly no word was needed. "did i strike somebody? wish you'd apologize----" "apologize!" thundered my uncle. "i'll do nothing of the kind. served him right. 'twas a pretty way, a pretty way, indeed, to speak of any man's wife----" but the word "wife" had not been uttered before eric threw out his hands in an imploring gesture. "don't!" he cried out sharply in the suffering tone of a man under the operating knife. "don't! it all comes back! it is true! it is true! i can't get away from it! it is no nightmare. my god, men, how can i tell you? there's no way of saying it! it is impossible--preposterous--some monstrous joke--it's quite impossible i tell you--it couldn't have happened--such things don't happen--couldn't happen--to her--of all women! but she's gone--she's gone----" "see here, hamilton," cried my uncle, utterly beside himself with excitement, "are we to understand you are talking of your wife, or--or some other woman?" "see here, hamilton," i reiterated, quite heedless of the brutality of our questions and with a thousand wild suspicions flashing into my mind. "is it your wife, miriam, and your boy?" but he heard neither of us. "they were there--they waved to me from the garden at the edge of the woods as i entered the forest. only this morning, both waving to me as i rode away--and when i returned from the city at noon, they were gone! i looked to the window as i came back. the curtain moved and i thought my boy was hiding, but it was only the wind. we've searched every nook from cellar to attic. his toys were littered about and i fancied i heard his voice everywhere, but no! no--no--and we've been hunting house and garden for hours----" "and the forest?" questioned uncle jack, the trapper instinct of former days suddenly re-awakening. "the forest is waist-deep with snow! besides we beat through the bush everywhere, and there wasn't a track, nor broken twig, where they could have passed." his torn clothes bore evidence to the thoroughness of that search. "nonsense," my uncle burst out, beginning to bluster. "they've been driven to town without leaving word!" "no sleigh was at chateau bigot this morning," returned hamilton. "but the road, eric?" i questioned, recalling how the old manor-house stood well back in the center of a cleared plateau in the forest. "couldn't they have gone down the road to those indian encampments?" "the road is impassable for sleighs, let alone walking, and their winter wraps are all in the house. for heaven's sake, men, suggest something! don't madden me with these useless questions!" but in spite of eric's entreaty my excitable kinsman subjected the frenzied man to such a fire of questions as might have sublimated pre-natal knowledge. and i stood back listening and pieced the distracted, broken answers into some sort of coherency till the whole tragic scene at the chateau on that spring day of the year , became ineffaceably stamped on my memory. causeless, with neither warning nor the slightest premonition of danger, the greatest curse which can befall a man came upon my friend eric hamilton. however fond a husband may be, there are things worse for his wife than death which he may well dread, and it was one of these tragedies which almost drove poor hamilton out of his reason and changed the whole course of my own life. in broad daylight, his young wife and infant son disappeared as suddenly and completely as if blotted out of existence. that morning, eric light-heartedly kissed wife and child good-by and waved them a farewell that was to be the last. he rode down the winding forest path to quebec and they stood where the chateau garden merged into the forest of charlesbourg mountain. at noon, when he returned, for him there existed neither wife nor child. for any trace of them that could be found, both might have been supernaturally spirited away. the great house, that had re-echoed to the boy's prattle, was deathly still; and neither wife, nor child, answered his call. the nurse was summoned. she was positive _madame_ was amusing the boy across the hall, and reassuringly bustled off to find mother and son in the next room, and the next, and yet the next; to discover each in succession empty. alarm spread to the chateau servants. the simple _habitant_ maids were questioned, but their only response was white-faced, blank amazement. _madame_ not returned! _madame_ not back! mon dieu! what had happened? and all the superstition of hillside lore added to the fear on each anxious face. shortly after monsieur went to the city, _madame_ had taken her little son out as usual for a morning airing, and had been seen walking up and down the paths tracked through the garden snow. had _monsieur_ examined the clearing between the house and the forest? _monsieur_ could see for himself the snow was too deep and crusty among the trees for _madame_ to go twenty paces into the woods. besides, foot-marks could be traced from the garden to the bush. he need not fear wild animals. they were receding into the mountains as spring advanced. let him take another look about the open; and hamilton tore out-doors, followed by the whole household; but from the chateau in the center of the glade to the encircling border of snow-laden evergreens there was no trace of wife or child. then eric laughed at his own growing fears. miriam must be in the house. so the search of the old hall, that had once resounded to the drunken tread of gay french grandees, began again. from hidden chamber in the vaulted cellar to attic rooms above, not a corner of the chateau was left unexplored. had any one come and driven her to the city? but that was impossible. the roads were drifted the height of a horse and there were no marks of sleigh runners on either side of the riding path. could she possibly have ventured a few yards down the main road to an encampment of indians, whose squaws after indian custom made much of the white baby? neither did that suggestion bring relief; for the indians had broken camp early in the morning and there was only a dirty patch of littered snow, where the wigwams had been. the alarm now became a panic. hamilton, half-crazed and unable to believe his own senses, began wondering whether he had nightmare. he thought he might waken up presently and find the dead weight smothering his chest had been the boy snuggling close. he was vaguely conscious it was strange of him to continue sleeping with that noise of shouting men and whining hounds and snapping branches going on in the forest. the child's lightest cry generally broke the spell of a nightmare; but the din of terrified searchers rushing through the woods and of echoes rolling eerily back from the white hills convinced him this was no dream-land. then, the distinct crackle of trampled brushwood and the scratch of spines across his face called him back to an unendurable reality. "the thing is utterly impossible, hamilton," i cried, when in short jerky sentences, as if afraid to give thought rein, he had answered my uncle's questioning. "impossible! utterly impossible!" "i would to god it were!" he moaned. "it was daylight, eric?" asked mr. jack mackenzie. he nodded moodily. "and she couldn't be lost in charlesbourg forest?" i added, taking up the interrogations where my uncle left off. "no trace--not a footprint!" "and you're quite sure she isn't in the house?" replied my relative. "quite!" he answered passionately. "and there was an indian encampment a few yards down the road?" continued mr. mackenzie, undeterred. "oh! what has that to do with it?" he asked petulantly, springing to his feet. "they'd moved off long before i went back. besides, indians don't run off with white women. haven't i spent my life among them? i should know their ways!" "but my dear fellow!" responded the elder trader, "so do i know their ways. if she isn't in the chateau and isn't in the woods and isn't in the garden, can't you see, the indian encampment is the only possible explanation?" the lines on his face deepened. fire flashed from his gleaming eyes, and if ever i have seen murder written on the countenance of man, it was on hamilton's. "what tribe were they, anyway?" i asked, trying to speak indifferently, for every question was knife-play on a wound. "mongrel curs, neither one thing nor the other, iroquois canoemen, french half-breeds intermarried with sioux squaws! they're all connected with the north-west company's crews. the nor'-westers leave here for fort william when the ice breaks up. this riff-raff will follow in their own dug-outs!" "know any of them?" persisted my uncle. "no, i don't think i--let me see! by jove! yes, gillespie!" he shouted, "le grand diable was among them!" "what about diable?" i asked, pinning him down to the subject, for his mind was lost in angry memories. "what about him? he's my one enemy among the indians," he answered in tones thick and ominously low. "i thrashed him within an inch of his life at isle à la crosse. being a nor'-wester, he thought it fine game to pillage the kit of a hudson's bay; so he stole a silver-mounted fowling-piece which my grandfather had at culloden. by jove, gillespie! the nor'-westers have a deal of blood to answer for, stirring up those indians against traders; and if they've brought this on me----" "did you get it back?" i interrupted, referring to the fowling-piece, neither my uncle, nor i, offering any defense for the nor'-westers. i knew there were two sides to this complaint from a hudson's bay man. "no! that's why i nearly finished him; but the more i clubbed, the more he jabbered impertinence, '_cooloo! cooloo! qu' importe!_ it doesn't matter!' by jove! i made it matter!" "is that all about diable, eric?" continued my uncle. he ran his fingers distractedly back through his long, black hair, rose, and, coming over to me, laid a trembling hand on each shoulder. "gillespie!" he muttered through hard-set teeth. "it isn't all. i didn't think at the time, but the morning after the row with that red devil i found a dagger stuck on the outside of my hut-door. the point was through a fresh sprouted leaflet. a withered twig hung over the blade." "man! are you mad?" cried jack mackenzie. "he must be the very devil himself. you weren't married then--he couldn't mean----" "i thought it was an indian threat," interjected hamilton, "that if i had downed him in the fall, when the branches were bare, he meant to have his revenge in spring when the leaves were green; but you know i left the country that fall." "you were wrong, eric!" i blurted out impetuously, the terrible significance of that threat dawning upon me. "that wasn't the meaning at all." then i stopped; for hamilton was like a palsied man, and no one asked what those tokens of a leaflet pierced by a dagger and an old branch hanging to the knife might mean. mr. jack mackenzie was the first to pull himself together. "come," he shouted. "gather up your wits! to the camping ground!" and he threw open the door. thereupon, we three flung through the club-room to the astonishment of the gossips, who had been waiting outside for developments in the quarrel with colonel adderly. at the outer porch, hamilton laid a hand on mr. mackenzie's shoulder. "don't come," he begged hurriedly. "there's a storm blowing. it's rough weather, and a rough road, full of drifts! make my peace with the man i struck." then eric and i whisked out into the blackness of a boisterous, windy night. a moment later, our horses were dashing over iced cobble-stones with the clatter of pistol-shots. "it will snow," said i, feeling a few flakes driven through the darkness against my face; but to this remark hamilton was heedless. "it will snow, eric," i repeated. "the wind's veered north. we must get out to the camp before all traces are covered. how far by the beauport road?" "five miles," said he, and i knew by the sudden scream and plunge of his horse that spurs were dug into raw sides. we turned down that steep, break-neck, tortuous street leading from upper town to the valley of the st. charles. the wet thaw of mid-day had frozen and the road was slippery as a toboggan slide. we reined our horses in tightly, to prevent a perilous stumbling of fore-feet, and by zigzagging from side to side managed to reach the foot of the hill without a single fall. here, we again gave them the bit; and we were presently thundering across the bridge in a way that brought the keeper out cursing and yelling for his toll. i tossed a coin over my shoulder and we galloped up the elm-lined avenue leading to that charlesbourg retreat, where french bacchanalians caroused before the british conquest, passed the thatch-roofed cots of _habitants_ and, turning suddenly to the right, followed a seldom frequented road, where snow was drifted heavily. here we had to slacken pace, our beasts sinking to their haunches and snorting through the white billows like a modern snow-plow. hamilton had spoken not a word. clouds were massing on the north. overhead a few stars glittered against the black, and the angry wind had the most mournful wail i have ever heard. how the weird undertones came like the cries of a tortured child, and the loud gusts with the shriek of demons! "gillespie," called eric's voice tremulous with anguish, "listen--rufus--listen! do you hear anything? do you hear any one calling for help? is that a child crying?" "no, eric, old man," said i, shivering in my saddle. "i hear--i hear nothing at all but the wind." but my hesitancy belied the truth of that answer; for we both heard sounds, which no one can interpret but he whose well beloved is lost in the storm. and the wind burst upon us again, catching my empty denial and tossing the words to upper air with eldritch laughter. then there was a lull, and i felt rather than heard the choking back of stifled moans and knew that the man by my side, who had held iron grip of himself before other eyes, was now giving vent to grief in the blackness of night. at last a red light gleamed from the window of a low cot. that was the signal for us to turn abruptly to the left, entering the forest by a narrow bridle-path that twisted among the cedars. as if to look down in pity, the moon shone for a moment above the ragged edge of a storm cloud, and all the snow-laden evergreens stood out stately, shadowy and spectral, like mourners for the dead. again the road took to right-about at a sharp angle and the broad chateau, with its noble portico and numerous windows all alight, suddenly loomed up in the center of a forest-clearing on the mountain side. where the path to the garden crossed a frozen stream was a small open space. here the indians had been encamped. we hallooed for servants and by lantern light examined every square inch of the smoked snow and rubbish heaps. bits of tin in profusion, stones for the fire, tent canvas, ends of ropes and tattered rags lay everywhere over the black patch. snow was beginning to fall heavily in great flakes that obscured earth and air. not a thing had we found to indicate any trace of the lost woman and child, until i caught sight of a tiny, blue string beneath a piece of rusty metal. kicking the tin aside, i caught the ribbon up. when i saw on the lower end a child's finely beaded moccasin, i confess i had rather felt the point of le grand diable's dagger at my own heart than have shown that simple thing to hamilton. then the snow-storm broke upon us in white billows blotting out everything. we spread a sheet on the ground to preserve any marks of the campers, but the drifting wind drove us indoors and we were compelled to cease searching. all night long eric and i sat before the roaring grate fire of the hunting-room, he leaning forward with chin in his palms and saying few words, i offering futile suggestions and uttering mad threats, but both utterly at a loss what to do. we knew enough of indian character to know what not to do. that was, raise an outcry, which might hasten the cruelty of le grand diable. chapter iii. novice and expert. though many years have passed since that dismal storm in the spring of , when hamilton and i spent a long disconsolate night of enforced waiting, i still hear the roaring of the northern gale, driving round the house-corners as if it would wrench all eaves from the roof. it shrieked across the garden like malignant furies, rushed with the boom of a sea through the cedars and pines, and tore up the mountain slope till all the many voices of the forest were echoing back a thousand tumultuous discords. again, i see hamilton gazing at the leaping flames of the log fire, as if their frenzied motion reflected something of his own burning grief. then, the agony of our utter helplessness, as long as the storm raged, would prove too great for his self-control. rising, he would pace back and forward the full length of the hunting-room till his eye would be caught by some object with which the boy had played. he would put this carefully away, as one lays aside the belongings of the dead. afterwards, lanterns, which we had placed on the oak center table on coming in, began to smoke and give out a pungent, burning smell, and each of us involuntarily walked across to a window and drew aside the curtains to see how daylight was coming on. the white glare of early morning flooded the room, but the snow-storm had changed to driving sleet and the panes were iced from corner to corner with frozen rain-drift. how we dragged through two more days, while the gale raved with unabated fury, i do not know. poor eric was for rushing into the blinding whirl, that turned earth and air into one white tornado; but he could not see twice the length of his own arm, and we prevailed on him to come back. on the third night, the wind fell like a thing that had fretted out its strength. morning revealed an ocean of billowy drifts, crusted over by the frozen sleet and reflecting a white dazzle that made one's eyes blink. great icicles hung from the naked branches of the sheeted pines and snow was wreathed in fantastic forms among the cedars. we had laid our plans while we waited. after lifting the canvas from the camping-ground and seeking in vain for more trace of the fugitives, we despatched a dozen different search-parties that very morning, eric leading those who were to go on the river-side of the chateau, and i some well-trained bushrangers picked from the _habitants_ of the hillside, who could track the forest to every indian haunt within a week's march of the city. after putting my men on a trail with instructions to send back an indian courier to report each night, i hunted up an old _habitant_ guide, named paul larocque, who had often helped me to thread the woods of quebec after big game. now paul was habitually as silent as a dumb animal, and sportsmen had nicknamed him the mute; but what he lacked in speech he made up like other wild creatures in a wonderful acuteness of eye and ear. indeed, it was commonly believed among trappers that paul possessed some nameless sense by which he could actually _feel_ the presence of an enemy before ordinary men could either see, or hear. for my part, i would be willing to pit that "feel" of paul's against the nose of any hound that dog-fanciers could back. "paul," said i, as the _habitant_ stood before me licking the short stem of an inverted clay pipe, "there's an indian, a bad indian, an iroquois, paul,"--i was particular in describing the indian as an iroquois, for paul's wife was a huron from lorette--"an iroquois, who stole a white woman and a little boy from the chateau three days ago, in the morning." there, i paused to let the facts soak in; for the mute digested information in small morsels. grizzled, stunted and chunky, he was not at all the picturesque figure which fancy has painted of his class. instead of the red toque, which artists place on the heads of _habitants_, he wore a cloth cap with ear flaps coming down to be tied under his chin. his jacket was an ill-fitting garment, the cast-off coat of some well-to-do man, and his trousers slouched in ample folds above brightly beaded moccasins. when i paused, paul fixed his eyes on an invisible spot in the snow and ruminated. then he hitched the baggy trousers up, pulled the red scarf, that held them to his waist, tighter, and, taking his eyes off the snow, looked up for me to go on. "that iroquois, who belongs to the north-west trappers----" "_pays d'en haut?_" asks paul, speaking for the first time. "yes," i answered, "and they all disappeared with the woman and the child the day before the storm." the mute's eyes were back on the snow. "now," said i, "i'll make you a rich man if you take me straight to the place where he's hiding." paul's eyes looked up with the question of how much. "five pounds a day." this was four more than we paid for the cariboo hunts. again he stood thinking, then darted off into the forest like a hare; but i knew his strange, silent ways, and confidently awaited his return. how he could get two pair of snow-shoes and two poles inside of five minutes, i do not attempt to explain, unless some of his numerous half-breed youngsters were at hand in the woods; but he was back again all equipped for a long tramp, and as soon as i had laced on the racquets, we were skimming over the drift like a boat on billows. in the mazy confusion of snow and underbrush, no one but paul would have found and kept that tangled, forest path. where great trunks had fallen across the way, paul planted his pole and took the barrier at a bound. then he raced on at a gait which was neither a run nor a walk, but an easy trot common to the _coureurs-des-bois_. the encased branches snapped like glass when we brushed past, and so heavily were snow and icicles frozen to the trees we might have been in some grotesque crystal-walled cavern. the _habitant_ spoke not a word, but on we pressed over the brushwood, now so packed with snow and crusted ice, our snow-shoes were not once tripped by loose branches, and we glided from drift to drift. in vain i tried to discern a trail by the broken thicket on either side, and i noticed that my guide was keeping his course by following the marks blazed on trees. at one place we came to a steep, clear slope, where the earth had fallen sheer away from the hillside and snow had filled the incline. first prodding forward to feel if the snow-bank were solid, paul promptly sat down on the rear end of his snow-shoes, and, quicker than i can tell it, tobogganed down to the valley. i came leaping clumsily from point to point with my pole, like a ski-jumping norwegian, risking my neck at every bound. then we coursed along the valley, the _habitant's_ eyes still on the trees, and once he stopped to emit a gurgling laugh at a badly hacked trunk, beneath which was a snowed-up sap trough; but i could not divine whether paul's mirth were over a prospect of sugaring-off in the maple-woods, or at some foolish _habitant_ who had tapped the maple too early. how often had i known my guide to exhaust city athletes in these swift marches of his! but i had been schooled to his pace from boyhood and kept up with him at every step, though we were going so fast i lost all track of my bearings. "where to, paul?" i asked with a vague suspicion that we were heading for the huron village at lorette. "to lorette, paul?" but paul condescended only a grunt and whisked suddenly round a headland up a narrow gorge, which seemed to lead to the very heart of the mountains and might have sheltered any number of fugitives. in the gorge we stopped to take a light meal of gingerbread horses--a cake that is the peculiar glory of the _habitant_--dried herrings and sea biscuits. by the sun, i knew it was long past noon and that we had been traveling northwest. i also vaguely guessed that paul's object was to intercept the north-west trappers, if they had planned to slip away from the st. lawrence through the bush to the upper ottawa, where they could meet north-bound boats. but not one syllable had my taciturn guide uttered. clambering up the steep, snowy banks of the gorge, we found ourselves in the upper reaches of a mountain, where the trees fell away in scraggy clumps and the snow stretched up clear and unbroken to the hill-crest. paul grunted, licked his pipe-stem significantly and pointed his pole to the hill-top. the dark peak of a solitary wigwam appeared above the snow. he pointed again to the fringe of woods below us. a dozen wigwams were visible among the trees and smoke curled up from a central camp-fire. "_voilà, monsieur?_" said the _habitant_, which made four words for that day. the mute then fell to my rear and we first approached the general camp. the campers were evidently thieves as well as hunters; for frozen pork hung with venison from the branches of several trees. the sap trough might also have belonged to them, which would explain paul's laugh, as the whole paraphernalia of a sugaring-off was on the outskirts of the encampment. "not the indians we're after," said i, noting the signs of permanency; but paul larocque shoved me forward with the end of his pole and a curious, almost intelligent, expression came on the dull, pock-pitted face. strangely enough, as i looked over my shoulder to the guide, i caught sight of an indian figure climbing up the bank in our very tracks. the significance of this incident was to reveal itself later. as usual, a pack of savage dogs flew out to announce our coming with furious barking. but i declare the _habitant_ was so much like any ragged indian, the creatures recognized him and left off their vicious snarl. only the shrill-voiced children, who rushed from the wigwams; evinced either surprise or interest in our arrival. men and women were haunched about the fire, above which simmered several pots with the savory odor of cooking meat. i do not think a soul of the company as much as turned a head on our approach. though they saw us plainly, they sat stolid and imperturbable, after the manner of their race, waiting for us to announce ourselves. some of the squaws and half-breed women were heaping bark on the fire. indians sat straight-backed round the circle. white men, vagabond trappers from anywhere and everywhere, lay in all variety of lazy attitudes on buffalo robes and caribou skins. i had known, as every one familiar with quebec's family histories must know, that the sons of old seigneurs sometimes inherited the adventurous spirit, which led their ancestors of three centuries ago to exchange the gayeties of the french court for the wild life of the new world. i was aware this spirit frequently transformed seigneurs into bush-rangers and descendants of the royal blood into _coureurs-des-bois_. but it is one thing to know a fact, another to see that fact in living embodiment; and in this case, the living embodiment was louis laplante, a school-fellow of laval, whom, to my amazement, i now saw, with a beard of some months' growth and clad in buckskin, lying at full length on his back among that villainous band of nondescript trappers. something of the surprise i felt must have shown on my face, for as louis recognized me he uttered a shout of laughter. "hullo, gillespie!" he called with the saucy nonchalance which made him both a favorite and a torment at the seminary. "are you among the prophets?" and he sat up making room for me on his buffalo robe. "i'll wager, louis," said i, shaking his hand heartily and accepting the proffered seat, "i'll wager it's prophets spelt with an 'f' brings you here." for the young rake had been one of the most notorious borrowers at the seminary. "good boy!" laughed he, giving my shoulder a clap. "i see your time was not wasted with me. now, what the devil," he asked as i surveyed the motley throng of fat, coarse-faced squaws and hard-looking men who surrounded him, "now, what the devil's brought you here?" "what's the same, to yourself, louis lad?" said i. he laughed the merry, heedless laugh that had been the distraction of the class-room. "do you need to ask with such a galaxy of nut-brown maidens?" and louis looked with the assurance of privileged impudence straight across the fire into the hideous, angry face of a big squaw, who was glaring at me. the creature was one to command attention. she might have been a great, bronze statue, a type of some ancient goddess, a symbol of fury, or cruelty. her eyes fastened themselves on mine and held me, whether i would or no, while her whole face darkened. "the lady evidently objects to having her place usurped, louis," i remarked, for he was watching the silent duel between the native woman's questioning eyes and mine. "the gentleman wants to know if the lady objects to having her place usurped?" called louis to the squaw. at that the woman flinched and looked to laplante. of course, she did not understand our words; but i think she was suspicious we were laughing at her. there was a vindictive flash across her face, then the usual impenetrable expression of the indian came over her features. i noticed that her cheeks and forehead were scarred, and a cut had laid open her upper lip from nose to teeth. "you must know that the lady is the daughter of a chief and a fighter," whispered louis in my ear. i might have known she was above common rank from the extraordinary number of trinkets she wore. pendants hung from her ears like the pendulum of a clock. she had a double necklace of polished bear's claws and around her waist was a girdle of agates, which to me proclaimed that she was of a far-western tribe. in the girdle was an ivory-handled knife, which had doubtless given as many scars as its owner displayed. "what tribe, louis?" i asked. "i'll be hanged, now, if i'm not jealous," he began. "you'll stare the lady out of countenance----" but at this moment the indian who had come up the bank behind us came round and interrupted laplante's merriment by tossing a piece of bethumbed paper between my comrade's knees. "the deuce!" exclaimed louis, bulging his tongue into one cheek and glancing at me with a queer, quizzical look as he unfolded and read the paper. if he had not spoken i might not have turned; but having turned i could not but notice two things. louis jerked back from me, as if i might try to read the soiled note in his hand, and in raising the paper displayed on the back the stamp of the commissariat department from quebec citadel. neither laplante's suppressed surprise, nor my observations of his movement, escaped the big squaw. she came quickly round the fire to us both. "give me that," she commanded, holding out her hand to the french youth. "the deuce i will," he returned, twisting the paper up in his clenched fist. half in jest, half in earnest, just as louis used to be punished at the seminary, she gave him a prompt box on the ear. he took it in perfect good-nature. and the whole encampment laughed. the squaw went back to the other side of the fire. laplante leaned forward and threw the paper towards the flames; but without his knowledge, he overshot the mark; and when the trader was looking elsewhere the big squaw stooped, picked up the coveted note and slipped it into her skirt pocket. "now, louis, nonsense aside," i began. "with all my soul, if i have one," said he, lying back languidly with a perceptible cooling of the cordiality he had first evinced. i told him my errand, and that i wished to search every wigwam for trace of the lost woman and child. he listened with shut eyes. "it isn't," i explained in a low voice, eager to arouse his interest, "it isn't in the least, laplante, that we suspect these people; but you know the kidnappers might have traded the clothing to your people----" "oh! go ahead!" he interjected impatiently. "don't beat round the bush! what do you want of me?" "to go through the tents with me and help me. by jove! laplante! i thought at least a spark of the man would suggest that without my speaking," i broke out hotly. he was on his feet with an alacrity that brought old paul larocque round to my side and the squaw to his. "curse you," he cried out roughly, shoving the squaw back. for a moment i was uncertain whether he were addressing the woman or myself. "you mind your own business and go to your indian! here, gillespie, i'll do the tents with you. get off with you," he muttered at the squaw, rumbling out a lingo of persuasive expletives; and he led the way to the first wigwam. but the squaw was not to be dismissed; for when i followed the frenchman, she closed in behind looking thunder, not at her abuser, but at me; and the mute, fearing foul play and pole in hand, loyally brought up the rear of our strange procession. i shall not retail that search through robes and skins and blankets and boxes, in foul-smelling, vermin-infested wigwams. it was fruitless. i only recall the lowering face of the big squaw looking over my shoulder at every turn, with heavy brows contracted and gashed lips grinning an evil, malicious challenge. i thought she kept her hands uncomfortably near the ivory handle in the agate belt; but larocque, good fellow, never took his beady eyes off those same hands and kept a grip of the leaping pole. thus we examined the tents and made a circuit of the people round the fire, but found nothing to reveal the whereabouts of miriam and the child. laplante and i were on one side of the robe, larocque and the squaw on the other. "and why is that tent apart from the rest and who is in it?" i asked laplante, pointing to the lone tepee on the crest of the hill. the fire cracked so loudly i became aware there was ominous silence among the loungers of the camp. they were listening as well as watching. up to this time i had not thought they were paying the slightest attention to us. laplante was not answering, and when i faced him suddenly i found the squaw's eyes fastened on his, holding them whether he would or no, just as she had mine. "eh! man?" i cried, seizing him fiercely, a nameless suspicion getting possession of me. "why don't you answer?" the spell was broken. he turned to me nonchalantly, as he used to face accusers in the school-days of long ago, and spoke almost gently, with downcast eyes, and a quiet, deprecating smile. "you know, rufus," he answered, using the schoolboy name. "we should have told you before. but remember we didn't invite you here. we didn't lead you into it." "well?" i demanded. "well," he replied in a voice too low for any of the listeners but the squaw to hear, "there's a very bad case of smallpox up in that tent and we're keeping the man apart till he gets better. that, in fact, is why we're all here. you must go. it is not safe." "thanks, laplante," said i. "good-by." but he did not offer me his hand when i made to take leave. "come," he said. "i'll go as far as the gorge with you;" and he stood on the embankment and waved as we passed into the lengthening shadows of the valley. now, in these days of health officers and vaccination, people can have no idea of the terrors of a smallpox scourge at the beginning of this century. the _habitant_ is as indifferent to smallpox as to measles, and accepts both as dispensations of providence by exposing his children to the contagion as early as possible; but i was not so minded, and hurried down the gorge as fast as my snow-shoes would carry me. then i remembered that the indian population of the north had been reduced to a skeleton of its former numbers by the pestilence in , and recalled that my uncle jack had said the native's superstitious dread of this disease knew no bounds. that recollection checked my sudden flight. if the indians had such fear, why had this band camped within a mile of the pest tent? it would be more like indian character to reverse samaritan practises and leave the victim to die. this man might, of course, be a french-canadian trapper, but i would take no risks of a trick, so i ordered paul to lead me back to that tepee. the mute seemed to understand i had no wish to be seen by the campers. he skirted round the base of the hill till we were on the side remote from the tribe. then he motioned me to remain in the gorge while he scrambled up the cliff to reconnoitre. i knew he received a surprise as soon as his head was on a level with the top of the bank; for he curled himself up behind a snow-pile and gave a low whistle for me. i was beside him with one bound. we were not twenty pole-lengths from the wigwam. there was no appearance of life. the tent flaps had been laced up and a solitary watch-dog was tied to a stake before the entrance. down the valley the setting sun shone through the naked trees like a wall of fire, and dyed all the glistening snow-drifts primrose and opal. at one place in the forest the red light burst through and struck against the tent on the hill-top, giving the skins a peculiar appearance of being streaked with blood. the faintest breath of wind, a mere sigh of moving air-currents peculiar to snow-padded areas, came up from the woods with far-away echoes of the trappers' voices. perhaps this was heard by the watch-dog, or it may have felt the disturbing presence of my half-wild _habitant_ guide; for it sat back on its haunches and throwing up its head, let out the most doleful howlings imaginable. "oh! _monsieur_," shuddered out the superstitious habitant shivering like an aspen leaf, "sick man moan,--moan,--moan hard! he die, _monsieur_, he die, he die now when dog cry lak dat," and full of fear he scrambled down into the gorge, making silent gestures for me to follow. for a time--but not long, i must acknowledge--i lay there alone, watching and listening. paul's ears might hear the moans of a sick man, mine could not: nor would i return to the chateau without ascertaining for a certainty what was in that wigwam. slipping off the snow-shoes, i rose and tip-toed over the snow with the full intention of silencing the dog with my pole; but i was suddenly arrested by the distinct sound of pain-racked groaning. then the brute of a dog detected my approach and with a furious leaping that almost hung him with his own rope set up a vicious barking. suddenly the black head of an indian, or trapper, popped through the tent flaps and a voice shouted in perfect english--"go away! go away! the pest! the pest!" "who has smallpox?" i bawled back. "a trader, a nor'-wester," said he. "if you have anything for him lay it on the snow and i'll come for it." as honor pledged me to serve hamilton until he found his wife, i was not particularly anxious to exchange civilities at close range with a man from a smallpox tent; so i quickly retraced my way to the gorge and hurried homeward with the mute. my old school-fellow's sudden change towards me when he received the letter written on citadel paper, and the big squaw's suspicion of my every movement, now came back to me with a significance i had not felt when i was at the camp. either intuitions like those of my _habitant_ guide, which instinctively put out feelers with the caution of an insect's antennæ for the presence of vague, unknown evil, lay dormant in my own nature and had been aroused by the incidents at the camp, or else the mind, by the mere fact of holding information in solution, widens its own knowledge. for now, in addition to the letter from the citadel and the squaw's animosity, came the one missing factor--adderly. i felt, rather than knew, that louis laplante had deceived me. had he lied? a lie is the clumsy invention of the novice. an expert accomplishes his deceit without anything so grossly and tangibly honest as a lie; and louis was an expert. though i had not a vestige of proof, i could have sworn that adderly and the squaw and louis were leagued against me for some dark purpose. i was indeed learning the first lessons of the trapper's life: never to open my lips on my own affairs to another man, and never to believe another man when he opened his lips to me. chapter iv launched into the unknown "you should have knocked that blasted quarantine's head off," ejaculated mr. jack mackenzie, with ferocious emphasis. i had been relating my experience with the campers; and was recounting how the man put his head out of the tent and warned me of smallpox. but my uncle was a gentleman of the old school and had a fine contempt for quarantine. "knocked his head off, knocked his head off, sir," he continued, explosively. "make it a point to knock the head off anything that stands in your way, sir----" "but you don't suppose," i expostulated, about to voice my own suspicions. "_suppose!_" he roared out. "i make it a point never to _suppose_ anything. i act on facts, sir! you wanted to go into that wigwam; didn't you? well then, why the deuce didn't you go, and knock the head off anything that opposed you?" being highly successful in all his own dealings, mr. jack mackenzie could not tolerate failure in other people. a month of vigilant searching had yielded not the slightest inkling of miriam and the child; and this fact ignited all the gunpowder of my uncle's fiery temperament. we had felt so sure le grand diable's band of vagabonds would hang about till the brigades of the north-west company's tripmen set out for the north, all our efforts were spent in a vain search for some trace of the rascals in the vicinity of quebec. his gypsy nondescripts would hardly dare to keep the things taken from miriam and the child. these would be traded to other tribes; so day and night, mr. mackenzie, eric and i, with hired spies, dogged the footsteps of trappers, who were awaiting the breaking up of the ice; shadowed _voyageurs_, who passed idle days in the dram-shops of lower town, and scrutinized every native who crossed our path, ever on the alert for a glimpse of diable, or his associates. diligently we tracked all indian trails through charlesbourg forest and examined every wigwam within a week's march of the city. le grand diable was not likely to be among his ancestral enemies at lorette, but his half-breed followers might have traded with the hurons; and the lodges at lorette were also searched. watches were set along the st. lawrence, so no one could approach an opening before the ice broke up, or launch a canoe after the water had cleared, without our knowledge. but le grand diable and his band had vanished as mysteriously as miriam. it was as impossible to learn where the iroquois had gone as to follow the wind. his disappearance was altogether as unaccountable as the lost woman's, and this, of itself, confirmed our suspicions. had he sold, or slain his captives, he would not have remained in hiding; and the very fruitlessness of the search redoubled our zeal. the conviction that louis laplante had, somehow or other, played me false, stuck in my mind like the depression of a bad dream. again and again, i related the circumstances to my uncle; but he "pished," and "tushed," and "pooh-poohed," the very idea of any kidnappers remaining so near the city and giving me free run of their wigwams. my reasonless persistence was beginning to irritate him. indeed, on one occasion, he informed me that i had as many vagaries in my head as a "bed-ridden hag," and with great fervor he "wished to the lord there was a law in this land for the ham-stringing of such fool idiots, as that _habitant_ mute, who led me such a wild-goose chase." in spite of this and many other jeremiades, i once more donned snow-shoes and with paul for guide paid a second visit to the campers of the gorge. and a second time, i was welcomed by louis and taken through the wigwams. the smallpox tent was no longer on the crest of the hill; and when i asked after the patient, louis without a word pointed solemnly to a snow-mound, where the man lay buried. but i did not see the big squaw, nor the face that had emerged from the tent flaps to wave me off; and when i also inquired after these, louis' face darkened. he told me bluntly i was asking too many questions and began to swear in a mongrel jargon of french and english that my conduct was an insult he would take from no man. but louis was ever short of temper. i remembered that of old. presently his little flare-up died down, and he told me that the woman and her husband had gone north through the woods to join some crews on the upper ottawa. from the talk of the others, i gathered that, having disposed of their hunt to the commissariat department at the citadel, they intended to follow the same trail within a few days. i tried without questioning to learn what crews they were to join; but whether with purpose, or by chance, the conversation drifted from my lead and i had to return to the city without satisfaction on that point. meanwhile, hamilton rested neither night nor day. in the morning with a few hurried words he would outline the plan for the day. at night he rode back to the chateau with such eager questioning in his eyes when they met mine, i knew he had nothing better to report to me, than i to him. after a silent meal, he would ride through the dark forest on a fresh mount. how and where he passed those sleepless nights, i do not know. thus had a month slipped away; and we had done everything and accomplished nothing. baffled, i had gone to confer with mr. jack mackenzie and had, as usual, exasperated him with the reiterated conviction that adderly and the citadel writing paper and louis laplante had some connection with the malign influence that was balking our efforts. "fudge!" exclaims my uncle, stamping about his study and puffing with indignation. "you should have knocked that blasted quarantine's head off!" "you've said that several times already, mr. mackenzie," i put in, having a touch of his own peppery temper from my mother's side. "what about adderly's rage?" "adderly's been in montreal since the night of the row. for the lord's sake, boy, do you expect to find the woman by believing in that bloated bugaboo?" "but the citadel paper?" i persisted. "of course you've never been told, rufus gillespie," he began, choking down his impatience with the magnitude of my stupidity, "that the commissariat buys supplies from hunters?" "that doesn't explain the big squaw's suspicions and louis' own conduct." "that louis!" says my uncle. "pah! that son of an inflated old seigneur! a fig for the buck! not enough brains in his pate to fill a peanut!" "but there might be enough evil in his heart to wreck a life," and that was the first argument to pierce my uncle's scepticism. the keen eyes glanced out at me as if there might be some hope for my intelligence, and he took several turns about the room. "hm! if you're of that mind, you'd better go out and excavate the smallpox," was his sententious conclusion. "and if it's a hoax, you'd better----" and he puckered his brows in thought. "what?" i asked eagerly. "join the traders' crews and track the villains west," he answered with the promptitude of one who decides quickly and without vacillation. "o lord! if i were only young! but to think of a man too stout and old to buckle on his own snow-shoes hankering for that life again!" and my uncle heaved a deep sigh. now, no one, who has not lived the wild, free life of the northern trader, can understand the strange fascinations which for the moment eclipsed in this courteous and chivalrous old gentleman's mind all thought of the poor woman, with whom my own fate was interwoven. but i, who have lived in the lonely fastnesses of the splendid freedom, know full well what surging recollections of danger and daring, of success and defeat, of action in which one faces and laughs at death, and calm in which one sounds the unutterable depths of very infinity--thronged the old trader's soul. indeed, when he spoke, it was as if the sentence of my own life had been pronounced; and my whole being rose up to salute destiny. i take it, there is in every one some secret and cherished desire for a chosen vocation to which each looks forward with hope up to the meridian of life, and to which many look back with regret after the meridian. of prophetic instincts and intuitions and impressions and feelings and much more of the same kind going under a different name, i say nothing, i only set down as a fact, to be explained how it may, that all the way out to the gorge, with paul, the mute leading for a third time, i could have sworn there would be no corpse in that snow-covered grave. for was it not written in my inner consciousness that destiny had appointed me to the wild, free life of the north? so i was not surprised when paul larocque's spade struck sharply on a box. indians sleep their last sleep in the skins of the chase. nor was i in the least amazed when that same spade pried up the lid of cached provisions instead of a coffin. then i had ocular proof of what i knew before, that louis in word and conduct--but chiefly in conduct, which is the way of the expert had--lied outrageously to me. when the ice broke up at the end of april, hunters were off for their summer retreats and _voyageurs_ set out on the annual trip to the _pays d'en haut_. this year the hudson's bay company had organized a strong fleet of canoemen under mr. colin robertson, a former nor'-wester, to proceed to red river settlement by way of the ottawa and the sault instead of entering the fur preserve by the usual route of hudson bay and york factory. from le grand diable's former association with the north-west company it was probable he would be in robertson's brigade. among the _voyageurs_ of both companies there was not a more expert canoeman than this treacherous, thievish iroquois. as steersman, he could take a crew safely through knife-edge rocks with the swift certainty of arrow flight. in spite of a reputation for embodying the vices of white man and red--which gave him his unsavory title--it seemed unlikely that the hudson's bay company, now in the thick of an aggressive campaign against its great rival, and about to despatch an important flotilla from montreal to athabasca by way of the nor'-westers' route, would dispense with the services of this dexterous _voyageur_. on the other hand, the nor'-westers might bribe the iroquois to stay with them. acting on these alternative possibilities, hamilton and i determined to track the fugitives north. we could leave hirelings to shadow the movements of indian bands about quebec. eric could re-engage with the hudson's bay and get passage north with colin robertson's brigade, which was to leave lachine in a few weeks. my uncle had been a famous _bourgeois_ of the great north-west company in his younger days, and could secure me an immediate commission in the north-west company. thus we could accompany the _voyageurs_ and runners of both companies. hamilton's arrangements were easily made; and my uncle not only obtained the commission for me, but, with a hearty clap on my back and a "bravo, boy! i knew the fur trader's fever would break out in you yet!" pinned to the breast of my inner waistcoat the showy gold medallion which the _bourgeois_ wore on festive occasions. in very truth i oft had need of its inspiriting motto: _fortitude in distress_. feudal lords of the middle ages never waged more ruthless war on each other than the two great fur trading companies of the north at the beginning of the nineteenth century. pierre de raddison and grosselier, gentlemen adventurers of new france, first followed the waters of the outawa (ottawa) northward, and passed from lake superior (the _kelche gamme_ of indian lore) to the great unknown fur preserve between hudson bay and the pacific ocean; but the fur monopolists of the french court in quebec jealously obstructed the explorers' efforts to open up the vast territory. de raddison was compelled to carry his project to the english court, and the english court, with a liberality not unusual in those days, promptly deeded over the whole domain, the extent, locality and wealth of which there was utter ignorance, to a fur trading organization,--the newly formed "company of adventurers of england, trading into hudson's bay," incorporated in with prince rupert named as first governor. if monopolists of new france, through envy, sacrificed quebec's first claim to the unknown land, frontenac made haste to repair the loss. father albanel, a jesuit, and other missionaries led the way westward to the _pays d'en haut_. de raddison twice changed his allegiance, and when quebec fell into the hands of the british nearly a century later, the french traders were as active in the northern fur preserve as their great rivals, the ancient and honorable hudson's bay company; but the englishmen kept near the bay and the frenchmen with their _coureurs-des-bois_ pushed westward along the chain of water-ays leading from lake superior and lake winnipeg to the saskatchewan and athabasca. then came the conquest, with the downfall of french trade in the north country. but there remained the _coureurs-des-bois_, or wood-rangers, the _metis_, or french half-breeds, the _bois-brulés_, or plain runners--so called, it is supposed, from the trapper's custom of blazing his path through the forest. and on the ruins of french barter grew up a thriving english trade, organized for the most part by enterprising citizens of quebec and montreal, and absorbing within itself all the cast-off servants of the old french companies. such was the origin of the x. y. and north-west companies towards the beginning of the nineteenth century. of these the most energetic and powerful--and therefore the most to be feared by the ancient and honorable hudson's bay company--was the north-west company, "_les bourgeois de la compagnie du nord-ouest_," as the partners designated themselves. from the time that the north-westers gratuitously poured their secrets into the ears of lord selkirk, and lord selkirk shrewdly got control of the hudson's bay company and began to infuse nor'-westers' zeal into the stagnant workings of the older company, there arose such a feud among these lords of the north as may be likened only to the pillaging of robber barons in the middle ages. and this feud was at its height when i cast in my lot with the north-west fur company, nor'-westers had reaped a harvest of profits by leaving the beaten track of trade and pushing boldly northward into the remote mackenzie river region. this year the hudson's bay had determined to enter the same area and employed a former nor'-wester, mr. colin robertson, to conduct a flotilla of canoes from lachine, montreal, by way of the nor'-westers' route up the ottawa to the saskatchewan and athabasca. but while the hudson's bay company could ship their peltries directly to england from the bay, the nor'-westers labored under the disadvantage of many delays and trans-shipments before their goods reached seaboard at montreal. indeed, i have heard my uncle tell of orders which he sent from the north to england in october. the things ordered in october would be sent from london in march to reach montreal in mid-summer. there they would be re-packed in small quantities for portaging and despatched from montreal with the nor'-western _voyageurs_ the following may, and if destined for the far north would not reach the end of their long trip until october--two years from the time of the order. yet, under such conditions had the nor'-westers increased in prosperity, while the hudson's bay, with its annual ships at york factory and churchill, declined. when lord selkirk took hold of the hudson's bay there was a change. once a feud has begun, i know very well it is impossible to apportion the blame each side deserves. whether selkirk timed his acts of aggression during the american war of - , when the route of the nor'-westers was rendered unsafe--who can say? whether he brought colonists into the very heart of the disputed territory for the sake of the colonists, or to be drilled into an army of defense for the hudson's bay company--who can say? whether he induced his company to grant him a vast area of land at the junction of the red and assiniboine rivers--against which a minority of stockholders protested--for the sake of these same colonists, or to hold a strategical point past which north-westers' cargoes must go--who can say? on these subjects, which have been so hotly discussed both inside and outside law courts, without any definite decision that i have ever heard, i refuse to pass judgment. i can but relate events as i saw them and leave to each the right of a personal decision. in , nor'-westers' canoes were to leave ste. anne de beaupré, twenty miles east of quebec, instead of ste. anne on the ottawa, the usual point of departure. we had not our full complement of men. some of the indians and half-breeds had gone northwest overland through the bush to a point on the ottawa river north of chaudière falls, where they were awaiting us, and hamilton, through the courtesy of my uncle, was able to come with us in our boats as far as lachine. i was never a grasping trader, but i provided myself before setting out with every worthless gew-gaw and flashy trifle that could tempt the native to betray indian secrets. lest these should fail, i added to my stock a dozen as fine new flint-locks as could corrupt the soul of an indian, and without consideration for the enemy's scalp also equipped myself with a box of wicked-looking hunting-knives. these things i placed in square cases and sat upon them when we were in barges, or pillowed my head upon them at night, never losing sight of them except on long portages where indians conveyed our cargo on their backs. a man on a less venturesome quest than mine could hardly have set out with the brigades of canoemen for the north country and not have been thrilled like a lad on first escape from school's leading strings. there we were, twenty craft strong, with clerks, traders, one steersman and eight willowy, copper-skin paddlers in each long birch canoe. no oriental prince could be more gorgeously appareled than these gay _voyageurs_. flaunting red handkerchiefs banded their foreheads and held back the lank, black hair. buckskin smocks, fringed with leather down the sleeves and beaded lavishly in bright colors, were drawn tight at the waist by sashes of flaming crimson, green and blue. in addition to the fringe of leather down the trouser seams, some in our company had little bells fastened from knee to ankle. it was a strange sight to see each of these reckless denizens of forest and plain pause reverently before the chapel of _la bonne sainte anne_, cross himself, invoke her protection on the voyage and drop some offering in the treasury box before hurrying to his place in the canoe. one indian left the miniature of a carved boat in the hands of the priest at the porch. it was his votive gift to the saint and may be seen there to this day. as we were embarking i noticed eric had not come down and the canoes were already gliding about the wharf awaiting the head steersman's signal. i had last seen him on the church steps and ran back from the river to learn the cause of his delay. now hamilton is not a catholic; neither is he a protestant; but i would not have good people ascribe his misfortunes to this lack of creed, for a trader in the far north loses denominational distinctions and a better man i have never known. what, then, was my surprise to meet him face to face coming out of the chapel with tears coursing down his cheeks and floor-dust thick upon his knees? women know what to do and say in such a case. a man must be dumb, or blunder; so i could but link my arm through his and lead him silently down to my own canoe. a single wave of the chief steersman's hand, and out swept the paddles in a perfect harmony of motion. then someone struck up a _voyageurs'_ ballad and the canoemen unconsciously kept time with the beat of the song. the valley seemed filled with the voices of those deep-chested, strong singers, and the chimes of ste. anne clashed out a last sweet farewell. "cheer up, old man!" said i to eric, who was sitting with face buried in his hands. "cheer up! do you hear the bells? it's a god-speed for you!" chapter v civilization's veneer rubs off my uncle accompanied our flotilla as far as lachine and occupied a place in my division of canoes. many were the admonitions he launched out like thunderbolts whenever his craft and mine chanced to glide abreast. "if you lay hands on that skunk," he had said, the malodorous epithet being his designation for louis laplante, "if you lay hands on that skunk, don't be a simpleton. skin him, sir, by the lord, skin him! let him play the ostrich act! keep your own counsel and work him for all you're worth! let him play his deceitful game! by jove! give the villain rope enough to hang himself! gain your end! afterwards forget and forgive if you like; but, by the lord, remember and don't ignore the fact, that repentance can't turn a skunk into an innocent, pussy cat!" and so mr. jack mackenzie continued to warn me all the way from quebec to montreal, mixing his metaphors as topers mix drinks. but i had long since learned not to remonstrate against these outbursts of explosive eloquence--not though all the canons of laval literati should be outraged. "what, sir?" he had roared out when i, in full conceit of new knowledge, had audaciously ventured to pull him up, once in my student days. "what, sir? don't talk to me of your book-fangled balderdash! is language for the use of man, or man for the use of language?" and he quoted from hamlet's soliloquy in a way that set me packing my pedant lore in the unused lumber-room of brain lobes. and so, i say, mr. jack mackenzie continued to pour instructions into my ear for the venturesome life on which i had entered. "the lad's a fool, only a fool," he said, still harping on louis, "and mind you answer the fool according to his folly!" "most men are fools first, and then knaves, knaves because they have been fools," i returned to my uncle, "and i fancy laplante has graduated from the fool stage by this time, and is a full diploma knave!" "that's all true," he retorted, "but don't you forget there's always fool enough left in the knave to give you your opportunity, if you're not a fool. joint in the armor, lad! use your cutlass there." apart from the peppery discourses of my kinsman, i remember very little of the trip up the st. lawrence from ste. anne to lachine with eric sitting dazed and silent opposite me. we, of course, followed the river channel between the island of orleans and the north shore; and whenever our boats drew near the mainland, came whiffs of crisp, frosty air from the dank ravines, where snow patches yet lay in the shadow. then the fleet would sidle towards the island and there would be the fresh, spring odor of damp, uncovered mold, with a vague suggestiveness of violets and may-flowers and ferns bursting with a rush through the black clods. the purple folds of the mountains, with their wavy outlines fading in the haze of distance, lay on the north as they lie to-day; and everywhere on the hills were the white cots of _habitant_ hamlets with chapel spires pointing above tree-tops. at the western end of the island, where boats sheer out into mid-current, came the dull, heavy roar of the cataract and above the north shore rose great, billowy clouds of foam. with a sweep of our paddles, we were opposite a cleft in the vertical rock and saw the shimmering, fleecy waters of montmorency leap over the dizzy precipice churning up from their own whirling depths and bound out to the river like a panther after prey. now the isle of orleans was vanishing on our rear and the bold heights of point levis had loomed up to the fore; and now we had poked our prows to the right and the sluggish, muddy tide of the st. charles lapped our canoes, while a forest of masts and yard-arms and flapping sails arose from the harbor of quebec city. the great walls of modern quebec did not then exist; but the rude fortifications, that sloped down from the lofty citadel on cape diamond and engirt the whole city on the hillside, seemed imposing enough to us in those days. it was late in the afternoon when we passed. the sunlight struck across the st. charles, brightening the dull, gray stone of walls and cathedrals and convents, turning every window on the west to fire and transforming a multitude of towers and turrets and minarets to glittering gold. small wonder, indeed, that all our rough tripmen stopped paddling and with eyes on the spire of notre dame des victoires muttered prayers for a prosperous voyage. for some reason or other, i found my own hat off. so was mr. jack mackenzie's, so was eric hamilton's. then the _voyageurs_ fell to work again. the canoes spread out. we rounded cape diamond and the lengthening shadow of the high peak darkened the river before us. always the broad st. lawrence seemed to be winding from headland to headland among the purple hills, in sunlight a mirror between shadowy, forest banks, at night, molten silver in the moon-track. afternoon slipped into night and night to morning, and each hour of daylight presented some new panorama of forests and hills and torrents. here the river widened into a lake. there the lake narrowed to rapids; and so we came to lachine--la chine, named in ridicule of the gallant explorer, la salle, who thought these vast waterways would surely lead him to china. at lachine, mr. jack mackenzie, with much brusque bluster to conceal his longings for the life he was too old to follow and many cynical injunctions about "skinning the skunk" and "knocking the head off anything that stood in my way" and "always profiting from the follies of other men"--"mind, have none yourself,"--parted from us. here, too, eric gripped my hand a tense, wordless farewell and left our party for the hudson's bay brigade under colin robertson. it has always been a mystery to me why our rivals sent that brigade to athabasca by way of lachine instead of hudson bay, which would have been two thousand miles nearer. we nor'-westers went all the way to and from montreal, solely because that was our only point of access to the sea; but the hudson's bay people had their own hudson bay for a starting place. why, in their slavish imitation of the methods, which brought us success, they also adopted our disadvantages, i could never understand. birch canoes and good tripmen could, of course, as the hudson's bay men say, be most easily obtained in quebec; but with a good organizer, the same could have been gathered up two thousand miles nearer york factory, on hudson bay. indeed, i have often thought the sole purpose of that expedition was to get nor'-westers' methods by employing discarded nor'-westers as trappers and _voyageurs_. colin robertson, the leader, had himself been a nor'-wester; and all the men with him except eric hamilton were renegades, "turn-coat traders," as we called them. but i must not be unjust; for neither company could possibly exceed the other in its zeal to entice away old trappers, who would reveal opponents' secrets. acting on my uncle's advice, i made shift to pick up a few crumbs of valuable information. had the hudson's bay known, i suppose they would have called me a spy. that was the name i gave any of them who might try such tricks with me. the general assembly of the north-west partners was to meet at fort william, at the head of lake superior. i learned that robertson's brigade were anxious to slip past our headquarters at fort william before the meeting and would set out that very day. i also heard they had sent forward a messenger to notify the hudson's bay governor at fort douglas of their brigade's coming. almost before i realized it, we were speeding up the ottawa, past a second and third and fourth ste. anne's; for she is the _voyageurs'_ patron saint and her name dots canada's map like ink-blots on a boy's copybook. wherever a ste. anne's is now found, there has the _voyageur_ of long ago passed and repassed. in places the surface of the river, gliding to meet us, became oily, almost glassy, as if the wave-current ran too fast to ripple out to the banks. then little eddies began whirling in the corrugated water and our paddlers with labored breath bent hard to their task. by such signs i learned to know when we were stemming the tide of some raging waterfall, or swift rapid. there would follow quick disembarking, hurried portages over land through a tangle of forest, or up slippery, damp rocks, a noisy launching far above the torrent and swifter progress when the birch canoes touched water again. such was the tireless pace, which made north-west _voyageurs_ famous. such was the work the great _bourgeois_ exacted of their men. a liberal supply of rum, when stoppages were made, and of bread and meat for each meal--better fare than was usually given by the trading companies--did much to encourage the tripmen. each man was doing his utmost to out-distance the bold rivals following by our route. the _bourgeois_ were to meet at fort william early in june. at all hazards we were determined to notify our company of the enemy's invading flotilla; and without margin for accidents we had but a month to cross half a continent. at nightfall the fourth day from the shrine, after a tiresome nine-mile traverse past the chaudière falls of the ottawa, glittering camp-fires on the river bank ahead showed where a fresh relay of canoemen awaited us. they were immediately taken into the different crews and night-shifts of paddlers put to work. it was quite dark, when the new hands joined us; but in the moonlight, as the chief steersman told off the men by name, i watched each tawny figure step quickly to his place in the canoes, with that gliding indian motion, which scarcely rocked the light craft. there came to my crew little fellow, a short, thick-set man, with a grinning, good-natured face, who--despite his size--would solemnly assure people he was equal in force to the sun. with him was la robe noire, of grave aspect and few words, mighty in stature and shoulder power. there were five or six others, whose names in the clangor of voices i did not hear. of these, one was a tall, lithe, swift-moving man, whose cunning eyes seemed to gleam with the malice of a serpent. this canoeman silently twisted into sleeping posture directly behind me. the signal was given, and we were in mid-stream again. wrapping my blanket about me, half propped by a bale of stuff and breathing deep of the clear air with frequent resinous whiffs from the forest i drowsed off. the swish of waters rushing past and the roar of torrents, which i had seen and heard during the day, still sounded in my ears. the sigh of the night-wind through the forest came like the lonely moan of a far-distant sea, and i was sleepily half conscious that cedars, pines and cliffs were engaged in a mad race past the sides of the canoe. a bed in which one may not stretch at random is not comfortable. certainly my cramped limbs must have caused bad dreams. a dozen times i could have sworn the indian behind me had turned into a snake and was winding round my chest in tight, smothering coils. starting up, i would shake the weight off. once i suddenly opened my eyes to find blanket thrown aside and pistol belt unstrapped. lying back eased, i was dozing again when i distinctly felt a hand crawl stealthily round the pack on which i was pillowed and steal towards the dagger handle in the loosened belt. i struck at it viciously only to bruise my fist on my dagger. now wide awake, i turned angrily towards the indian. not a muscle of the still figure had changed from the attitude taken when he came into the canoe. the man was not asleep, but reclined in stolid oblivion of my existence. his head was thrown back and the steely, unflinching eyes were fixed on the stars. "it may not have been you, my scowling sachem," said i to myself, "but snakes have fangs. henceforth i'll take good care you're not at my back." i slept no more that night. next day i asked the fellow his name and he poured out such a jumbled mouthful of quick-spoken, indian syllables, i was not a whit the wiser. i told him sharply he was to be tom jones on my boat, at which he gave an evil leer. without stay we still pushed forward. the arrowy pace was merciless to red men and white; but that was the kind of service the great north-west company always demanded. some ten miles from the outlet of lake nipissangue (nipissing) foul weather threatened delay. the _bourgeois_ were for proceeding at any risk; but as the thunder-clouds grew blacker and the wind more violent, the head steersman lost his temper and grounded his canoe on the sands at _point à la croix_. springing ashore he flung down his pole and refused to go on. "sacredie!" he screamed, first pointing to the gathering storm and then to the crosses that marked the fate of other foolhardy _voyageurs_, "allez si vous voulez! pour moi je n'irai pas; ne voyez pas le danger!" a hurricane of wind, snapping the great oaks as a chopper breaks kindling wood, enforced his words. canoes were at once beached and tarpaulins drawn over the bales of provisions. the men struggled to hoist a tent; but gusts of wind tossed the canvas above their heads, and before the pegs were driven a great wall of rain-drift drenched every one to the skin. by sundown the storm had gone southeast and we unrighteously consoled ourselves that it would probably disorganize the hudson's bay brigade as much as it had ours. plainly, we were there for the night. _point à la croix_ is too dangerous a spot for navigation after dark. with much patience we kindled the soaked underbrush and finally got a pile of logs roaring in the woods and gathered round the fire. the glare in the sky attracted the lake tribes from their lodges. indians, half-breeds and shaggy-haired whites--degenerate traders, who had lost all taste for civilization and retired with their native wives after the fashion of the north country--came from the nipissangue encampments and joined our motley throng. presently the natives drew off to a fire by themselves, where there would be no white-man's restraint. they had either begged or stolen traders' rum, and after the hard trip from ste. anne, were eager for one of their mad _boissons_--a drinking-bout interspersed with jigs and fights. stretched before our camp, i watched the grotesque figures leaping and dancing between the firelight and the dusky woods like forest demons. with the leaves rustling overhead, the water laving the pebbles on the shore, and the washed pine air stimulating one's blood like an intoxicant, i began wondering how many years of solitary life it would take to wear through civilization's veneer and leave one content in the lodges of forest wilds. gradually i became aware of my sulky canoeman's presence on the other side of the camp-fire. the man had not joined the revels of the other _voyageurs_ but sat on his feet, oriental style, gazing as intently at the flames as if spellbound by some fire-spirit. "what's wrong with that fellow, anyhow?" i asked a veteran trader, who was taking last pulls at a smoked-out pipe. "sick--home-sick," was the laconic reply. "you'd think he was near enough nature here to feel at home! where's his tribe?" "it ain't his tribe he wants," explained the trader. "what, then?" i inquired. "his wife, he's mad after her," and the trader took the pipe from his teeth. "faugh!" i laughed. "the idea of an indian sentimental and love-sick for some fat lump of a squaw! come! come! am i to believe that?" "don't matter whether you do, or not," returned the trader. "it's a fact. his wife's a sioux chief's daughter. she went north with a gang of half-breeds and hunters last month; and he's been fractious crazy ever since." "what's his name?" i called, as my informant vanished behind the tent flaps. again that mouthful of indian syllables, unintelligible and unspeakable for me was tumbled forth. then i turned to the fantastic figures carousing around the other camp fire. one form, in particular, i seemed to distinguish from the others. he was gathering the indians in line for some native dance and had an easy, rakish sort of grace, quite different from the serpentine motions of the redskins. by a sudden turn, his profile was thrown against the fire and i saw that he wore a pointed beard. he was no indian; and like a flash came one of those strange, reasonless intuitions, which precede, or proceed from, the slow motions of the mind. was this the _avant-courier_ of the hudson's bay, delayed, like ourselves, by the storm? i had hardly spelled out my own suspicion, when to the measured beatings of the tom-tom, gradually becoming faster, and with a low, weird, tuneless chant, like the voices of the forest, the indians began to tread a mazy, winding pace, which my slow eyes could not follow, but which in a strange way brought up memories of snaky convolutions about the naked body of some egyptian serpent-charmer. the drums beat faster. the suppressed voices were breaking in shrill, wild, exultant strains, and the measured tread had quickened from a walk to a run and from a swaying run to a swift, labyrinthine pace, which has no name in english, and which i can only liken to the wiggling of a green thing under leafy covert. the coiling and circling and winding of the dancers became bewildering, and in the centre, laughing, shouting, tossing up his arms and gesticulating like a maniac, was the white man with the pointed beard. then the performers broke from their places and gave themselves with utter abandon to the wild impulses of wild natures in a wild world; and there was such a scene of uncurbed, animal hilarity as i never dreamed possible. savage, furious, almost ferocious like the frisking of a pack of wolves, that at any time may fall upon and destroy a weaker one, the boisterous antics of these children of the forest fascinated me. filled with the curiosity that lures many a trader to his undoing, i rose and went across to the thronging, shouting, shadowy figures. a man darted out of the woods full tilt against me. 'twas he of the pointed beard, my _suspect_ of the hudson's bay company. quick as thought i thrust out my foot and tripped him full length on the ground. the light fell on his upturned face. it was louis laplante, that past-master in the art of diplomatic deception. he snarled out something angrily and came to himself in sitting posture. then he recognized me. "_mon dieu!_" he muttered beneath his breath, momentarily surprised into a betrayal of astonishment. "you, gillespie?" he called out, at once regaining himself and assuming his usual nonchalance. "pardon, my solemncholy! i took you for a tree." "granted, your impudence," said i, ignoring the slight but paying him back in kind. i was determined to follow my uncle's advice and play the rascal at his own game. "help you up?" said i, as pleasantly as i could, extending my hand to give him a lift; and i felt his palm hot and his arm tremble. then, i knew that louis was drunk and this was the fool's joint in the knave's armor, on which mr. jack mackenzie bade me use my weapons. "tra-la!" he answered with mincing insult. "tra-la, old tombstone! good-by, my mausoleum! au revoir, old death's-head! adieu, grave skull!" with an absurdly elaborate bow, he reeled back among the dancers. "get up, comrade," i urged, rushing into the tent, where the old trader i had questioned about my canoeman was now snoring. "get up, man," and i shook him. "there's a hudson's bay spy!" "spy," he shouted, throwing aside the moose-skin coverlet. "spy! who?" "it's louis laplante, of quebec." "louis laplante!" reiterated the trader. "a frenchman employed by the hudson's bay! laplante, a trapper, with them! the scoundrel!" and he ground out oaths that boded ill for louis. "hold on!" i exclaimed, jerking him back. he was for dashing on laplante with a cudgel. "he's playing the trapper game with the lake tribes." "i'll trapper him," vowed the trader. "how do you know he's a spy?" "i don't _know_, really know," i began, clumsily conscious that i had no proof for my suspicions, "but it strikes me we'd better not examine this sort of suspect at too long range. if we're wrong, we can let him go." "bag him, eh?" queried the trader. "that's it," i assented. "he's a hard one to bag." "but he's drunk." "drunk, oh! drunk is he?" laughed the man. "he'll be drunker," and the trader began rummaging through bales of stuff with a noise of bottles knocking together. he was humming in a low tone, like a grimalkin purring after a full meal of mice-- "rum for indians, when they come, rum for the beggars, when they go, that's the trick my grizzled lads to catch the cash and snare the foe." "what's your plan?" i asked with a vague feeling the trader had some shady purpose in mind. "squeamish? eh? you'll get over that, boy. i'll trap your trapper and spy your spy, and nor'-wester your h. b. c.! you come down to the sand between the forest and the beach in about an hour and i'll have news for you," and he brushed past me with his arms full of something i could not see in the half-light. then, as a trader, began my first compromise with conscience, and the enmity which i thereby aroused afterwards punished me for that night's work. i knew very well my comrade, with the rough-and-ready methods of traders, had gone out to do what was not right; and i hung back in the tent, balancing the end against the means, our deeds against louis' perfidy, and nor'-westers' interests against those of the hudson's bay. it is not pleasant to recall what was done between the cedars and the shore. i do not attempt to justify our conduct. does the physician justify medical experiments on the criminal, or the sacrificial priest the driving of the scape-goat into the wilderness? suffice it to say, when i went down to the shore, louis laplante was sitting in the midst of empty drinking-flasks, and the wily, old nor'-wester was tempting the silly boy to take more by drinking his health with fresh bottles. but while louis laplante gulped down his rum, becoming drunker and more communicative, the tempter threw glass after glass over his shoulder and remained sober. the nor'-wester motioned me to keep behind the frenchman and i heard his drunken lips mumbling my own name. "rufush--prig--stuck-up prig--serve him tam right! hamilton's--sh--sh--prig too--sho's his wife. serve 'em all tam right!" "ask him where she is," i whispered over his head. "where's the gal?" demanded the trader, shoving more liquor over to louis. "shioux squaw--devil's wife--how you say it in english? lah grawnd deeahble," and he mouthed over our mispronunciation of his own tongue "joke, isn't it?" he went on. "that wax-face prig--slave to shioux squaw. rufush--a fool. stuffed him to hish--neck. made him believe shmall-pox was hamilton's wife. i mean, hamilton's wife was shmall-pox. calf bellowed with fright--ran home--came back--'tamme,' i say, 'there he come again' 'shmall-pox in that grave,' say i. joke--ain't it?" and he stopped to drain off another pint of rum. "biggest joke out of jail," said the nor'-wester dryly, with meaning which louis did not grasp. "ask him where she is," i whispered, "quick! he's going to sleep." for louis wiped his beard on his sleeve and lay back hopelessly drunk. "here you, waken up," commanded the nor'-wester, kicking him and shaking him roughly. "where's the gal?" "shioux--_pays d'en haut_," drawled the youth. "take off your boots! don't wear boots. _pays d'en haut_--moccasins--softer," and he rolled over in a sodden sleep, which defied all our efforts to shake him into consciousness. "is that true?" asked the nor'-wester, standing above the drunk man and speaking across to me. "is that true about the indian kidnapping a woman?" "true--too terribly true," i whispered back. "i'd like to boot him into the next world," said the trader, looking down at louis in a manner that might have alarmed that youth for his safety. "i've bagged h. b. dispatches anyway," he added with satisfaction. "what'll we do with him?" i asked aimlessly. "if he had anything to do with the stealing of hamilton's wife----" "he hadn't," interrupted the trader. "'twas diable did that, so laplante says." "then what shall we do with him?" "do--with--him," slowly repeated the nor'-wester in a low, vibrating voice. "do--with--him?" and again i felt a vague shudder of apprehension at this silent, uncompromising man's purpose. the camp fires were dead. not a sound came from the men in the woods and there was a gray light on the water with a vague stirring of birds through the foliage overhead. now i would not have any man judge us by the canons of civilization. under the ancient rule of the fur companies over the wilds of the north, 'twas bullets and blades put the fear of the lord in evil hearts. as we stooped to gather up the tell-tale flasks, the drunken knave, who had lightly allowed an innocent white woman to go into indian captivity, lay with bared chest not a hand's length from a knife he had thrown down. did the nor'-wester and i hesitate, and look from the man to the dagger, and from the dagger to the man; or is this an evil dream from a black past? miriam, the guiltless, was suffering at his hands; should not he, the guilty, suffer at ours? surely sisera was not more unmistakably delivered into the power of his enemies by the lord than this man; and sisera was discomfited by barak and jael. heber's wife--says the book--drove a tent nail--through the temples--of the sleeping man--and slew him! day was when i thought the old volume recorded too many deeds of bloodshed in the wilderness for the instruction of our refined generation; but i, too, have since lived in the wilderness and learned that soft speech is not the weapon of strong men overmastering savagery. i know the trader and i were thinking the same thoughts and reading each other's thoughts; for we stood silent above the drunk man, neither moving, neither uttering a word. "well?" i finally questioned in a whisper. "well," said he, and he knelt down and picked up the knife. "'twould serve him right." he was speaking in the low, gentle, purring voice he had used in the tent. "'twould serve him jolly right," and he knelt over louis hesitating. my eyes followed his slow, deliberate motions with horror. terror seemed to rob me of the power of speech. i felt my blood freeze with the fear of some impending crime. there was the faintest perceptible fluttering of leaves; and we both started up as if we had been assassins, glancing fearfully into the gloom of the forest. all the woods seemed alive with horrified eyes and whisperings. "stop!" i gasped, "this is madness, the madness of the murderer. what would you do?" and i was trying to knock the knife out of his hand, when among the shadowy green of the foliage, an open space suddenly resolved itself into a human face and there looked out upon us gleaming eyes like those of a crouching panther. "squeamish fool!" muttered the nor'-wester, raising his arm. "stop!" i implored. "we are watched. see!" and i pointed to the face, that as suddenly vanished into blackness. we both leaped into the thicket, pistol in hand, to wreak punishment on the interloper. there was only an indistinct sound as of something receding into the darkness. "don't fire," said i, "'twill alarm the camp." at imminent risk to our own lives, we poked sticks through the thicket and felt for our unseen enemy, but found nothing. "let's go back and peg him out on the sand, where the hudson's bay will see him when they come this way," suggested the nor'-wester, referring to laplante. "yes, or hand-cuff him and take him along prisoner," i added, thinking louis might have more information. but when we stepped back to the beach, there was no louis laplante. "he was too drunk to go himself," said i, aghast at the certainty, which now came home to me, that we had been watched. "i wash my hands of the whole affair," declared the trader, in a state of high indignation, and he strode off to his tent, i, following, with uncomfortable reflections trooping into my mind. compunctions rankled in self-respect. how near we had been to a brutal murder, to crime which makes men shun the perpetrators. civilization's veneer was rubbing off at an alarming rate. this thought stuck, but for obvious reasons was not pursued. also i had learned that the worst and best of outlaws easily justify their acts at the time they commit them; but afterwards--afterwards is a different matter, for the thing is past undoing. i heard the trader snorting out inarticulate disgust as he tumbled into his tent; but i stood above the embers of the camp fire thinking. again i felt with a creepiness, that set all my flesh quaking, felt, rather than saw, those maddening, tiger eyes of the dark foliage watching me. looking up, i found my morose canoeman on the other side of the fire, leaning so close to a tree, he was barely visible in the shadows. thinking himself unseen by me, he wore such an insolent, amused, malicious expression, i knew in an instant, who the interloper had been, and who had carried louis off. before i realized that such an act entails life-long enmity with an indian, i had bounded over the fire and struck him with all my strength full in the face. at that, instead of knifing me as an indian ordinarily would, he broke into hyena shrieks of laughter. he, who has heard that sound, need hear it only once to have the echo ring forever in his ears; and i have heard it oft and know it well. "spy! sneak!" i muttered, rushing upon him. but he sprang back into the forest and vanished. in dodging me, he let fall his fowling-piece, which went off with a bang into the fire. "hulloo! what's wrong out there?" bawled the trader's voice from the tent. "nothing--false alarm!" i called reassuringly. then there caught my eyes what startled me out of all presence of mind. there, reflecting the glare of the firelight was the indian's fowling-piece, richly mounted in burnished silver and chased in the rare design of eric hamilton's family crest. the morose canoeman was le grand diable. * * * * * a few hours later, i was in the thick of a confused re-embarking. le grand diable took a place in another boat; and a fresh hand was assigned to my canoe. of that i was glad; i could sleep sounder and he, safer. the _bourgeois_ complained that too much rum had been given out. "keep a stiffer hand on your men, boy, or they'll ride over your head," one of the chief traders remarked to me. chapter vi a girdle of agates recalled to unravel a ball of yarn, with which kittens have been making cobwebs, has always seemed to me a much easier task than to unknot the tangled skein of confused influences, that trip up our feet at every step in life's path. here was i, who but a month ago had a supreme contempt for guile and a lofty confidence in uprightness and downrightness, transformed into a crafty trader with all the villainous tricks of the bargain-maker at my finger-tips. we had befooled louis into a betrayal of his associates but how much reliance could be placed on that betrayal? had he incriminated diable to save himself? then, why had diable rescued his betrayer? where was louis in hiding? was the sioux wife with her white slave really in the north country, or was she near, and did that explain my morose iroquois' all-night vigils? we had cheated laplante; but had he in turn cheated us? would i be justified in taking diable prisoner, and would my company consent to the demoralization of their crews by such a step? ah, if life were only made up of simple right and simple wrong, instead of half rights and half wrongs indistinguishably mingled, we could all be righteous! if the path to the goal of our chosen desire were only as straight as it is narrow, instead of being dark, mysterious and tortuous, how easily could we attain high ends! i was launched on the life for which i had longed, but strange, shadowy forms like the storm-fiends of sailors' lore, drunkenness, deceit and crime--on whose presence i had not counted--flitted about my ship's masthead. and there was not one guiding star, not one redeeming influence, except the utter freedom to be a man. i was learning, what i suppose everyone learns, that there are things which sap success of its sweets. such were my thoughts, as our canoes sped across the northern end of lake huron, heading for the sault. the nor'-westers had a wonderful way of arousing enthusiastic loyalty among their men. danger fanned this fealty to white-heat. in the face of powerful opposition, the great company frequently accomplished the impossible. with half as large a staff in the service as its rivals boasted, it invaded the hunting-ground of the hudson's bay company, and outrunning all competition, extended fur posts from the heart of the continent to the foot-hills to the rockies, and from the international boundary to the arctic circle. i had thought no crews could make quicker progress than ours from lachine to _point à la croix_; but the short delay during the storm occasioned faster work. more _voyageurs_ were engaged from the nipissangue tribes. as soon as one lot fagged fresh shifts came to the relief. paddles shot out at the rate of modern piston rods, and the waters whirled back like wave-wash in the wake of a clipper. except for briefest stoppages, speed was not relaxed across the whole northern end of those inland seas called the great lakes. with ample space on the lakes, the brigades could spread out and the canoes separated, not halting long enough to come together again till we reached the sault. here, orders were issued for the maintenance of rigid discipline. we camped at a distance from the lodges of local tribes. no grog was given out. camp-fire conviviality was forbidden, and each man kept with his own crew. we remained in camp but one night; and though i searched every tent, i could not find le grand diable. this worried and puzzled me. all night, i lay awake, stretching conscience with doubtful plans to entrap the knave. rising with first dawn-streak, i was surprised to find little fellow and la robe noire, two of my canoemen, setting off for the woods. they had laid a snare--so they explained--and were going to examine it. of late i had grown distrustful of all natives. i suspected these two might be planning desertion; so i went with them. the way led through a dense thicket of ferns half the height of a man. only dim light penetrated the maze of foliage; and i might easily have lost myself, or been decoyed--though these possibilities did not occur to me till we were at least a mile from the beach. little fellow was trotting ahead, la robe noire jogging behind, and both glided through the brake without disturbing a fern branch, while i--after the manner of my race--crunched flags underfoot and stamped down stalks enough to be tracked by keen-eyed indians for a week afterwards. twice i saw little fellow pull up abruptly and look warily through the cedars on one side. once he stooped down and peered among the fern stems. then he silently signaled back to la robe noire, pointed through the undergrowth and ran ahead again without explanation. at first i could see nothing, and regretted being led so far into the woods. i was about to order both indians back to the tent, when little fellow, with face pricked forward and foot raised, as if he feared to set it down--for the fourth time came to a dead stand. now, i, too, heard a rustle, and saw a vague sinuous movement distinctly running abreast of us among the ferns. for a moment, when we stopped, it ceased, then wiggled forward like beast, or serpent in the underbrush. little fellow placed his forefinger on his lips, and we stood noiseless till by the ripple of the green it seemed to scurry away. "what is it, little fellow, a cat?" i asked; but the indian shook his head dubiously and turned to the open where the trap had been set. bending over the snare he uttered an indian word, that i did not understand, but have since heard traders use, so conclude it was one of those exclamations, alien races learn quickest from one another, but which, nevertheless, are not found in dictionaries. the trap had been rifled of game and completely smashed. "wolverine!" muttered the indian, making a sweep of his dagger blade at an imaginary foe. "no wolverine! bad indians!" scarcely had he spoken when la robe noire leaped into the air like a wounded rabbit. an arrow whizzed past my face and glanced within a hair's-breadth of the indian's head. both men were dumb with amazement. such treachery would have been surprising among the barbarous tribes of the athabasca. the sault was the dividing line between canada and the wilderness, between the east and the west, and there were no hostiles within a thousand miles of us. little fellow would have dragged me pell-mell back to the beach, but i needed no persuasion. la robe noire tore ahead with the springs of a hunted lynx. little fellow loyally kept between me and a possible pursuer, and we set off at a hard run. that creature, i fancied, was again coursing along beneath the undergrowth; for the foliage bent and rose as we ran. whether it were man or beast, we were three against one, and could drive it out of hiding. "see here, little fellow!" i cried, "let's hunt that thing out!" and i wheeled about so sharply the chunky little man crashed forward, knocking me off my feet and sending me a man's length farther on. that fall saved my life. a flat spear point hissed through the air above my head and stuck fast in the bark of an elm tree. scrambling up, i promptly let go two or three shots into the fern brake. we scrutinized the underbrush, but there was no sign of human being, except the fern stems broken by my shots. i wrenched the stone spear-head from the tree. it was curiously ornamented with such a multitude of intricate carvings i could not decipher any design. then i discovered that the medley of colors was produced by inlaying the flint with small bits of a bright stone; and the bright stones had been carved into a rude likeness of some birds. "what are these birds, little fellow?" i asked. he fingered them closely, and with bulging eyes muttered back, "l'aigle! l'aigle!" "eagles, are they?" i returned, stupidly missing the possible meaning of his suppressed excitement. "and the stone?" "agate, _monsieur_." agate! agate! what picture did agate call back to my mind? a big squaw, with malicious eyes and gaping upper lip and girdle of agates, watching louis laplante and myself at the encampment in the gorge. "little fellow!" i shouted, not suppressing my excitement. "who is le grand diable's wife?" and the indian answered in a low voice, with a face that showed me he had already penetrated my discovery, "the daughter of l'aigle, chief of the sioux." then i knew for whom those missiles had been intended and from whom they had come. it was a clever piece of rascality. had the assassin succeeded, punishment would have fallen on my indians. chapter vii the lords of the north in council beyond the sault, the fascinations of the west beckoned like a siren. vast waterways, where a dozen european kingdoms could be dropped into one lake without raising a sand-bar, seemed to sweep on forever and call with the voice of enchantress to the very ends of the earth. with the purple recesses of the shore on one side and the ocean-expanse of lake superior on the other, all the charms of clean, fresh freedom were unveiling themselves to me and my blood began to quicken with that fevered delight, which old lands are pleased to call western enthusiasm. lake huron, with its greenish-blue, shallow, placid waters and calm, sloping shores, seemed typical of the even, easy life i had left in the east. how those choppy, blustering, little waves resembled the jealousies and bickerings and bargainings of the east; but when one came to lake superior, with its great ocean billows and slumbering, giant rocks and cold, dark, fathomless depths, there was a new life in a hard, rugged, roomy, new world. we hugged close to the north coast; and the numerous rocky islands to our left stood guard like a wall of adamant between us and the heavy surf that flung against the barrier. we were rapidly approaching the headquarters of our company. when south-bound brigades, with prisoners in hand-cuffs, began to meet us, i judged we were near the habitation of man. "bad men?" i asked little fellow, pointing to the prisoners, as our crews exchanged rousing cheers with the nor'-westers now bound for montreal. "_non, monsieur!_ not all bad men," and the indian gave his shoulders an expressive shrug, "_les traitres anglais_." to the french _voyageur_, english meant the hudson's bay people. the answer set me wondering to what pass things had come between the two great companies that they were shipping each other's traders gratuitously out of the country. i recalled the talk at the quebec club about governor mcdonell of the hudson's bay trying to expel nor'-westers and concluded our people could play their own game against the commander of red river. we arrived in fort william at sundown, and a flag was flying above the courtyard. "is that in our honor?" i asked a clerk of the party. "not much it is," he laughed. "we under-strappers aren't oppressed with honors! it warns the indians there's no trade one day out of seven." "is this sunday?" i suddenly recollected as far as we were concerned the past month had been entirely composed of week-days. "out of your reckoning already?" asked the clerk with surprise. "wonder how you'll feel when you've had ten years of it." situated on the river bank, near the site of an old french post, fort william was a typical traders' stronghold. wooden palisades twenty feet high ran round the whole fort and the inner court enclosed at least two hundred square yards. heavily built block-houses with guns poking through window slits gave a military air to the trading post. the block-houses were apparently to repel attack from the rear and the face of the fort commanded the river. stores, halls, warehouses and living apartments for an army of clerks, were banked against the walls, and the main building with its spacious assembly-room stood conspicuous in the centre of the enclosure. as we entered the courtyard, one of the chief traders was perched on a mortar in the gate. the little magnate condescended never a smile of welcome till the _bourgeois_ came up. then he fawned loudly over the chiefs and conducted them with noisy ostentation to the main hall. indians and half-breed _voyageurs_ quickly dispersed among the wigwams outside the pickets, while clerks and traders hurried to the broad-raftered dining-hall. fatigued from the trip, i took little notice of the vociferous interchange of news in passage-way and over door-steps. i remember, after supper i was strolling about the courtyard, surveying the buildings, when at the door of a sort of barracks where residents of the fort lived, i caught sight of the most grateful object my eye had lighted upon since leaving quebec. it was a tin basin with a large bar of soap--actual soap. there must still have been some vestige of civilization in my nature, for after a delightful half-hour's intimate acquaintance with that soap, i came round to the groups of men rehabilitated in self-respect. "athabasca, rocky mountain and saskatchewan brigades here to-morrow," remarked a boyish looking nor'-wester, with a mannish beard on his face. involuntarily i put my hand to my chin and found a bristling growth there. that was a land where young men could become suddenly very old; and many a trader has discovered other signs of age than a beard on his face when he first looked at a mirror after life in the _pays d'en haut_. "i say," blurted out another young clerk. "there's a man here from red river, one of the selkirk settlers. he's come with word if we'll supply the boats, lots of the colonists are ready to dig out. general assembly's going to consider that to-morrow." "oh! hang the old assembly if it ships that man out! he's got a pretty daughter, perfect beauty, and she's here with him!" exclaimed the lad with the mannish beard. "go to, thou light-head!" declared the other youth, with the air of an elder in israel. "go to! you paraded beneath her window for an hour to-day and she never once laid eyes on you." all the men laughed. "hang it!" said the first speaker. "we don't display our little amours----" "no," broke in the other, "we just display our little contours and get snubbed, eh?" the bearded youth flushed at the sally of laughter. "hang it!" he answered, pulling fiercely at his moustache. "she is a bit of statuary, so she is, as cold as marble. but there is no law against looking at a pretty bit of statuary, when it frames itself in a window in this wilderness." to which, every man of the crowd said a hearty amen; and i walked off to stretch myself full length on a bench, resolving to have out a mirror from my packing case and get rid of those bristles that offended my chin. the men began to disperse to their quarters. the tardy twilight of the long summer evenings, peculiar to the far north, was gathering in the courtyard. as the night-wind sighed past, i felt the velvet caress of warm june air on my face and memory reverted to the innocent boyhood days of laval. how far away those days seemed! yet it was not so long ago. surely it is knowledge, not time, that ages one, knowledge, that takes away the trusting innocence resulting from ignorance and gives in its place the distrustful innocence resulting from wisdom. i thought of the temptations that had come to me in the few short weeks i had been adrift, and how feebly i had resisted them. i asked myself if there were not in the moral compass of men, who wander by land, some guiding star, as there is for those who wander over sea. i gazed high above the sloping roofs for some sign of moon, or star. the sky was darkling and overcast; but in lowering my eyes from heaven to earth, i saw what i had missed before--a fair, white face framed in a window above the stoop directly opposite my bench. the face seemed to have a background of gold; for a wonderful mass of wavy hair clustered down from the blue-veined brow to the bit of white throat visible, where a gauzy piece of neck wear had been loosened. evidently, this was the statuary described by the whiskered youth. but the statuary breathed. a bloom of living apple-blossoms was on the cheeks. the brows were black and arched. the very pose of the head was arch, and in the lips was a suggestion of archery, too,--cupid's archery, though the upper lip was drawn almost too tight for the bow beneath to discharge the little god's shaft. why did i do it? i do not know. ask the young nor'-wester, who had worn a path beneath the selfsame window that very day, or the hosts of young men, who are still wearing paths beneath windows to this very day. i coughed and sat bolt upright on the bench with unnecessarily loud intimations of my presence. the fringe of black lashes did not even lift. i rose and with great show of indifference paraded solemnly five times past that window; but, in spite of my pompous indifference, by a sort of side-signalling, i learned that the owner of the heavy lashes was unaware of my existence. thereupon, i sat down again. it _was_ a bit of statuary and a very pretty bit of statuary. as the youth said, there was no law against looking at a bit of statuary in this wilderness, and as the statuary did not know i was looking at it, i sat back to take my fill of that vision framed in the open window. the statuary, unknown to itself, had full meed of revenge; for it presently brought such a flood of longing to my heart, longings, not for this face, but for what this face represented--the innocence and love and purity of home, that i bowed dejectedly forward with moist eyes gazing at the ground. "hullo!" whispered a deep voice in my ear. "are you mooning after the little statue already?" when i looked up, the man had passed, but the head in the window was leaning out and a pair of swimming, lustrous, gray eyes were gazing forward in a way that made me dizzy. "ah," they said in a language that needed no speaking, "there are two of us, very, very home-sick." "the guiding star for my moral compass," said i, under my breath. then the statue in a live fashion suddenly drew back into the dark room. the window-shutter flung to, with a bang, and my vision was gone. i left the bench, made a shake-down on one of the store counters, and knew nothing more till the noise of brigades from the far north aroused the fort at an early hour monday morning. the arrival of the athabasca traders was the signal for tremendous activity. an army returning from victory could not have been received with greater acclaim. _bourgeois_ and clerks tumbled promiscuously from every nook in the fort and rushing half-dressed towards the gates shouted welcome to the men, who had come from the outposts of the known world. they were a shaggy, ragged-looking rabble, those traders from mountain fastnesses and the arctic circle. with long white hair, hatless some of them, with beards like oriental patriarchs, and dressed entirely in skins of the chase, from fringed coats to gorgeous moccasins, the unkempt monarchs of northern realms had the imperious bearing of princes. "is it you, really you, looking as old as your great grandfather? by gad! so it is," came from one quondam friend. "powers above!" ejaculated another onlooker, "see that old father abraham! it's tait! as you live, it's tait! and he only went to the athabasca ten years ago. he was thirty then, and now he's a hundred!" "that's wilson," says another. "looks thin, doesn't he? slim fare! he's the only man from great slave lake that escaped being a meal for the crees,--year of the famine; and they hadn't time to pick his bones!" a running fire of such comments went along the spectators lining each side of the path. there was a sad side to the clamorous welcomes and handshakes and surprised recognitions. had not these men gone north young and full of hope, as i was going? now, news of the feud with the hudson's bay brought them out old before their time and more like the natives with whom they had traded than the white race they had left. here and there, strong men would fall in each other's arms and embrace like school-girls, covering their emotion with rounded oaths instead of terms of endearment. all day the confusion of unloading boats continued. the dull tread of moccasined feet as indians carried pack after pack from river bank to the fort, was ceaseless. faster than the clerks could sort the furs great bundles were heaped on the floor. by noon, warehouses were crammed from basement to attic. ermine taken in mid-winter, when the fur was spotlessly white, but for the jet tail-tip, otter cut so deftly scarcely a tuft of fur had been wasted along the opened seam, silver fox, which had made the fortune of some lucky hunter--these and other rare furs, that were to minister to the luxury of kings, passed from tawny carriers to sorters. elsewhere, coarse furs, obtained at greater risk, but owing to the abundance of big game, less valuable for the hunter, were sorted and valued. with a reckless underestimate of the beaver-skin, their unit of currency, indians hung over counters bartering away the season's hunt. i frankly acknowledge the company's clerks on such occasions could do a rushing business selling tawdry stuff at fabulous prices. meanwhile, in the main hall, the _bourgeois_, or partners, of the great north-west company were holding their annual general assembly behind closed doors. clerks lowered their voices when they passed that room, and well they might; for the rulers inside held despotic sway over a domain as large as europe. and what were they decreeing? who can tell? the archives of the great fur companies are as jealously guarded as diplomatic documents, and more remarkable for what they omit than what they state. was the policy, that ended so tragically a year afterwards, adopted at this meeting? great corporations have a fashion of keeping their mouths and their council doors tight shut and of leaving the public to infer that catastrophes come causeless. however that may be, i know that duncan cameron, a fiery highlander and one of the keenest men in the north-west service, suddenly flung out of the assembly room with a pleased, determined look on his ruddy face. "are ye rufus gillespie?" he asked. "that's my name, sir." "then buckle on y'r armor, lad; for ye'll see the thick of the fight. you're appointed to my department at red river." and he left us. "lucky dog! i envy you! there'll be rare sport between cameron and mcdonell, when the two forts up in red river begin to talk back to each other," exclaimed a fort william man to me. "are you gillespie?" asked a low, mellow, musical voice by my side. i turned to face a tall, dark, wiry man, with the swarthy complexion and intensely black eyes of one having strains of native blood. among the _voyageurs_, i had become accustomed to the soft-spoken, melodious speech that betrays indian parentage; and i believe if i were to encounter a descendant of the red race in china, or among the latin peoples of southern europe, i could recognize indian blood by that rhythmic trick of the native tongue. "i'm gillespie," i answered my keen-eyed questioner. "who are you?" "cuthbert grant, warden of the plains and leader of the _bois-brulés_," was his terse response. "you're coming to our department at fort gibraltar, and i want you to give father holland a place in your canoes to come north with us. he's on his way to the missouri." at that instant duncan cameron came up to grant and muttered something. both men at once went back to the council hall of the general assembly. i heard the courtyard gossips vowing that the hudson's bay would cease its aggressions, now that cameron and cuthbert grant were to lead the nor'-westers; but i made no inquiry. next to keeping his own counsel and giving credence to no man, the fur trader learns to gain information only with ears and eyes, and to ask no questions. the scurrying turmoil in the fort lasted all day. at dusk, natives were expelled from the stockades and work stopped. grand was the foregathering around the supper table of the great dining hall that night. _bourgeois_, clerks and traders from afar, explorers, from the four corners of the earth--assembled four hundred strong, buoyant and unrestrained, enthusiastically loyal to the company, and tingling with hilarious fellowship over this, the first reunion for twenty years. though their manner and clothing be uncouth, men who have passed a lifetime exploring northern wilds have that to say, which is worth hearing. so the feast was prolonged till candles sputtered low and pitch-pine fagots flared out. indeed, before the gathering broke up, flagons as well as candles had to be renewed. lanterns swung from the black rafters of the ceiling. tallow candles stood in solemn rows down the centre of each table, showing that men, not women, had prepared the banquet. stuck in iron brackets against the walls were pine torches, that had been dipped in some resinous mixture and now flamed brightly with a smell not unlike incense. tables lined the four walls of the hall and ran in the form of a cross athwart the middle of the room. backless benches were on both sides of every table. at the end, chairs were placed, the seats of honor for famous _bourgeois_. british flags had been draped across windows and colored bunting hung from rafter to rafter. "ah, mon! is no this fine? this is worth living for! this is the company to serve!" duncan cameron exclaimed as he sank into one of the chairs at the head of the centre table. the scotchman's heart softened before those platters of venison and wild fowl, and he almost broke into geniality. "here, gillespie, to my right," he called, motioning me to the edge of the bench at his elbow. "here, grant, opposite gillespie! aye! an' is that you, father holland?" he cried to the stout, jovial priest, with shining brow and cheeks wrinkling in laughter, who followed grant. "there's a place o' honor for men like you, sir. here!" and he gave the priest a chair beside himself. the _bourgeois_ seated, there was a scramble for the benches. then the whole company with great zest and much noisy talk fell upon the viands with a will. "why, cameron," began a northern winterer a few places below me, "it's taken me three months fast travelling to come from mckenzie river to fort william. by jove! sir, 'twas cold enough to freeze your words solid as you spoke them, when we left great slave lake. i'll bet if you men were up there now, you'd hear my voice thawing out and yelling get-epp to my huskies, and my huskies yelping back! used a dog train, whole of march. tied myself up in bag of buffalo robes at night and made the huskies lie across it to keep me from freezing. got so hot, every pore in my body was a spouting fountain, and in the morning that moisture would freeze my buckskin stiff. couldn't stand that; so i tried sleeping with my head out of the bag and froze my nose six nights out of seven." the unfortunate nose corroborated his evidence. "ice was sloppy on the saskatchewan, and i had to use pack-horses and take the trail. i was trusting to get provisions at souris. you can imagine, then, how we felt towards the hudson's bays when we found they'd plundered our fort. we were without a bite for two days. why, we took half a dozen hudson's bays in our quarters up north last winter, and saved them from starvation; and here we were, starving, that they might plunder and rob. i'm with you, sir! i'm with you to the hilt against the thieves! there's a time for peace and there's a time for war, and i say this is a very good time for war!" "here's confusion to the old h. b. c's! confusion, short life, no prosperity, and death to the hudson's bay!" yelled the young whiskered nor'-wester, springing to his feet on the bench and waving a drinking-cup round his head. some of the youthful clerks were disposed to take their cue from this fire-eater and began strumming the table and applauding; but the _bourgeois_ frowned on forward conduct. "check him, grant!" growled cameron in disapproval. "sit down, bumptious babe!" said the priest, tugging the lad's coat. "here, you young show-off," whispered grant, leaning across the priest, and he knocked the boy's feet from under him bringing him down to the bench with a thud. "he needs more outdoor life, that young one! it goes to his head mighty fast," remarked cameron. "what were you saying about your hard luck?" and he turned to the northern winterer again. "call that hard luck?" broke in a mountaineer, laughing as if he considered hardships a joke. "we lived a month last winter on two meals a day; soup, out of snow-shoe thongs, first course; fried skins, second go; teaspoonful shredded fish, by way of an entrée!" the man wore a beaded buckskin suit, and his mellow intonation of words in the manner of the indian tongue showed that he had almost lost english speech along with english customs. his recital caused no surprise. "been on short, rations myself," returned the northerner. "don't like it! isn't safe! rips a man's nerves to the raw when indians glare at him with hungry eyes eighteen hours out of the twenty-four." "what was the matter?" drawled the mountaineer. "hudson's bay been tampering with your indians? now if you had a good indian wife as i have, you could defy the beggars to turn trade away----" "aye, that's so," agreed the winterer, "i heard of a fellow on the athabasca who had to marry a squaw before he could get a pair of racquets made; but that wasn't my trouble. game was scarce." "game scarce on mackenzie river?" a chorus of voices vented their surprise. to the outside world game is always scarce, reported scarce on mackenzie river and everywhere else by the jealous fur traders; but these deceptions are not kept up among hunters fraternizing at the same banquet board. "mighty scarce. some of the tribe died out from starvation. the hudson's bay in our district were in bad plight. we took six of them in--hadn't heard of the souris plunder, you may be sure." "more fools they to go into the athabasca," declared the mountaineer. "bigger fools to send another brigade there this year when they needn't expect help from us," interjected a third trader. "you don't say they're sending another lot of men to the athabasca!" exclaimed the winterer. "yes i do--under colin robertson," affirmed the third man. "colin robertson--the nor'-wester?" "robertson who used to be a nor'-wester! it's selkirk's work since he got control of the h. b." "robertson should know better," said the northerner. "he had experience with us before he resigned. i'll wager he doesn't undertake that sort of venture! surely it's a yarn!" "you lose your bet," cried the irrepressible fort william lad. "a runner came in at six o'clock and reported that the hudson's bay brigade from lachine would pass here before midnight. they're sooners, they are, are the h. b. c's.," and the clerk enjoyed the sensation of rolling a big oath from his boyish lips. "eric hamilton passing within a stone's throw of the fort!" in astonishment i leaned forward to catch every word the fort william lad might say. "to athabasca by our route--past this fort!" such temerity amazed the winterer beyond coherent expression. "good thing for them they're passing in the night," continued the clerk. "the half-breeds are hot about that souris affair. there'll be a collision yet!" the young fellow's importance increased in proportion to the surprise of the elder men. "there'll be a collision anyway when cameron and grant reach red river--eh, cuthbert?" and the mountaineer turned to the dark, sharp-featured warden of the plains. cuthbert grant laughed pleasantly. "oh, i hope not--for their sakes!" he said, and went on with the story of a buffalo hunt. the story i missed, for i was deep in my own thoughts. i must see eric and let him know what i had learned; but how communicate with the hudson's bay brigade without bringing suspicion of double dealing on myself? i was turning things over in my mind in a stupid sort of way like one new at intrigue, when i heard a talker, vowing by all that was holy that he had seen the rarest of hunter's rarities--a pure white buffalo. the wonder had appeared in qu'appelle valley. "i can cap that story, man," cried the portly irish priest who was to go north in my boat. "i saw a white squaw less than two weeks ago!" he paused for his words to take effect, and i started from my chair as if i had been struck. "what's wrong, young man?" asked the winterer. "we lonely fellows up north see visions. we leap out of our moccasins at the sound of our own voices; but you young chaps, with all the world around you"--he waved towards the crowded hall as though it were the metropolis of the universe--"shouldn't see ghosts and go jumping mad." i sat down abashed. "yes, a white squaw," repeated the jovial priest. "sure now, white ladies aren't so many in these regions that i'd be likely to make a mistake." "there's a difference between squaws and white ladies," persisted the jolly father, all unconscious that he was emphasizing a difference which many of the traders were spelling out in hard years of experience. "i've seen papooses that were white for a day or two after they were born----" "effect of the christening," interrupted the youth, whose head, between flattered vanity and the emptied contents of his drinking cup, was very light indeed. "take that idiot out and put him to bed, somebody," commanded cameron. "for a day or two after they were born," reiterated the priest; "but i never saw such a white-skinned squaw!" "where did you see her?" i inquired in a voice which was not my own. "on lake winnipeg. coming down two weeks ago we camped near a band of sioux, and i declare, as i passed a tepee, i saw a woman's face that looked as white as snow. she was sleeping, and the curtain had blown up. her child was in her arms, and i tell you her bare arms were as white as snow." "must have been the effect of the moonlight," explained some one. "moonlight didn't give the other indians that complexion," insisted the priest. it was my turn to feel my head suddenly turn giddy, though liquor had not passed my lips. this information could have only one meaning. i was close on the track of miriam, and eric was near; yet the slightest blunder on my part might ruin all chance of meeting him and rescuing her. chapter viii the little statue animate the men began arguing about the degrees of whiteness in a squaw's skin. those, married to native women, averred that differences of complexion were purely matters of temperament and compared their dusky wives to spanish belles. the priest was now talking across the table to duncan cameron, advocating a renewal of north-west trade with the mandanes on the missouri, whither he was bound on his missionary tour. to venture out of the fort through the indian encampments, where natives and outlaws were holding high carnival, and my sleepless foe could have a free hand, would be to risk all chance of using the information that had come to me. i did not fear death--fear of death was left east of the sault in those days. on my preservation depended miriam's rescue. besides, if either le grand diable or myself had to die, i came to the conclusion of other men similarly situated--that my enemy was the one who should go. violins, flutes and bag-pipes were striking up in different parts of the hall. simple ballads, smacking of old delights in an older land, songs, with which home-sick white men comforted themselves in far-off lodges--were roared out in strident tones. feet were beating time to the rasp of the fiddles. men rose and danced wild jigs, or deftly executed some intricate indian step; and uproarious applause greeted every performer. the hall throbbed with confused sounds and the din deadened my thinking faculties. even now, eric might be slipping past. in that deafening tumult i could decide nothing, and when i tried to leave the table, all the lights swam dizzily. "excuse me, sir!" i whispered, clutching the priest's elbow. "you're father holland and are to go north in my boats. come out with me for a moment." thinking me tipsy, he gave me a droll glance. "'pon my soul! strapping fellows like you shouldn't need last rites----" "please say nothing! come quickly!" and i gripped his arm. "bless us! it's a touch of the head, or the heart!" and he rose and followed me from the hall. in the fresh air, dizziness left me. sitting down on the bench, where i had lain the night before, i told him my perplexing mission. at first, i am sure he was convinced that i was drunk or raving, but my story had the directness of truth. he saw at once how easily he could leave the fort at that late hour without arousing suspicion, and finally offered to come with me to the river bank, where we might intercept hamilton. "but we must have a boat, a light cockle-shell thing, so we can dart out whenever the brigade appears," declared the priest, casting about in his mind for means to forward our object. "the canoes are all locked up. can't you borrow one from the indians? don't you know any of them?" i asked with a sudden sinking of heart. "and have the whole pack of them sneaking after us? no--no--that won't do. where are your wits, boy! arrah! me hearty, but what was that?" we both heard the shutter above our heads suddenly thrown open, but darkness hid anyone who might have been listening. "hm!" said the priest. "overheard! fine conspirators we are! some eavesdropper!" "hush!" and remembering whose window it was, i held him; for he would have stalked away. "are you there?" came a clear, gentle voice, that fell from the window in the breaking ripples of a fountain plash. the bit of statuary had become suddenly animate and was not so marble-cold to mankind as it looked. thinking we had been taken for an expected lover, i, too, was moving off, when the voice, that sounded like the dropping golden notes of a cremona, called out in tones of vibrating alarm: "don't--don't go! priest! priest! father! it's you i'm speaking to. i've heard every word!" father holland and i were too much amazed to do aught but gape from each other to the dark window. we could now see the outlines of a white face there. "if you'd please put one bench on top of another, and balance a bucket on that, i think i could get down," pleaded the low, thrilling voice. "an' in the name of the seven wonders of creation, what for would you be getting down?" asked the astonished priest. "oh! hurry! are you getting the bench?" coaxed the voice. "faith an' we're not! and we have no thought of doing such a thing!" began the good man with severity. "then, i'll jump," threatened the voice. "and break your pretty neck," answered the ungallant father with indignation. there was a rustling of skirts being gathered across the window sill and outlines of a white face gave place to the figure of a frail girl preparing for a leap. "don't!" i cried, genuinely alarmed, with a mental vision of shattered statuary on the ground. "don't! i'm getting the benches," and i piled them up, with a rickety bucket on top. "wait!" i implored, stepping up on the bottom bench. "give me your hand," and as i caught her hands, she leaped from the window to the bucket, and the bucket to the ground, with a daintiness, which i thought savored of experience in such escapades. "what do you mean, young woman?" demanded father holland in anger. "i'll have none of your frisky nonsense! do you know, you baggage, that you are delaying this young man in a matter that is of life-and-death importance? tell me this instant, what do you want?" "i want to save that woman, miriam! you're both so slow and stupid! come, quick!" and she caught us by the arms. "there's a skiff down among the rushes in the flats. i can guide you to it. cross the river in it! oh! quick! quick! some of the hudson's bay brigades have already passed!" "how do you know?" we both demanded as in one breath. "i'm frances sutherland. my father is one of the selkirk settlers and he had word that they would pass to-night! oh! come! come!" this girl, the daughter of a man who was playing double to both companies! and her service to me would compel me to be loyal to him! truly, i was becoming involved in a way that complicated simple duty. but the girl had darted ahead of us, we following by the flutter of the white gown, and she led us out of the courtyard by a sally-port to the rear of a block-house. she paused in the shadow of some shrubbery. "get fagots from the indians to light us across the flats," she whispered to father holland. "they'll think nothing of your coming. you're always among them!" "mistress sutherland!" i began, as the priest hurried forward to the indian camp-fires, "i hate to think of you risking yourself in this way for----" "stop thinking, then," she interrupted abruptly in a voice that somehow reminded me of my first vision of statuary. "i beg your pardon," i blundered on. "father holland and i have both forgotten to apologize for our rudeness about helping you down." "pray don't apologize," answered the marble voice. then the girl laughed. "really you're worse than i thought, when i heard you bungling over a boat. i didn't mind your rudeness. it was funny." "oh!" said i, abashed. there are situations in which conversation is impossible. "i didn't mind your rudeness," she repeated, "and--and--you mustn't mind mine. homesick people aren't--aren't--responsible, you know. ah! here are the torches! give me one. i thank you--father holland--is it not? please smother them down till we reach the river, or we'll be followed." she was off in a flash, leading us through a high growth of rushes across the flats. so i was both recognized and remembered from the previous night. the thought was not displeasing. the wind moaned dismally through the reeds. i did not know that i had been glancing nervously behind at every step, with uncomfortable recollections of arrows and spear-heads, till father holland exclaimed: "why, boy! you're timid! what are you scared of?" "the devil!" and i spoke truthfully. "faith! there's more than yourself runs from his majesty; but resist the devil and he will flee from you." "not the kind of devil that's my enemy," i explained. i told him of the arrow-shot and spear-head, and all mirth left his manner. "i know him, i know him well. there's no greater scoundrel between quebec and athabasca." "my devil, or yours?" "yours, lad. let your laughter be turned to mourning! beware of him! i've known more than one murder of his doing. eh! but he's cunning, so cunning! we can't trip him up with proofs; and his body's as slippery as an eel or we might----" but a loon flapped up from the rushes, brushing the priest's face with its wings. "holy mary save us!" he ejaculated panting to keep up with our guide. "faith! i thought 'twas the devil himself!" "do you really mean it? would it be right to get hold of le grand diable?" i asked. frances sutherland had slackened her pace and we were all three walking abreast. a dry cane crushed noisily under foot and my head ducked down as if more arrows had hissed past. "mane it?" he cried, "mane it? if ye knew all the evil he's done ye'd know whether i mane it." it was his custom when in banter to drop from english to his native brogue like a merry-andrew. "but, father holland, i had him in my power. i struck him, but i didn't kill him, more's the pity!" "an' who's talking of killin', ye young cut-throat? i say get howld of his body and when ye've got howld of his body, i'd further advise gettin' howld of the butt end of a saplin'----" "but, father, he was my canoeman. i had him in my power." instantly he squared round throwing the torchlight on my face. "had him in your power--knew what he'd done--and--and--didn't?" "and didn't," said i. "but you almost make me wish i had. what do you take traders for?" "you're young," said he, "and i take traders for what they are----" "but i'm a trader and i didn't----" though a beginner, i wore the airs of a veteran. "benedicite!" he cried. "the lord shall be your avenger! he shall deliver that evil one into the power of the punisher!" "benedicite!" he repeated. "may ye keep as clean a conscience in this land as you've brought to it." "amen, father!" said i. "here we are," exclaimed frances sutherland as we emerged from the reeds to the brink of the river, where a skiff was moored. "go, be quick! i'll stay here! 'twill be better without me. the hudson's bay are keeping close to the far shore!" "you can't stay alone," objected father holland. "i shall stay alone, and i've had my way once already to-night." "but we don't wish to lose one woman in finding another," i protested. "go," she commanded with a furious little stamp. "you lose time! stupids! do you think i stay here for nothing? we may have been followed and i shall stay here and watch! i'll hide in the rushes! go!" and there was a second stamp. that stamp of a foot no larger than a boy's hand cowed two strong men and sent us rowing meekly across the river. "did ye ever--did ever ye see such a little termagant, such a persuasive, commanding little queen of a termagant?" asked the priest almost breathless with surprise. "queen of courage!" i answered back. "queen of hearts, too, i'm thinking. arrah! me hearty, to be young!" she must have smothered her torch, for there was no light among the reeds when i looked back. we crossed the river slowly, listening between oar-strokes for the paddle-dips of approaching canoes. there was no sound but the lashing of water against the pebbled shore and we lay in a little bay ready to dash across the fleet's course, when the boats should come abreast. we had not long to wait. a canoe nose cautiously rounded the headland coming close to our boat. instantly i shot our skiff straight across its path and father holland waved the torches overhead. "hist! hold back there--have a care!" i called. "clear the way!" came an angry order from the dark. "clear--or we fire!" "fire if you dare, you fools!" i retorted, knowing well they would not alarm the fort, and we edged nearer the boat. "where's eric hamilton?" i demanded. "a curse on you! none of your business! get out of the way! who are you?" growled the voice. "answer--quick!" i urged father holland, thinking they would respect holy orders; and i succeeded in bumping my craft against their canoe. "strike him with your paddle, man!" yelled the steersman, who was beyond reach. "give 'im a bullet!" called another. "for shame, ye saucy divils!" shouted the priest, shaking his torch aloft and displaying his garb. "shame to ye, threatenin' to shoot a missionary! ye'd be much better showin' respect to the church. whur's eric hamilton?" he demanded in a fine show of indignation, and he caught the edge of their craft in his right hand. "let go!" and the steersman threateningly raised a pole that shone steel-shod. "let go--is ut ye're orderin' me?" thundered the holy man, now in a towering rage, and he flaunted the torch over the crew. "howld y'r imp'dent tongues!" he shouted, shaking the canoe. "be civil this minute, or i'll spill ye to the bottom, ye load of cursin' braggarts! faith an' ut's a durty meal ye'd make for the fush! foine answers ye give polite questions! how d'y' know we're not here to warn ye about the fort? for shame to ye. whur's eric hamilton, i say?" some of the canoemen recognized the priest. conciliatory whispers passed from man to man. "hamilton's far ahead--above the falls now," answered the steersman. "then, as ye hope to save your soul," warned father holland not yet appeased, "deliver this young man's message!" "tell hamilton," i cried, "that she whom he seeks is held captive by a band of sioux on lake winnipeg and to make haste. tell him that and he'll reward you well!" "vary by one word from the message," added the priest, "and my curses'll track your soul to the furnace." father holland relaxed his grasp, the paddles dipped down and the canoe was lost in the darkness. more than once i thought that a shadowy thing like an indian's boat had hung on our rear and the craft seemed to be dogging us back to the flats. father holland raised his torch and could see nothing on the water but the glassy reflection of our own forms. he said it was a phantom boat i had seen; and, truly, visions of le grande diable had haunted me so persistently of late, i could scarcely trust my senses. frances sutherland's torch suddenly appeared waving above the flats. i put muscle to the oar and before we had landed she called out-- "an indian's canoe shot past a moment ago. did you see it?" "no," returned father holland. "i think we did," said i. * * * * * "how can i thank you for what you have done?" i was saying to frances sutherland as we entered the fort by the same sally-port. "do you really want to know how?" "do i?" i was prepared to offer dramatic sacrifice. "then never think of it again, nor speak of it again, nor know me any more than if it hadn't happened----" "the conditions are hard." "and----" "and what?" i asked eagerly. "and help me back the way i came down. for if my father--oh! if my father knew--he would kill me!" "faith! so he ought!" ejaculated the priest. "risking such precious treasure among vandals!" again i piled up the benches. from the bench, she stepped to the bucket, and from the bucket to my shoulder, and as the light weight left my shoulder for the window sill, unknown to her, i caught the fluffy skirt, now bedraggled with the night dew, and kissed it gratefully. "oh--ho--and oh-ho and oh-ho," hummed the priest. "do _i_ scent matrimony?" "not unless it's in your nose," i returned huffily. "show me a man of all the hundreds inside, father holland, that wouldn't go on his marrow-bones to a woman who risks life and reputation, which is dearer than life, to save another woman!" "bless you, me hearty, if he wouldn't, he'd be a villain," said the priest. chapter ix decorating a bit of statuary i frequently passed that window above the stoop next day. once i saw a face looking down on me with such withering scorn, i wondered if the disgraceful scene with louis laplante had become noised about, and i hastened to take my exercise in another part of the courtyard. thereupon, others paid silent homage to the window, but they likewise soon tired of that parade ground. eastern notions of propriety still clung to me. of this i had immediate proof. when our rough crews were preparing to re-embark for the north, i was shocked beyond measure to see this frail girl come down with her father to travel in our company. not counting her father, the priest, duncan cameron, cuthbert grant and myself, there were in our party three-score reckless, uncurbed adventurers, who feared neither god nor man. i thought it strange of a father to expose his daughter to the bold gaze, coarse remarks, and perhaps insults of such men. before the end of that trip, i was to learn a lesson in western chivalry, which is not easily explained, or forgotten. as father and daughter were waiting to take their places in a boat, a shapeless, flat-footed woman, wearing moccasins--probably the half-breed wife of some trader in the fort--ran to the water's edge with a parcel of dainties, and kissing the girl on both cheeks, wished her a fervent god-speed. "oh!" growled the young nor'-wester, who had been carried from the banquet hall, and now wore the sour expression that is the aftermath of banquets. "look at that fat lump of a bumblebee distilling honey from the rose! there are others who would appreciate that sort of thing! this _is_ the wilderness of lost opportunities!" the girl seated herself in a canoe, where the only men were duncan cameron, her father and the native _voyageurs_; and i dare vouch a score of young traders groaned at the sight of this second lost opportunity. "look, gillespie! look!" muttered my comrade of the banquet hall. "the little statue set up at the prow of yon canoe! i'll wager you do reverence to graven images all the way to red river!" "i'll wager we all do," said i. and we did. to change the metaphor--after the style of mr. jack mackenzie's eloquence--i warrant there was not a young man of the eight crews, who did not regard that marble-cold face at the prow of the leading canoe, as his own particular guiding star. and the white face beneath the broad-brimmed hat, tied down at each side in the fashion of those days, was as serenely unconscious of us as any star of the heavenly constellations. if she saw there were objects behind her canoe, and that the objects were living beings, and the living beings men, she gave no evidence of it. nor was the little statue--as we had got in the habit of calling her--heartless. in spite of the fears which she entertained for her stern father, her filial affection was a thing to turn the lads of the crews quite mad. scarcely were we ashore at the different encampments before father and daughter would stroll off arm in arm, leaving the whole brigade envious and disconsolate. was it the influence of this slip of a girl, i wonder, that a curious change came over our crews? the men still swore; but they did it under their breath. fewer yarns of a quality, which need not be specified, were told; and certain kinds of jokes were no longer greeted with a loud guffaw. still we all thought ourselves mightily ill-used by that diminutive bundle of independence, and some took to turning the backs of their heads in her direction when she chanced to come their way. one young spark said something about the little statue being a prig, which we all invited him to repeat, but he declined. had she played the coquette under the innocent mask of sympathy and all other guiles with which gentle slayers ambush strong hearts, i dare affirm there would have been trouble enough and to spare. suicides, fights, insults and worse, i have witnessed when some fool woman with a fair face came among such men. "fool" woman, i say, rather than "false"; for to my mind falsity in a woman may not be compared to folly for the utter be-deviling of men. with our guiding star at the prow of the fore canoe, we continued to wind among countless islands, through narrow, rocky channels and along those endless water-ways, that stretch like a tangled, silver chain with emerald jewels, all the way from the great lakes to the plains. somewhere along rainy river, where there is an oasis of rolling, wooded meadows in a desert of iron rock, we pitched our tents for the night. the evening air was fragrant with the odor of summer's early flowers. i could not but marvel at the almost magical growth in these far northern latitudes. barely a month had passed since snow enveloped the earth in a winding sheet, and i have heard old residents say that the winter's frost penetrated the ground for a depth of four feet. yet here we were in a very tropic of growth run riot and the frost, which still lay beneath the upper soil, was thawing and moistening the succulent roots of a wilderness of green. the meadow grass, swaying off to the forest margin in billowy ripples, was already knee-high. the woods were an impenetrable mass of foliage from the forest of ferns about the broad trunks to the high tree-tops, nodding and fanning in the night breeze like coquettish dames in an eastern ball-room. everywhere--at the river bank, where our tents stood, above the long grass, and in the forest--clear, faint and delicate, like the bloom of a fair woman's cheek, or the pensive theme of some dream fugue, or the sweet notes of some far-off, floating harmonies, was an odor of hidden flowers. a trader's nature is, of necessity, rough in the grain, but it is not corrupt with the fevered joys of the gilded cities. even we could feel the call of the wilds to come and seek. it was not surprising, therefore, that after supper father and daughter should stroll away from the encampment, arm in arm, as usual. as their figures passed into the woods, the girl broke away from her father's arm and stooped to the ground. "pickin' flowers," was the laconic remark of the trader, who had helped me with louis laplante on the beach; and the man lay back full length against a rising knoll to drink in the delicious freshness of the night. every man of us watched the vanishing forms. "smell violets?" asked a heterogeneous combination of sun-brown and buckskin. "this ground's a perfect wheat-field of violets," exclaimed the whiskered youngster. "lots o' mayflowers and night-shades in the bush," declared a ragged man, who was one of the worst gamblers in camp, and was now aimlessly shuffling a greasy, bethumbed pack of cards. "oh!" came simultaneously from half a dozen. personally, it struck me one might pick flowers for a certain purpose in the bush without being observed. "mayflowers in june!" scoffed the boy. "aye, babe! mayflowers in june! may is june in these here regions," asserted the man. "ladies-and-gentlemen, too, many's you could pick in the bush!" "ladies-and-gentlemen! sounds funny in this desert, don't it?" asked the lad. "what _are_ ladies-and-gentlemen?" "don't you know?" continued the gambler, unfolding a curious lore of flowers. "those little potty, white things, split up the middle with a green head on top--grow under ferns. come on. cards are ready! who's going to play?" "durn it! them's dutchman's breeches!" exclaimed the sun-browned trapper. "o goll! if that little stature finds any dutchman's breeches, she that's so scared of us men! o goll! won't she blush? say, babe, why don't y'r fill y'r hat with 'em and put 'em in her tent?" and the big trapper set up a hoarse guffaw which led a general chorus. then the men gathered round, to play. "faith, lads!" interrupted the voice of the irish priest, who had come upon the group so quietly the gambler scarcely had time to tuck the tell-tale cards under his buckskin smock, "i'm thinking ye've all developed a mighty sudden interest in botany. are there any bleeding hearts in the bush?" "there may be here," suggested the boy. "it all comes of the little statute!" declared the big trapper. "oh! you and your stature and statute! why can't you say statue?" asked the lad with the pompous scorn of youthful knowledge. "because, oh, babe with the chicken-down," answered the man, giving his corrector a thud with his broad palm and sticking heroically by his slip of the tongue, "i says the words i means and don't play no prig. she don't pay more attention to you than if you wuz a stump, that's why she's a statue, ain't it? and the fellows've got to stretch their necks to come up to her ideas of what's proper, that's why she's a stature, ain't it? and not a man of us, if his reverence'll excuse me for saying so, dare let out a cuss afore her. that's why she's a statute, ain't it?" and when i walked off to the bush with as great a show of indifference as i could muster, i heard the priest crying "bravo!" to the man's defence. how came it that i was in the woods slushing through damp mold up to my ankles in black ooze? i no longer had any fear of an ambushed enemy; for le grand diable, the knave, had forfeited his wages and deserted at fort william. he was not seen after the night of the meeting with the hudson's bay canoe off the flats. i drew father holland's attention to this, and the priest was no longer so sceptical about that phantom boat. but it was not of these things i thought, as i tore a great strip of bark from the trunk of a birch tree and twisted the piece into a huge cornucopia. nor had i the slightest expectation of encountering father and daughter in the woods. that marble face was too much in earnest for the vainest of men to suppose its indifference assumed; and no matter how fair the eyes, no man likes to be looked at, by eyes that do not see him, or see him only as a blur on the landscape. still that marble face stood for much that is dear to the roughest of hearts and about which men do not talk. so i went on packing damp moss into the bottom of the bark horn, arranging frail lilies and night shades about the rim and laying a solid pyramid of violets in the centre. the mold, through which i was floundering, seemed to merge into a bog; but the lower reaches were hidden by a thicket of alder bushes and scrub willows. i mounted a fallen tree and tried to get cautiously down to some tempting lily-pads. evidently some one else on the other side of the brush was after those same bulbs; for i heard the sucking sound of steps plunging through the mire of water and mud. "why, gillespie," called a voice, "what in the world are you doing here?" and the boy emerged through the willows gaping at me in astonishment. "just what i want to know of you," said i. he presented a comical figure. his socks and moccasins had been tied and slung round his neck. with trousers rolled to his knees, a hatful of water-lilies in one hand and a sheaf of ferns in the other, he was wading through the swamp. "you see," he began sheepishly. "i thought she couldn't--couldn't conveniently get these for herself, and it would be kind of nice--kind of nice--you know--to get some for her----" "don't explain," i blurted out. "i was trying that same racket myself." "you know, gillespie," he continued quite confidentially, "when a man's been away from his mother and sisters for years and years and years----" "yes, i know, babe; you're an octogenarian," i interrupted. "and feels himself going utterly to the bow-wows without any stop-gear to keep him from bowling clean to the bottom, a person feels like doing something decent for a girl like the little statue," and the youth plucked half a dozen yellow flowers as well as the coveted white ones. "have some for your basket," said he. his face was puckered into pathetic gravity. "it's so hanged easy to go to the bow-wows out here," he added. "not so easy as in the towns," i interjected. "ah! but i've been there, gone all through 'em in the towns," he explained. "that's why the pater packed me off to this wilderness." and that, thought i, is why the west gets all the credit for the wild oats gathered in old lands and sown in the new world. i pulled him up to the log on which i was balanced, and seating himself he dangled his feet down and began to souse the mud off his toes. "say!" he exclaimed. "how are you going to get 'em to her?" "take them to the tent." "well, gillespie, when you take yours up, take mine along, too, will you? there's a good fellow! do!" he was drawing on his socks. "not much i will. if there's any proxy, you can take mine," i returned. "say! do you think father holland would take 'em up?" he had tied his moccasins and was standing. "can't say i think he would." "he'd let you hear about it to all eternity, too, wouldn't he?" reflected the lad. "come on, then; but you go first." and he followed me up the log, both of us feeling like shame-faced schoolboys. we stole into the tent, the one tent of all others that had interest for us that night, and deposited our burden of flowers on the couch of buffalo robes. "hurry," whispered my companion. "stack these ferns round somewhere! hurry! she'll be back." and leaving me to do the arranging he bolted for the tent flaps. "oh! open earth and swallow me!" he almost screamed, and i heard the sound of two persons coming in violent collision at the entrance. "the babe, as i live! the rascally young broth of a babe! ye rogue, ye!" burred the deep bass tones of the trader whom i had met over louis laplante. "what are ye doin' here?" "oh, is it only you? thank fortune!" ejaculated the boy, dodging back. "what are you doing yourself? great guns! you scared the wits out of me! ho! here's a lark! gillespie, my pal, look here!" i turned to see the sheepish, guilty, smirking faces of the trader, the rough-tongued, sunburned trapper and the ragged gambler grouped at the entrance, and each man's arms were full of flowers. "well, i'm durned!" began the rough man. "as she's jack-spotted us all," drawled the gentle, liquid tones of the gambler, "we'd better go ahead and----" "and decorate a bit of statuary," shouted the lad with a laugh. it was a long tent, like the booth of a fair, with supports at each end, and we were festooning it from pole to pole with moss and ferns when somebody rasped at the door. "mon alive! what's goin' on here?" we started from our work with the guilty alacrity of burglars. there stood frances sutherland's father, much aghast at the proceedings, and by his side was a face with cheeks flaming poppy red and lips twitching in merriment. there was a sudden snow-storm of flowers being tossed down, and five men brushed past the two spectators and dashed into the hiding of gathering dusk. at the foot of the knoll i ran against the priest. "that," roared father holland, shaking with laughter. "that's what i call good stuff in the rough! faith, but ye'll give me good stuff in the rough. i want none o' yer gilded chivalry from the tinsel towns!" there was a wreath of night-shades in the little statue's hat when the canoes set out next morning. mayflowers were at her throat, violets in her girdle and i know not what in a basket at her feet. the face was unconscious of us as ever, but about the downcast eyelids played a tender gentleness which was not there before. once i caught her glancing back among us as if she would pick out the culprits; and when her eyes for a moment rested on me, my heart set up a silly thumping. but she looked just as pointedly at the others, and i know every man's heart of them responded; for the boy began such a floundering i thought he would spill his canoe. a quick trip brought us to the mouth of red river, where the hudson's bay _voyageurs_ under colin robertson were resting. here i was surprised to learn that eric hamilton had not waited but had hastened up red river to fort douglas. i could not but connect this southward move of his with the sudden flight of le grand diable from fort william. after brief pause at the foot of lake winnipeg, our brigade turned southward and made speed up the red through the rush-grown sedgy swamps which over-flood the river bed. farther south the banks towered high and smoke curled up from the huts of lord selkirk's settlers. women with nets in their hands to scare off myriad blackbirds that clouded the air, and men from the cornfields ran to the river edge and cheered us as we passed. here the sutherlands landed. some of the traders thought it a good omen, that hudson's bay settlers cheered nor'-wester brigades; but in one bend of the muddy red, the bastions of fort douglas, where governor mcdonell of the rival company ruled, loomed up and the guns pointing across the river wore anything but a welcome look. we passed fort douglas unmolested, followed the red a mile farther to its junction with the assiniboine and here disembarked at fort gibraltar, the headquarters of the nor'-westers in red river. chapter x more studies in statuary "so he laughs at our warrant?" exclaimed duncan cameron. "hut-tut! we'll teach him to respect warrants issued under authority of d king george iii.," and the dictator of fort gibraltar fussed angrily among the papers of his desk and beat a threatening tattoo with knuckles and heels. the assiniboine enters the red at something like a right angle and in this angle was the nor'-westers' fort, named after an old-world stronghold, because we imagined our position gave us the same command of the two waterways by which the _voyageurs_ entered and left the north country as gibraltar has of the mediterranean. governor mcdonell had thought to outwit us by building the hudson's bay fort a mile further down the current of the red. it was a sharp trick, for fort douglas could intercept nor'-west brigades bound from montreal to fort gibraltar, or from fort gibraltar to the athabasca. two days after our arrival, cuthbert grant, with a band of _bois-brulés_, had gone to fort douglas to arrest captain miles mcdonell for plundering nor'-west posts. the doughty governor took grant's warrant as a joke and scornfully turned the whole north-west party out of fort douglas. on the stockades outside were proclamations commanding settlers to take up arms in defense of the hudson's bay traders and forbidding natives to sell furs to any but our rivals. these things added fuel to the hot anger of the chafing _bois-brulés_. a curious race were these mongrel plain-rangers, with all the savage instincts of the wild beast and few of the brutal impulses of the beastly man. the descendants of french fathers and indian mothers, they inherited all the quick, fiery daring of the frenchman, all the endurance, craft and courage of the indian, and all the indolence of both white man and red. one might cut his enemy's throat and wash his hands in the life blood, or spend years in accomplishing revenge; but it is a question if there is a single instance on record of a _bois-brulé_ molesting an enemy's family. when the frenchman married a native woman, he cast off civilization like an ill-fitting coat and virtually became an indian. when the scotch settler married a native woman, he educated her up to his own level and if she did not become entirely civilized, her children did. one was the wild man, the ishmaelite of the desert, the other, the tiller of the soil, the israelite of the plain. such were the tameless men, of whom cuthbert grant was the leader, the leader solely from his fitness to lead. it was late in the afternoon when the warden returned from fort douglas. i was busy over my desk. father holland was still with us awaiting the departure of traders to the south, and duncan cameron was stamping about the room like a caged lion. there came a quick, angry tramp from the hall. "that's grant back, and there's no one with him," muttered cameron with suppressed anger; and in burst the warden himself, his heavy brows dark with fury and his eyes flashing like the fire at a pistol point. involuntarily i stopped work and the priest glanced across at me with a look which bespoke expectation of an explosion. grant did not storm. that was not his way. he took several turns about the room, mastered himself, and speaking through his teeth said quietly, "there be some fools that enjoy playing with gunpowder. i'm not one of them! there be some idiots that like teasing tigers. 'tis not sport to my fancy! there be some pot-valiant braggarts that defy the law. let them enjoy the breaking of the law!" "what--what--what?" sputtered the highland governor, springing first on one side of grant and then on the other, all the while rumbling out maledictions on lord selkirk, and governor mcdonell and fort douglas. "what do ye say, mon? do i understand ye clearly, there's no prisoners with ye?" "laughs at the _bois-brulés_. the fool laughs at the _bois-brulés_! i've seen gophers cock their eye at a wolf, before that same wolf made a breakfast of gophers! the fool laughs at your warrant, sir! scouted it, sir! bundled us out of fort douglas like cattle!" the warden went on in a bitter strain to tell of the effect of the posted proclamations on his followers. "so the lordly captain miles mcdonell of the queen's rangers, generalissimo of all creation, defies us, does he?" demanded cameron in great dudgeon, scarcely crediting his ears. "aye!" answered grant, "but he can ill afford to be so high and mighty. we went through the settlement and half the people are with us----" "that's good! that's good!" responded cameron with keen relish. "they're heartily sick of the country," continued the warden, "and would leave to-morrow if we'd supply the boats. last winter they nearly starved. the company's generous supply was rancid grease and wormy flour." "fine way o' colonizing a country," stormed cameron, "bring men out as settlers and arm them to fight! we'll spike his guns by shipping a score more away." "we've spiked his guns in a better way," said grant dryly. "some of the friendlies are so afraid he'll take their guns away and leave them defenceless unless they fight us, they've sent their arms here for safekeeping. we'll keep them safe, i'll warrant." grant smiled, showing his white teeth in a way that was not pleasant to see, and somehow reminded me of a dog's snarl. "good! good! excellent, grant." such strategy pleased cameron. "see here, mon, cuthbert, we've the law on our side--we've the warrants to back the law! we'd better give yon dour fool a lesson. he's broken the peace. we haven't. come out, an' i'll talk it over with ye!" the two went out, grant saying as they passed the window--"let him tamper with the fur trade among the indians and i'll not answer for it! that last order not to sell----" the rest of the remark i lost. "'twould serve him well right if they did," returned cameron, and both men walked beyond hearing. father holland and i were left alone. the fort became ominously still. there was a distant clatter of receding hoofs; but we were on the south side of the warehouse and could not see which way the horses were galloping. "i'm afraid--i'm afraid both sides will be rash," observed the priest. the sun-dial indicated six o'clock. i closed and locked the office desks. we had supper in the deserted dining-hall. afterwards we strolled to the northeast gate, and looking in the direction of fort douglas, wondered what scheme could be afoot. here my testimony need not be taken for, or against, either side. all i saw was duncan cameron with the other white men of the fort standing on a knoll some distance from fort gibraltar, evidently gazing towards fort douglas. against the sky, above the settlement, there were clouds of rising smoke. "burning hay-ricks?" i questioned. "aye, and houses! 'tis shameless work leaving the people exposed to the blasts of next winter! shameless, shameless work! y'r company'll gain nothing by it, rufus!" across the night came faint, short snappings like a fusillade of shots. "looting the neutrals," said the priest. "god grant there be no blood on the plains this night! these fool traders don't realize what it means to rouse blood in an indian! they'll get a lesson yet! give the red devils a taste of blood and there won't be a white unscalped to the rockies! i've seen y'r fine, clever rascals play the indian against rivals, and the game always ends the same way. the indian is a weapon that's quick to cut the hand of the user." little did i realize my part in the terrible fulfilment of that prophecy. "look alive, lad! where are y'r wits? what's that?" he cried, suddenly pointing to the river bank. up from the cliff sprang a form as if by magic. it came leaping straight to the fort gate. "some frightened half-breed wench," surmised the priest. i saw it was a woman with a shawl over her head like a native. "_bon soir!_" said i after the manner of traders with indian women; but she rushed blindly on to the gate. the fort was deserted. suspicion of treachery flashed on me. how many more half-breeds were beneath that cliff? "stop, huzzie!" i ordered, springing forward and catching her so tightly by the wrist that she swung half-way round before she could check herself. she wrenched vigorously to get free. "stop! be still, you huzzie!" "be still--you what?" asked a low, amazed voice that broke in ripples and froze my blood. a shawl fluttered to the ground, and there stood before us the apparition of a marble face. "the little statue!" i gasped in sheer horror at what i had done. "the little--what?" asked the rippling voice, that sounded like cold water flowing under ice, and a pair of eyes looked angrily down at the hand with which i was still unconsciously gripping her arm. "i'd thank you, sir," she began, with a mock courtesy to the priest, "i'd thank you, sir, to call off your mastiff." "let her go, boy!" roared the priest with a hammering blow across my forearm that brought me to my senses and convinced me she was no wraith. mastiff! that epithet stung to the quick. i flung her wrist from me as if it had been hot coals. now, a woman may tread upon a man--also stamp upon him if she has a mind to--but she must trip it daintily. otherwise even a worm may turn against its tormentor. to have idolized that marble creature by day and night, to have laid our votive offerings on its shrine, to have hungered for the sound of a woman's lips for weeks, and to hear those lips cuttingly call me a dog--were more than i could stand. "ten thousand pardons, mistress sutherland!" i said with a pompous stiffness which i intended should be mighty crushing. "but when ladies deck themselves out as squaws and climb in and out of windows,"--that was brutal of me; she had done it for miriam and me--"and announce themselves in unexpected ways, they need not hope to be recognized." and did she flare back at me? not at all. "you waste time with your long speeches," she said, turning from me to father holland. thereupon i strode off angrily to the river bank. "oh, father holland," i heard her say as i walked away, "i must go to pembina! i'm in such trouble! there's a frenchman----" trouble, thought i; she is in trouble and i have been thinking only of my own dignity. and i stood above the river, torn between desire to rush back and wounded pride, that bade me stick it out. over the plains came the shout of returning plunderers. i could hear the throb, throb of galloping hoofs beating nearer and nearer over the turf, and reflected that i might make the danger from returning _bois-brulés_ the occasion of a reconciliation. "come here, lad!" called father holland. i needed no urging. "ye must rig up in tam-o'-shanter and tartan, like a highland settler, and take mistress sutherland back to fort douglas. she's going to pembina to meet her father, lad, when i go south to the missouri. and, lad," the priest hesitated, glancing doubtfully from miss sutherland to me, "i'm thinking there's a service ye might do her." the little statue was looking straight at me now, and there were tear-marks about the heavy lashes. now, i do not pretend to explain the power, or witchery, a gentle slip of a girl can wield with a pair of gray eyes; but when i met the furtive glance and saw the white, veined forehead, the arched brows, the tremulous lips, the rounded chin, and the whole face glorified by that wonderful mass of hair, i only know, without weapon or design, she dealt me a wound which i bear to this day. what a ruffian i had been! i was ashamed, and my eyes fell before hers. if a libation of blushes could appease an offended goddess, i was livid evidence of repentance. i felt myself flooded in a sudden heat of shame. she must have read my confusion, for she turned away her head to hide mantling forgiveness. "there's a crafty frenchman in the fort has been troubling the lassie. i'm thinking, if ye worked off some o' your anger on him, it moight be for the young man's edification. be quick! i hear the breeds returning!" "but i have a message," she said in choking tones. "from whom?" i asked aimlessly enough. "eric hamilton!" she answered. "eric hamilton!" both the priest and i shouted. "yes--why? what--what--is it? he's wounded, and he wants a rufus gillespie, who's with the nor'-westers. the _bois-brulés_ fired on the fort. where _is_ rufus gillespie?" "bless you, lassie! here--here--here he is!" the holy father thumped my back at every word. "here he is, crazy as a march hare for news of hamilton!" "you--rufus--gillespie!" so she did not even know my name. evidently, if she troubled my thoughts, i did not trouble hers. "he's told me so much about you," she went on, with a little pant of astonishment. "how brave and good----" "pshaw!" i interrupted roughly. "what's the message?" "mr. hamilton wishes to see you at once," she answered coldly. "then kill two birds with one stone! take her home and see hamilton--and hurry!" urged the priest. the half-breeds were now very near. "put it over your head!" and father holland clapped the shawl about frances sutherland after the fashion of the half-breed women. she stood demurely behind him while i ran up-stairs in the warehouse to disguise myself in tartan plaid. when i came out, duncan cameron was in the gateway welcoming cuthbert grant and the _bois-brulés_, as if pillaging defenceless settlers were heroic. victors from war may be inspiring, but a half-breed rabble, red-handed from deeds of violence, is not a sight to edify any man. "what's this ye have, father?" bawled one impudent fellow, and he pointed sneeringly at the figure in the folds of the shawl. "let the wench be!" was the priest's reply, and the half-breed lounged past with a laugh. i was about to offer frances sutherland my arm to escort her from the mob, when i felt father holland's hard knuckles dig viciously into my ribs. "ye fool ye! ye blundering idiot!" he whispered, "she's a half-breed. och! but's time y'r eastern greenness was tannin' a good western russet! let her follow with bowed head, or you'll have the whole pack on y'r heels!" with that admonition i strode boldly out, she behind, humble, with downcast eyes like a half-breed girl. we ran down the river path through the willows and jumping into a canoe swiftly rounded the forks of the assiniboine and red. there we left the canoe and fled along a trail beneath the cliff till the shouting of the half-breeds could be no longer heard. at once i turned to offer her my arm. she must have bruised her feet through the thin moccasins, for the way was very rough. i saw that she was trembling from fatigue. "permit me," i said, offering my arm as formally as if she had been some grand lady in an eastern drawing-room. "thank you--i'm afraid i must," and she reluctantly placed a light hand on my sleeve. i did not like that condescending compulsion, and now out of danger, i became strangely embarrassed and angry in her presence. the "mastiff" epithet stuck like a barb in my boyish chivalry. was it the wind, or a low sigh, or a silent weeping, that i heard? i longed to know, but would not turn my head, and my companion was lagging just a step behind. i slackened speed, so did she. then a voice so low and soft and golden it might have melted a heart of stone--but what is a heart of stone compared to the wounded pride of a young man?--said, "do you know, i think i rather like mastiffs?" "indeed," said i icily, in no mood for raillery. "like _them_ for friends, not enemies, to be protected by _them_, not--not bitten," the voice continued with a provoking emphasis of the plural "_them_." "yes," said i, with equal emphasis of the obnoxious plural. "ladies find _them_ useful at times." that fling silenced her and i felt a shiver run down the arm on my sleeve. "why, you're shivering," i blundered out. "you must let me put this round you," and i pulled off the plaid and would have placed it on her shoulders, but she resisted. "i am not in the least cold," she answered frigidly--which is the only untruth i ever heard her tell--"and you shall not say '_must_' to me," and she took her hand from my arm. she spoke with a tremor that warned me not to insist. then i knew why she had shivered. "please forgive, miss sutherland," i begged. "i'm such a maladroit animal." "i quite agree with you, a maladroit mastiff with teeth!" mastiff! that insult again! i did not reproffer my arm. we strode forward once more, she with her face turned sideways remote from me, i with my face sideways remote from her, and the plaid trailing from my hand by way of showing her she could have it if she wished. we must have paced along in this amiable, post-matrimonial fashion for quite a quarter of the mile we had to go, and i was awkwardly conscious of suppressed laughing from her side. it was the rippling voice, that always seemed to me like fountain splash in the sunshine, which broke silence again. "really," said the low, thrilling, musical witchery by my side, "really, it's the most wonderful story i have ever heard!" "story?" i queried, stopping stock still and gaping at her. "perfectly wonderful! so intensely interesting and delightful." "interesting and delightful?" i interrogated in sheer amazement. this girl utterly dumfounded me, and in the conceit of youth i thought it strange that any girl could dumfound me. "what an interesting life you have had, to be sure!" "i have had?" "yes, don't you know you've been talking in torrents for the past ten minutes? no? do you forget?" and she laughed tremulously either from embarrassment, or cold. "well!" said i, befooled into good-humor and laughing back. "if you give me a day's warning, i'll try to keep up with you." "ah! there! i've put you through the ice at last! it's been such hard work!" "and i come up badly doused!" "stimulated too! you're doing well already!" "my thanks to my instructor," and catching the spirit of her mockery, i swept her a courtly bow. "there! there!" she cried, dropping raillery as soon as i took it up. "you were cross at the window. i was cross on the flats. you nearly wrenched my hand off----" "can you blame me?" i asked. "and to pay me back you turned my head and stole my heart----" "hush!" she interrupted. "let's clean the slate and begin again." "with all my heart, if you'll wear this tartan and stop shivering." i was not ready to consent to an unconditional surrender. "i hate your 'ifs' and 'buts' and so-much-given-for-so-much-got," she exclaimed with an impatient, little stamp, "but--but--" she added inconsistently, "if--if--you'll keep one end of the plaid for yourself, i'll take the other." "ho--ho! i like 'ifs' and 'buts.' have you more of that kind?" i laughed, whisking the fold about us both. drawing her hand into mine, i kept it there. "it isn't so cold as--as that, is it?" asked the voice under the plaid. "quite," i returned valiantly, tightening my clasp. she laughed a low, mellow laugh that set my heart beating to the tune of a trip-hammer. i felt a great intoxication of strength that might have razed fort douglas to the ground and conquered the whole world, which, i dare say, other young men have felt when the same kind of weight hung upon their protection. "oh! little statue! why have you been so hard on us?" i began. "_us?_" she asked. "me--then," and i gulped down my embarrassment. "because----" "because what?" "no _what_. just because!" she was astonished that her decisive reason did not satisfy. "because! a woman's reason!" i scoffed. "because! it's the best and wisest and most wholesome reason ever invented. think what it avoids saying and what wisdom may be behind it!" "only wisdom?" "you be careful! there'll be another cold plunge! tell me about your friend's wife, miriam," she answered, changing the subject. and when i related my strange mission and she murmured, "how noble," i became a very samson of strength, ready to vanquish an army of philistine admirers with the jawbone of my inflated self-confidence--provided, always, one queen of the combat were looking on. "are you cold, now?" i asked, though the trembling had ceased. no, she was not cold. she was quite comfortable, and the answer came in vibrant tones which were as wine to a young man's heart. "are you tired, frances?" and the "no" was accompanied by a little laugh, which spurred more questioning for no other purpose than to hear the music of her voice. now, what was there in those replies to cause happiness? why have inane answers to inane, timorous questions transformed earth into paradise and mortals into angels? "do you find the way very far--frances?" the flavor of some names tempts repeated tasting. "very far?" came the response in an amused voice, "find it very far? yes i do, quite far--oh! no--i don't. oh! i don't know!" she broke into a joyous laugh at her own confusion, gaining more self-possession as i lost mine; and out she slipped from the plaid. "i wish it were a thousand times farther," and i gazed ruefully at the folds that trailed empty. what other absurd things i might have said, i cannot tell; but we were at the fort and i had to wrap the tartan disguise about myself. stooping, i picked a bunch of dog-roses growing by the path, then felt foolish, for i had not the courage to give them to her, and dropped them without her knowledge. she gave the password at the gate. i was taken for a selkirk highlander and we easily gained entrance. a man brushed past us in the gloom of the courtyard. he looked impudently down into her face. it was laplante, and my whole frame filled with a furious resentment which i had not guessed could be possible with me. "that frenchman," she whispered, but his figure vanished among the buildings. she showed me the council hall where eric could be found. "and where do you go?" i asked stupidly. she indicated the quarters where the settlers had taken refuge. i led her to the door. "are you sure you'll be safe?" "oh! yes, quite, as long as the settlers are here; and you, you will let me know when the priest sets out for pembina?" i vowed more emphatically than the case required that she should know. "are there no dark halls in there, unsafe for you?" i questioned. "none," and she went up the first step of the doorway. "are you sure you're safe?" i also mounted a step. "yes, quite, thank you," and she retreated farther, "and you, have you forgotten you came to see mr. hamilton?" "why--so i did," i stammered out absently. she was on the top step, pulling the latch-string of the great door. "stop! frances--dear!" i cried. she stood motionless and i felt that this last rashness of an unruly tongue--too frank by far--had finished me. "what? can i do anything to repay you for your trouble in bringing me here?" "i've been repaid," i answered, "but indeed, indeed, long live the queen! may it please her majesty to grant a token to her leal and devoted knight----" "what is thy request?" she asked laughingly. "what token doth the knight covet?" "the token that goes with _good-nights_," and i ventured a pace up the stairs. "there, sir knight," she returned, hastily putting out her hand, which was not what i wanted, but to which i gratefully paid my devoir. "art satisfied?" she asked. "till the queen deigns more," and i paused for a reply. she lingered on the threshold as if she meant to come down to me, then with a quick turn vanished behind the gloomy doors, taking all the light of my world with her; but i heard a voice, as of some happy bird in springtime, trilling from the hall where she had gone, and a new song made music in my own heart. chapter xi a shuffling of allegiance time was when fort douglas rang as loudly with mirth of assembled traders as ever fort william's council hall. often have i heard veterans of the hudson's bay service relate how the master of revels used to fill an ample jar with corn and quaff a beaker of liquor for every grain in the drinker's hour-glass. "how stands the hour-glass?" the governor of the feast, who was frequently also the governor of the company, would roar out in stentorian tones, that made themselves heard above the drunken brawl. "high, your honor, high," some flunkey of the drinking bout would bawl back. thereupon, another grain was picked from the jar, another flagon tossed down and the revel went on. this was a usual occurrence before and after the conflict with the nor'-westers. but the night that i climbed the stairs of the main warehouse and, mustering up assurance, stepped into the hall as if i belonged to the fort, or the fort belonged to me, there was a different scene. a wounded man lay on a litter at the end of the long, low room; and the traders sitting on the benches against the walls, or standing aimlessly about, were talking in suppressed tones. scotchmen, driven from their farms by the _bois-brulés_, hung around in anxious groups. the lanterns, suspended on iron hooks from mid-rafter, gave but a dusky light, and i vainly scanned many faces for eric hamilton. that he was wounded, i knew. i was stealing stealthily towards the stretcher at the far end of the place, when a deep voice burred rough salutation in my ear. "hoo are ye, gillie?" it was a shaggy-browed, bluff scotchman, who evidently took me in my tartan disguise for a highland lad. whether he meant, "how are you," or "who are you," i was not certain. afraid my tongue might betray me, i muttered back an indistinct response. the scot was either suspicious, or offended by my churlishness. i slipped off quickly to a dark corner, but i saw him eying me closely. a youth brushed past humming a ditty, which seemed strangely out of place in those surroundings. he stood an elbow's length from me and kicked moccasined heels against the floor in the way of light-headed lads. both the air and figure of the young fellow vaguely recalled somebody, but his back was towards me. i was measuring my comrade, wondering if i might inquire where hamilton could be found, when the lad turned, and i was face to face with the whiskered babe of fort william. he gave a long, low whistle. "gad!" he gasped. "do my eyes tell lies? as i live, 'tis your very self! hang it, now, i thought you were one of those solid bodies wouldn't do any turn-coating----" "turn-coating!" i repeated in amazement. "one of those dray-horse, old reliables, wouldn't kick over the traces, not if the boss pumped his arms off licking you! hang it! i'm not that sort! by gad, i'm not! i've got too many oats! i can't stand being jawed and gee-hawed by dunc. cameron; so when the old gov. threatened to dock me for being full, i just kicked up my heels and came. but say! i didn't think you would, gillespie!" "no?" said i, keeping my own counsel and waiting for the nor'-west deserter to proceed. "what 'd y' do it for, gillespie? you're as sober as cold water! was it old cameron?" "you're not talking straight, babe," said i. "you know cameron doesn't nag his men. what did _you_ do it for?" "eh?" and the lad gave a laugh over my challenge of his veracity. "see here, old pal, i'll tell you if you tell me." "go ahead with your end of the contract!" "well, then, look here. we're not in this wilderness for glory. i knock down to the highest bidder----" "hudson's bay is _not_ the highest bidder." "not unless you happen to have information they want." "oh! that's the way of it, is it?" so the boy was selling nor'-westers' secrets. "you can bet your last beaver-skin it is! do you think i was old cam's private secretary for nothin'? not i! i say--get your wares as you may and sell 'em to the highest bidder. so here i am, snugly berthed, with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs, all through judicious--distribution--of--information." and the boy gurgled with pleasure over his own cleverness. "and say, gillespie, i'm in regular clover! the little statue's here, all alone! dad's gone to pembina to the buffalo hunt. i've got ahead of all you fellows. i'm going to introduce a french-chap, a friend of mine." "you'd much better break his bones," was my advice. it needed no great speculation to guess who the frenchman was; and in the hands of that crafty rake this prattling babe would be as putty. "pah! you're jealous, gillespie! we're right on the inside track!" "lots of confidential talks with her, i suppose?" "talks! pah! you gross fatty! why, gillespie, what do you know of such things? laplante can win a girl by just looking at her--french way, you know--he can pose better than a poem!" "blockhead," i ground out between my teeth, a feeling taking possession of me, which is designated "indignation" in the first person but jealousy in the second and third. "you stupid simpleton, that laplante is a villain who will turn your addled pate and work you as an old wife kneads dough." "what do you know about laplante?" he demanded hotly. "i know he is an accomplished blackguard," i answered quietly, "and if you want to spoil your chances with the little statue, just prance round in his company." the lad was too much surprised to speak. "where's hamilton?" i asked. "find him for yourself," said he, going off in a huff. i edged cautiously near enough the wounded man to see that he was not hamilton. near the litter was a group of clerks. "they're fools," one clerk was informing the others. "cameron sent word he'd have mcdonell dead or alive. if he doesn't give himself up, this fort'll go and the whole settlement be massacred." "been altogether too high-handed anyway," answered another. "i'm loyal to my company; but lord selkirk can't set up a military despotism here. been altogether better if we'd left the nor'-westers alone." "it's all the fault of that cocky little martinet," declared a third. "i say," exclaimed a man joining the group, "d' y' hear the news? all the chiefs in there--" jerking his thumb towards a side door--"are advising captain mcdonell to give himself up and save the fort." "good thing. who'll miss him? he'll only get a free trip to montreal," remarked one of the aggressives in this group. "i tell you, men, both companies have gone a deal too far in this little slap-back game to be keen for legal investigation. why, at souris, everybody knows----" he lowered his voice and i unconsciously moved from my dark corner to hear the rest. "hoo are ye, gillie?" said the burly scot in my ear. turning, i found the canny swain had followed me on an investigating tour. again i gave him an inarticulate reply and lost myself among other coteries. was the man spying on me? i reflected that if "the chiefs"--as the hudson's bay man had called them--were in the side room, eric hamilton would be among these conferring with the governor. as i approached the door, i noticed my scotch friend had taken some one into his confidence and two men were now on my tracks. lifting the latch, i gave a gentle, cautious push and the hinges swung so quietly i had slipped into the room before those inside or out could prevent me. i found myself in the middle of a long apartment with low, sloping ceiling, and deep window recesses. it had evidently been partitioned off from the main hall; for the wall, ceiling and floor made an exact triangle. at one end of the place was a table. round this was a group of men deeply engrossed in some sort of conference. sitting on the window sills and lounging round the box stove behind the table were others of our rival's service. i saw at once it would be difficult to have access to hamilton. he was lying on a stretcher within talking range of the table and had one arm in a sling. now, i hold it is harder for the unpractised man to play the spy with everything in his favor, than for the adept to act that rôle against the impossible. one is without the art that foils detection. the other can defy detection. so i stood inside with my hand on the door lest the click of the closing latch should rouse attention, but had no thought of prying into hudson's bay secrets. "your honor," began hamilton in a lifeless manner, which told me his search had been bootless, and he turned languidly towards a puffy, crusty, military gentleman, whom, from the respect shown him, i judged to be governor mcdonell. "duncan cameron's warrant for the arrest is perfectly legal. if your honor should surrender yourself, you will save fort douglas for the hudson's bay company. besides, the whole arrest will prove a farce. the law in lower canada provides no machinery for the trial of cases occurring----" here hamilton came to a blank and unexpected stop, for his eyes suddenly alighted on me with a look that forbade recognition, and fled furtively back to the group it the table. i understood and kept silent. "for the trial of cases occurring?" asked the governor sharply. "occurring--here," added hamilton, shooting out the last word as if his arm had given him a sudden twinge. "and so i say, your honor will lose nothing by giving yourself up to the nor'-westers, and will save fort douglas for the hudson's bay." "the doctor tells me it's a compound fracture. you'll find it painful, mr. hamilton," said governor mcdonell sympathetically, and he turned to the papers over which the group were conferring. "i'm no great hand in winning victories by showing the white flag," began the gallant captain, "but if a free trip from here to montreal satisfies those fools, i'll go." "well said! bravo! your honor," exclaimed a shaggy member of the council, bringing his fist down on the table with a thud. "i call that diplomacy, outmanoeuvring the enemy! your honor sets an example for abiding by the law; you obey the warrant. they must follow the example and leave fort douglas alone." "besides, i can let his lordship know from montreal just what reinforcements are needed here," continued captain mcdonell, with a curious disregard for the law which he professed to be obeying, and a faithful zeal for lord selkirk. hamilton was looking anxiously at me with an expression of warning which i could not fully read. then i felt, what every one must have felt at some time, that a third person was watching us both. following eric's glance to a dark window recess directly opposite the door where i stood, i was horrified and riveted by the beady, glistening, insolent eyes of louis laplante, gazing out of the dusk with an expression of rakish amusement, the amusement of a spider when a fly walks into its web. taken unawares i have ever been more or less of what mr. jack mackenzie was wont to call "a stupid loon!" on discovering laplante i promptly sustained my reputation by letting the door fly to with a sharp click that startled the whole room-full. whereat louis laplante gave a low, soft laugh. "what do you want here, man?" demanded governor mcdonell's sharp voice. jerking off my cap, i saluted. "my man, your honor," interjected eric quietly. "come here, rufus," he commanded, motioning me to his side with the hauteur of a master towards a servant. and louis laplante rose and tip-toed after me with a tigerish malice that recalled the surly squaw. "oh, eric!" i cried out eagerly. "are you hurt, and at such a time?" unconsciously i was playing into louis' hands, for he stood by the stove, laughing nonchalantly. thereupon eric ground out some imprecation at my stupidity. "there's been a shuffling of allegiance, i hear," he said with a queer misleading look straight at laplante. "we've recruits from fort gibraltar." eric's words, curiously enough, banished triumph from laplante's face and the frenchman's expression was one of puzzled suspicion. from eric's impassive features, he could read nothing. what hamilton was driving at, i should presently learn; but to find out i would no more take my eyes from laplante's than from a tiger about to spring. at once, to get my attention, hamilton brought a stick down on my toes with a sharpness that made me leap. by all the codes of nudges and kicks and such signaling, it is a principle that a blow at one end of human anatomy drives through the density of the other extremity. it dawned on me that eric was trying to persuade laplante i had deserted nor'-westers for the hudson's bay. the ethics of his attempt i do not defend. it was after the facile fashion of an intriguing era. a sharper weapon was presently given us against louis laplante; for when i grasped eric's stick to stay the raps against my feet, i felt the handle rough with carving. "what are these carvings, may i inquire, sir?" i asked, assuming the strangeness, which eric's signals had directed, but never moving my eyes from laplante. the villain who had befooled me in the gorge and eluded me in the forest, and now tormented frances sutherland, winced under my watchfulness. "the carvings!" answered eric, annoyed that i did not return his plain signals and determined to get my eye. "pray look for yourself! where are your eyes?" "i can't see in this poor light, sir; but i also have a strangely carved thing--a spear-head. now if this head has no handle and this handle has no head--they might fit," i went on watching laplante, whose saucy assurance was deserting him. "spear-head!" exclaimed hamilton, beginning to understand i too had my design. "where did you find it?" "trying to bury itself in my head." i returned. at this, laplante, the knave, smiled graciously in my very face. "but it didn't succeed?" asked hamilton. "no--it mistook me for a tree, missed the mark and went into the tree; just as another friend of mine mistook me for a tree, hit the mark and ran into me," and i smiled back at laplante. his face clouded. that reference to the scene on the beach, where his hudson's bay despatches were stolen, was too much for his hot blood. "here it is," i continued, pulling the spear-head out of my plaid. i had brought it to hamilton, hoping to identify our enemy, and we did. "please see if they fit, sir? we might identify our--friends!" and i searched the furtive, guilty eyes of the frenchman. "dat frien'," muttered louis with a threatening look at me, "dat frien' of mister hamilton he spike good english for scot' youth." now louis, as i remembered from laval days, never mixed his english and french, except when he was in passion furious beyond all control. "fit!" cried hamilton. "they're a perfect fit, and both carved the same, too." "with what?" "eagles," answered eric, puzzled at my drift, and louis laplante wore the last look of the tiger before it springs. "and eagles," said i, defying the spring, "signify that both the spear-head and the spear-handle belong to the sioux chief whose daughter"--and i lowered my voice to a whisper which only laplante and hamilton could hear--"is married--to le--grand--diable!" "what!" came hamilton's low cry of agony. forgetting the fractured arm, he sprang erect. and louis laplante staggered back in the dark as if we had struck him. "laplante! laplante! where's that frenchman? bring him up here!" called governor mcdonell's fussy, angry tones. coming when it did, this demand was to louis a bolt of judgment; and he joined the conference with a face as gray as ashes. "now about those stolen despatches! we want to know the truth! were you drunk, or were you not? who has them?" captain mcdonell arraigned the frenchman with a fire of questions that would have confused any other culprit but louis. "eric," i whispered, taking advantage of the respite offered by louis' examination. "we found laplante at _pointe a la croix_. he was drunk. he confessed miriam is held by diable's squaw. then we discovered someone was listening to the confession and pursued the eavesdropper into the bush. when we came back, laplante had been carried off. i found one of my canoemen had your lost fowling-piece, and it was he who had listened and carried off the drunk sot and tried to send that spear-head into me at the sault. 'twas diable, eric! father holland, a priest in our company, told me of the white woman on lake winnipeg. did you find this--" indicating the spear handle--"there?" eric, cold, white and trembling, only whispered an affirmative. "was that all?" "all," he answered, a strange, fierce look coming over his face, as the full import of my news forced home on him. "was--was--laplante--in that?" he asked, gripping my arm in his unwounded hand with foreboding force. "not that we know of. only diable. but louis is friendly with the sioux, and if we only keep him in sight we may track them." "i'll--keep--him--in sight," muttered hamilton in low, slow words. "hush, eric!" i whispered. "if we harm him, he may mislead us. let us watch him and track him!" "he's asking leave to go trapping in the sioux country. can you go as trader for your people? to the buffalo hunt first, then, south? i'll watch here, if he stays; you, there, if he goes, and he shall tell us all he knows or--" "hush, man," i urged. "listen!" "where," governor mcdonell was thundering at laplante, "where are the parties that stole those despatches?" the question brought both hamilton and myself to the table. we went forward where we could see laplante's face without being seen by his questioners. "if i answer, your honor," began the frenchman, taking the captain's bluster for what it was worth and holding out doggedly for his own rights, "i'll be given leave to trap with the sioux?" "certainly, man. speak out." "the parties--that stole--those despatches," laplante was answering slowly. at this stage he looked at his interlocutor as if to question the sincerity of the guarantee and he saw me standing screwing the spear-head on the tell-tale handle. i patted the spear-head, smiled blandly back, and with my eyes dared him to go on. he paused, bit his lip and flushed. "no lies, no roguery, or i'll have you at the whipping-post," roared the governor. "speak up. where are the parties?" "near about here," stammered louis, "and you may ask your new turn-coat." i was betrayed! betrayed and trapped; but he should not go free! i would have shouted out, but hamilton's hand silenced me. "here!" exclaimed the astounded governor. "go call that young nor'-wester! if _he_ backs up y'r story, _he_ was cameron's secretary, you can go to the buffalo hunt." that response upset louis' bearings. he had expected the governor would refer to me; but the command let him out of an awkward place and he darted from the room, as hamilton and i supposed,--simpletons that we were with that rogue!--to find the young nor'-wester. this turn of affairs gave me my chance. if the young nor'-wester and laplante came together, my disguise as highlander and turn-coat would be stripped from me and i should be trapped indeed. "good-by, old boy!" and i gripped hamilton's hand. "if he stays, he's your game. when he goes, he's mine. good luck to us both! you'll come south when you're better." then i bolted through the main hall thinking to elude the canny scots, but saw both men in the stairway waiting to intercept me. when i ran down a flight of side stairs, they dashed to trap me at the gate. at the doorway a man lounged against me. the lantern light fell on a pointed beard. it was laplante, leaning against the wall for support and shaking with laughter. "you again, old tombstone! whither away so fast?" and he made to hold me. "i'm in a hurry myself! my last night under a roof, ha! ha! wait till i make my grand farewell! we both did well, did the grand, ho! ho! but i must leave a fair demoiselle!" "let go," and i threw him off. "take that, you ramping donkey, you anglo-saxon animal," and he aimed a kick in my direction. though i could ill spare the time to do it, i turned. all the pent-up strength, from the walk with frances sutherland rushed into my clenched fist and louis laplante went down with a thud across the doorway. there was the sish-rip of a knife being thrust through my boot, but the blade broke and i rushed past the prostrate form. certain of waylaying me, the scots were dodging about the gate; but by running in the shadow of the warehouse to the rear of the court, i gave both the slip. i had no chance to reconnoitre, but dug my hunting-knife into the stockade, hoisted myself up the wooden wall, got a grip of the top and threw myself over, escaping with no greater loss than boots pulled off before climbing the palisade, and the highland cap which stuck fast to a picket as i alighted below. at dawn, bootless and hatless, i came in sight of fort gibraltar and father holland, who was scanning the prairie for my return, came running to greet me. "the tip-top o' the mornin' to the renegade! i thought ye'd been scalped--and so ye have been--nearly--only they mistook y'r hat for the wool o' y'r crown. boots gone too! out wid your midnight pranks." a succession of welcoming thuds accompanied the tirade. as breath returned, i gasped out a brief account of the night. "and now," he exclaimed triumphantly, "i have news to translate ye to a sivinth hiven! och! but it's clane cracked ye'll be when ye hear it. now, who's appointed to trade with the buffalo hunters but y'r very self?" it was with difficulty i refrained from embracing the bearer of such good tidings. "be easy," he commanded. "ye'll need these demonstrations, i'm thinkin'--huntin' one lass and losin' y'r heart to another." we arranged he should go to fort douglas for frances sutherland and i was to set out later. they were to ride along the river-path south of the forks where i could join them. i, myself, picked out and paid for two extra horses, one a quiet little cayuse with ambling action, the other, a muscular broncho. i had the satisfaction of seeing father holland mounted on the latter setting out for fort douglas, while the indian pony wearing an empty side-saddle trotted along in tow. the information i brought back from fort douglas delayed any more hostile demonstrations against the hudson's bay. that very morning, before i had finished breakfast, governor mcdonell rode over to fort gibraltar, and on condition that fort douglas be left unmolested gave himself up to the nor'-westers. at noon, when i was riding off to the buffalo hunt and the missouri, i saw the captain, smiling and debonair, embarking--or rather being embarked--with north-west brigades, to be sent on a free trip two thousand five hundred miles to montreal. "a safe voyage to ye," said duncan cameron, commander of nor'-westers, as the ex-governor of red river settled himself in a canoe. "a safe voyage to ye, mon!" "and a prosperous return," was the ironical answer of the dauntless ruler over the hudson's bay. "sure now, rufus," said father holland to me a year afterwards, "'twas a prosperous return he had!" fortunately, i had my choice of scouts, and, by dangling the prospects of a buffalo hunt before la robe noire and little fellow, tempted them to come with me. chapter xii how a youth became a king when the prima-donna of some vauntful city trills her bird-song above the foot-lights, or the cremona moans out the sigh of night-winds through the forest, artificial townsfolk applaud. yet a nesting-tree, a thousand leagues from city discords, gives forth better music with deeper meaning and higher message--albeit the songster sings only from love of song. the fretted folk of the great cities cannot understand the witching fascinations of a wild life in a wild, free, tameless land, where god's own hand ministers to eye and ear. to fare sumptuously, to dress with the faultless distinction that marks wealth, to see and above all to be seen--these are the empty ends for which city men engage in a mad, feverish pursuit of wealth, trample one another down in a strife more ruthless than war and gamble away gifts of mind and soul. these are the things for which they barter all freedom but the name. where one succeeds a thousand fail. those with higher aims count themselves happy, indeed, to possess a few square feet of canvas, that truly represents the beauty dear to them, before weeds had undermined and overgrown and choked the temple of the soul. that any one should exchange gilded chains for freedom to give manhood shoulder swing, to be and to do--without infringing on the liberty of others to be and to do--is to such folk a matter of no small wonderment. for my part, i know i was counted mad by old associates of quebec when i chose the wild life of the north country. but each to his taste, say i; and all this is only the opinion of an old trader, who loved the work of nature more than the work of man. other voices may speak to other men and teach them what the waterways and forests, the plains and mountains, were teaching me. if "ologies" and "ics," the lore of school and market, comfort their souls--be it so. as for me, it was only when half a continent away from the jangle of learning and gain that i began to stir like a living thing and to know that i existed. the awakening began on the westward journey; but the new life hardly gained full possession before that cloudless summer day on the prairie, when i followed the winding river trail south of the forks. the indian scouts were far to the fore. rank grass, high as the saddle-bow, swished past the horse's sides and rippled away in an unbroken ocean of green to the encircling horizon. of course allowance must be made for a man in love. other men have discovered a worldful of beauty, when in love; but i do not see what difference two figures on horseback against the southern sky-line could possibly make to the shimmer of purple above the plains, or the fragrance of prairie-roses lining the trail. it seems to me the lonely call of the meadow-lark high overhead--a mote in a sea of blue--or the drumming and chirruping of feathered creatures through the green, could not have sounded less musical, if i had not been a lover. but that, too, is only an opinion; for one glimpse of the forms before me brought peace into the whole world. father holland evidently saw me, for he turned and waved. the other rider gave no sign of recognition. a touch of the spur to my horse and i was abreast of them, frances sutherland curveting her cayuse from the trail to give me middle place. "arrah, me hearty, here ye are at last! och, but ye're a skulkin' wight," called the priest as i saluted both. "what d'y' say for y'rself, ye belated rascal, comin' so tardy when ye're headed for gretna green--och! 'twas a _lapsus linguæ_! 'tis pembina--not gretna green--that i mean." had it been half a century later, when a little place called gretna sprang up on this very trail, frances sutherland and i need not have flinched at this reference to an old-world mecca for run-away lovers. but there was no gretna on the pembina trail in those days and the little statue's cheeks were suddenly tinged deep red, while i completely lost my tongue. "not a word for y'rself?" continued the priest, giving me full benefit of the mischievous spirit working in him. "he, who bearded the foe in his den, now meeker than a lambkin, mild as a turtle-dove, timid as a pigeon, pensive as a whimpering-robin that's lost his mate----" "there ought to be a law against the jokes of the clergy, sir," i interrupted tartly. "the jokes aren't funny and one daren't hit back." "there ought to be a law against lovers, me hearty," laughed he. "they're always funny, and they can't stand a crack." "against all men," ventured frances sutherland with that instinctive, womanly tact, which whips recalcitrant talkers into line like a deft driver reining up kicking colts. "all men should be warranted safe, not to go off." "unless there's a fair target," and the priest looked us over significantly and laughed. if he felt a gentle pull on the rein, he yielded not a jot. unluckily there are no curb-bits for hard-mouthed talkers. "rufus, i don't see that ye wear a ticket warranting ye'll not go off," he added merrily. red became redder on two faces, and hot, hotter with at least one temper. "and womankind?" i managed to blurt out, trying to second her efforts against our tormentor. "what guarantee against dangers from them? the pulpit silenced--though that's a big contract--mankind labeled, what for women?" "libeled," she retorted. "men say we don't hit straight enough to be dangerous." "the very reason ye are dangerous," the priest broke in. "ye aim at a head and hit a heart! then away ye go to gretna green--och! it's pembina, i mean! marry, my children----" and he paused. "marry!--what?" i shouted. thereupon frances sutherland broke into peals of laughter, in which i could see no reason, and father holland winked. "what's wrong with ye?" asked the priest solemnly. "faith, 'tis no advice i'm giving; but as i was remarking, marry, my children, i'd sooner stand before a man not warranted safe than a woman, who might take to shying pretty charms at my head! faith, me lambs, ye'll learn that i speak true." as mr. jack mackenzie used to put it in his peppery reproof, i always did have a knack of tumbling head first the instant an opportunity offered. this time i had gone in heels and all, and now came up in as fine a confusion as any bashful bumpkin ever displayed before his lady. frances sutherland had regained her composure and came to my rescue with another attempt to take the lead from the loquacious churchman. "i'm so grateful to you for arranging this trip," and she turned directly to me. "hm-m," blurted father holland with unutterable merriment, before i could get a word in, "he's grateful to himself for that same thing. faith! he's been thankin' the stars, especially venus, ever since he got marching orders!" "how did you reach fort gibraltar?" she persisted. "sans boots and cap," i promptly replied, determined to be ahead of the interloper. "sans heart, too," and the priest flicked my broncho with his whip and knocked the ready-made speech, with which i had hoped to silence him, clean out of my head. frances sutherland took to examining remote objects on the horizon. hers was a nature not to be beaten. "let us ride faster," she suddenly proposed with a glance that boded roguery for the priest's portly form. she was off like a shaft from a bow-string, causing a stampede of our horses. that was effective. a hard gallop against a stiff prairie wind will stop a stout man's eloquence. "ho youngsters!" exclaimed the priest, coming abreast of us as we reined up behind the scouts. "if ye set me that gait--whew--i'll not be left for gretna green--faith--it's pembina, i mean," and he puffed like a cargo boat doing itself proud among the great liners. he was breathless, therefore safe. frances sutherland was not disposed to break the accumulating silence, and i, for the life of me, could not think of a single remark appropriate for a party of three. the ordinary commonplaces, that stop-gap conversation, refused to come forth. i rehearsed a multitude of impossible speeches; but they stuck behind sealed lips. "silence is getting heavy, rufus," he observed, enjoying our embarrassment. thus we jogged forward for a mile or more. "troth, me pet lambs," he remarked, as breath returned, "ye'll both bleat better without me!" forthwith, away he rode fifty yards ahead, keeping that distance beyond us for the rest of the day and only calling over his shoulder occasionally. "och! but y'r bronchos are slow! don't be telling me y'r bronchos are not slow! arrah, me hearties, be making good use o' the honeymoon,--i mean afternoon, not honeymoon. marry, me children, but y'r bronchos are bog-spavined and spring-halted. jiggle-joggle faster, with ye, ye rascals! faith, i see ye out o' the tail o' my eye. those bronchos are nosing a bit too close, i'm thinkin'! i'm going to turn! i warn ye fair--ready! one--shy-off there! two--have a care! three--i'm coming! four--prepare!" and he would glance back with shouts of droll laughter. "get epp! we mustn't disturb them! get epp!" this to his own horse and off he would go, humming some ditty to the lazy hobble of his nag. "old angel!" said i, under my breath, and i fell to wondering what earthly reason any man had for becoming a priest. he was right. talk no longer lagged, whatever our bronchos did; but, indeed, all we said was better heard by two than three. why that was, i cannot tell, for like beads of a rosary our words were strung together on things commonplace enough; and fond hearts, as well as mystics, have a key to unlock a world of meaning from meaningless words. tufts of poplars, wood islands on the prairie, skulking coyotes, that prowled to the top of some earth mound and uttered their weird cries, mud-colored badgers, hulking clumsily away to their treacherous holes, gophers, sly fellows, propped on midget tails pointing fore-paws at us--these and other common things stole the hours away. the sun, dipping close to the sky-line, shone distorted through the warm haze like a huge blood shield. far ahead our scouts were pitching tents on ground well back from the river to avoid the mosquitoes swarming above the water. it was time to encamp for the night. those long june nights in the far north with fire glowing in the track of a vanished sun and stillness brooding over infinite space--have a glory, that is peculiarly their own. only a sort of half-darkness lies between the lingering sunset and the early sun-dawn. at nine o'clock the sun-rim is still above the western prairie. at ten, one may read by daylight, and, if the sky is clear, forget for another hour that night has begun. after supper, father holland sat at a distance from the tents with his back carefully turned towards us, a precaution on his part for which i was not ungrateful. frances sutherland was throned on the boxes of our quondam table, and i was reclining against saddle-blankets at her feet. "oh! to be so forever," she exclaimed, gazing at the globe of solid gold against the opal-green sky. "to have the light always clear, just ahead, nothing between us and the light, peace all about, no care, no weariness, just quiet and beauty like this forever." "like this forever! i ask nothing better," said i with great heartiness; but neither her eyes nor her thoughts were for me. would the eyes looking so intently at the sinking sun, i wondered, condescend to look at a spot against the sun. in desperation i meditated standing up. 'tis all very well to talk of storming the citadel of a closed heart, but unless telepathic implements of war are perfected to the same extent as modern armaments, permitting attack at long range, one must first get within shooting distance. apparently i was so far outside the defences, even my design was unknown. "i think," she began in low, hesitating words, so clear and thrilling, they set my heart beating wildly with a vague expectation, "i think heaven must be very, very near on nights like this, don't--you--rufus?" i wasn't thinking of heaven at all, at least, not the heaven she had in mind; but if there is one thing to make a man swear white is black and black white and to bring him to instantaneous agreement with any statement whatsoever, it is to hear his christian name so spoken for the first time. i sat up in an electrified way that brought the fringe of lashes down to hide those gray eyes. "very near? well rather! i've been in heaven all day," i vowed. "i've been getting glimpses of paradise all the way from fort william----" "don't," she interrupted with a flash of the imperious nature, which i knew. "please don't, mr. gillespie." "please don't mister gillespie me," said i, piqued by a return to the formal. "if you picked up rufus by mistake from the priest, he sets a good example. don't drop a good habit!" that was my first step inside the outworks. "rufus," she answered so gently i felt she might disarm and slay me if she would, "rufus gillespie"--that was a return of the old spirit, a compromise between her will and mine--"please don't begin saying that sort of thing--there's a whole day before us----" "and you think i can't keep it up?" "you haven't given any sign of failing. you know, rufus," she added consolingly, "you really must not say those things, or something will be hurt! you'll make me hurt it." "something is hurt and needs mending, miss sutherland----" "don't miss sutherland me," she broke in with a laugh, "call me frances; and if something is hurt and needs mending, i'm not a tinker, though my father and the priest--yes and you, too--sometimes think so. but sisters do mending, don't they?" and she laughed my earnestness off as one would puff out a candle. "no--no--no--not sisters--not that," i protested. "i have no sisters, little statue. i wouldn't know how to act with a sister, unless she were somebody else's sister, you know. i can't stand the sisterly business, frances----" "have you suffered much from the sisterly?" she asked with a merry twinkle. "no," i hastened to explain, "i don't know how to play the sisterly touch-and-go at all, but the men tell me it doesn't work--dead failure, always ends the same. sister proposes, or is proposed to----" "oh!" cried the little statue with the faintest note of alarm, and she moved back from me on the boxes. "i think we'd better play at being very matter-of-fact friends for the rest of the trip." "no, thank you, miss sutherland--frances, i mean," said i. "i'm not the fool to pretend that----" "then pretend anything you like," and there was a sudden coldness in her voice, which showed me she regarded my refusal and the slip in her name as a rebuff. "pretend anything you like, only don't say things." that was a throwing down of armor which i had not expected. "then pretend that a pilgrim was lost in the dark, lost where men's souls slip down steep places to hell, and that one as radiant as an angel from heaven shone through the blackness and guided him back to safe ground," i cried, taking quick advantage of my fair antagonist's sudden abandon and casting aside all banter. "children! children!" cried the priest. "children! sun's down! time to go to your trundles, my babes!" "yes, yes," i shouted. "wait till i hear the rest of this story." at my words she had started up with a little gasp of fright. a look of awe came into her gray eyes, which i have seen on the faces of those who find themselves for the first time beside the abyss of a precipice. and i have climbed many lofty peaks, but never one without passing these places with the fearful possibilities of destruction. always the novice has looked with the same unspeakable fear into the yawning depths, with the same unspeakable yearning towards the jewel-crowned heights beyond. this, or something of this, was in the startled attitude of the trembling figure, whose eyes met mine without flinching or favor. "or pretend that a traveler had lost his compass, and though he was without merit, god gave him a star." "is it a pretty story, rufus?" called the priest. "very," i cried out impatiently. "don't interrupt." "or pretend that a poor fool with no merit but his love of purity and truth and honor lost his way to paradise, and god gave him an angel for a guide." "is it a long story, rufus?" called the priest. "it's to be continued," i shouted, leaping to my feet and approaching her. "and pretend that the pilgrim and the traveler and the fool, asked no other privilege but to give each his heart's love, his life's devotion to her who had come between him and the darkness----" "rufus!" roared the priest. "i declare i'll take a stick to you. come away! d' y' hear? she's tired." "good-night," she answered, in a broken whisper, so cold it stabbed me like steel; and she put out her hand in the mechanical way of the well-bred woman in every land. "is that all?" i asked, holding the hand as if it had been a galvanic battery, though the priest was coming straight towards us. "all?" she returned, the lashes falling over the misty, gray eyes. "ah, rufus! are we playing jest is earnest, or earnest is jest?" and she turned quickly and went to her tent. how long i stood in reverie, i do not know. the priest's broad hand presently came down on my shoulder with a savage thud. "ye blunder-busticus, ye, what have ye been doing?" he asked. "the little statue was crying when she went to her tent." "crying?" "yes, ye idiot. i'll stay by her to-morrow." and he did. nor could he have contrived severer punishment for the unfortunate effect of my words. fool, that i was! i should keep myself in hand henceforth. how many men have made that vow regarding the woman they love? those that have kept it, i trow, could be counted easily enough. but i had no opportunity to break my vow; for the priest rode with frances sutherland the whole of the second day, and not once did he let loose his scorpion wit. she had breakfast alone in her tent next morning, the priest carrying tea and toast to her; and when she came out, she leaped to her saddle so quickly i lost the expected favor of placing that imperious foot in the stirrup. we set out three abreast, and i had no courage to read my fate from the cold, marble face. the ground became rougher. we were forced to follow long detours round sloughs, and i gladly fell to the rear where i was unobserved. clumps of willows alone broke the endless dip of the plain. glassy creeks glittered silver through the green, and ever the trail, like a narrow ribbon of many loops, fled before us to the dim sky-line. when we halted for our nooning, frances sutherland had slipped from her saddle and gone off picking prairie roses before either the priest or i noticed her absence. "if you go off, you nuisance, you," said the priest rubbing his bald pate, and gazing after her in a puzzled way, when we had the meal ready, "i think she'll come back and eat." i promptly took myself off and had the glum pleasure of hearing her chat in high spirits over the dinner table of packing boxes; but she was on her cayuse and off with the scouts long before father holland and i had mounted. "rufus," said the priest with a comical, quizzical look, as we set off together. "rufus, i think y'r a fool." "i've thought that several hundred thousand times myself, this morning." "have ye as much as got a glint of her eye to-day?" "no. i can't compete against the church with women. any fool knows that, even as big a fool as i." "tush, youngster! don't take to licking your raw tongue up and down the cynic's saw edge! put a spur to your broncho there and ride ahead with her." "having offended a goddess, i don't wish to be struck dead by inviting her wrath." "pah! i've no patience with y'r ramrod independence! bend a stiff neck, or you'll break a sore heart! ride ahead, i tell you, you young mule!" and he brought a smart flick across my broncho. "father holland," i made answer with the dignity of a bishop and my nose mighty high in the air, "will you permit me to suggest that people know their own affairs best----" "tush, no! i'll permit you to do nothing of the kind," said he, driving a fly from his horse's ear. "don't you know, you young idiot, that between a man surrendering his love, and a woman surrendering hers, there's difference enough to account for tears? a man gives his and gets it back with compound interest in coin that's pure gold compared to his copper. a woman gives hers and gets back----" the priest stopped. "what?" i asked, interest getting the better of wounded pride. "not much that's worth having from idiots like you," said he; by which the priest proved he could deal honestly by a friend, without any mincing palliatives. his answer set me thinking for the best part of the afternoon; and i warrant if any man sets out with the priest's premises and thinks hard for an afternoon he will come to the same conclusion that i did. "let's both poke along a little faster," said i, after long silence. "oho! with all my heart!" and we caught up with frances sutherland and for the first time that day i dared to look at her face. if there were tear marks about the wondrous eyes, they were the marks of the shower after a sun-burst, the laughing gladness of life in golden light, the joyous calm of washed air when a storm has cleared away turbulence. why did she evade me and turn altogether to the priest at her right? had i been of an analytical turn of mind, i might, perhaps, have made a very careful study of an emotion commonly called jealousy; but, when one's heart beats fast, one's thoughts throng too swiftly for introspection. was i a part of the new happiness? i did not understand human nature then as i understand it now, else would i have known that fair eyes turn away to hide what they dare not reveal. i prided myself that i was now well in hand. i should take the first opportunity to undo my folly of the night before. * * * * * it was after supper. father holland had gone to his tent. frances sutherland was arranging a bunch of flowers in her lap; and i took my place directly behind her lest my face should tell truth while my tongue uttered lies. "speaking of stars, you know miss sutherland," i began, remembering that i had said something about stars that must be unsaid. "don't call me _miss_ sutherland, rufus," she said, and that gentle answer knocked my grand resolution clean to the four winds. "i beg your pardon, frances----" chaos and i were one. whatever was it i was to say about stars? "well?" there was a waiting in the voice. "yes--you know--frances." i tried to call up something coherent; but somehow the thumping of my heart set up a rattling in my head. "no--rufus. as a matter of fact, i don't know. you were going to tell me something." "bother my stupidity, miss--miss--frances, but the mastiff's forgotten what it was going to bow-wow about!" "not the moon this time," she laughed. "speaking of stars," and she gave me back my own words. "oh! yes! speaking of stars! do you know i think a lot of the men coming up from fort william got to regarding the star above the leading canoe as their own particular star." i thought that speech a masterpiece. it would convince her she was the star of all the men, not mine particularly. that was true enough to appease conscience, a half-truth like louis laplante's words. so i would rob my foolish avowal of its personal element. a flush suffused the snowy white below her hair. "oh! i didn't notice any particular star above the leading canoe. there were so very, very many splendid stars, i used to watch them half the night!" that answer threw me as far down as her manner had elated me. "well! what of the stars?" asked the silvery voice. i was dumb. she flung the flowers aside as though she would leave; but father holland suddenly emerged from the tent fanning himself with his hat. "babes!" said he. "you're a pair of fools! oh! to be young and throw our opportunities helter-skelter like flowers of which we're tired," and he looked at the upset lapful. "children! children! _carpe diem! carpe diem!_ pluck the flowers; for the days are swifter than arrows," and he walked away from us engrossed in his own thoughts, muttering over and over the advice of the latin poet, "_carpe diem! carpe diem!_" "what is _carpe diem_?" asked frances sutherland, gazing after the priest in sheer wonder. "i wasn't strong on classics at laval and i haven't my crib." "go on!" she commanded. "you're only apologizing for my ignorance. you know very well." "it means just what he says--as if each day were a flower, you know, had its joys to be plucked, that can never come again." "flowers! oh! i know! the kind you all picked for me coming up from fort william. and do you know, rufus, i never could thank you all? were those _carpe diem_ flowers?" "no--not exactly the kind father holland means we should pick." "what then?" and she turned suddenly to find her face not a hand's length from mine. "this kind," i whispered, bending in terrified joy over her shoulder; and i plucked a blossom straight from her lips and another and yet another, till there came into the deep, gray eyes what i cannot transcribe, but what sent me away the king of all men--for had i not found my queen? and that was the way i carried out my grand resolution and kept myself in hand. chapter xiii the buffalo hunt i question if norse heroes of the sea could boast more thrilling adventure than the wild buffalo hunts of american plain-rangers. a cavalcade of six hundred men mounted on mettlesome horses eager for the furious dash through a forest of tossing buffalo-horns was quite as imposing as any clash between warring vikings. squaws, children and a horde of ragged camp-followers straggled in long lines far to the hunters' rear. altogether, the host behind the flag numbered not less than two thousand souls. like any martial column, our squad had captain, color-bearer and chaplain. luckily, all three were known to me, as i discovered when i reached pembina. the truce, patched up between hudson's bay and nor'-westers after governor mcdonell's surrender, left cuthbert grant free to join the buffalo hunt. pursuing big game across the prairie was more to his taste than leading the half-breeds during peace. the warden of the plains came hot-foot after us, and was promptly elected captain of the chase. father holland was with us too. our course lay directly on his way to the missouri and a jolly chaplain he made. in grant's company came pierre, the rhymster, bubbling over with jingling minstrelsy, that was the delight of every half-breed camp on the plains. bareheaded, with a red handkerchief banding back his lank hair, and clad in fringed buckskin from the bright neck-cloth to the beaded moccasins, he was as wild a figure as any one of the savage rabble. yet this was the poet of the plain-rangers, who caught the song of bird, the burr of cataract through the rocks, the throb of stampeding buffalo, the moan of the wind across the prairie, and tuned his rude minstrelsy to wild nature's fugitive music. viking heroes, i know, chanted their deeds in songs that have come down to us; but with the exception of the eskimo, descendants of north american races have never been credited with a taste for harmony. once i asked pierre how he acquired his art of verse-making. with a laugh of scorn, he demanded if the wind and the waterfalls and the birds learned music from beardless boys and draggle-coated dominies with armfuls of books. however, it may have been with his pegasus, his mount for the hunt was no laggard. he rode a knob-jointed, muscular brute, that carried him like poetic inspiration wherever it pleased. though pierre's right hand was busied upholding the hunters' flag, and he had but one arm to bow-string the broncho's arching neck, the half-breed poet kept his seat with the easy grace of the plainsman born and bred in the saddle. "faith, man, 'tis the fate of genius to ride a fractious steed," said father holland, when the bronchos of priest and poet had come into violent collision with angry squeals for the third time in ten minutes. "and what are the capers of this, my beast, compared to the antics of fate, sir priest?" asked pierre with grave dignity. the wind caught his long hair and blew it about his face till he became an equestrian personification of the frenzied muse. i had become acquainted with his trick of setting words to the music of quaint rhymes; but father holland was taken aback. "by the saints," he exclaimed, "i've no mind to run amuck of pegasus! i'll get out of your way. faith, 'tis the first time i've seen poetry in buckskin of this particular binding," and he wheeled his broncho out, leaving me abreast of the rhymster. pierre's lips began to frame some answer to the churchman. "have a care, father," i warned. "you've escaped the broncho; but look out for the poet." "save us! what's coming now?" gasped the priest. "ha! i have it!" and pierre turned triumphantly to father holland. "the lord be praised that poetry's free, or you'd bottle it up like a saint's thumb-bone, that beauty's beauty for eyes that see without regard to a priestly gown----" "hold on," interrupted father holland. "hold on, pierre!" "'your double-quick peg has a limp of one leg!' "'bone' and 'gown' don't fit, mr. rhymster." "upon my honor! you turned poet, too, father holland!" said i. "we might be on a pilgrimage to helicon." "to where?" says grant, whose knowledge of classics was less than my own, which was precious little indeed. "helicon." at that father holland burst in such roars of laughter, the rhymster took personal offense, dug his moccasins against the horse's sides and rode ahead. his fringed leggings were braced straight out in the stirrups as if he anticipated his broncho transforming the concave into the convex,--known in the vernacular as "bucking." "mad as a hatter," said grant, inferring the joke was on pierre. "let him be! let him be! he'll get over it! he's working up his rhymes for the feast after the buffalo hunt." and we afterwards got the benefit of those rhymes. the tenth day west from pembina our scouts found some herd's footprints on soggy ground. at once word was sent back to pitch camp on rolling land. a cordon of carts with shafts turned outward encircled the camping ground. at one end the animals were tethered, at the other the hunter's tents were huddled together. all night mongrel curs, tearing about the enclosure in packs, kept noisy watch. twice grant and i went out to reconnoitre. we saw only a whitish wolf scurrying through the long grass. grant thought this had disturbed the dogs; but i was not so sure. indeed, i felt prepared to trace features of le grand diable under every elk-hide, or wolf-skin in which a cunning indian could be disguised. i deemed it wise to have a stronger guard and engaged two runners, ringing thunder and burnt earth, giving them horses and ordering them to keep within call during the thick of the hunt. at daybreak all tents were a beehive of activity. the horses, with almost human intelligence, were wild to be off. riders could scarcely gain saddles, and before feet were well in the stirrups, the bronchos had reared and bolted away, only to be reined sharply in and brought back to the ranks. the dogs, too, were mad, tearing after make-believe enemies and worrying one another till there were several curs less for the hunt. inside the cart circle, men were shouting last orders to women, squaws scolding half-naked urchins, that scampered in the way, and the whole encampment setting up a din that might have scared any buffalo herd into endless flight. grant gave the word. pierre hoisted the flag, and the camp turmoil was left behind. the _bois-brulés_ kept well within the lines and observed good order; but the indian rabble lashed their half-broken horses into a fury of excitement, that threatened confusion to all discipline. the camp was strongly guarded. father holland remained with the campers, but in spite of his holy calling, i am sure he longed to be among the hunters. scouts ahead, we followed the course of a half-dried slough where buffalo tracks were visible. some two miles from camp, the out-runners returned with word that the herds were browsing a short distance ahead, and that the marsh-bed widened to a banked ravine. the buffalo could not have been found in a better place; for there was a fine slope from the upper land to our game. we at once ascended the embankment and coursed cautiously along the cliff's summit. suddenly we rounded an abrupt headland and gained full view of the buffalo. the flag was lowered, stopping the march, and up rose our captain in his stirrups to survey the herd. a light mist screened us and a deep growth of the leathery grass, common to marsh lands, half hid a multitude of broad, humped, furry backs, moving aimlessly in the valley. coal-black noses poked through the green stalks sniffing the air suspiciously and the curved horns tossed broken stems off in savage contempt. from the headland beneath us to the rolling prairie at the mouth of the valley, the earth swayed with giant forms. the great creatures were restless as caged tigers and already on the rove for the day's march. i suppose the vast flocks of wild geese, that used to darken the sky and fill the air with their shrill "hunk, hunk," when i first went to the north, numbered as many living beings in one mass as that herd; but men no more attempted to count the creatures in flock or herd, than to estimate the pebbles of a shore. protruding eyes glared savagely sideways. great, thick necks hulked forward in impatient jerks; and those dagger-pointed horns, sharper than a pruning hook, promised no boy's sport for our company. the buffalo sees best laterally on the level, and as long as we were quiet we remained undiscovered. at the prospect, some of the hunters grew excitedly profane. others were timorous, fearing a stampede in our direction. being above, we could come down on the rear of the buffaloes and they would be driven to the open. grant scouted the counseled caution. the hunters loaded guns, filled their mouths with balls to reload on the gallop and awaited the captain's order. wheeling his horse to the fore, the warden gave one quick signal. with a storm-burst of galloping hoofs, we charged down the slope. at sound of our whirlwind advance, the bulls tossed up their heads and began pawing the ground angrily. from the hunters there was no shouting till close on the herd, then a wild halloo with unearthly screams from the indians broke from our company. the buffaloes started up, turned panic-stricken, and with bellowings, that roared down the valley, tore for the open prairie. the ravine rocked with the plunging monsters, and reëchoed to the crash of six-hundred guns and a thunderous tread. firing was at close range. in a moment there was a battle royal between dexterous savages, swift as tigers, and these leviathans of the prairie with their brute strength. a quick fearless horse was now invaluable; for the swiftest riders darted towards the large buffaloes and rode within a few yards before taking aim. instantly, the ravine was ablaze with shots. showers of arrows from the indian hunters sung through the air overhead. men unhorsed, ponies thrown from their feet, buffaloes wounded--or dead--were scattered everywhere. one angry bull gored furiously at his assailant, ripping his horse from shoulder to flank, then, maddened by the creature's blood, and before a shot from a second hunter brought him down, caught the rider on its upturned horns and tossed him high. by keeping deftly to the fore, where the buffalo could not see, and swerving alternately from side to side as the enraged animals struck forward, trained horses avoided side thrusts. the saddle-girths of one hunter, heading a buffalo from the herd, gave way as he was leaning over to send a final ball into the brute's head. down he went, shoulders foremost under its nose, while the horse, with a deft leap cleared the vicious drive of horns. strange to say, the buffalo did not see where he fell and galloped onward. carcasses were mowed down like felled trees; but still we plunged on and on, pursuing the racing herd; while the ground shook in an earthquake under stampeding hoofs. i had forgotten time, place, danger--everything in the mad chase and was hard after a savage old warrior that outraced my horse. gradually i rounded him closer to the embankment. my broncho was blowing, almost wind-spent, but still i dug the spurs into him, and was only a few lengths behind the buffalo, when the wily beast turned. with head down, eyes on fire and nostrils blood-red, he bore straight upon me. my broncho reared, then sprang aside. leaning over to take sure aim, i fired, but a side jerk unbalanced me. i lost my stirrup and sprawled in the dust. when i got to my feet, the buffalo lay dead and my broncho was trotting back. hunters were still tearing after the disappearing herd. riderless horses, mad with the smell of blood and snorting at every flash of powder, kept up with the wild race. little fellow, la robe noire, burnt earth, and ringing thunder, had evidently been left in the rear; for look where i might i could not see one of my four indians. near me two half-breeds were righting their saddles. i also was tightening the girths, which was not an easy matter with my excited broncho prancing round in a circle. suddenly there was the whistle of something through the air overhead, like a catapult stone, or recoiling whip-lash. the same instant one of the half-breeds gave an upward toss of both arms and, with a piercing shriek, fell to the ground. the fellow caught at his throat and from his bared chest protruded an arrow shaft. i heard his terrified comrade shout, "the sioux! the sioux!" then he fled in a panic of fear, not knowing where he was going and staggering as he ran; and i saw him pitch forward face downwards. i had barely realized what had happened and what it all meant, before an exultant shout broke from the high grass above the embankment. at that my horse gave a plunge and, wrenching the rein from my grasp, galloped off leaving me to face the hostiles. half a score of indians scrambled down the cliff and ran to secure the scalps of the dead. evidently i had not been seen; but if i ran i should certainly be discovered and a sioux's arrow can overtake the swiftest runner. i was looking hopelessly about for some place of concealment, when like a demon from the earth a horseman, scarlet in war-paint appeared not a hundred yards away. brandishing his battle-axe, he came towards me at furious speed. with weapons in hand i crouched as his horse approached; and the fool mistook my action for fear. white teeth glistened and he shrieked with derisive laughter. i knew that sound. back came memory of le grand diable standing among the shadows of a forest camp-fire, laughing as i struck him. the indian swung his club aloft. i dodged abreast of his horse to avoid the blow. with a jerk he pulled the animal back on its haunches. quick, when it rose, i sent a bullet to its heart. it lurched sideways, reared straight up and fell backwards with le grand diable under. the fall knocked battle-axe and club from his grasp; and when his horse rolled over in a final spasm, two men were instantly locked in a death clutch. the evil eyes of the indian glared with a fixed look of uncowed hatred and the hands of the other tightened on the redman's throat. diable was snatching at a knife in his belt, when the cries of my indians rang out close at hand. their coming seemed to renew his strength; for with the full weight of an antagonist hanging from his neck, the willowy form squirmed first on his knees, then to his feet. but my men dashed up, knocked his feet from under him and pinioned him to the ground. la robe noire, with the blood-lust of his race, had a knife unsheathed and would have finished diable's career for good and all; but little fellow struck the blade from his hand. that murderous attempt cost poor la robe noire dearly enough in the end. hare-skin thongs of triple ply were wound about diable's crossed arms from wrists to elbows. burnt earth gagged the knave with his own moccasin, while ringing thunder and little fellow quickly roped him neck and ankles to the fore and hind shanks of the dead buffalo. this time my wily foe should remain in my power till i had rescued miriam. "_monsieur! monsieur!_" gasped little fellow as he rose from putting a last knot to our prisoner's cords. "the sioux!" and he pointed in alarm to the cliff. true, in my sudden conflict, i had forgotten about the marauding sioux; but the fellows had disappeared from the field of the buffalo hunt and it was to the embankment that my indians were anxiously looking. three thin smoke lines were rising from the prairie. i knew enough of indian lore to recognize this tribal signal as a warning to the sioux band of some misfortune. was miriam within range of those smoke signals? now was my opportunity. i could offer diable in exchange for the sioux captives. meanwhile, we had him secure. he would not be found till the hunt was over and the carts came for the skins. mounting the broncho, which little fellow had caught and brought back, i ordered the indians to get their horses and follow; and i rode up to the level prairie. against the southern horizon shone the yellow birch of a wigwam. vague movements were apparent through the long grass, from which we conjectured the raiders were hastening back with news of diable's capture. we must reach the sioux camp before these messengers caused another mysterious disappearing of this fugitive tribe. we whipped our horses to a gallop. again thin smoke lines arose from the prairie and simultaneously the wigwam began to vanish. i had almost concluded the tepee was one of those delusive mirages which lead prairie riders on fools' errands, when i descried figures mounting ponies where the peaked camp had stood. at this we lashed our horses to faster pace. the sioux galloped off and more smoke lines were rising. "what do those mean, little fellow?" i asked; for there was smoke in a dozen places ahead. "the prairie's on fire, _monsieur_! the sioux have put burnt stick in dry grass! the wind--it blow--it come hard--fast--fast this way!" and all four indians reined up their horses as if they would turn. "coward indians," i cried. "go on! who's put off the trail by the fire of a fool sioux? get through the fire before it grows big, or it will catch you all and burn you to a crisp." the gathering smoke was obscuring the fugitives and my indians still hung back. where the indian refuses to be coerced, he may be won by reward, or spurred by praise of bravery. "ten horses to the brave who catches a sioux!" i shouted. "come on, indians! who follows? is the indian less brave than the pale face?" and we all dashed forward, spurring our hard-ridden horses without mercy. each indian gave his horse the bit. beating them over the head, they craned flat over the horses' necks to lessen resistance to the air. a boisterous wind was fanning the burning grass to a great tide of fire that rolled forward in forked tongues; but beyond the flames were figures of receding riders; and we pressed on. cinders rained on us like liquid fire, scorching and maddening our horses; but we never paused. the billowy clouds of smoke that rolled to meet us were blinding, and the very atmosphere, livid and quivering with heat, seemed to become a fiery fluid that enveloped and tortured us. involuntarily, as we drew nearer and nearer the angry fire-tide, my hand was across my mouth to shut out the hot burning air; but a man must breathe, and the next intake of breath blistered one's chest like live coals on raw flesh. little wonder our poor beasts uttered that pitiful scream against pain, which is the horse's one protest of suffering. presently, they became wildly unmanageable; and when we dismounted to blindfold them and muffle their heads in our jackets, they crowded and trembled against us in a frenzy of terror. then we tied strips torn from our clothing across our own mouths and, remounting, beat the frantic creatures forward. i have often marveled at the courage of those four indians. for me, there was incentive enough to dare everything to the death. for them, what motive but to vindicate their bravery? but even bravery in its perfection has the limitation of physical endurance; and we had now reached the limit of what we could endure and live. the fire wave was crackling and licking up everything within a few paces of us. live brands fell thick as a rain of fire. the flames were not crawling in the insidious line of the prairie fire when there is no wind, but the very heat of the air seemed to generate a hurricane and the red wave came forward in leaps and bounds, reaching out cloven fangs that hissed at us like an army of serpents. i remember wondering in a half delirium whether parts of dante's hell could be worse. with the instinctive cry to heaven for help, of human-kind world over, i looked above; but there was only a great pitchy dome with glowing clouds rolling and heaving and tossing and blackening the firmament. then i knew we must choose one of three things, a long detour round the fire-wave, one dash through the flames--or death. i shouted to the men to save themselves; but burnt earth and ringing thunder had already gone off to skirt the near end of the fire-line. little fellow and la robe noire stuck staunchly by me. we all three paused, facing death; and the indians' horses trembled close to my broncho till i felt the burn of hot stirrups against both ankles. our buckskin was smoking in a dozen places. there was a lull of the wind, and i said to myself, "the calm before the end; the next hurricane burst and those red demon claws will have us." but in the momentary lull, a place appeared through the trough of smoke billows, where the grass was green and the fire-barrier breached. with a shout and heads down, we dashed towards this and vaulted across the flaming wall, our horses snorting and screaming with pain as we landed on the smoking turf of the other side. i gulped a great breath of the fresh air into my suffocating lungs, tore the buckskin covering from my broncho's head and we raced on in a swirl of smoke, always following the dust which revealed the tracks of the retreating sioux. there was a whiff of singed hair, as if one of the horses had been burnt, and little fellow gave a shout. looking back i saw his horse sinking on the blackened patch; but la robe noire and i rode on. the fugitives were ascending rising ground to the south. they were beating their horses in a rage of cruelty; but we gained at every pace. i counted twenty riders. a woman seemed to be strapped to one horse. was this miriam? we were on moist grass and i urged la robe noire to ride faster and drove spurs in my own beast, though i felt him weakening under me. the sioux had now reached the crest of the hill. our horses were nigh done, and to jade the fagged creatures up rising ground was useless. when we finally reached the height, the sioux were far down in the valley. it was utterly hopeless to try to overtake them. ah! it is easy to face death and to struggle and to fight and to triumph! but the hardest of all hard things is to surrender, to yield to the inevitable, to turn back just when the goal looms through obscurity! i still had diable in my power. we headed about and crawled slowly back by unburnt land towards the buffalo hunters. little fellow, we overtook limping homeward afoot. burnt earth and ringing thunder awaited us near the ravine. the carts were already out gathering hides, tallow, flesh and tongues. we made what poor speed we could among the buffalo carcasses to the spot where we had left le grand diable. it was little fellow, who was hobbling ahead, and the indian suddenly turned with such a cry of baffled rage, i knew it boded misfortune. running forward, i could hardly believe my eyes. fools that we were to leave the captive unguarded! the great buffalo lay unmolested; but there was no le grand diable. a third time had he vanished as if in league with the powers of the air. closer examination explained his disappearance. a wet, tattered moccasin, with the appearance of having been chewed, lay on the turf. he had evidently bitten through his gag, raised his arms to his mouth, eaten away the hare thongs, and so, without the help of the sioux raiders, freed his hands, untied himself and escaped. dumfounded and baffled, i returned to the encampment and took counsel with father holland. we arranged to set out for the mandanes on the missouri. diable's tribe had certainly gone south to sioux territory. the sioux and the mandanes were friendly enough neighbors this year. living with the mandanes south of the sioux country, we might keep track of the enemy without exposing ourselves to sioux vengeance. forebodings of terrible suffering for miriam haunted me. i could not close my eyes without seeing her subjected to indian torture; and i had no heart to take part in the jubilation of the hunters over their great success. the savory smell of roasting meat whiffed into my tent and i heard the shrill laughter of the squaws preparing the hunters' feast. with hard-wood axles squeaking loudly under the unusual burden, the last cart rumbled into the camp enclosure with its load of meat and skins. the clamor of the people subsided; and i knew every one was busily gorging to repletion, too intent on the satisfaction of animal greed to indulge in the saxon habit of talking over a meal. well might they gorge; for this was the one great annual feast. there would follow a winter of stint and hardship and hunger; and every soul in the camp was laying up store against famine. even the dogs were happy, for they were either roving over the field of the hunt, or lying disabled from gluttony at their masters' tents. father holland remained in the tepee with me talking over our plans and plastering indian ointment on my numerous burns. by and by, the voices of the feasters began again and we heard pierre, the rhymester, chanting the song of the buffalo hunt: now list to the song of the buffalo hunt, which i, pierre, the rhymester, chant of the brave! we are _bois-brulés_, freemen of the plains, we choose our chief! we are no man's slave! up, riders, up, ere the early mist ascends to salute the rising sun! up, rangers, up, ere the buffalo herds sniff morning air for the hunter's gun! they lie in their lairs of dank spear-grass, down in the gorge, where the prairie dips. we've followed their tracks through the sucking ooze, where our bronchos sank to their steaming hips. we've followed their tracks from the rolling plain through slime-green sloughs to a sedgy ravine, where the cat-tail spikes of the marsh-grown flags stand half as high as the billowy green. the spear-grass touched our saddle-bows, the blade-points pricked to the broncho's neck; but we followed the tracks like hounds on scent till our horses reared with a sudden check. the scouts dart back with a shout, "they are found!" great fur-maned heads are thrust through reeds, a forest of horns, a crunching of stems, reined sheer on their haunches are terrified steeds! get you gone to the squaws at the tents, old men, the cart-lines safely encircle the camp! now, braves of the plain, brace your saddle-girths! quick! load guns, for our horses champ! a tossing of horns, a pawing of hoofs, but the hunters utter never a word, as the stealthy panther creeps on his prey, so move we in silence against the herd. with arrows ready and triggers cocked, we round them nearer the valley bank; they pause in defiance, then start with alarm at the ominous sound of a gun-barrel's clank. a wave from our captain, out bursts a wild shout, a crash of shots from our breaking ranks, and the herd stampedes with a thunderous boom while we drive our spurs into quivering flanks. the arrows hiss like a shower of snakes, the bullets puff in a smoky gust, out fly loose reins from the bronchos' bits and hunters ride on in a whirl of dust. the bellowing bulls rush blind with fear through river and marsh, while the trampled dead soon bridge safe ford for the plunging herd; earth rocks like a sea 'neath the mighty tread. a rip of the sharp-curved sickle-horns, a hunter falls to the blood-soaked ground! he is gored and tossed and trampled down, on dashes the furious beast with a bound, when over sky-line hulks the last great form and the rumbling thunder of their hoofs' beat, beat, dies like an echo in distant hills, back ride the hunters chanting their feat. now, old men and squaws, come you out with the carts! there's meat against hunger and fur against cold! gather full store for the pemmican bags, garner the booty of warriors bold. so list ye the song of the _bois-brulés_, of their glorious deeds in the days of old, and this is the tale of the buffalo hunt which i, pierre, the rhymester, have proudly told. chapter xiv in slippery places a more desolate existence than the life of a fur-trading winterer in the far north can scarcely be imagined. penned in some miserable lodge a thousand miles from human companionship, only the wild orgies of the savages varied the monotony of dull days and long nights. the winter i spent with the mandanes was my first in the north. i had not yet learned to take events as the rock takes wave-blows, and was still at that mawkish age when a man is easily filled with profound pity for himself. a month after our arrival, father holland left the mandane village. eric hamilton had not yet come; so i felt much like the man whom a gloomy poet describes as earth's last habitant. i had accompanied the priest half-way to the river forks. here, he was to get passage in an indian canoe to the tribes of the upper missouri. after an affectionate farewell, i stood on a knoll of treeless land and watched the broad-brimmed hat and black robe receding from me. "good-by, boy! god bless you!" he had said in broken voice. "don't fall to brooding when you're alone, or you'll lose your wits. now mind yourself! don't mope!" for my part, i could not answer a word, but keeping hold of his hand walked on with him a pace. "get away with you! go home, youngster!" he ordered, roughly shaking me off and flourishing his staff. then he strode swiftly forward without once looking back, while i would have given all i possessed for one last wave. as he plunged into the sombre forest, where the early autumn frost of that north land had already tinged the maple woods with the hectic flush of coming death, so poignant was this last wresting from human fellowship, i could scarcely resist the impulse to desert my station and follow him. poorer than the poorest of the tribes to whom he ministered, alone and armed only with his faith, this man was ready to conquer the world for his master. "would that i had half the courage for my quest," i mused, and walked slowly back to the solitary lodge. black cat, chief of the mandane village, in a noisy harangue, adopted me as his son and his brother and his father and his mother and i know not what; but apart from trade with his people, i responded coldly to these warm overtures. from father holland's leave-taking to hamilton's coming, was a desolately lonesome interval. daily i went to the north hill and strained my eyes for figures against the horizon. sometimes horsemen would gradually loom into view, head first, then arms and horse, like the peak of a ship preceding appearance of full canvas and hull over sea. thereupon i would hurriedly saddle my own horse and ride furiously forward, feeling confident that hamilton had at last come, only to find the horsemen some company of indian riders. what could be keeping him? i conjectured a thousand possibilities; but in truth there was no need for any conjectures. 'twas i, who felt the days drag like years. hamilton was not behind his appointed time. he came at last, walking in on me one night when i least expected him and was sitting moodily before my untouched supper. he had nothing to tell except that he had wasted many weeks following false clues, till our buffalo hunters returned with news of the sioux attack, diable's escape and our bootless pursuit. at once he had left fort douglas for the missouri, pausing often to send scouts scouring the country for news of diable's band; but not a trace of the rascals had been found; and his search seemed on the whole more barren of results than mine. laplante, he reported, had never been seen the night after he left the council hall to find the young nor'-wester. in my own mind, i had no doubt the villain had been in that company we pursued through the prairie fire. altogether, i think hamilton's coming made matters worse rather than better. that i had failed after so nearly effecting a rescue seemed to embitter him unspeakably. out of deference to the rival companies employing us, we occupied different lodges. indeed, i fear poor eric did but a sorry business for the hudson's bay that winter. i verily believe he would have forgotten to eat, let alone barter for furs, had i not been there to lug him forcibly across to my lodge, where meals were prepared for us both. often when i saw the indian trappers gathering before his door with piles of peltries, i would go across and help him to value the furs. at first the indian rogues were inclined to take advantage of his abstraction and palm off one miserable beaver skin, where they should have given five for a new hatchet; and i began to understand why they crowded to his lodge, though he did nothing to attract them, while they avoided mine. then i took a hand in hudson's bay trade and equalized values. first, i would pick over the whole pile, which the indians had thrown on the floor, putting spoiled skins to one side, and peltries of the same kind in classified heaps. "lynx, buffalo, musk-ox, marten, beaver, silver fox, black bear, raccoon! want them all, eric?" i would ask, while the indians eyed me with suspicious resentment. "certainly, certainly, take everything," eric would answer, without knowing a word of what i had said, and at once throwing away his opportunity to drive a good bargain. picking over the goods of hamilton's packet, the mandanes would choose what they wanted. then began a strange, silent haggling over prices. unlike oriental races, the indian maintains stolid silence, compelling the white man to do the talking. "eric, running deer wants a gun," i would begin. "for goodness' sake, give it to him, and don't bother me," eric would urge, and the faintest gleam of amused triumph would shoot from the beady eyes of running deer. running deer's peltries would be spread out, and after a half hour of silent consideration on his part and trader's talk on mine, furs to the value of so many beaver skins would be passed across for the coveted gun. i remember it was a wretched old squaw with a toothless, leathery, much-bewrinkled face and a reputation for knowledge of indian medicines, who first opened my eyes to the sort of trade the indians had been driving with hamilton. the old creature was bent almost double over her stout oak staff and came hobbling in with a bag of roots, which she flung on the floor. after thawing out her frozen moccasins before the lodge fire and taking off bandages of skins about her ankles, she turned to us for trade. we were ready to make concessions that might induce the old body to hurry away; but she demanded red flannel, tea and tobacco enough to supply a whole family of grandchildren, and sat down on the bag of roots prepared to out-siege us. "what's this, eric?" i asked, knowing no more of roots than the old woman did of values. "seneca for drugs. for goodness' sake, buy it quick and don't haggle." "but she wants your whole kit, man," i objected. "she'll have the whole kit and the shanty, too, if you don't get her out," said hamilton, opening the lodge door; and the old squaw presently limped off with an armful of flannel, one tea packet and a parcel of tobacco, already torn open. such was the character of hamilton's bartering up to the time i elected myself his first lieutenant; but as his abstractions became almost trance-like, i think the superstition of the indians was touched. to them, a maniac is a messenger of the great spirit; and hamilton's strange ways must have impressed them, for they no longer put exorbitant values on their peltries. after the day's trading eric would come to my hut. pacing the cramped place for hours, wild-eyed and silent, he would abruptly dash into the darkness of the night like one on the verge of madness. thereupon, the taciturn, grave-faced la robe noire, tapping his forehead significantly, would look with meaning towards little fellow; and i would slip out some distance behind to see that hamilton did himself no harm while the paroxysm lasted. so absorbed was he in his own gloom, for days he would not utter a syllable. the storm that had gathered would then discharge its strength in an outburst of incoherent ravings, which usually ended in hamilton's illness and my watching over him night and day, keeping firearms out of reach. i have never seen--and hope i never may--any other being age so swiftly and perceptibly. i had attributed his worn appearance in fort douglas to the cannon accident and trusted the natural robustness of his constitution would throw off the apparent languor; but as autumn wore into winter, there were more gray hairs on his temple, deeper lines furrowed his face and the erect shoulders began to bow. when days slipped into weeks and weeks into months without the slightest inkling of miriam's whereabouts to set at rest the fear that my rash pursuit had caused her death, i myself grew utterly despondent. like all who embark on daring ventures, i had not counted on continuous frustration. the idea that i might waste a lifetime in the wilderness without accomplishing anything had never entered my mind. week after week, the scouts dispatched in every direction came back without one word of the fugitives, and i began to imagine my association with hamilton had been unfortunate for us both. this added to despair the bitterness of regret. the winter was unusually mild, and less game came to the missouri from the mountains and bad lands than in severe seasons. by february, we were on short rations. two meals a day, with cat-fish for meat and dried skins in soup by way of variety, made up our regular fare for mid-winter. the frequent absence of my two indians, scouring the region for the sioux, left me to do my own fishing; and fishing with bare hands in frosty weather is not pleasant employment for a youth of soft up-bringing. protracted bachelordom was also losing its charms; but that may have resulted from a new influence, which came into my life and seemed ever present. at christmas, hamilton was threatened with violent insanity. as the mandanes' provisions dwindled, the indians grew surlier toward us; and i was as deep in despondency as a man could sink. frequently, i wondered whether father holland would find us alive in the spring, and i sometimes feared ours would be the fate of athabasca traders whose bodies satisfied the hunger of famishing crees. how often in those darkest hours did a presence, which defied time and space, come silently to me, breathing inspiration that may not be spoken, healing the madness of despair and leaving to me in the midst of anxiety a peace which was wholly unaccountable! in the lambent flame of the rough stone fireplace, in the darkness between hamilton's hut and mine, through which i often stole, dreading what i might find--everywhere, i felt and saw, or seemed to see, those gray eyes with the look of a startled soul opening its virgin beauty and revealing its inmost secrets. a bleak, howling wind, with great piles of storm-scud overhead, raved all the day before christmas. it was one of those afternoons when the sombre atmosphere seems weighted with gloom and weariness. on christmas eve hamilton's brooding brought on acute delirium. he had been more depressed than usual, and at night when we sat down to a cheerless supper of hare-skin soup and pemmican, he began to talk very fast and quite irrationally. "see here, old boy," said i, "you'd better bunk here to-night. you're not well." "bunk!" said he icily, in the grand manner he sometimes assumed at the quebec club for the benefit of a too familiar member. "and pray, sir, what might 'bunk' mean?" "go to bed, eric," i coaxed, getting tight hold of his hands. "you're not well, old man; come to bed!" "bed!" he exclaimed with indignation. "bed! you're a madman, sir! i'm to meet miriam on the st. foye road." (it was here that miriam lived in quebec, before they were married.) "on the st. foye road! see the lights glitter, dearest, in lower town," and he laughed aloud. then followed such an outpouring of wild ravings i wept from very pity and helplessness. "rufus! rufus, lad!" he cried, staring at me and clutching at his forehead as lucid intervals broke the current of his madness. "gillespie, man, what's wrong? i don't seem able to think. who--are--you? who--in the world--are you? gillespie! o gillespie! i'm going mad! am i going mad? help me, rufus! why can't you help me? it's coming after me! see it! the hideous thing!" tears started from his burning eyes and his brow was knotted hard as whipcord. "look! it's there!" he screamed, pointing to the fire, and he darted to the door, where i caught him. he fought off my grasp with maniacal strength, and succeeded in flinging open the door. then i forgot this man was more than brother to me, and threw myself upon him as against an enemy, determined to have the mastery. the bleak wind roared through the open blackness of the doorway, and on the ground outside were shadows of two struggling, furious men. i saw the terrified faces of little fellow and la robe noire peering through the dark, and felt wet beads start from every pore in my body. both of us were panting like fagged racers. one of us was fighting blindly, raining down aimless blows, i know not which, but i think it must have been hamilton, for he presently sank in my arms, limp and helpless as a sick child. somehow i got him between the robes of my floor mattress. drawing a box to the bedside i again took his hands between mine and prepared for a night's watch. he raved in a low, indistinct tone, muttering miriam's name again and again, and tossing his head restlessly from side to side. then he fell into a troubled sleep. the supper lay untouched. torches had burned black out. one tallow candle, that i had extravagantly put among some evergreens--our poor decorations for christmas eve--sputtered low and threw ghostly, branching shadows across the lodge. i slipped from the sick man's side, heaped more logs on the fire and stretched out between robes before the hearth. in the play of the flame hamilton's face seemed suddenly and strangely calm. was it the dim light, i wonder. the furrowed lines of sorrow seemed to fade, leaving the peaceful, transparent purity of the dead. i could not but associate the branched shadows on the wall with legends of death keeping guard over the dying. the shadow by his pillow gradually assumed vague, awesome shape. i sat up and rubbed my eyes. was this an illusion, or was i, too, going mad? the filmy thing distinctly wavered and receded a little into the dark. an unspeakable fear chilled my veins. then i could have laughed defiance and challenged death. death! curse death! what had we to fear from dying? had we not more to fear from living? at that came thought of my love and the tumult against life was quieted. i, too, like other mortals, had reason, the best of reason, to fear death. what matter if a lonely one like myself went out alone to the great dark? but when thought of my love came, a desolating sense of separation--separation not to be bridged by love or reason--overwhelmed me, and i, too, shrank back. again i peered forward. the shadow fluttered, moved, and came out of the gloom, a tender presence with massy, golden hair, white-veined brow, and gray eyes, speaking unutterable things. "my beloved!" i cried. "oh, my beloved!" and i sprang towards her; but she had glided back among the spectral branches. the candle tumbled to the floor, extinguishing all light, and i was alone with the sick man breathing heavily in the darkness. a log broke over the fire. the flames burst up again; but i was still alone. had i, too, lost grip of reality; or was she in distress calling for me? neither suggestion satisfied; for the mean lodge was suddenly filled with a great calm, and my whole being was flooded and thrilled with the trancing ecstasy of an ethereal presence. if i remember rightly--and to be perfectly frank, i do--though i was in as desperate straits as a man could be, i lay before the hearth that christmas eve filled with gratitude to heaven--god knows such a gift must have come from heaven!--for the love with which i had been dowered. how it might have been with other men i know not. for myself, i could not have come through that dreary winter unscathed without the influence of her, who would have been the first to disclaim such power. among the velvet cushions of the east one may criticise the lapse of white man to barbarity; but in the wilderness human voice is as grateful to the ear as rain patter in a drouth. there, men deal with facts, not arguments. natives break the loneliness of an isolated life by not unwelcomed visits. comes a time when they tarry over long in the white man's lodge. other men, who have scouted the possibility of sinking to savagery, have forsaken the ways of their youth. who can say that i might not have departed from the path called rectitude? religion may keep a holy man upright in slippery places; but for common mortals, devotion to a being, whom, in one period of their worship men rank with angels, does much to steady wavering feet. hers was the influence that aroused loathing for the drunken debauches, the cheating, the depraved living of the indian lodges: hers, the influence that kept the loathing from slipping into indifference, the indifference from becoming participation. indeed, i could wish a young man no better talisman against the world, the flesh and the devil, than love for a pure woman. how we dragged through the hours of that night, of christmas and the days that followed, i do not attempt to set down here. hamilton's illness lasted a month. what with trading and keeping our scouts on the search for miriam and waiting on the sick man, i had enough to busy me without brooding over my own woes. hard as my life was, it was fortunate i had no time for thoughts of self and so escaped the melancholy apathy that so often benumbs the lonely man's activities. and when eric became convalescent, i had enough to do finding diversion for his mind. keeping record of our doings on birch-bark sheets, playing quoits with the mandanes and polo with a few fearless riders, helped to pass the long weary days. so the dismal winter wore away and spring was drizzling into summer. within a few weeks we should be turning our faces northward for the forks of the red and assiniboine. the prospect of movement after long stagnation cheered hamilton and fanned what neither of us would acknowledge--a faint hope that miriam might yet be alive in the north. i verily believe eric would have started northward with restored courage had not our plans been thwarted by the sinister handiwork of le grand diable. chapter xv the good white father for a week hamilton and i had been busy in our respective lodges getting peltries and personal belongings into shape for return to red river. on saturday night, at least i counted it saturday from the notches on my doorpost, though eric, grown morose and contradictory, maintained that it was sunday--we sat talking before the fire of my lodge. a dreary raindrip pattered through the leaky roof and the soaked parchment tacked across the window opening flapped monotonously against the pine logs. unfastening the moon-shaped medallion, which my uncle had given me, i slowly spelled out the nor'-westers' motto--"fortitude in distress." "for-ti-tude in dis-tress," i repeated idly. "by jove, hamilton, we need it, don't we?" eric's lips curled in scorn. without answering, he impatiently kicked a fallen brand back to the live coals. i know old saws are poor comfort to people in distress, being chiefly applicable when they are not needed. "what in the world can be keeping father holland?" i asked, leading off on another tack. "here we are almost into the summer, and never a sight of him." "did you really expect him back alive from the bloods?" sneered hamilton. he had unconsciously acquired a habit of expecting the worst. "certainly," i returned. "he's been among them before." "then all i have to say is, you're a fool!" poor eric! he had informed me i was a fool so often in his ravings i had grown quite used to the insult. he glared savagely at the fire, and if i had not understood this bitterness towards the missionary, the next remark was of a nature to enlighten me. "i don't see why any man in his senses wants to save the soul of an indian," he broke out. "let them go where they belong! souls! they haven't any souls, or if they have, it's the soul of a fiend----" "by the bye, eric," i interrupted, for this petulant ill-humor, that saw naught but evil in everything, was becoming too frequent and always ended in the same way--a night of semi-delirium, "by the bye, did you see those fellows turning up soil for corn with a buffalo shoulder-blade as a hoe?" "i wish every damn red a thousand feet under the soil, deeper than that, if the temperature increases." it was impossible to talk to hamilton without provoking a quarrel. leaning back with hands clasped behind my head, i watched through half-closed eyes his sad face darkling under stormy moods. at last the rain succeeded in soaking through the parchment across the window and the wind drove through a great split in chilling gusts that added to the cabin's discomfort. i got up and jammed an old hat into the hole. at the window i heard the shouting of indians having a hilarious night among the lodges and was amazed at the sound of discharging firearms above the huzzas, for ammunition was scarce among the mandanes. the hubbub seemed to be coming towards our hut. i could see nothing through the window slit, and lighting a pine fagot, shot back the latch-bolt and threw open the door. a multitude of tawny, joyous, upturned faces thronged to the steps. the crowd was surging about some newcomer, and chief black cat was prancing around in an ecstasy of delight, firing away all his gunpowder in joyous demonstration. i lifted my torch. the indians fell back and forth strode father holland, his face shining wet and abeam with pleasure. the indians had been welcoming "their good white father." as he dismissed his mandane children we drew him in and placed his soaked over-garments before the fire. then we proffered him all the delicacies of bachelors' quarters, and filled and refilled his bowl with soup, and did not stop pouring out our lye-black tea till he had drained the dregs of it. having satisfied his inner-man, we gave him the best stump-tree seat in the cabin and sat back to listen. there was the awkward pause of reunion, when friends have not had time to gather up the loose threads of a parted past and weave them anew into stronger bands of comradeship. hamilton and the priest were strangers; but if the latter were as overcome by the meeting after half a year's isolation as i was, the silence was not surprising. to me it seemed the genial face was unusually grave, and i noticed a long, horizontal scar across his forehead. "what's that, father?" i asked, indicating the mark on his brow. "tush, youngster! nothing! nothing at all! sampled scalping-knife on me; thought better of it, kept me out of the martyr's crown." "and left you your own!" cried hamilton astonished at the priest's careless stoicism. "left me my own," responded father holland. "do you mean to say the murderous----" i began. "tush, youngster! be quiet!" said he. "haven't many brethren come from the same tribe more like warped branches than men? what am i, that i should escape? never speak of it again," and he continued his silent study of the flames' play. "where are your indians?" he asked abruptly. "in the lodges. shall i whistle for them?" he did not answer, but leaned forward with elbows on his knees, rubbing his chin vigorously first with one hand, then the other, still studying the fire. "how strong are the mandanes?" he asked. "weak, weak," i answered. "few hundred. it hasn't been worth while for traders to come here for years." "was it worth while this year?" "not for trade." "for anything else?" and he looked at eric's dejected face. "nothing else," i put in hastily, fearing one of hamilton's outbreaks. "we've been completely off the track, might better have stayed in the north----" "no, you mightn't, not by any means," was his sharp retort. "i've been in the sioux lodges for three weeks." with an inarticulate cry, hamilton sprang to his feet. he was trembling from head to foot and caught father holland roughly by the shoulder. "speak out, sir! what of miriam?" he demanded in dry, hard, rasping tones. "well, well, safe and inviolate. so's the boy, a big boy now! may ye have them both in y'r arms soon--soon--soon!" and again he fell to studying the fire with an unhurried deliberation, that was torture to hamilton. "are they with you? are they with you?" shouted hamilton, hope bounding up elastically to the wildest heights after his long depression. "don't keep me in suspense! i cannot bear it. tell me where they are," he pleaded. "are they with you?" and his eyes burned into the priest's like live coals. "are--they--with--you?" "no--lord--no!" roared father holland, alarmed at hamilton's violent condition. "but," he added, seeing eric reel dizzily, "but they're all right! now you keep quiet and don't scare the wits out of a body! they're all right, i tell you, and i've come straight from them for the ransom price." "get it, rufus, get it!" shouted hamilton to me, throwing his hands distractedly to his head, a habit too common with him of late. "get it! get it!" he kept calling, utterly beside himself. "sit down, will you?" thundered the priest, as if eric's sitting down would calm all agitation. "sit down! behave! keep quiet, both of you, or my tongue'll forget holy orders and give ye some good irish eloquence! what d' y' mane, scarin' the breath out of a body and blowing his ideas to limbo? keep quiet, now, and listen!" "and did they," i cried, in spite of the injunction, "did they do that to you?" pointing to the scar on his brow. "yes, they did." "because they saw you with me?" "no, that's a brand for the faith, you conceited whelp, you--they stopped their tortures because they saw you with me. now, swell out, rufus, and gloat over your importance! i tell you it was the devil, himself, snatched my martyr's crown." "le grand diable?" "le grand diable's own minion. i saw his devilish eyes leering from the back o' the crowd, when i was tied to a stake. 'bring that indian to me,' sez i, transfixing him with my gaze; for--you understand--i couldn't point, my hands being tied. troth! but ye should 'a' seen their looks of amazement at me boldness! there was i, roped to that tree, like a pig for the boiling pot, and sez i, 'bring--that indian--to me!' just as though i was managing the execution," and the priest paused to enjoy the recollection of the effects of his boldness. "a squaw up with an old clout," he continued, "and slashed it across my face, saying, 'take that, pale face! take that, man with a woman's skirts on!' and 'take that!' howled a young buck, fetching the flat of his dagger across me forehead, close-cropped hair giving no grip for scalping, not to mention a pate as bald as mine," and the priest roared at his own joke, patting his bare crown affectionately. "though the blood was boilin' in me enraged veins and dribblin' down my face like the rain to-night, by the help o' the lord, i felt no pain. never flinchin' nor takin' heed o' that bold baste of a squaw, i bawled like a bull of bashan, 'bring--that indian--to me, coward-hearted sioux--d' y' fear an iroquois? bring him to me and i'll make him enrich your tribe!' "faith! their eyes grew big as a harvest moon and they brought le grand diable to me. knowing his covetous heart, i told him if he still had the woman and the child, i'd get him a big ransom. at that they all jangled a bit, the old squaw clouting me with her filthy rag as if she wanted to slap me to a peak. at length they let le grand diable unfasten the bands. with my hands tied behind my back, i was taken to his lodge. miriam and the boy were kept in a place behind the sioux squaw's hut. once when the skin tied between blew up, i caught a glimpse of her poor white face. the boy was playing round her feet. i was in a corner of the lodge but was so grimed with grease and dirt, if she saw me she thought i was some indian captive and turned away her head. i told le grand diable in _habitant_ french--which the rascal understands--that i could obtain a good ransom for his prisoners. he left me alone in the lodge for some hours, i think to spy upon me and learn if i tried to speak to miriam; but i lay still as a log and pretended to sleep. when he came back, he began bartering for the price; but i could make him no promises as to the amount or time of payment, for i was not sure you were here, and would not have him know where you are. "he kept me hanging on for his answer during the whole week, and many a time miriam brushed past so close her skirts touched me; but that she-male devil of his--may the lord give them both a warm, front seat!--was always watching and i could not speak. miriam's face was hidden under her shawl and she looked neither to the right, nor to the left. i don't think she ever saw me. on condition you stay in your camp and don't go to meet her, but send your two indians alone for her with your offer, he let me go. here i am! now, rufus, where are your men? off with them bearing more gifts than the queen of sheba carried to solomon!" * * * * * from the hour that la robe noire and little fellow, laden with gaudy trinkets and hunting outfits, departed for the sioux lodges, hamilton was positively a madman. in the first place, he had been determined to disguise himself as an indian and go instead of la robe noire, whose figure he resembled. to this, we would not listen. le grand diable was not the man to be tricked and there was no sense in ransoming miriam for a captive husband. then, he persisted in riding part of the way with our messengers, which necessitated my doing likewise. i had to snatch his horse's bridle, wheel both our horses round and head homeward at a gallop, before he would listen to reason and come back. round the lodges he was a ramping tiger. twenty times a day he went from our hut to the height of land commanding the north country, keeping me on the run at his heels; and all night he beat around the cramped shack as if it had been a cage. on the fourth day from the messengers' departure, chains could not bind him. if all went well, they should be with us at night. in defiance of le grand diable's conditions, which an arrow from an unseen marksman might enforce, eric saddled his mare and rode out to meet the men. of course father holland and i peltered after him; but it was only because gathering darkness prevented travel that we prevailed on him to dismount and await the indians' coming at the edge of the village. at last came the clank, clank of shod hoofs in the valley. the natives used only unshod animals, so we recognized our men. hamilton darted away like a hare racing for cover. "the lord have mercy upon us!" groaned father holland. "listen, lad! there's only one horse!" i threw myself to the earth and laying my ear to the turf strained for every sound. the thud, thud of a single horse, fore and hind feet striking the beaten trail in quick gallop, came distinctly up from the valley. "it may not be our men," said i, with sickening forebodings tugging at throat and heart. "i mistrusted them! i mistrusted the villains!" repeated the priest. "if only you had enough mandanes to ride down on them, but you're too weak. there are at least two thousand sioux." hamilton and little fellow, talking loudly and gesticulating, rode crashing through the furze. "i knew it! i knew it!" shouted hamilton fiercely, "one of us should have gone." "what's wrong?" came from father holland in a voice so low and unnaturally calm, i knew he feared the worst. "wrong!" yelled hamilton, "they hold la robe noire as hostage and demand five hundred pounds of ammunition, twenty guns and ten horses. of course, i should have gone----" "and would it have mended matters if you'd been held hostage too?" i demanded, utterly out of patience and at that stage when a little strain makes a man strike his best friends. "you know very well, the men were only sent to make an offer. you'd no right to expect everything on one trip without any bargaining----" "shut up, boy!" exclaimed father holland. "just when ye both need all y'r wits, y'r scattering them to the four winds. now, mind yourselves! i don't like these terms! 'tis the devil's own doing! let's talk this over!" with a vast deal of the wordy eloquence that characterizes indian diplomacy, the tenor of le grand diable's message was "his shot pouch was light and his pipe cold; he hung down his head and the pipe of peace had not been in the council; the sioux were strangers and the whites were their enemies; the pale-faces had been in their power and they had always conveyed them on their journey with glad hearts and something to eat." finally, the master of life, likewise earth, air, water, and fire were called on to witness that if the white men delivered five hundred rounds of ammunition, twenty guns and ten horses, the white woman and her child, likewise the two messengers, would be sent safely back to the mandane lodge; none but these two messengers would be permitted in the sioux camp; also, the sioux would not answer for the lives of the white men if they left the mandane lodges. let the white men, therefore, send back the full ransom by the hands of the same messenger. chapter xvi le grand diable sends back our messenger father holland advised caution and consideration before acting. a policy of bargaining was his counsel. "i don't like those terms, at all," he said, "too much like giving your weapons to the enemy. i don't like all this." he would temporize and rely on le grand diable's covetous disposition bringing him to our terms; but hamilton would hear of neither caution nor delay. the ransom price was at once collected. next morning, little fellow, on a fresh mount with a string of laden horses on each side, went post haste back to the sioux. in all conscience, hamilton had been wild enough during the first parley. his excitement now exceeded all bounds. the first two days, when there was no possibility of miriam's coming and little fellow could not yet have reached the sioux, i tore after eric so often i lost count of the races between our lodge and the north hill. the performance began again on the third day, and i broke out with a piece of my mind, which surprised him mightily. "look you here, hamilton!" i exclaimed, rounding him back from the hill, "can't you stop this nonsense and sit still for only two days more, or must i tie you up? you've tried to put me crazy all winter and, by jove, if you don't stop this, you'll finish the job----" he gazed at me with the dumb look of a wounded animal and was too amazed for words. leaving me in mid-road, feeling myself a brute, he went straight to his own hut. after that incident, he gave us no further anxiety and kept an iron grip on his impatience. with me, anger had given place to contrition. he remained much by himself until the night, when our messengers were expected. then he came across to my quarters, where father holland and i were keyed up to the highest pitch. putting out his hand he said-- "is it all right with us again, rufus, old man?" that speech nigh snapped the strained cords. "of course," said i, gripping the extended hand, and i immediately coughed hard, to explain away the undue moisture welling into my eyes. we all three sat as still and silent as a death-watch, father holland fumbling and pretending to pore over some holy volume, eric with fingers tightly interlaced and upper teeth biting through lower lip, and i with clenched fists dug into jacket pockets and a thousand imaginary sounds singing wild tunes in my ears. how the seconds crawled, and the minutes barely moved, and the hours seemed to heap up in a blockade and crush us with their leaden weight! twice i sought relief for pent emotion by piling wood on the fire, though the night was mild, and by breaking the glowing embers into a shower of sparks. the soft, moccasined tread of mandanes past our door startled father holland so that his book fell to the floor, while i shook like a leaf. strange to say, hamilton would not allow himself the luxury of a single movement, though the lowered brows tightened and teeth cut deeper into the under lip. dogs set up a barking at the other end of the village--a common enough occurrence where half-starved curs roved in packs--but i could not refrain from lounging with a show of indifference to the doorway, where i peered through the moon-silvered dusk. as usual, the indians with shrill cry flew at the dogs to silence them. the noise seemed to be annoying my companions and was certainly unnerving me, so i shut the door and walked back to the fire. the howl of dogs and squaws increased. i heard the angry undertone of men's voices. a hoarse roar broke from the mandane lodges and rolled through the village like the sweep of coming hurricane. there was a fleet rush, a swift pattering of something pursued running round the rear of our lodge, with a shrieking mob of men and squaws after it. the dogs were barking furiously and snapping at the heels of the thing, whatever it was. "a hostile!" exclaimed hamilton, leaping up. hardly knowing what i did, i bounded towards the door and shot forward the bolt, with a vague fear that blood might be spilled on our threshold. "for shame, man!" cried father holland, making to undo the latch. but the words had not passed his lips when the parchment flap of the window lifted. a voice screamed through the opening and in hurtled a round, nameless, blood-soaked horror, rolling over and over in a red trail, till it stopped with upturned, dead, glaring eyes and hideous, gaping mouth, at the very feet of hamilton. it was the scalpless head of la robe noire. our indian had paid the price of his own blood-lust and diable's enmity. before the full enormity of the treachery--messengers murdered and mutilated, ransom stolen and captives kept--had dawned on me, father holland had broken open the door. he was rushing through the night screaming for the mandanes to catch the miscreant sioux. when i turned back, not daring to look at that awful object, hamilton had fallen to the hut floor in a dead faint. * * * * * and now may i be spared recalling what occurred on that terrible night! women luxuriate and men traffic in the wealth of the great west, but how many give one languid thought to the years of bloody deeds by which the west was won? * * * * * before restoring hamilton, it was necessary to remove that which was unseemly; also to wash out certain stains on the hearth-stones; and those things would have tried the courage of more iron-nerved men than myself. i should not have been surprised if eric had come out of that faint, a gibbering maniac; but i toiled over him with the courage of blank hopelessness, pumping his arms up and down, forcing liquor between the clenched teeth, splashing the cold, clammy face with water, and laving his forehead. at last he opened his eyes wearily. like a man ill at ease with life, moaning, he turned his face to the wall. outside, it was as if the unleashed furies of hell fought to quench their thirst in human blood. the clamor of those red demons was in my ears and i was still working over hamilton, loosening his jacket collar, under-pillowing his chest, fanning him, and doing everything else i could think of, to ease his labored breathing, when father holland burst into the lodge, utterly unmanned and sobbing like a child. "for the lord's sake, rufus," he cried, "for the lord's sake, come and help! they're murdering him! they're murdering him! 'twas i who set them on him, and i can't stop them! i can't stop them!" "let them murder him!" i returned, unconsciously demonstrating that the civilized heart differs only in degree from the barbarian. "come, rufus," he pleaded, "come, for the love of frances, or your hands will not be clean. there'll be blood on your hands when you go back to her. come, come!" out we rushed through the thronging mandanes, now riotous with the lust of blood. a ring of young bucks had been formed round the sioux to keep the crowd off. naked, with arms pinioned, the victim stood motionless and without fear. "good white father, he no understand," said the mandanes, jostling the weeping priest back from the circle of the young men. "good white father, he go home!" in spite of protest by word and act they roughly shoved us to our lodge, the doomed man's death chant ringing in our ears as they pushed us inside and clashed our door. in vain we had argued they would incur the vengeance of the sioux nation. our voices were drowned in the shout for blood--for blood! the sigh of the wind brought mournful strains of the victim's dirge to our lodge. i fastened the door, with robes against it to keep the sound out. then a smell of burning drifted through the window, and i stop-gapped that, too, with more robes. * * * * * that the sioux would wreak swift vengeance could not be doubted. as soon as the murderous work was over, guides were with difficulty engaged. having fitted up a sort of prop in which i could tie hamilton to the saddle, i saw both father holland and eric set out for red river before daybreak. it was best they should go and i remain. if miriam were still in the country, stay i would, till she were safe; but i had no mind to see eric go mad or die before the rescue could be accomplished. as they were leaving i took a piece of birch bark. on it i wrote with a charred stick:-- "greetings to my own dear love from her ever loyal and devoted knight." this, father holland bore to frances sutherland from me. chapter xvii the price of blood how many shapeless terrors can spring from the mind of man i never knew till eric and the priest left me alone in the mandane village. ever, on closing my eyes, there rolled and rolled past, endlessly, without going one pace beyond my sight, something too horrible to be contemplated. when i looked about to assure myself the thing was not there--could not possibly be there--memory flashed back the whole dreadful scene. up started glazed eyes from the hearth, the floor, and every dim nook in the lodge. thereupon i would rush into the village road, where the shamefaced greetings of guilty indians recalled another horror. if i ventured into le grand diable's power a fate worse than la robe noire's awaited me. that there would be a hostile demonstration over the sioux messenger's death i was certain. nothing that i offered could induce any of the indians to act as scouts or to reconnoiter the enemy's encampment. i had, of my own will, chosen to remain, and now i found myself with tied hands, fuming and gnashing against fate, conjuring up all sorts of projects for the rescue of miriam, and butting my head against the impossible at every turn. thus three weary days dragged past. having reflected on the consequences of their outrage, the mandanes exhibited repentance of a characteristically human form--resentment against the cause of their trouble. unfortunately, i was the cause. from the black looks of the young men i half suspected, if the sioux chief would accept me in lieu of material gifts, i might be presented as a peace-offering. this would certainly not forward my quest, and prudence, or cowardice--two things easily confused when one is in peril--counseled discretion, and discretion seemed to counsel flight. "discretion! discretion to perdition!" i cried, springing up from a midnight reverie in my hut. every selfish argument for my own safety had passed in review before my mind, and something so akin to judicious caution, which we trappers in plain language called "cowardice," was insidiously assailing my better self, i cast logic's sophistries to the winds, and dared death or torture to drive me from my post. whence comes this sublime, reasonless _abandon_ of imperiled human beings, which casts off fear and caution and prudence and forethought and all that goes to make success in the common walks of life, and at one blind leap mounts the sinai of duty? to me, the impulse upwards is as mysterious as the impulse downwards, and i do not wonder that pagans ascribe one to ormuzd, the other to ahriman. 'tis ours to yield or resist, and i yielded with the vehemence of a passionate nature, vowing in the darkness of the hut--"here, before god, i stay!" swift came test of my oath. while the words were yet on my lips, stealthy steps suddenly glided round the lodge. a shuffling stopped at the door, while a chilling fear took possession of me lest the mutilated form of my other indian should next be hurled through the window. i had not time to shoot the door-bolt to its catch before a sharp click told of lifted latch. the hinge creaked, and there, distinct in the starlight, that smote through the open, stood little fellow, himself, haggard and almost naked. "little fellow! good boy!" i shouted, pulling him in. "where did you come from? how did you get away? is it you or your ghost?" down he squatted with a grunt on one of the robes, answering never a word. the gaunt look of the man declared his needs, so i prepared to feed him back to speech. this task kept me busy till daybreak, for the filling capacity of a famishing indian may not be likened to any other hungry thing on earth without doing the red man grave injustice. "hoohoo! hoohoo! but i be sick man to-morrow!" and he rubbed himself down with a satisfied air of distension, declining to have his plate reloaded for the tenth time. i noticed the poor wretch's skin was cut to the bone round wrists and ankles. chafed bandage marks encircled the flesh of his neck. "what did this, little fellow?" and i pointed to the scars. a grim look of indian gratitude for my interest came into the stolid face. "bad indians," was the terse response. "did they torture you?" he grunted a ferocious negative. "you got away too quick for them?" an affirmative grunt. "le grand diable--did you see him?" at that name, his white teeth snapped shut, and from the depths of the indian's throat came the vicious snarl of an enraged wolf. "come," i coaxed, "tell me. how long since you left the sioux?" "walkee--walkee--walkee--one sleep," and rising, he enacted a hobbling gait across the cabin in unison with the rhythmic utterance of his words. "walkee--walkee--walkee--one." "traveled at night!" i interrupted. "two nights! you couldn't do it in two nights!" "walkee--walkee--walkee--one sleep," he repeated. "three nights!" four times he hobbled across the floor, which meant he had come afoot the whole distance, traveling only at night. sitting down, he began in a low monotone relating how he had returned to la robe noire with the additional ransom demanded by le grand diable. the "pig sioux, more gluttonous than the wolverine, more treacherous than the mountain cat," had come out to receive them with hootings. the plunder was taken, "as a dead enemy is picked by carrion buzzards." he, himself, was dragged from his horse and bound like a slave squaw. la robe noire had been stripped naked, and young men began piercing his chest with lances, shouting, "take that, man who would scalp the iroquois! take that, enemy to the sioux! take that, dog that's friend to the white man!" then had la robe noire, whose hands were bound, sprung upon his torturers and as the trapped badger snaps the hand of the hunter so had he buried his teeth in the face of a boasting sioux. here, little fellow's teeth clenched shut in savage imitation. then was le grand diable's knife unsheathed. more, my messenger could not see; for a sioux bandaged his eyes. another tied a rope round his neck. thus, like a dead stag, was he pulled over the ground to a wigwam. here he lay for many "sleeps," knowing not when the great sun rose and when he sank. once, the lodges became very still, like many waters, when the wind slumbers and only the little waves lap. then came one with the soft, small fingers of a white woman and gently, scarcely touching him, as the spirits rustle through the forest of a dark night, had these hands cut the rope around his neck, and unbound him. a whisper in the english tongue, "go--run--for your life! hide by day! run at night!" the skin of the tent wall was lifted by the same hands. he rolled out. he tore the blind from his eyes. it was dark. the spirits had quenched their star torches. no souls of dead warriors danced on the fire plain of the northern sky! the father of winds let loose a blast to drown all sound and help good indian against the pig sioux! he ran like a hare. he leaped like a deer. he came as the arrows from the bow of the great hunter. thus had he escaped from the sioux! little fellow ceased speaking, wrapped himself in robes and fell asleep. i could not doubt whose were the liberator's hands, and i marveled that she had not come with him. had she known of our efforts at all? it seemed unlikely. else, with the liberty she had, to come to little fellow, surely she would have tried to escape. on the other hand, her immunity from torture might depend on never attempting to regain freedom. now i knew what to expect if i were captured by the sioux. yet, given another stormy night, if little fellow and i were near the sioux with fleet horses, could not miriam be rescued in the same way he had escaped? until little fellow had eaten and slept back to his normal condition of courage, it would be useless to propose such a hazardous plan. indeed, i decided to send him to some point on the northern trail, where i could join him and go alone to the sioux camp. this would be better than sitting still to be given as a hostage to the sioux. if the worst happened and i were captured, had i the courage to endure indian tortures? a man endures what he must endure, whether he will, or not; and i certainly had not courage to leave the country without one blow for miriam's freedom. with these thoughts, i gathered my belongings in preparation for secret departure from the mandanes that night. then i prepared breakfast, saw little fellow lie back in a dead sleep, and strolled out among the lodges. four days had passed without the coming of the avengers. the villagers were disposed to forget their guilt and treat me less sulkily. as i sauntered towards the north hill, pleasant words greeted me from the lodges. "be not afraid, my son," exhorted chief black cat. "lend a deaf ear to bad talk! no harm shall befall the white man! be not afraid!" "afraid!" i flouted back. "who's afraid, black cat? only white-livered cowards fear the sioux! surely no mandane brave fears the sioux--ugh! the cowardly sioux!" my vaunting pleased the old chief mightily; for the indian is nothing if not a boaster. at once black cat would have broken out in loud tirade on his friendship for me and contempt for the sioux, but i cut him short and moved towards the hill, that overlooked the enemy's territory. a great cloud of dust whirled up from the northern horizon. "a tornado the next thing!" i exclaimed with disgust. "the fates are against me! a fig for my plans!" i stooped. with ear to the ground i could hear a rumbling clatter as of a buffalo stampede. "what is it, my son?" asked the voice of the chief, and i saw that black cat had followed me to the hill. "are those buffalo, black cat?" and i pointed to the north. as he peered forward, distinguishing clearly what my civilized eyes could not see, his face darkened. "the sioux!" he muttered with a black look at me. turning, he would have hurried away without further protests of friendship, but i kept pace with him. "pooh!" said i, with a lofty contempt, which i was far from feeling. "pooh! black cat! who's afraid of the sioux? let the women run from the sioux!" he gave me a sidelong glance to penetrate my sincerity and slackened his flight to the proud gait of a fearless indian. all the same, alarm was spread among the lodges, and every woman and child of the mandanes were hidden behind barricaded doors. the men mounted quickly and rode out to gain the vantage ground of the north hill before the enemy's arrival. another cross current to my purposes! fool that i was, to have dilly-dallied three whole days away like a helpless old squaw wringing her hands, when i should have dared everything and ridden to miriam's rescue! now, if i had been near the sioux encampment, when all the warriors were away, how easily could i have liberated miriam and her child! * * * * * always, it is the course we have not followed, which would have led on to the success we have failed to grasp in our chosen path. so we salve wounded mistrust of self and still, in spite of manifest proof to the contrary, retain a magnificent conceit. i cursed my blunders with a vehemence usually reserved for other men's errors, and at once decided to make the best of the present, letting past and future each take care of itself, a course which will save a man gray hairs over to-morrow and give him a well-provisioned to-day. arming myself, i resolved to be among the bargain-makers of the mandanes rather than be bargained by the sioux. wakening little fellow, i told him my plan and ordered him to slip away north while the two tribes were parleying and to await me a day's march from the sioux camp. he told me of a wooded valley, where he could rest with his horses concealed, and after seeing him off, i rode straight for the band of assembled mandanes and surprised them beyond all measure by taking a place in the forefront of black cat's special guard. the sioux warriors swept towards us in a tornado. ascending the slope at a gallop, whooping and beating their drums, they charged past us, and down at full speed through the village, displaying a thousand dexterities of horsemanship and prowess to strike terror to the mandanes. then they dashed back and reined up on the hillside beneath our forces. the men were naked to the waist and their faces were blackened. porcupine quills, beavers' claws, hooked bones, and bears' claws stained red hung round their necks in ringlets, or adorned gorgeous belts. feathered crests and broad-shielded mats of willow switches, on the left arm, completed their war dress. the leaders had their buckskin leggings strung from hip to ankle with small bells, and carried firearms, as well as arrows and stone lances; but the majority had only indian weapons. in that respect--though we were not one third their number--we had the advantage. all the mandanes carried firearms; but i do not believe there was enough ammunition to average five rounds a man. luckily, this was unknown to the sioux. i scanned every face. diable was not there. scarcely were the ranks in position, when both sioux and mandane chiefs rode forward, and there opened such a harangue as i have never heard since, and hope i never may. "our young man has been killed," lamented the sioux. "he was a good warrior. his friends sorrow. our hearts are no longer glad. till now our hands have been white, and our hearts clean. but the young man has been slain and we are grieved. of the scalps of the enemy, he brought many. we hang our heads. the pipe of peace has not been in our council. the whites are our enemies. now, the young man is dead. tell us if we are to be friends or enemies. we have no fear. we are many and strong. our bows are good. our arrows are pointed with flint and our lances with stone. our shot-pouches are not light. but we love peace. tell us, what doth the mandane offer for the blood of the young man? is it to be peace or war? shall we be friends or enemies? do you raise the tomahawk, or pipe of peace? say, great chief of the mandanes, what is thy answer?" this and more did the sioux chief vauntingly declaim, brandishing his war club and addressing the four points of the compass, also the sun, as he shouted out his defiance. to which black cat, in louder voice, made reply. "say, great chief of the sioux, our dead was brought into the camp. the body was yet warm. it was thrown at our feet. never before did it enter the heart of a missouri to seek the blood of a sioux! our messengers went to your camp smoking the sacred calumet of peace. they were sons of the mandanes. they were friends of the white men. the white man is like magic. he comes from afar. he knows much. he has given guns to our warriors. his shot bags are full and his guns many. but his men, ye slew. we are for peace, but if ye are for war, we warn you to leave our camp before the warriors hidden where ye see them not, break forth. we cannot answer for the white man's magic," and i heard my power over darkness and light, life and death, magnified in a way to terrify my own dreams; but black cat cunningly wound up his bold declamation by asking what the sioux chief would have of the white man for the death of the messenger. a clamor of voices arose from the warriors, each claiming some relationship and attributing extravagant virtues to the dead sioux. "i am the afflicted father of the youth ye killed," called an old warrior, putting in prior claim for any forthcoming compensation and enhancing its value by adding, "and he had many feathers in his cap." "he, who was killed, i desired for a nephew," shouted another, "and an ivory wand he carried in his hand." "he who was killed was my brother," cried a third, "and he had a new gun and much powder." "he was braver than the buffalo," declared another. "he had three wounds!" "he had scars!" "he wore many scalps!" came the voices of others. "many bells and beads were on his leggings!" "he had garnished moccasins!" "he slew a bear with his own hands!" "his knife had a handle of ivory!" "his arrows had barbs of beavers' claws!" if the noisy claimants kept on, they would presently make the dead man a god. i begged black cat to cut the parley short and demand exactly what gift would compensate the sioux for the loss of so great a warrior. after another half-hour's jangling, in which i took an animated part, beating down their exorbitant request for two hundred guns with beads and bells enough to outfit the whole sioux tribe, we came to terms. indeed, the grasping rascals well-nigh cleared out all that was left of my trading stock; but when i saw they had no intention of fighting, i held back at the last and demanded the surrender of le grand diable, miriam and the child in compensation for la robe noire. then, they swore by everything, from the sun and the moon to the cow in the meadow, that they were not responsible for the doings of le grand diable, who was an iroquois. moreover, they vowed he had hurriedly taken his departure for the north four days before, carrying with him the sioux wife, the strange woman and the white child. as i had no object in arousing their resentment, i heard their words without voicing my own suspicions and giving over the booty, whiffed pipes with them. but i had no intention of being tricked by the rascally sioux, and while they and the mandanes celebrated the peace treaty, i saddled my horse and spurred off for their encampment, glad to see the last of a region where i had suffered much and gained nothing. chapter xviii laplante and i renew acquaintance the warriors had spoken truth to the mandanes. le grand diable was not in the sioux lodges. i had been at the encampment for almost a week, daily expecting the warriors' return, before i could persuade the people to grant me the right of search through the wigwams. in the end, i succeeded only through artifice. indeed, i was becoming too proficient in craft for the maintenance of self-respect. a child--i explained to the surly old men who barred my way--had been confused with the sioux slaves. if it were among their lodges, i was willing to pay well for its redemption. the old squaws, eying me distrustfully, averred i had come to steal one of their naked brats, who swarmed on my tracks with as tantalizing persistence as the vicious dogs. the jealous mothers would not hear of my searching the tents. then i was compelled to make friends with the bevies of young squaws, who ogle newcomers to the indian camps. presently, i gained the run of all the lodges. indeed, i needed not a little diplomacy to keep from being adopted as son-in-law by one pertinacious old fellow--a kind of embarrassment not wholly confined to trappers in the wilds. but not a trace of diable and his captives did i find. i had hobbled my horses--a string of six--in a valley some distance from the camp and directly on the trail, where little fellow was awaiting me. returning from a look at their condition one evening, i heard a band of hunters had come from the upper missouri. i was sitting with a group of men squatted before my fatherly indian's lodge, when somebody walked up behind us and gave a long, low whistle. "mon dieu! mine frien', the enemy! sacredie! 'tis he! thou cock-brained idiot! ho--ho! alone among the sioux!" came the astonished, half-breathless exclamation of louis laplante, mixing his english and french as he was wont, when off guard. need i say the voice brought me to my feet at one leap? well i remembered how i had left him lying with a snarl between his teeth in the doorway of fort douglas! now was his chance to score off that grudge! i should not have been surprised if he had paid me with a stab in the back. "what for--come you--here?" he slowly demanded, facing me with a revengeful gleam in his eyes. his english was still mixed. there was none of the usual light and airy impudence of his manner. "you know very well, louis," i returned without quailing. "who should know better than you? for the sake of the old days, louis, help to undo the wrong you allowed? help me and before heaven you shall command your own price. set her free! afterwards torture me to the death and take your full pleasure!" "i'll have it, anyway," retorted louis with a hard, dry, mirthless laugh. "know they--what for--you come?" he pointed to the indians, who understood not a word of our talk; and we walked a pace off from the lodges. "no! i'm not always a fool, louis," said i, "though you cheated me in the gorge!" "see those stones?" there was a pile of rock on the edge of the ravine. "i do. what of them?" "all of your indian--left after the dogs--it lie there!" his eye questioned mine; but there was not a vestige of fear in me towards that boaster. this, i set down not vauntingly, but fully realizing what i owe to heaven. "poor fellow," said i. "that was cruel work." "your other man--he fool them----" "all the better," i interrupted. "they not be cheated once more again! no--no--mine frien'! to come here, alone! ha--ha! stupid anglo-saxon ox!" "don't waste your breath, louis," i quietly remarked. "your names have no more terror for me now than at laval! however big a knave you are, louis, you're not a fool. why don't you make something out of this? i can reward you. hold _me_, if you like! scalp me and skin me and put me under a stone-pile for revenge! will it make your revenge any sweeter to torture a helpless, white woman?" louis winced. 'twas the first sign of goodness i had seen in the knave, and i credited it wholly to his french ancestors. "i never torture white woman," he vehemently declared, with a sudden flare-up of his proud temper. "the son of a seigneur----" "the son of a seigneur," i broke in, "let an innocent woman go into captivity by lying to me!" "don't harp on that!" said louis with a scornful laugh--a laugh that is ever the refuge of the cornered liar. "you pay me back by stealing despatches." "don't harp on that, louis!" and i returned his insolence in full measure. "i didn't steal your despatches, though i know the thief. and you paid me back by almost trapping me at fort douglas." "but i didn't succeed," exclaimed laplante. "mon dieu! if i had only known you were a spy!" "i wasn't. i came to see hamilton." "and you pay me back as if i had succeed," continued louis, "by kicking me--me--the son of a seigneur--kicking me in the stomach like a pig, which is no fit treatment for a gentleman!" "and you paid me back by sticking your knife in my boot----" "and didn't succeed," broke in louis regretfully. at that, we both laughed in spite of ourselves, laughed as comrades. and the laugh brought back memories of old laval days, when we used to thrash each other in the schoolyard, but always united in defensive league, when we were disciplined inside the class-room. "see here, old crony," i cried, taking quick advantage of his sudden softening and again playing suppliant to my adversary. "i own up! you owe me two scores, one for the despatches i saw taken from you, one for knocking you down in fort douglas; for your knife broke and did not cut me a whit. pay those scores with compound interest, if you like, the way you used to pummel me black and blue at laval; but help me now as we used to help each other out of scrapes at school! afterwards, do as you wish! i give you full leave. as the son of a seigneur, as a gentleman, louis, help me to free the woman!" "pah!" cried louis with mingled contempt and surrender. "i not punish you here with two thousand against one! louis laplante is a gentleman--even to his enemy!" "bravo, comrade!" i shouted out, full of gratitude, and i thrust forward my hand. "no--no--thanks much," and laplante drew himself up proudly, "not till i pay you well, richly,--generous always to mine enemy!" "very good! pay when and where you will." "pay how i like," snapped louis. with that strange contract, his embarrassment seemed to vanish and his english came back fluently. "you'd better leave before the warriors return," he said. "they come home to-morrow!" "is diable among them?" "no." "is diable here?" "no." his face clouded as i questioned. "do you know where he is?" "no." "will he be back?" "dammie! how do i know? he will if he wants to! i don't tell tales on a man who saved my life." his answer set me to wondering if diable had seen me hold back the trader's murderous hand, when louis lay drunk, and if the frenchman's knowledge of that incident explained his strange generosity now. "i'll stay here in spite of all the sioux warriors on earth, till i find out about that knave of an indian and his captives," i vowed. louis looked at me queerly and gave another whistle. "you always were a pig-head," said he. "i can keep them from harming you; but remember, i pay you back in your own coin. and look out for the daughter of l'aigle, curse her! she is the only thing i ever fear! keep you in my tent! if le grand diable see you----" and louis touched his knife-handle significantly. "then diable _is_ here!" "i not say so," but he flushed at the slip of his tongue and moved quickly towards what appeared to be his quarters. "he is coming?" i questioned, suspicious of louis' veracity. "dolt!" said louis. "why else do i hide you in my tent? but remember i pay you back in your own coin afterwards! ha! there they come!" a shout of returning hunters arose from the ravine, at which louis bounded for the tent on a run, dashing inside breathlessly, i following close behind. "stay you here, inside, mind! mon dieu! if you but show your face; 'tis two white men under one stone-pile! louis laplante is a fool--dammie--a fool--to help you, his enemy, or any other man at his own risk." with these enigmatical words, the frenchman hurried out, fastening the tent flap after him and leaving me to reflect on the wild impulses of his wayward nature. was his strange, unwilling generosity the result of animosity to the big squaw, who seemed to exercise some subtle and commanding influence over him; or of gratitude to me? was the noble blood that coursed in his veins, directing him in spite of his degenerate tendencies; or had the man's heart been touched by the sight of a white woman's suffering? if his alarm at the sound of returning hunters had not been so palpably genuine--for he turned pale to the lips--i might have suspected treachery. but there was no mistaking the motive of fear that hurried him to the tent; and with le grand diable among the hunters, louis might well fear to be seen in my company. there was a hubbub of trappers returning to the lodges. i heard horses turned free and tent-poles clattering to the ground; but laplante did not come back till it was late and the indians had separated for the night. "i can take you to her!" he whispered, his voice thrilling with suppressed emotion. "le grand diable and the squaw have gone to the valley to set snares! and when i whistle, come out quickly! mon dieu! if you're caught, both our scalps go! dammie! louis is a fool. i take you to her; but i pay you back all the same!" "to whom?" the question throbbed with a rush to my lips. "stupid dolt!" snarled louis. "follow me! keep your ears open for my whistle--one--they return--two--come you out of the tent--three, we are caught, save yourself!" i followed the frenchman in silence. it was a hazy summer night with just enough light from the sickle moon for us to pick our way past the lodges to a large newly-erected wigwam with a small white tent behind. "this way," whispered louis, leading through the first to an opening hidden by a hanging robe. raising the skin, he shoved me forward and hastened out to keep guard. the figure of a woman with a child in her arms was silhouetted against the white tent wall. she was sitting on some robes, crooning in a low voice to the child, and was unaware of my presence. "and was my little eric at the hunt, and did he shoot an arrow all by himself?" she asked, fondling the face that snuggled against her shoulder. the boy gurgled back a low, happy laugh and lisped some childish reply, which only a mother could translate. "and he will grow big, big and be a great warrior and fight--fight for his poor mother," she whispered, lowering her voice and caressing the child's curls. the little fellow sat up of a sudden facing his mother and struck out squarely with both fists, not uttering a word. "my brave, brave little eric! my only one, all that god has left to me!" she sobbed hiding her weeping face on the child's neck. "o my god, let me but keep my little one! thou hast given him to me and i have treasured him as a jewel from thine own crown! o my god, let me but keep my darling, keep him as thy gift--and--and--o my god!--thy--thy--thy will be done!" the words broke in a moan and the child began to cry. "hush, dearie! the birds never cry, nor the beavers, nor the great, bold eagle! my own little warrior must never cry! all the birds and the beasts and the warriors are asleep! what does eric say before he goes to sleep?" a pair of chubby arms were flung about her neck and passionate, childish kisses pressed her forehead and her cheeks and her lips. then he slipped to his knees and put his face in her lap. "god bless my papa--and keep my mamma--and make little eric brave and good--for jesus' sake----" the child hesitated. "amen," prompted the gentle voice of the mother. "and keep little eric for my mamma so she won't cry," added the child, "for jesus' sake--amen," and he scrambled to his feet. a low, piercing whistle cut the night air like the flight of an arrow-shaft. it was louis laplante's signal that diable and the squaw were coming back. at the sound, mother and child started up in alarm. then they saw me standing in the open way. a gasp of fright came from the white woman's lips. i could tell from her voice that she was all a-tremble, and the little one began to whimper in a smothered, suppressed way. i whispered one word--"miriam!" with a faint cry of anguish, she leaped forward. "is it you, eric? o eric! is it you?" she asked. "no--no, miriam, not eric, but eric's friend, rufus gillespie." she tottered as if i had struck her. i caught her in my arms and helped her to the couch of robes. then i took up my station facing the tent entrance; for i realized the significance of laplante's warning. "we have hunted for more than a year for you," i whispered, bending over her, "but the sioux murdered our messenger and the other you yourself let out of the tent!" "that--your messenger for me?" she asked in sheer amazement, proving what i had suspected, that she was kept in ignorance of our efforts. "i have been here for a week, searching the lodges. my horses are in the valley, and we must dare all in one attempt." "i have given my word i will not try," she hastily interrupted, beginning to pluck at her red shawl in the frenzied way of delirious fever patients. "if we are caught, they will torture us, torture the child before my eyes. they treat him well now and leave me alone as long as i do not try to break away. what can you, one man, do against two thousand sioux?" and she began to weep, choking back the anguished sobs, that shook her slender frame, and picking feverishly at the red shawl fringe. to look at that agonized face would have been sacrilege, and in a helpless, nonplussed way, i kept gazing at the painful workings of the thin, frail fingers. that plucking of the wasted, trembling hands haunts me to this day; and never do i see the fingers of a nervous, sensitive woman working in that delirious, aimless fashion but it sets me wondering to what painful treatment from a brutalized nature she has been subjected, that her hands take on the tricks of one in the last stages of disease. it may be only the fancy of an old trader; but i dare avow, if any sympathetic observer takes note of this simple trick of nervous fingers, it will raise the veil on more domestic tragedies and heart-burnings than any father-confessor hears in a year. "miriam," said i, in answer to her timid protest, "eric has risked his life seeking you. won't you try all for eric's sake? there'll be little risk! we'll wait for a dark, boisterous, stormy night, and you will roll out of your tent the way you thrust my indian out. i'll have my horses ready. i'll creep up behind and whisper through the tent." "where _is_ eric?" she asked, beginning to waver. two shrill, sharp whistles came from louis laplante, commanding me to come out of the tent. "that's my signal! i must go. quick, miriam, will you try?" "i will do what you wish," she answered, so low, i had to kneel to catch the words. "a stormy night our signal, then," i cried. three, sharp, terrified whistles, signifying, "we are caught, save yourself," came from laplante, and i flung myself on the ground behind miriam. "spread out your arms, miriam! quick!" i urged. "talk to the boy, or we're trapped." with her shawl spread out full and her elbows sticking akimbo, she caught the lad in her arms and began dandling him to right, and left, humming some nursery ditty. at the same moment there loomed in the tent entrance the great, statuesque figure of the sioux squaw, whom i had seen in the gorge. i kicked my feet under the canvas wall, while miriam's swaying shawl completely concealed me from the sioux woman and thus i crawled out backwards. then i lay outside the tent and listened, listened with my hand on my pistol, for what might not that monster of fury attempt with the tender, white woman? "there were words in the tepee," declared the angry tones of the indian woman. "the pale face was talking! where is the messenger from the mandanes?" at that, the little child set up a bitter crying. "cry not, my little warrior! hush, dearie! 'twas only a hunter whistling, or the night hawk, or the raccoon! hush, little eric! warriors never cry! hush! hush! or the great bear will laugh at you and tell his cubs he's found a coward!" crooned miriam, making as though she neither heard, nor saw the squaw; but eric opened his mouth and roared lustily. and the little lad unconsciously foiled the squaw; for she presently took herself off, evidently thinking the voices had been those of mother and son. i skirted cautiously around the rear of the lodges to avoid encountering diable, or his squaw. the form of a man hulked against me in the dark. 'twas louis. "mon dieu, gillespie, i thought one scalp was gone," he gasped. "what are you here for? you don't want to be seen with me," i protested, grateful and alarmed for his foolhardiness in coming to meet me. "sacredie! the dogs! they make pretty music at your shins without me," and louis struck boldly across the open for his tent. "fool to stay so long!" he muttered. "i no more ever help you once again! mon dieu! no! i no promise my scalp too! they found your horses in the valley! they--how you say it?--think for some mandane is here and fear. they rode back fast on your horses. 'twas why i whistle for, twice so quick! they ride north in the morning. i go too, with the devil and his wife! i be gone to the devil this many a while! but i must go, or they suspect and knife me. that vampire! ha! she would drink my gore! i no more have nothing to do with you. before morning, you must do your own do alone! sacredie! do not forget, i pay you back yet!" so he rattled on, ever keeping between me and the lodges. by his confused words, i knew he was in great trepidation. "why, there are my horses!" i exclaimed, seeing all six standing before diable's lodge. "you do your do before morning! take one of my saddles!" said louis. sure enough, all my saddles were piled before the iroquois' wigwam; and there stood my enemy and the sioux squaw, talking loudly, pointing to the horses and gesticulating with violence. "mon dieu! prenez garde! get you in!" muttered louis. we were at his tent door, and i was looking back at my horses. "if they see you, all is lost," he warned. and the warning came just in time. with that animal instinct of nearness, which is neither sight, nor smell, my favorite broncho put forward his ears and whinnied sharply. both diable and the squaw noted the act and turned; but louis had knocked me forward face down into the tent. with an oath, he threw himself on his couch. "take my saddle," he said. "i steal another. do your do before morning. i no more have nothing to do with you, till i pay you back all the same!" and he was presently fast asleep, or pretending to be. chapter xix wherein louis intrigues next morning le grand diable would set out for the north. this night, then, was my last chance to rescue miriam. "do your do before morning!" how laplante's words echoed in my ears! i had told miriam a stormy night was to be the signal for our attempt; and now the rising moon was dispelling any vague haziness that might have helped to conceal us. in an hour, the whole camp would be bright as day in clear, silver light. presently, the clatter of the lodges ceased. only an occasional snarl from the dogs, or the angry squeals of my bronchos kicking the indian ponies, broke the utter stillness. there was not even a wind to drown foot-treads, and every lodge of the camp was reflected across the ground in elongated shadows as distinct as a crayon figure on white paper. what if some watchful indian should discover our moving shadows? la robe noire's fate flashed back and i shuddered. flinging up impatiently from the robes, i looked from the tent way. some dog of the pack gave the short, sharp bark of a fox. then, but for the crunching of my horses over the turf some yards away, there was silence. i could hear the heavy breathing of people in near-by lodges. up from the wooded valley came the far-off purr of a stream over stony bottom and the low washing sound only accentuated the stillness. the shrill cry of some lonely night-bird stabbed the atmosphere with a throb of pain. again the dog snapped out a bark and again there was utter quiet. "one chance in a thousand," said i to myself, "only one in a thousand; but i'll take it!" and i stepped from the tent. this time the wakeful dog let out a mouthful of quick barkings. jerking off my boots--i had not yet taken to the native custom of moccasins--i dodged across the roadway into the exaggerated shadow of some indian camp truckery. here i fell flat to the ground so that no reflection should betray my movements. then i remembered i had forgotten louis laplante's saddle. rising, i dived back to the tepee for it and waited for the dogs to quiet before coming out again. that alert canine had set up a duet with a neighboring brute of like restless instincts and the two seemed to promise an endless chorus. as i live, i could have sworn that louis laplante laughed in his sleep at my dilemma; but louis was of the sort to laugh in the face of death itself. a man flew from a lodge and dealing out stout blows quickly silenced the vicious curs; but i had to let time lapse for the man to go to sleep before i could venture out. once more, chirp of cricket, croak of frog and the rush of waters through the valley were the only sounds, and i darted across to the camp shadow. lying flat, i began to crawl cautiously and laboriously towards my horses. one gave a startled snort as i approached and this set the dogs going again. i lay motionless in the grass till all was quiet and then crept gently round to the far side of my favorite horse and caught his halter strap lest he should whinny, or start away. i drew erect directly opposite his shoulders, so that i could not be seen from the lodges and unhobbling his feet, led him into the concealment of a group of ponies and had the saddle on in a trice. to get the horse to the rear of miriam's tent was no easy matter. i paced my steps so deftly with the broncho's and let him munch grass so often, the most watchful indian could not have detected a man on the far side of the horse, directing every move. behind the sioux lodge, the earth sloped abruptly away, bare and precipitous; and i left the horse below and clambered up the steep to the white wall of miriam's tent. once the dogs threatened to create a disturbance, but a man quieted them, and with gratitude i recognized the voice of laplante. three times i tapped on the canvas but there was no response. i put my arm under the tent and rapped on the ground. why did she not signal? was the sioux squaw from the other lodge listening? i could hear nothing but the tossings of the child. "miriam," i called, shoving my arm forward and feeling out blindly. thereupon, a woman's hand grasped mine and thrust it out, while a voice so low it might have been the night breeze, came to my ear--"we are watched." watched? what did it matter if we were? had i not dared all? must not she do the same? this was the last chance. we must not be foiled. my horse, i knew, could outrace any cayuse of the sioux band. "miriam," i whispered back, lifting the canvas, "they will take you away to-morrow--my horse is here! come! we must risk all!" and i shoved myself bodily in under the tent wall. she was not a hand's length away, sitting with her face to the entrance of diable's lodge, her figure rigid and tense with fear. in the half light i could discern the great, powerful, angular form of a giantess in the opening. 'twas the sioux squaw. miriam leaned forward to cover the child with a motion intended to conceal me, and i drew quickly out. i thought i had not been detected; but the situation was perilous enough, in all conscience, to inspire caution, and i was backing away, when suddenly the shadows of two men coming from opposite sides appeared on the white tent, and something sprang upon me with tigerish fury. there was the swish of an unsheathing blade, and i felt rather than saw le grand diable and louis laplante contesting over me. "never! he's mine, my captive! he stole my saddle! he's mine, i tell you," ground out the frenchman, throwing off my assailant. "keep him for the warriors and let him be tortured," urged louis, snatching at the indian's arm. i sprang up. it was louis, who tripped my feet from under me, and we two tumbled to the bottom of the cliff, while the indian stood above snarling out something in the sioux tongue. "idiot! anglo-saxon ox!" muttered louis, grappling with me as we fell. "do but act it out, or two scalps go! i no promise mine when i say i help you, bah----" that was the last i recall; for i went down head backwards, and the blow knocked me senseless. when i came to, with an aching neck and a humming in my ears, there was the gray light of a waning moon, and i found myself lying bound in miriam's tent. her child was whimpering timidly and she was hurriedly gathering her belongings into a small bundle. "miriam, what has happened?" i asked. then the whole struggle and failure came back to me with an overwhelming realization that torture and death would be our portion. "try no more," she whispered, brushing past me and making as though she were gathering things where i lay. "never try, for my sake, never try! they will torture you. i shall die soon. only save the child! for myself, i am past caring. good-by forever!" and she dashed to the other side of the tent. at that, with a deal of noisy mirth, in burst laplante and the sioux squaw. "ho-ho! my knight-errant has opened his eyes! great sport for the braves, say i! fine mouse-play for the cat, ho-ho!" and louis looked down at me with laughing insolence, that sent a chill through my veins. 'twas to save his own scalp the rascal was acting and would have me act too; but i had no wish to betray him. striking at her captives and rudely ordering them out, the sioux led the way and left louis to bring up the rear. "leave this, lady," said louis with an air that might have been impudence or gallantry; and he grabbed the bundle from miriam's hand and threw it over his shoulder at me. this was greeted with a roar of laughter from the sioux woman and one look of unspeakable reproach from miriam. whistling gaily and turning back to wink at me, the frenchman disappeared in diable's lodge. for my part, i was puzzled. did louis act from the love of acting and trickery and intrigue? was he befooling the daughter of l'aigle, or me? they tore down diable's tepee, stringing the poles on the bronchos stolen from me and leaving miriam's white tent with the sioux. i saw them mount with my horses to the fore, and they set out at a sharp trot. from the hoof-beats, i should judge they had not gone many paces, when one rider seemed to turn back, and louis ran into the tent where i lay. i did not utter one word of pleading; but as he stooped for miriam's bundle, he whisked out a jack-knife and my heart bounded with a great hope. i suppose, involuntarily, i must have lifted my arms to have the bonds severed; for laplante shook his head. "no--mine frien'--not now--i not scalp louis laplante for your sake,--no, never. use your teeth--so!" said he, laying the blade of the knife in his own teeth to show me how; and he slipped the thing into hiding under my armpits. "the warriors--they come back to-day," he warned. "you wait till we are far, then cut quick, or they do worse to you than to la robe noire! i leave one horse for you in the valley beyond the beaver-dam. tra-la, comrade, but not forget you. i pay you back yet all the same," and with a whistle, he had vanished. i hung upon the frenchman's words as a drowning sailor to a life-line, and heard the hoof-beats grow fainter and fainter in the distance, hardly daring to realize the fearful peril in which i lay. by the light at the tent opening, i knew it was daybreak. already the sioux were stirring in their lodges and naked urchins came to the entrance to hoot and pelt mud. somehow, i got into sitting posture, with my head bowed forward on my arms, so i could use the knife without being seen. at that, the impertinent brats became bolder and swarming into the tent began poking sticks. i held my arm closer to my side, and felt the hard steel's pressure with a pleasure not to be marred by that tantalizing horde. there seemed to be a gathering hubbub outside. indians, squaws and children were rushing in the direction of the trail to the mandanes. the children in my tent forgot me and dashed out with the rest. i could not doubt the cause of the clamor. this was the morning of the warriors' return; and getting the knife in my teeth, i began filing furiously at the ropes about my wrists. man is not a rodent; but under stress of necessity and with instruments of his own designing, he can do something to remedy his human helplessness. to the din of clamoring voices outside were added the shouts of approaching warriors, the galloping of a multitude of horses and the whining yells of countless dogs. while all the sioux were on the outskirts of the encampment, i might yet escape unobserved, but the returning braves were very near. putting all my strength in my wrists, i burst the half-cut bonds; and the rest was easy. a slash of the knife and my feet were free and i had rolled down the cliff and was running with breathless haste over fallen logs, under leafy coverts, across noisy creeks, through the wooded valley to the beaver dam. how long, or how far, i ran in this desperate, heedless fashion, i do not know. the branches, that reached out like the bands of pursuers, caught and ripped my clothing to shreds. i had been bootless, when i started; but my feet were now bare and bleeding. a gleam of water flashed through the green foliage. this must be the river, with the beaver-dam, and to my eager eyes, the stream already appeared muddy and sluggish as if obstructed. my heart was beating with a sensation of painful, bursting blows. there was a roaring in my ears, and at every step i took, the landscape swam black before me and the trees racing into the back ground staggered on each side like drunken men. then i knew that i had reached the limit of my strength and with the domed mud-tops of the beaver-dam in sight half a mile to the fore, i sank down to rest. the river was marshy, weed-grown and brown; but i gulped down a drink and felt breath returning and the labored pulse easing. not daring to pause long, i went forward at a slackened rate, knowing i must husband my strength to swim or wade across the river. was it the apprehension of fear, or the buzzing in my ears, that suggested the faint, far-away echo of a clamoring multitude? i stopped and listened. there was no sound but the lapping of water, or rush of wind through the leaves. i went on again at hastened pace, and distinctly down the valley came echo of the sioux war-whoop. i was pursued. there was no mistaking that fact, and with a thrill, which i have no hesitancy in confessing was the most intense fear i have ever experienced in my life, i broke into a terrified, panic-stricken run. the river grew dark, sluggish and treacherous-looking. by the blood flowing from my feet, indian scouts could track me for leagues. i looked to the river with the vague hope of running along the water bed to throw my pursuers off the trail; but the water was deep and i had not strength to swim. the beaver-dam was huddled close to the clay bank of the far side and on the side, where i ran, the current spread out in a flaggy marsh. hoping to elude the sioux, i plunged in and floundered blindly forward. but blood trails marked the pond behind and the soft ooze snared my feet. i was now opposite the beaver-dam and saw with horror there were branches enough floating in mid-stream to entangle the strongest swimmer. the shouts of my pursuers sounded nearer. they could not have known how close they were upon me, else had they ambushed me in silence after indian custom, shouting only when they sighted their quarry. the river was not tempting for a fagged, breathless swimmer, whose dive must be short and sorry. i had nigh counted my earthly course run, when i caught sight of a hollow, punky tree-trunk standing high above the bank. i could hear the swiftest runners behind splashing through the marsh bed. now the thick willow-bush screened me, but in a few moments they would be on my very heels. with the supernatural strength of a last desperate effort, i bounded to the empty trunk and like some hounded, treed creature, clambered up inside, digging my wounded feet into the soft, wet wood-rot and burrowing naked fingers through the punk of the rounded sides till i was twice the height of a man above the blackened opening at the base. then a piece of wood crumbled in my right hand. daylight broke through the trunk and i found that i had grasped the edge of a rotted knot-hole. bracing my feet across beneath me like tie beams of raftered scaffolding, i craned up till my eye was on a level with the knot-hole and peered down through my lofty lookout. either the shouting of the sioux warriors had ceased, which indicated they had found my tracks and knew they were close upon me, or my shelter shut out the sound of approaching foes. i broke more bark from the hole and gained full view of the scene below. a crested savage ran out from the tangled foliage of the river bank, saw the turgid settlings of the rippling marsh, where i had been floundering, and darted past my hiding-place with a shrill yell of triumph. instantaneously the woods were ringing, echoing and re-echoing with the hoarse, wild war-cries of the sioux. band after band burst from the leafy covert of forest and marsh willows, and dashed in full pursuit after the leading indian. some of the braves still wore the buckskin toggery of their visit to the mandanes; but the swiftest runners had cast off all clothing and tore forward unimpeded. the last coppery form disappeared among the trees of the river bank and the shoutings were growing fainter, when, suddenly, there was such an ominous calm, i knew they were foiled. would they return to the last marks of my trail? that thought sent the blood from my head with a rush that left me dizzy, weak and shivering. i looked to the river. the floating branches turned lazily over and over to the lapping of the sluggish current, and the green slime oozing from the clustered beaver lodges of the far side might hide either a miry bottom, or a treacherous hole. a naked indian came pattering back through the brush, looking into every hollow log, under fallen trees, through clumps of shrub growth, where a man might hide, and into the swampy river bed. it was only a matter of time when he would reach my hiding-place. should i wait to be smoked out of my hole, like a badger, or a raccoon? again i looked hopelessly to the river. a choice of deaths seemed my only fate. torture, burning, or the cool wash of a black wave gurgling over one's head? a broad-girthed log lay in the swamp and stretched out over mid-stream in a way that would give a quick diver at least a good, clean, clear leap. a score more savages had emerged from the woods and were eagerly searching, from the limbs of trees above, where i might be perched, to the black river-bed below. however much i may vacillate between two courses, once my decision is taken, i have ever been swift to act; and i slipped down the tree-trunk with the bound of a bullet through a gun-barrel, took one last look from the opening, which revealed pursuers not fifty yards away, plunged through the marsh, dashed to the fallen log and made a rush to the end. a score of brazen throats screeched out their baffled rage. there was a twanging of bow-strings. the humming of arrow flight sung about my head. i heard the crash of some savage blazing away with his old flintlock. a deep-drawn breath, and i was cleaving the air. then the murky, greenish waters splashed in my face, opened wide and closed over me. a tangle of green was at the soft, muddy bottom. something living, slippery, silky and furry, that was neither fish, nor water snake, got between my feet; but countless arrows, i knew, were aimed and ready for me, when i came to the surface. so i held down for what seemed an interminable time, though it was only a few seconds, struck for the far shore, and presently felt the green slime of the upper water matting in my hair. every swimmer knows that rich, sweet, full intake of life-giving air after a long dive. i drew in deep, fresh breaths and tried to blink the slime from my eyes and get my bearings. there were the howlings of baffled wolves from what was now the far side of the river bank; but domed clay mounds, mossy, floating branches and a world of willows shrubs were about my head. then i knew what the furry thing among the tangle at the river bottom was, and realized that i had come up among the beaver lodges. the dam must have been an old one; for the clay houses were all overgrown with moss and water-weeds. a perfect network of willow growth interlaced the different lodges. i heard the splash as of a diver from the opposite side. was it a beaver, or my indian pursuers? then i could distinctly make out the strokes of some one swimming and splashing about. my foes were determined to have me, dead, or alive. i ducked under, found shallow, soft bottom, half paddled, half waded, a pace more shoreward, and came up with my head in utter darkness. where was i? i drew breath. yes, assuredly, i was above water; but the air was fetid with heavy, animal breath and teeth snarled shut in my very face. somehow, i had come up through the broken bottom of an old beaver lodge and was now in the lair of the living creatures. what was inside, i cannot record; for to my eyes the blackness was positively thick. i felt blindly out through the palpable darkness and caught tight hold of a pole, that seemed to reach from side to side. this gave me leverage and i hoisted myself upon it, bringing my crown a mighty sharp crack as i mounted the perch; for the beaver lodge sloped down like an egg shell. i must have seemed some water monster to the poor beaver; for there was a scurrying, scampering and gurgling off into the river. then my own breathing and the drip of my clothes were all that disturbed the lodge. time, say certain philosophers, is the measure of a man's ideas marching along in uniform procession. but i hold they are wrong. time is nothing of the sort; else had time stopped as i hung panting over the pole in the beaver lodge; for one idea and one only, beat and beat and beat to the pulsing of the blood that throbbed through my brain--"i am safe--i am safe--i am safe!" how can i tell how long i hung there? to me it seemed a century. i do not even know whether i lost consciousness. i am sure i repeatedly awakened with a jerk back from some hazy, far-off, oblivious realm, shut off even in memory from the things of this life. i am sure i tried to burrow my hand through the clammy moss-wall of the beaver lodge to let in fresh air; but my spirit would be suddenly rapt away to that other region. i am sure i felt the waters washing over my head and sweeping me away from this world to another life. then i would lose grip of the pole and come to myself clutching at it with wild terror; and again the drowse of life's borderland would overpower me. and all the time i was saying over and over, "i am safe! i am safe!" how many of the things called hours slipped past, i do not know. as i said before, it seemed to me a century. whether it was mid-day, or twilight, when i let myself down from the pole and crawled like a bedraggled water-rat to the shore, i do not know. whether it was morning, or night, when i dragged myself under the fern-brake and fell into a death-like sleep, i do not know. when i awakened, the forest was a labyrinth of shafted moonlight and sombre shadows. all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours came back to me with vivid reality. i remembered laplante's promise to leave a horse for me in the valley beyond the beaver dam. with this hope in my heart i crawled cautiously down through the silent shadows of the night. at daybreak i found louis had made good his promise, and i was speeding on horseback towards the trail, where little fellow awaited me. chapter xx plots and counter-plots he who would hear that paradox of impossibilities--silence become vocal--must traverse the vast wastes of the prairie by night. as a mother quiets a fretful child, so the illimitable calm lulls tumultuous thoughts. the wind moving through empty solitudes comes with a sigh of unutterable loneliness. unconsciously, men listen for some faint rustling from the gauzy, wavering streamers that fire northern skies. the dullest ear can almost fancy sounds from the noiseless wheeling of planets through the overspanning vaulted blue; and human speech seems sacrilege. though the language of the prairie be not in words, some message is surely uttered; for the people of the plains wear the far-away look of communion with the unseen and the unheard. the fine sensibility of the white woman, perhaps, shows the impress of the vast solitudes most readily, and the gravely repressed nature of the indian least; but all plain-dwellers have learned to catch the voice of the prairie. i, myself, know the message well, though i may no more put it into words than the song love sings in one's heart. love, says the poet, is infinite. so is the space of the prairie. that, i suppose, is why both are too boundless for the limitation of speech. night after night, with only a grassy swish and deadened tread over the turf breaking stillness, we journeyed northward. occasionally, like the chirp of cricket in a dry well, life sounded through emptiness. skulking coyotes, seeking prey among earth mounds, or night hawks, lilting solitarily in vaulted mid-heaven, uttered cries that pierced the vast blue. owls flapped stupidly up from our horses' feet. hungry kites wheeled above lonely indian graves, or perched on the scaffolding, where the dead lay swathed in skins. reflecting on my experiences with the mandanes and the sioux, i was disposed to upbraid fate as a senseless thing with no thread of purpose through life's hopeless jumble. now, something in the calm of the plains, or the certainty of our unerring star-guides, quieted my unrest. besides, was i not returning to one who was peerless? that hope speedily eclipsed all interests. that was purpose enough for my life. forthwith, i began comparing lustrous gray eyes to the stars, and tracing a woman's figure in the diaphanous northern lights. one face ever gleamed through the dusk at my horse's head and beckoned northward. i do not think her presence left me for an instant on that homeward journey. but, indeed, i should not set down these extravagances, which each may recall in his own case, only i would have others judge whether she influenced me, or i, her. thus we traveled northward, journeying by night as long as we were in the sioux territory. once in the land of the assiniboines, we rode day and night to the limit of our horses' endurance. remembering the hudson's bay outrage at the souris, and having also heard from mandane runners of a raid planned by our rivals against the north-west fort at pembina, i steered wide of both places, following the old missouri trail midway between the red and souris rivers. it may have been because we traveled at night, but i did not encounter a single person, native or white, till we came close to the red and were less than a day's journey from fort gibraltar. on the river trail, we overtook some hudson's bay trappers. the fellows would not answer a single question about events during the year and scampered away from us as if we carried smallpox, which had thinned the population a few years before. "that's bad!" said i aloud, as the men fled down the river bank, where we could not follow. little fellow looked as solemn as a grave-stone. he shook his head with ominous wisdom that foresees all evil but refuses to prophesy. "bother to you, little fellow!" i exclaimed. "what do you mean? what's up?" again the indian shook his head with dark mutterings, looking mighty solemn, but he would not share his foreknowledge. we met more hudson's bay men, and their conduct was unmistakably suspicious. on a sudden seeing us, they reined up their horses, wheeled and galloped off without a word. "i don't like that! i emphatically don't!" i piloted my broncho to a slight roll of the prairie, where we could reconnoitre. distinctly there was the spot where the two rivers met. intervening shrubbery confused my bearings. i rose in my stirrups, while little fellow stood erect on his horse's back. "little fellow!" i cried, exasperated with myself, "where's fort gibraltar? i see where it ought to be, where the towers ought to be higher than that brush, but where's the fort?" the indian screened his eyes and gazed forward. then he came down with a thud, abruptly re-straddling his horse, and uttered one explosive word--"smoke." "smoke? i don't see smoke! where's the fort?" "no fort," said he. "you're daft!" i informed him, with the engaging frankness of a master for a servant. "there--is--a fort, and you know it--we're both lost--that's more! a fine indian you are, to get lost!" little fellow scrambled with alacrity to the ground. picking up two small switches, he propped them against each other. "fort!" he said, laconically, pointing to the switches. "l'anglais!" he cried, thrusting out his foot, which signified hudson's bay. "no fort!" he shouted, kicking the switches into the air. "no fort!" and he looked with speechless disgust at the vacancy. now i knew what he meant. fort gibraltar had been destroyed by hudson's bay men. we had no alternative but to strike west along the assiniboine, on the chance of meeting some nor'-westers before reaching the company's quarters at the portage. that post, too, might be destroyed; but where were hamilton and father holland? danger, or no danger, i must learn more of the doings in red river. also, there were reasons why i wished to visit the settlers of fort douglas. we camped on the south side of the assiniboine a few miles from the red, and little fellow went to some neighboring half-breeds for a canoe. and a strange story he brought back! a great man, second only to the king--so the half-breeds said--had come from england to rule over assiniboia. he boasted the shock of his power would be felt from montreal to athabasca. he would drive out all nor'-westers. this personage, i afterwards learned, was the amiable governor semple, who succeeded captain miles mcdonell. already, as a hunter chases a deer, had the great governor chased nor'-westers from red river. did little fellow doubt their word? where was fort gibraltar? let little fellow look and see for himself if aught but masonry and charred walls stood where fort gibraltar had been! let him seek the rafters of the nor-westers' fort in the new walls of fort douglas! pembina, too, had fallen before the hudson's bay men. since the coming of the great governor, nothing could stand before the english. but wait! it was not all over! the war drum was beating in the tents of all the _bois-brulés_! the great governor should be taught that even the king's arms could not prevail against the _bois-brulés_! was there smoke of battle? the _bois-brulés_ would be there! the _bois-brulés_ had wrongs to avenge. they would not be turned out of their forts for nothing! knives would be unsheathed. there were full powder-bags! there was a grand gathering of _bois-brulés_ at the portage. they, themselves, were on the way there. let little fellow and the white trader join them! let them be wary; for the english were watchful! great things were to be done by the _bois-brulés_ before another moon--and little fellow's eyes snapped fire as he related their vauntings. i was inclined to regard the report as a fairy tale. if the half-breeds were arming and the english watchful, the distrust of the hudson's bay men was explained. a nomad, himself, the indian may be willing enough to share running rights over the land of his fathers; but when the newcomer not only usurps possession, but imposes the yoke of laws on the native, the resentment of the dusky race is easily fanned to that point which civilized men call rebellion. i could readily understand how the hudson's bay proclamations forbidding the sale of furs to rivals, when these rivals were friends by marriage and treaty with the natives, roused all the bloodthirsty fury of the indian nature. nor'-westers' forts were being plundered. why should the _bois-brulés_ not pillage hudson's bay posts? each company was stealing the cargo of its rival, as boats passed and repassed the different forts. why should the half-breed not have his share of the booty? the most peace-loving dog can be set a-fighting; and the fight-loving indian finds it very difficult indeed, to keep the peace. this, the great fur companies had not yet realized; and the lesson was to be driven home to them with irresistible force. the half-breeds also had news of a priest bringing a delirious man to fort douglas. the description seemed to fit hamilton and father holland. whatever truth might be in the rumors of an uprising, i must ascertain whether or not frances sutherland would be safe. leaving little fellow to guard our horses, at sundown i pushed my canoe into the assiniboine just east of the rapids. paddling swiftly with the current, i kept close to the south bank, where overhanging willows concealed one side of the river. as i swung out into the red, true to the _bois-brulés'_ report, i saw only blackened chimneys and ruined walls on the site of fort gibraltar. heading towards the right bank, i hugged the naked cliff on the side opposite fort douglas, and trusted the rising mist to conceal me. thus, i slipped past cannon, pointing threateningly from the hudson's bay post, recrossed to the wooded west bank again, and paddled on till i caught a glimpse of a little, square, whitewashed house in a grove of fine old trees. this i knew, from frances sutherland's description, was her father's place. mooring among the shrubbery i had no patience to hunt for beaten path; but digging my feet into soft clay and catching branches with both hands, i clambered up the cliff and found myself in a thicket not a stone's throw from the door. the house was in darkness. my heart sank at a possibility which hardly framed itself to a thought. was the apparition in the mandane lodge some portent? had i not read, or heard, of departed spirits hovering near loved ones? i had no courage to think more. suddenly the door flung open. involuntarily, i slipped behind the bushes, but dusk hid the approaching figure. whoever it was made no noise. i felt, rather than heard, her coming, and knew no man could walk so silently. it must be a woman. then my chest stifled and i heard my own heart-beats. garments fluttered past the branches of my hiding-place. she of whom i had dreamed by night and thought by day and hoped whether sleeping, or waking, paused, not an arm's length away. toying with the tip of the branch, which i was gripping for dear life, she looked languorously through the foliage towards the river. at first i thought myself the victim of another hallucination, but would not stir lest the vision should vanish. she sighed audibly, and i knew this was no spectre. then i trembled all the more, for my sudden appearance might alarm her. i should wait until she went back to the house--another of my brave vows to keep myself in hand!--then walk up noisily, giving due warning, and knock at the door. the keeping of that resolution demanded all my strength of will; for she was so near i could have clasped her in my arms without an effort. indeed, it took a very great effort to refrain from doing so. "heigh-ho," said a low voice with the ripple of a sunny brook tinkling over pebbles, "but it's a long day--and a long, long week--and a long, long, long month--and oh!--a century of years since----" and the voice broke in a sigh. i think--though i would not set this down as a fact--that a certain small foot, which once stamped two strong men into obedience, now vented its impatience at a twig on the grass. by the code of eastern proprieties, i may not say that the dainty toe-tip first kicked the offensive little branch and then crunched it deep in the turf. "i hate this lonely country," said the voice, with the vim of water-fret against an obstinate stone. "wonder what it's like in the mandane land! i'm sure it's nicer there." now i affirm there is not a youth living who would not at some time give his right hand to know a woman's exact interpretation of that word "nicer." for my part, it set me clutching the branch with such ferocity, off snapped the thing with the sharp splintering of a breaking stick. the voice gave a gasp and she jumped aside with nervous trepidation. "whatever--was that? i am--not frightened." no one was accusing her. "i won't go in! i won't let myself be frightened! there! the very idea!" and three or four sharp stamps followed in quick succession; but she was shivering. "i declare the house is so lonely, a ghost would be live company." and she looked doubtfully from the dark house to the quivering poplars. "i'd rather be out here with the tree-toads and owls and bats than in there alone, even if they do frighten me! anyway, i'm not frightened! it's just some stupid hop-and-go-spring thing at the base of our brains that makes us jump at mice and rats." but the hands interlocking at her back twitched and clasped and unclasped in a way that showed the automatic brain-spring was still active. "it's getting worse every day. i can't stand it much longer, looking and looking till i'm half blind and no one but indian riders all day long. why doesn't he come? oh! i know something is wrong." "afraid of the metis," thought i, "and expecting her father. a fine father to leave his daughter alone in the house with the half-breeds threatening a raid. she needs some one else to take care of her." this, on after thought, i know was unjust to her father; for pioneers obey necessity first and chivalry second. "if he would only come!" she repeated in a half whisper. "hope he doesn't," thought i. "for a week i've been dreaming such fearful things! i see him sinking in green water, stretching his hands to me and i can't reach out to save him. on sunday he seemed to be running along a black, awful precipice. i caught him in my arms to hold him back, but he dragged me over and i screamed myself awake. sometimes, he is in a black cave and i can't find any door to let him out. or he lies bound in some dungeon, and when i stoop to cut the cords, he begins to sink down, down, down through the dark, where i can't follow. i leap after him and always waken with such a dizzy start. oh! i know he has been in trouble. something is wrong! his thoughts are reaching out to me and i am so gross and stupid i can't hear what his spirit says. if i could only get away from things, the clatter of everyday things that dull one's inner hearing, perhaps i might know! i feel as if he spoke in a foreign language, but the words he uses i can't make out. all to-day, he has seemed so near! why does he not come home to me?" "mighty fond daughter," thought i, with a jealous pang. she was fumbling among the intricate draperies, where women conceal pockets, and presently brought out something in the palm of her hand. "i wouldn't have him know how foolish i am," and she laid the thing gently against her cheek. now i had never given frances sutherland a gift of any sort whatever; and my heart was pierced with anguish that cannot be described. i was, indeed, falling over a precipice and her arms were not holding me back but dragging me over. would that i, like the dreamer, could awaken with a start. in all conscience, i was dizzy enough; and every pressure of that hateful object to her face bound me faster in a dungeon of utter hopelessness. my sweet day-dreams and midnight rhapsodies trooped back to mock at me. i felt that i must bow broken under anguish or else steel myself and shout back cynical derision to the whole wan troop of torturing regrets. and all the time, she was caressing that thing in her hand and looking down at it with a fondness, which i--poor fool--thought that i alone could inspire. i suppose if i could have crept away unobserved, i would have gone from her presence hardened and embittered; but i must play out the hateful part of eavesdropper to the end. she opened the hand to feast her eyes on the treasure, and i craned forward, playing the sneak without a pang of shame, but the dusk foiled me. then the low, mellow, vibrant tones, whose very music would have intoxicated duller fools than i--'tis ever a comfort to know there are greater fools--broke in melody: "to my own dear love from her ever loyal and devoted knight," and she held her opened hand high. 'twas my birch-bark message which father holland had carried north. i suddenly went insane with a great overcharge of joy, that paralyzed all motion. "dear love--wherever are you?" asked a voice that throbbed with longing. can any man blame me for breaking through the thicket and my resolution and discretion and all? "here--beloved!" i sprang from the bush. she gave a cry of affright and would have fallen, but my arms were about her and my lips giving silent proof that i was no wraith. what next we said i do not remember. with her head on my shoulder and i doing the only thing a man could do to stem her tears, i completely lost track of the order of things. i do not believe either of us was calm enough for words for some time after the meeting. it was she who regained mental poise first. "rufus!" she exclaimed, breaking away from me, "you're not a sensible man at all." "never said i was," i returned. "if you do _that_," she answered, ignoring my remark and receding farther, "i'll never stop crying." "then cry on forever!" with womanly ingratitude, she promptly called me "a goose" and other irrelevant names. the rest of our talk that evening i do not intend to set down. in the first place, it was best understood by only two. in the second, it could not be transcribed; and in the third, it was all a deal too sacred. we did, however, become impersonal for short intervals. "i feel as if there were some storm in the air," said frances sutherland. "the half-breeds are excited. they are riding past the settlement in scores every day. o, rufus, i know something is wrong." "so do i," was my rejoinder. i was thinking of the strange gossip of the assiniboine encampment. "do you think the _bois-brulés_ would plunder your boats?" she asked innocently, ignorant that the malcontents were nor'-westers. "no," said i. "what boats?" "why, nor'-west boats, of course, coming up red river from fort william to go up the assiniboine for the winter's supplies. they're coming in a few days. my father told me so." "is mr. sutherland an h. b. c. or nor'-wester?" i asked in the slang of the company talk. "i don't know," she answered. "i don't think he knows himself. he says there are numbers of men like that, and they all know there is to be a raid. why, rufus, there are men down the river every day watching for the nor'-westers' fort william express." "where do the men come from?" i questioned, vainly trying to patch some connection between plots for a raid on north-west boats and plots for a fight by nor'-west followers. "from fort douglas, of course." "h. b. c.'s, my dear. you must go to fort douglas at once. there will be a fight. you must go to-morrow with your father, or with me to-night," i urged, thinking i should take myself off and notify my company of the intended pillaging. "with you?" she laughed. "father will be home in an hour. are you sure about a fight!" "quite," said i, trembling for her safety. this certainty of mine has been quoted to prove premeditation on the nor'-westers' part; but i meant nothing of the sort. i only felt there was unrest on both sides, and that she must be out of harm's way. truly, i have seldom had a harder duty to perform than to leave frances alone in that dark house to go and inform my company of the plot. many times i said good-by before going to the canoe and times unnumbered ran back from the river to repeat some warning and necessitate another farewell. "rufus, dear," she said, "this is about the twentieth time. you mustn't come back again." "then good-by for the twenty-first," said i, and came away feeling like a young priest anointed for some holy purpose. * * * * * i declare now, as i declared before the courts of the land, that in hastening to the portage with news of the hudson's bay's intention to intercept the nor'-westers' express from fort william, i had no other thought but the faithful serving of my company. i knew what suffering the destruction of souris had entailed in athabasca, and was determined our brave fellows should not starve in the coming winter through my negligence. could i foresee that simple act of mine was to let loose all the punishment the hudson's bay had been heaping up against the day of judgment? chapter xxi louis pays me back what tempted me to moor opposite the ruins of fort gibraltar? what tempts the fly into the spider's web and the fish with a wide ocean for play-ground into one small net? i know there is a consoling fashion of ascribing our blunders to the inscrutable wisdom of a long-suffering providence; but common-sense forbids i should call evil good, deify my errors, and give thanks for what befalls me solely through my own fault. bare posts hacked to the ground were all that remained of fort gibraltar's old wall. i had not gone many paces across the former courtyard, when voices sounded from the gravel-pit that had once done duty as a cellar. the next thing i noticed was the shaggy face of louis laplante bobbing above the ground. with other vagabond wanderers, the frenchman had evidently been rummaging old nor'-west vaults. "tra-la, comrade," he shouted, leaping out of the cellar as soon as he saw me. "i, louis laplante, son of a seigneur, am resurrecting. i was a plante! now i'm a _louis d'or_, fresh coined from the golden vein of dazzling wit. once we were men, but they drowned us in a wine-barrel like your lucky dog of an english prince. now we're earth-goblins re-incarnate! behold gnomes of the mine! knaves of the nethermost depths, tra-la! vampires that suck the blood of whisky-cellars and float to the skies with dusky wings and dizzy heads! laugh with us, old solemncholy! see the ground spin! laugh, i say, or be a hitching-post, and we'll dance the may-pole round you! we're vampires, comrade, and you're our cousin, for you're a bat," and louis applauded his joke with loud, tipsy laughter and staggered up to me drunk as a lord. his heavy breath and bloodshot eyes testified what he had found under the rubbish heaps of fort gibraltar's cellar. embracing me with the affection of a long-lost brother, he rattled on with a befuddled, meaningless jargon. "so the knife cut well, did it? and the sioux did not eat you by inches, beginning with your thumbs? ha! très bien! very good taste! you were not meant for feasts, my solemncholy? some men are monuments. that's you, mine frien'! some are champagne bottles that uncork, zip, fizz, froth, stars dancing round your head! that's me! 'tis i, louis laplante, son of a seigneur, am that champagne bottle!" pausing for breath, he drew himself erect with ridiculous pomposity. now there are times when the bravest and wisest thing a brave and wise man can do is take to his heels. i have heard my uncle jack mackenzie say that vice and liquor and folly are best frustrated by flight; and all three seemed to be embodied in louis laplante that night. a stupid sort of curiosity made me dally with the mischief brewing in him, just as the fly plays with the spider-web, or the fish with a baited hook. "there's a fountain-spout in nor'-west vaults for those who know where to tap the spigot, eh, louis?" i asked. "i'm a hudson's bay man and to the conqueror comes the tribute," returned louis, sweeping me a courtly bow. "i hope such a generous conqueror draws all the tribute he deserves. do you remember how you saved my life twice from the sioux, louis?" "generous," shouted the frenchman, drawing himself up proudly, "generous to mine enemy, always magnificent, grand, superb, as becomes the son of a seigneur! now i pay you back, rich, well, generous." "nonsense, louis," i expostulated. "'tis i who am in your debt. i owe you my life twice over. how shall i pay you?" and i made to go down to my canoe. "pay me?" demanded louis, thrusting himself across my path in a menacing attitude. "stand and pay me like a man!" "i am standing," i laughed. "now, how shall i pay you?" "strike!" ordered louis, launching out a blow which i barely missed. "strike, i say, for kicking me, the son of a seigneur, like a pig!" at that, half a dozen more drunken vagabonds of the hudson's bay service reeled up from the cellar pit; and i began to understand i was in for as much mischief as a young man could desire. the fellows were about us in a circle, and now, that it was too late, i was quite prepared like the fly and the fish to seek safety in flight. "sink his canoe," suggested one; and i saw that borrowed craft swamped. "strike! _sacredie!_ i pay you back generous," roared louis. "how can i, louis laplante, son of a seigneur, strike a man who won't hit back?" "and how can i strike a man who saved my life?" i urged, trying to mollify him. "see here, louis, i'm on a message for my company to-night. i can't wait. some other day you can pay me all you like--not to-night, some-other-time----" "some-oder-time! no--never! some-oder-time--'tis the way i pay my own debts, always some-oder-time, and i never not pay at all. you no some-oder-time me, comrade! louis knows some-oder-time too well! he quit his cups some-oder-time and he never quit, not at all! he quit wild indian some-oder-time, and he never quit, not at all! and he go home and say his confess to the curé some-oder-time, and he never go, not at all! and he settle down with a wife and become a grand seigneur some-oder-time, and he never settle down at all!" "good night, laplante! i have business for the company. i must go," i interrupted, trying to brush through the group that surrounded us. "so have we business for the company, the hudson's bay company, and you can't go," chimed in one of the least intoxicated of the rival trappers; and they closed about me so that i had not striking room. "are you men looking for trouble?" i asked, involuntarily fingering my pistol belt. "no--we're looking for the nor'-west brigade billed to pass from fort william to athabasca," jeered the boldest of the crowd, a red-faced, middle-aged man with blear eyes. "we're looking for the nor'-westers' express," and he laughed insolently. "you don't expect to find our brigades in fort gibraltar's cellar," said i, backing away from them and piecing this latest information to what i had already heard of plots and conspiracies. forthwith i felt strong hands gripping both my arms like a vise and the coils of a rope were about me with the swiftness of a lasso. my first impulse was to struggle against the outrage; but i was beginning to learn the service of open ears and a closed mouth was often more valuable than a fighter's blows. already i had ascertained from their own lips that the hudson's bay intended to molest our north-bound brigade. "well," said i, with a laugh, which surprised the rascals mightily, "now you've captured your elephant, what do you propose to do with him?" without answering, the men shambled down to the landing place of the fort, jostling me along between the red-faced man and louis laplante. "i consider this a scurvy trick, louis," said i. "you've let me into a pretty scrape with your idiotic heroics about paying back a fancied grudge. to save a mouse from the tigers, louis, and then feed him to your cats! fie, man! i like your son-of-a-seigneur ideas of honor!" "ingrate! low-born ingrate," snapped the frenchman, preparing to strike one of his dramatic attitudes, "if i were not the son of a seigneur, and you a man with bound arms, you should swallow those words," and he squared up to me for a second time. "if you won't fight, you shan't run away----" "off with your french brag," ordered the soberest of the hudson's bay men, catching louis by the scruff of his coat and spinning him out of the way. "there'll be neither fighting nor running away. it is to fort douglas we'll take our fine spy." the words stung, but i muffled my indignation. "i'll go with pleasure," i returned, thinking that frances sutherland and hamilton and father holland were good enough company to compensate for any captivity. "with pleasure, and 'tis not the first time i'll have found friends in the hudson's bay fort." at that speech, the red-faced man, who seemed to be the ringleader, eyed me narrowly. we all embarked on a rickety raft, that would, i declare, have drowned any six sober men who risked their lives on it; but drunk men and children seem to do what sober, grown folk may not are. how louis laplante was for fighting a duel _en route_ with the man, who spoke of "french brag" and was only dissuaded from his purpose by the raft suddenly teetering at an angle of forty-five degrees with the water, which threatened to toboggan us all into mid-river; how i was then stationed in the centre and the other men distributed equally on each side of the raft to maintain balance; how we swung out into the red, rocking with each shifting of the crew and were treated to a volley of objurgations from the red-faced man--i do not intend to relate. this sort of melodrama may be seen wherever there are drunken men, a raft and a river. the men poled only fitfully, and we were driven solely by the current. it was dark long before we had neared fort douglas and the waters swished past with an inky, glassy sheen that vividly recalled the murky pool about the beaver-dam. and yet i had no fear, but drifted along utterly indifferent to the termination of the freakish escapade in which i had become involved. nature mercifully sets a limit to human capacity for suffering; and i felt i had reached that limit. nothing worse could happen than had happened, at least, so i told myself, and i awaited with cynical curiosity what might take place inside the hudson's bay fort. then a shaft of lantern light pierced the dark, striking aslant the river, and the men began poling hard for fort douglas wharf. we struck the landing with a bump, disembarked, passed the sentinel at the gate and were at the entrance to the main building. "you kick me here," said louis. "i pay you back here!" "what are you going to do with him?" asked the soberest man of the red-faced leader. "hand him over to governor semple for a spy." "the governor's abed. besides, they don't want him about to hear h. b. secrets when the nor'-west brigade's a-coming! you'd better get sobered up, yez hed! that's my advice to yez, before going to governor semple," and the prudent trapper led the way inside. to the fore was the main stairway, on the right the closed store, and on the left a small apartment which the governor had fitted up as a private office. for some unaccountable reason--the same reason, i suppose, that mischief is always awaiting the mischief-maker--the door to this office had been left ajar and a light burned inside. 'twas louis, ever alert, when mischief was abroad, who tip-toed over to the open door, poked his head in and motioned his drunken companions across the sacred precincts of governor semple's private room. i was loath to be a party to this mad nonsense, but the fly and the fish should have thought of results before venturing too near strange coils. the red-faced fellow gave me a push. the sober man muttered, "better come, or they'll raise a row," and we were all within the forbidden place, the door shut and bolted. to city folk, used to the luxuries of the east, i dare say that office would have seemed mean enough. but the men had been so long away from leather chairs, hair-cloth sofa, wall mirror, wine decanter and other odds and ends which furnish a gentleman's living apartments that the very memory of such things had faded, and that small room, with its old-country air, seemed the vestibule to another world. "sump--too--uss--ain't it?" asked the sober man with bated breath and obvious distrust of his tongue. "mag--nee--feque! m. louis laplante, look you there," cried the frenchman, catching sight of his full figure in the mirror and instantly striking a pose of admiration. then he twirled fiercely at both ends of his mustache till it stood out with the wire finish of a parisian dandy. the red-faced fellow had permitted me, with arms still tied, to walk across the room and sit on the hair-cloth sofa. he was lolling back in the governor's armchair, playing the lord and puffing one of mr. semple's fine pipes. "we are gentlemen adventurers of the ancient and honorable hudson's bay company, gentlemen adventurers," he roared, bringing his fist down with a thud on the desk. "we hereby decree that the fort william brigade be captured, that the whisky be freely given to every dry-throated lad in the hudson's bay company, that the nor'-westers be sent down the red on a raft, that this meeting raftify this dissolution, afterwards moving--seconding--and unanimously amending----" "adjourning--you mean," interrupted one of the orator's audience. "i say," called one, who had been dazed by the splendor, "how do you tell which is the lookin' glass and which is the window?" and he looked from the window on one side to its exact reflection, length and width, directly opposite. the puzzle was left unsolved; for just then louis laplante found a flask of liquor and speedily divided its contents among the crowd--which was not calculated to clear up mysteries of windows and mirrors among those addle-pates. dull wit may be sport for drunken men, but it is mighty flat to an onlooker, and i was out of patience with their carousal. "the governor will be back here presently, louis," said i. "tired of being a tombstone, ha--ha! better be a champagne bottle!" he laughed with slightly thickened articulation and increased unsteadiness in his gait. "if you don't hide that bottle in your hand, there'll be a big head and a sore head for you men to-morrow morning." i rose to try and get them out of the office; but a sober man with tied arms among a drunken crew is at a disadvantage. "ha--old--wise--sh--head! to--be--sh--shure! whur--d'--y'--hide--it?" "throw it out of the window," said i, without the slightest idea of leading him into mischief. "whish--whish--ish--the window, rufush?" asked louis imploringly. the last potion had done its work and louis was passing from the jovial to the pensive stage. he would presently reach a mood which might be ugly enough for a companion in bonds. was it this prospect, i wonder, or the mischievous spirit pervading the very air from the time i reached the ruins that suggested a way out of my dilemma? "throw it out of the window," said i, ignoring his question and shoving him off. "whish--ish--the window--dammie?" he asked, holding the bottle irresolutely and looking in befuddled distraction from side to side of the room. "thur--both--windows--fur as i see," said the man, who had been sober, but was no longer so. "throw it through the back window! folks comin' in at the door won't see it." the red-faced man got up to investigate, and all faith in my plan died within me; but the lantern light was dusky and the red-faced man could no longer navigate a course from window to mirror. "there's a winder there," said he, scratching his head and looking at the window reflected in perfect proportion on the mirrored surface. "and there's a winder there," he declared, pointing at the real window. "they're both winders and they're both lookin'-glasses, for i see us all in both of them. this place is haunted. lem-me out!" "take thish, then," cried louis, shoving the bottle towards him and floundering across to the door to bar the way. "take thish, or tell me whish--ish--the window." "both winders, i tell you, and both lookin'-glasses," vowed the man. the other four fellows declined to express an opinion for the very good reason that two were asleep and two befuddled beyond questioning. "see here, louis," i exclaimed, "there's only one way to tell where to throw that bottle." "yesh, rufush," and he came to me as if i were his only friend on earth. "the bottle will go through the window and it won't go through the mirror," i began. "dammie--i knew that," he snapped out, ready to weep. "well--you undo these things," nodding to the ropes about my arms, "and i'll find out which opens, and the one that opens is the window, and you can throw out the bottle." "the very thing, rufush, wise--sh--head--old--old--ol' solemncholy," and he ripped the ropes off me. now i offer no excuse for what i did. i could have opened that window and let myself out some distance ahead of the bottle, without involving louis and his gang in greater mischief. what i did was not out of spite to the governor of a rival company; but mischief, as i said, was in the very air. besides, the knaves had delayed me far into midnight, and i had no scruples about giving each twenty-four hours in the fort guardroom. i took a precautionary inspection of the window-sash. yes, i was sure i could leap through, carrying out sash and all. "hurry--ol' tombshtone--governor--sh-comin'," urged louis. i made towards the window and fumbled at the sash. "this doesn't open," said i, which was quite true, for i did not try to budge it. then i went across to the mirror. "neither does this," said i. "wha'--wha'--'ll--we do--rufush?" "i'll tell you. you can jump through a window but not through a glass. now you count--one two--three,"--this to the red-faced man--"and when you say 'three' i'll give a run and jump. if i fall back, you'll know it's the mirror, and fling the bottle quick through the other. ready, count!" "one," said the red-faced man. louis raised his arm and i prepared for a dash. "two!" louis brought back his arm to gain stronger sweep. "three!" i gave a leap and made as though i had fallen back. there was the pistol-shot splintering of bottle and mirror crashing down to the floor. the window frame gave with a burst, and i was outside rushing past the sleepy sentinel, who poured out a volley of curses after me. chapter xxii a day of reckoning as well play pussy-wants-a-corner with a tiger as make-believe war with an indian. in both cases the fun may become ghastly earnest with no time for cry-quits. so it was with the great fur-trading companies at the beginning of this century. each held the indian in subjection and thought to use him with daring impunity against its rival. and each was caught in the meshes of its own merry game. i, as a nor'-wester, of course, consider that the lawless acts of the hudson's bay had been for three years educating the natives up to the tragedy of june , . but this is wholly a partisan, opinion. certainly both companies have lied outrageously about the results of their quarrels. the truth is hudson's bay and nor'-westers were playing war with the indian. consequences having exceeded all calculation, both companies would fain free themselves of blame. for instance, it has been said the hudson's bay people had no intention of intercepting the north-west brigade bound up the red and assiniboine for the interior--this assertion despite the fact our rivals had pillaged every north-west fort that could be attacked. now i acknowledge the nor'-westers disclaim hostile purpose in the rally of three hundred _bois-brulés_ to the portage; but this sits not well with the warlike appearance of these armed plain rangers, who sallied forth to protect the fort william express. nor does it agree with the expectations of the indian rabble, who flocked on our rear like carrion birds keen for the spoils of battle. both companies had--as it were--leveled and cocked their weapon. to send it off needed but a spark, and a slight misunderstanding ignited that spark. my arrival at the portage had the instantaneous effect of sending two strong battalions of _bois-brulés_ hot-foot across country to meet the fort william express before it could reach fort douglas. they were to convoy it overland to a point on the assiniboine where it could be reshipped. to the second of these parties, i attached myself. i was anxious to attempt a visit to hamilton. there was some one else whom i hoped to find at fort douglas; so i refused to rest at the portage, though i had been in my saddle almost constantly for twenty days. when we set out, i confess i did not like the look of things. those indians smeared with paint and decked out with the feathered war-cap kept increasing to our rear. there were the eagles! where was the carcass? the presence of these sinister fellows, hot with the lust of blood, had ominous significance. among the half-breeds there was unconcealed excitement. shortly before we struck off the assiniboine trail northward for the red, in order to meet the expected brigade beyond fort douglas, some of our people slipped back to the indian rabble. when they reappeared, they were togged out in native war-gear with too many tomahawks and pistols for the good of those who might interfere with our mission. there was no misunderstanding the ugly temper of the men. here, i wish to testify that explicit orders were given for the forces to avoid passing near fort douglas, or in any way provoking conflict. there was placed in charge of our division the most powerful plain-ranger in the service of the company, the one person of all others, who might control the natives in case of an outbreak--and that man was cuthbert grant. pierre, the minstrel, and six clerks were also in the party; but what could a handful of moderate men do with a horde of indians and metis wrought up to a fury of revenge? "now, deuce take those rascals! what are they doing?" exclaimed grant angrily, as we left the river trail and skirted round a slough of frog plains on the side remote from fort douglas. our forces were following in straggling disorder. the first battalions of the _bois-brulés_, which had already rounded the marsh, were now in the settlement on red river bank. it was to them that grant referred. commanding a halt and raising his spy-glass, he took an anxious survey of the foreground. "there's something seriously wrong," he said. "strikes me we're near a powder mine! here, gillespie, you look!" he handed the field-glass to me. a great commotion was visible among the settlers. ox-carts packed with people were jolting in hurried confusion towards fort douglas. behind, tore a motley throng of men, women and children, running like a frightened flock of sheep. whatever the cause of alarm, our men were not molesting them; for i watched the horsemen proceeding leisurely to the appointed rendezvous, till the last rider disappeared among the woods of the river path. "scared! badly scared! that's all, grant," said i. "you've no idea what wild stories are going the rounds of the settlement about the _bois-brulés_!" "and you've no idea, young man, what wild stories are going the rounds of the _bois-brulés_ about the settlement," was grant's moody reply. my chance acquaintance with the assiniboine encampment had given me some idea, but i did not tell grant so. "perhaps they've taken a few old fellows prisoners to ensure the fort's good behavior, while we save our bacon," i suggested. "if they have, those highlanders will go to fort douglas shining bald as a red ball," answered the plain-ranger. in this, grant did his people injustice; for of those prisoners taken by the advance guard, not a hair of their heads was injured. the warden was nervously apprehensive. this was unusual with him; and i have since wondered if his dark forebodings arose from better knowledge of the _bois-brulés_ than i possessed, or from some premonition. "there'd be some reason for uneasiness, if you weren't here to control them, grant," said i, nodding towards the indians and metis. "one man against a host! what can i do?" he asked gloomily. "good gracious, man! do! why, do what you came to do! whatever's the matter with you?" the swarthy face had turned a ghastly, yellowish tint and he did not answer. "'pon my honor," i exclaimed. "are you ill, man?" "'tisn't that! when i went to sleep, last night, there were--corpses all round me. i thought i was in a charnel house and----" "good gracious, grant!" i shuddered out. "don't you go off your head next! leave that for us green chaps! besides, the indians were raising stench enough with a dog-stew to fill any brain with fumes. for goodness' sake, let's go on, meet those fellows with the brigade, secure that express and get off this 'powder mine'--as you call it." "by all means!" grant responded, giving the order, and we moved forward but only at snail pace; for i think he wanted to give the settlers plenty of time to reach the fort. by five o'clock in the afternoon we had almost rounded the slough and were gradually closing towards the wooded ground of the river bank. we were within ear-shot of the settlers. they were flying past with terrified cries of "the half-breeds! the half-breeds!" when i heard grant groan from sheer alarm and mutter-- "look! look! the lambs coming to meet the wolves!" to this day i cannot account for the madness of the thing. there, some twenty, or thirty hudson's bay men--mere youths most of them--were coming with all speed to head us off from the river path, at a wooded point called seven oaks. what this pigmy band thought it could do against our armed men, i do not know. the blunder on their part was so unexpected and inexcusable, it never dawned on us the panic-stricken settlers had spread a report of raid, and these poor valiant defenders had come out to protect the colony. if that be the true explanation of their rash conduct in tempting conflict, what were they thinking about to leave the walls of their fort during danger? my own opinion is that with lord selkirk's presumptuous claims to exclusive possession in red river and the recent high-handed success of the hudson's bay, the men of fort douglas were so flushed with pride they did not realize the risk of a brush with the _bois-brulés_. much, too, may be attributed to governor semple's inexperience; but it was very evident the purpose of the force deliberately blocking our path was not peaceable. if the hudson's bay blundered in coming out to challenge us, so did we, i frankly admit; for we regarded the advance as an audacious trick to hold us back till the fort william express could be captured. now that the thing he feared had come, all hesitancy vanished from grant's manner. steeled and cool like the leader he was, he sternly commanded the surging metis to keep back. straggling indians and half-breeds dashed to our fore-ranks with the rush of a tempest and chafed hotly against the warden. at a word from grant, the men swung across the enemy's course sickle-shape; but they were furious at this disciplined restraint. from horn to horn of the crescent, rode the plain-ranger, lashing horses back to the circle and shaking his fist in the quailing face of many a bold rebel. both sides advanced within a short distance of each other. we could see that governor semple, himself, was leading the hudson's bay men. immediately, boucher, a north-west clerk, was sent forward to parley. now, i hold the nor'-westers would not have done that if their purpose had been hostile; but boucher rode out waving his hand and calling-- "what do you want? what do you want?" "what do you want, yourself?" came governor semple's reply with some heat and not a little insolence. "we want our fort," demanded boucher, slightly taken aback, but thoroughly angered. his horse was prancing restively within pistol range of the governor. "go to your fort, then! go to your fort!" returned semple with stinging contempt in manner and voice. he might as well have told us to go to gehenna; for the fort was scattered to the four winds. "the fool!" muttered grant. "the fool! let him answer for the consequences. their blood be on their own heads." whether the _bois-brulés_, who had lashed their horses into a lather of foam and were cursing out threats in the ominous undertone that precedes a storm-burst, now encroached upon the neutral ground in spite of grant, or were led gradually forward by the warden as the hudson's bay governor's hostility increased, i did not in the excitement of the moment observe. one thing is certain, while the quarrel between the hudson's bay governor and the north-west clerk was becoming more furious, our surging cohorts were closing in on the little band like an irresistible tidal wave. i could make out several hudson's bay faces, that seemed to remind me of my fort douglas visit; but of the rabble of nor'-westers and _bois-brulés_ disguised in hideous war-gear, i dare avow not twenty of us were recognizable. "miserable rogue!" boucher was shouting, utterly beside himself with rage and flourishing his gun directly over the governor's head, "miserable rogue! why have you destroyed our fort?" "call him off, grant! call him off, or it's all up!" i begged, seeing the parley go from bad to worse; but grant was busy with the _bois-brulés_ and did not hear. "wretch!" governor semple exclaimed in a loud voice. "dare you to speak so to me!" and he caught boucher's bridle, throwing the horse back on its haunches. boucher, agile as a cat, slipped to the ground. "arrest him, men!" commanded the governor. "arrest him at once!" but the clerk was around the other side of the horse, with his gun leveled across its back. whether, when boucher jumped down, our bloodthirsty knaves thought him shot and broke from grant's control to be avenged, or whether lieutenant holt of the hudson's bay at that unfortunate juncture discharged his weapon by accident, will never be known. instantaneously, as if by signal, our men with a yell burst from the ranks, leaped from their saddles and using horses as breast-work, fired volley after volley into the governor's party. the neighing and plunging of the frenzied horses added to the tumult. the hudson's bay men were shouting out incoherent protest; but what they said was drowned in the shrill war-cry of the indians. just for an instant, i thought i recognized one particular voice in that shrieking babel, which flashed back memory of loud, derisive laughter over a camp fire and at the buffalo hunt; but all else was forgotten in the terrible consciousness that our men's murderous onslaught was deluging the prairie with innocent blood. throwing himself between the _bois-brulés_ and the retreating band, the warden implored his followers to grant truce. as well plead with wild beasts. the half-breeds were deaf to commands, and in vain their leader argued with blows. the shooting had been of a blind sort, and few shots did more than wound; but the natives were venting the pent-up hate of three years and would give no quarter. from musketry volleys the fight had become hand-to-hand butchery. i had dismounted and was beating the scoundrels back with the butt end of my gun, begging, commanding, abjuring them to desist, when a hudson's bay youth swayed forward and fell wounded at my feet. there was the baffled, anguished scream of some poor wounded fellow driven to bay, and i saw laplante across the field, covered with blood, reeling and staggering back from a dozen red-skin furies, who pressed upon their fagged victim, snatching at his throat like hounds at the neck of a beaten stag. with a bound across the prostrate form of the youth, i ran to the frenchman's aid. louis saw me coming and struck out so valiantly, the wretched cowards darted back just as i have seen a miserable pack of open-mouthed curs dodge the last desperate sweep of antlered head. that gave me my chance, and i fell on their rear with all the might i could put in my muscle, bringing the flat of my gun down with a crash on crested head-toggery, and striking right and left at louis' assailants. "ah--_mon dieu_--comrade," sobbed louis, falling in my arms from sheer exhaustion, while the tears trickled down in a white furrow over his blood-splashed cheeks, "_mon dieu_--comrade, but you pay me back generous!" "tutts, man, this is no time for settling old scores and playing the grand! run for your life. run to the woods and swim the river!" with that, i flung him from me; for i heard the main body of our force approaching. "run," i urged, giving the frenchman a push. "the run--ha--ha--my old spark," laughed louis with a tearful, lack-life sort of mirth, "the run--it has all run out," and with a pitiful reel down he fell in a heap. i caught him under the armpits, hoisted him to my shoulders, and made with all speed for the wooded river bank. my pace was a tumble more than a run down the river cliff, but i left the man at the very water's edge, where he could presently strike out for the far side and regain fort douglas by swimming across again. then i hurried to the battle-field in search of the wounded youth whom i had left. as i bent above him, the poor lad rolled over, gazing up piteously with the death-look on his face; and i recognized the young nor'-wester who had picked flowers with me for frances sutherland and afterwards deserted to the hudson's bay. the boy moaned and moved his lips as if speaking, but i heard no sound. stooping on one knee, i took his head on the other and bent to listen; but he swooned away. afraid to leave him--for the savages were wreaking indescribable barbarities on the fallen--i picked him up. his arms and head fell back limply as if he were dead, and holding him thus, i again dashed for the fringe of woods. rogers of the hudson's bay staggered against me wounded, with both hands thrown up ready to surrender. he was pleading in broken french for mercy; but two half-breeds, one with cocked pistol, the other with knife, rushed upon him. i turned away that i might not see; but the man's unavailing entreaties yet ring in my ears. farther on, governor semple lay, with lacerated arm and broken thigh. he was calling to grant, "i'm not mortally wounded! if you could get me conveyed to the fort i think i would live!" then i got away from the field and laid my charge in the woods. poor lad! the pallor of death was on every feature. tearing open his coat and taking letters from an inner pocket to send to relatives, i saw a knife-stab in his chest, which no mortal could survive. battle is pitiless. i hurriedly left the dying boy and went back to the living, ordering a french half-breed to guard him. "see that no one mutilates this body," said i, "and i'll reward you." my shout seemed to recall the lad's consciousness. whether he fully understood the terrible significance of my words, i could not tell; but he opened his eyes with a reproachful glazed stare; and that was the last i saw of him. knowing grant would have difficulty in obtaining carriers for governor semple, and only too anxious to gain access to fort douglas, i ran with haste towards the recumbent form of the fallen leader. grant was at some distance scouring the field for reliable men, and while i was yet twenty or thirty yards away an indian glided up. "dog!" he hissed in the prostrate man's face. "you have caused all this! you shall not live! dog that you are!" then something caught my feet. i stumbled and fell. there was the flare of a pistol shot in governor semple's face and a slight cry. the next moment i was by his side. the shot had taken effect in the breast. the body was yet hot with life; but there was neither breath, nor heart beat. a few of the hudson's bay band gained hiding in the shrubbery and escaped by swimming across to the east bank of the red, but the remnant tried to reach the fort across the plain. calling me, grant, now utterly distracted, directed his efforts to this quarter. i with difficulty captured my horse and galloped off to join the warden. our riders were circling round something not far from the fort walls and grant was tearing over the prairie, commanding them to retire. it seems, when governor semple discovered the strength of our forces, he sent some of his men back to fort douglas for a field-piece. poor semple with his european ideas of indian warfare! the _bois-brulés_ did not wait for that field-piece. the messengers had trundled it out only a short distance from the gateway, when they met the fugitives flying back with news of the massacre. under protection of the cannon, the men made a plucky retreat to the fort, though the _bois-brulés_ harassed them to the very walls. this disappearance--or rather extermination--of the enemy, as well as the presence of the field-gun, which was a new terror to the indians, gave grant his opportunity. he at once rounded the men up and led them off to frog plains, on the other side of the swamp. here we encamped for the night, and were subsequently joined by the first division of _bois-brulés_. chapter xxiii the iroquois plays his last card the _bois-brulés_ and indian marauders, who gathered to our camp, were drunk with the most intoxicating of all stimulants--human blood. this flush of victory excited the redskins' vanity to a boastful frenzy. there was wild talk of wiping the pale-face out of existence; and if a weaker man than grant had been at the head of the forces, not a white in the settlement would have escaped massacre. in spite of the bitterness to which the slaughter at seven oaks gave rise, i think all fair-minded people have acknowledged that the settlers owed their lives to the warden's efforts. that night pandemonium itself could not have presented a more hideous scene than our encampment. the lust of blood is abhorrent enough in civilized races, but in indian tribes, whose unrestrained, hard life abnormally develops the instincts of the tiger, it is a thing that may not be portrayed. let us not, with the depreciatory hypocrisy, characteristic of our age, befool ourselves into any belief that barbaric practices were more humane than customs which are the flower of civilized centuries. let us be truthful. scientific cruelty may do its worst with intricate armaments; but the blood-thirst of the indian assumed the ghastly earnest of victors drinking the warm life-blood of dying enemies and of torturers laving hands in a stream yet hot from pulsing hearts. decked out in red-stained trophies with scalps dangling from their waists, the natives darted about like blood-whetted beasts; and the half-breeds were little better, except that they thirsted more for booty than life. there was loud vaunting over the triumph, the ignorant rabble imagining their warriors heroes of a great battle, instead of the murderous plunderers they were. pierre, the rhymester, according to his wont, broke out in jubilant celebration of the half-breeds' feat:[a] ho-ho! list you now to a tale of truth which i, pierre, the rhymester, proudly sing, of the _bois-brulés_, whose deeds dismay the hearts of the soldiers serving the king! swift o'er the plain rode our warriors brave to meet the gay voyageurs come from the sea. out came the bold band that had pillaged our land, and we taught them the plain is the home of the free. we were passing along to the landing-place, three hostile whites we bound on the trail. the enemy came with a shout of acclaim, we flung back their taunts with the shriek of a gale. "they have come to attack us," our people cry. our cohorts spread out in a crescent horn, their path we bar in a steel scimitar, and their empty threats we flout with scorn. they halt in the face of a dauntless foe, they spit out their venom of baffled rage! honor, our breath to the very death! so we proffer them peace, or a battle-gage. the governor shouts to his soldiers, "draw!" 'tis the enemy strikes the first, fateful blow! our men break from line, for the battle-wine of a fighting race has a fiery glow. the governor thought himself mighty in power. the shock of his strength--ha-ha!--should be known from the land of the sea to the prairie free and all free men should be overthrown![b] but naked and dead on the plain lies he, where the carrion hawk, and the sly coyote greedily feast on the great and the least, without respect for a lord of note. the governor thought himself mighty in power. he thought to enslave the _bois-brulés_, "ha-ha," laughed the hawk. ho-ho! let him mock. "plain rangers ride forth to slay, to slay." whose cry outpierces the night-bird's note? whose voice mourns sadly through sighing trees? what spirits wail to the prairie gale? who tells his woes to the evening breeze? ha-ha! we know, though we tell it not. we fought with them till none remained. the coyote knew, and his hungry crew licked clean the grass where the turf was stained. ho-ho! list you all to my tale of truth. 'tis i, pierre, the rhymester, this glory tell of freedom saved and brave hands laved in the blood of tyrants who fought and fell! the whole scene was repugnant beyond endurance. my ears were so filled with the death cries heard in the afternoon, i had no relish for pierre's crude recital of what seemed to him a glorious conquest. i could not rid my mind of that dying boy's sad face. many half-breeds were preparing to pillage the settlement. intending to protect the sutherland home and seek the dead lad's body, i borrowed a fresh horse and left the tumult of the camp. i made a detour of the battle-field in order to reach the sutherland homestead before night. i might have saved myself the trouble; for every movable object--to the doors and window sashes--had been taken from the little house, whether by father and daughter before going to the fort, or by the marauders, i did not know. it was unsafe to return by the wooded river trail after dark and i struck directly to the clearing and followed the path parallel to the bush. when i reached seven oaks, i was first apprised of my whereabouts by my horse pricking forward his ears and sniffing the air uncannily. i tightened rein and touched him with the spur, but he snorted and jumped sideways with a suddenness that almost unseated me, then came to a stand, shaking as if with chill. something skulked across the trail and gained cover in the woods. with a reassuring pat, i urged my horse back towards the road, for the prairie was pitted with badger and gopher holes; but the beast reared, baulked and absolutely refused to be either driven, or coaxed. "wise when men are fools!" said i, dismounting. bringing the reins over his head, i tried to pull him forward; but he planted all fours and jerked back, almost dragging me off my feet. "are you possessed?" i exclaimed, for if ever horror were plainly expressed by an animal, it was by that horse. legs rigid, head bent down, eyes starting forward and nostrils blowing in and out, he was a picture of terror. something wriggled in the thicket. the horse rose on his hind legs, wrenched the rein from my hand and scampered across the plain. i sent a shot into the bush. there was a snarl and a scurrying through the underbrush. "pretty bold wolf! never saw a broncho act that way over a coyote before!" i might as well find the body of the english lad before trying to catch my horse, so i walked on. suddenly, in the silver-white of a starry sky, i saw what had terrified the animal. close to the shrubbery lay the stark form of a white man, knees drawn upwards and arms spread out like the bars of a cross. was that the lad i had known? i rushed towards the corpse--but as quickly turned away. from downright lack of courage, i could not look at it; for the body was mutilated beyond semblance to humanity. would that i had strength and skill to paint that dead figure as it was! then would those, who glory in the shedding of blood, glory to their shame; and the pageant of war be stripped of all its false toggery revealing carnage and slaughter in their revolting nakedness. i could not look back to know if that were the lad, but ran aimlessly towards the scene of the seven oaks fray. as i approached, there was a great flapping of wings. up rose buzzards, scolding in angry discord at my interruption. a pack of wolves skulked a few feet off and eyed me impatiently, boldly waiting to return when i left. the impudence of the brutes enraged me and i let go half a dozen charges, which sent them to a more respectful distance. here were more bodies like the first. i counted eight within a stone's throw, and there were twice as many between seven oaks and the fort. where they lay, i could tell very well; for hawks wheeled with harsh cries overhead and there was a vague movement of wolfish shapes along the ground. what possessed me to hover about that dreadful scene, i cannot imagine, unless the fear of those creatures returning; but i did not carry a thing with which i could bury the dead. involuntarily, i sought out rogers and governor semple; for i had seen the death of each. it was when seeking these, that i thought i distinguished the faintest motion of one figure still clothed and lying apart from the others. the sight riveted me to the spot. surely it was a mistake! the form could not have moved! it must have been some error of vision, or trick of the shadowy starlight; but i could not take my eyes from the prostrate form. again the body moved--distinctly moved--beyond possibility of fancy, the chest heaving up and sinking like a man struggling but unable to rise. with the ghastly dead and the ravening wolves all about, the movement of that wounded man was strangely terrifying and my knees knocked with fear, as i ran to his aid. the man was an indian, but his face i could not see; for one hand staunched a wound in his head and the other gripped a knife with which he had been defending himself. my first thought was that he must be a nor'-wester, or his body would not have escaped the common fate; but if a nor'-wester, why had he been left on the field? so i concluded he was one of the camp-followers, who had joined our forces for plunder and come to a merited end. still he was a man; and i stooped to examine him with a view to getting him on my horse and taking him back to the camp. at first he was unconscious of my presence. gently i tried to remove the left hand from his forehead, but at the touch, out struck the right hand in vicious thrusts of the hunting-knife, one blind cut barely missing my arm. "hold, man!" i cried, "i'm no foe, but a friend!" and i caught the right arm tightly. at the sound of my voice, the left hand swung out revealing a frightful gash; and the next thing i knew, his left arm had encircled my neck like the coil of a strangler, five fingers were digging into the flesh of my throat and le grand diable was making frantic efforts to free his right hand and plunge that dagger into me. the shock of the discovery threw me off guard, and for a moment there was a struggle, but only for a moment. then the wounded man fell back, writhing in pain, his face contorted with agony and hate. i do not think he could see me. he must have been blind from that wound. i stood back, but his knife still cut the air. "le grand diable! fool!" i said, "i will not harm you! i give you the white man's word, i will not hurt you!" the right arm fell limp and still. had i, by some strange irony, been led to this spot that i might witness the death of my foe? was this the end of that long career of evil? "le grand diable!" i cried, going a pace nearer, which seemed to bring back the ebbing life. "le grand diable! you cannot stay here among the wolves. tell me whereto find miriam and i'll take you back to the camp! tell me and no one shall harm you! i will save you!" the thin lips moved. he was saying, or trying to say, something. "speak louder!" and i bent over him. "speak the truth and i take you to the camp!" the lips were still moving, but i could not hear a sound. "speak louder!" i shouted. "where is miriam? where is the white woman?" i put my ear to his lips, fearful that life might slip away before i could hear. there was a snarl through the glistening set teeth. the prostrate body gave an upward lurch. with one swift, treacherous thrust, he drove his knife into my coat-sleeve, grazing my forearm. the effort cost him his life. he sank down with a groan. the sightless, bloodshot eyes opened. le grand diable would never more feign death. i jerked the knife from my coat, hurled it from me, sprang up and fled from the field as if it had been infected with a pest, or i pursued by gends. never looking back and with superstitious dread of the dead indian's evil spirit, i tore on and on till, breath-spent and exhausted, i threw myself down with the north-west camp-fires in sight. footnotes: [a] it should scarcely be necessary for the author to state that these are the sentiments of the indian poet expressing the views of the savage towards the white man, and not the white man towards the savage. the poem is as close a translation of the original ballad sung by pierre in metis dialect the night of the massacre, as could be given. the indian nature is more in harmony with the hawk and the coyote than with the white man; hence the references. other thoughts embodied in this crude lay are taken directly from the refrains of the trappers chanted at that time. [b] governor semple unadvisedly boasted that the shock of his power would be felt from montreal to athabasca. chapter xxiv fort douglas changes masters i suppose there are times in the life of every one, even the strongest--and i am not that--when a feather's weight added to a burden may snap power of endurance. i had reached that stage before encountering le grand diable on the field of massacre at seven oaks. with the events in the mandane country, the long, hard ride northward and this latest terrible culmination of strife between nor'-westers and hudson's bay, the past month had been altogether too hard packed for my well-being. the madness of northern traders no longer amazed me. an old nurse of my young days, whom i remember chiefly by her ramrod back and sharp tongue, used to say, "nerves! nerves! nothing but nerves!" she thanked god she was born before the doctors had discovered nerves. though neurotic theories had not been sufficiently elaborated for me to ascribe my state to the most refined of modern ills--nervous prostration--i was aware, as i dragged over the prairie with the horse at the end of a trailing bridle rein, that something was seriously out of tune. it was daylight before i caught the frightened broncho and no knock-kneed coward ever shook more, as i vainly tried to vault into the saddle, and after a dozen false plunges at the stirrup, gave up the attempt and footed it back to camp. there was a daze between my eyes, which the over-weary know well, and in the brain-whirl, i could distinguish only two thoughts, where was miriam--and father holland's prediction--"benedicite! the lord shall be your avenger! he shall deliver that evil one into the power of the punisher." thus, i reached the camp, picketed the horse, threw myself down in the tent and slept without a break from the morning of the th till mid-day of the st. i was awakened by the _bois-brulés_ returning from a demonstration before the gateway of fort douglas. going to the tent door, i saw that pritchard, one of the captive hudson's bay men, had been brought back from a conference with the enemy. from his account, the hudson's bay people seemed to be holding out against us; but the settlers, realizing the danger of indian warfare, to a man favored surrender. had it not been for grant, there would have been no farther parley; but on news that settlers were pressing for capitulation, the warden again despatched pritchard to the hudson's bay post. in the hope of gaining access to frances sutherland and eric hamilton i accompanied him. such was the terror prevailing within the walls, in spite of pritchard's assurance regarding my friendly purpose, admission was flatly denied me. i contented myself with verbal messages that hamilton and father holland must remain. i could guarantee their safety. the same offer i made to frances, but told her to do what was best for herself and her father. when pritchard came out, i knew from his face that fort douglas was ours. hamilton and father holland would stay, he reported; but mistress sutherland bade him say that after seven oaks her father had no friendly feeling for nor'-westers, and she could not let him go forth alone. terms were stipulated between the two companies with due advantage to our side from the recent victory and the formal surrender of fort douglas took place the following day. "what are you going to do with the settlers, cuthbert?" i asked of the warden before the capitulation. "aye! that's a question," was the grim response. "why not leave them in the fort till things quiet down?" "with all the indians of red river in possession of that fort?" asked grant, sarcastically. "were a few nor'-westers so successful in holding back the metis at seven oaks, you'd like to see that experiment repeated?" "'twill be worse, grant, if you let them go back to their farms." "they'll not do that, if i'm warden of the plains," he declared with great determination. "we'll have to send them down the red to the lake till that fool of a scotch nobleman decides what to do with his fine colonists." "but, grant, you don't mean to send them up north in this cold country. they may not reach hudson's bay in time to catch the company ship to scotland! why, man, it's sheer murder to expose those people to a winter up there without a thing to shelter them!" "to my mind, freezing is not quite so bad as a massacre. if they won't take our boats to the states, or canada, what else can nor'-westers do?" and what else, indeed? i could not answer grant's question, though i know every effort we made to induce those people to go south instead of north has been misrepresented as an infamous attempt to expel selkirk settlers from red river. truly, i hope i may never see a sadder sight than the going forth of those colonists to the shelterless plain. it was disastrous enough for them to be driven from their native heath; but to be lured away to this far country for the purpose of becoming buffers between rival fur-traders, who would stop at nothing, and to be sacrificed as victims for their company's criminal policy--i speak as a nor'-wester--was immeasurably cruel. grant was, of course, on hand for the surrender, and he wisely kept the plain-rangers at a safe distance. clerks lined each side of the path to the gate, and i pressed forward for a glimpse of frances sutherland. there was the jar of a heavy bolt shot back. confused noises sounded from the courtyard. the gates swung open, and out marched the sheriff of assiniboia, bearing in one hand a pole with a white sheet tacked to the end for a flag of truce, and in the other the fort keys. behind, sullen and dejected, followed a band of hudson's bay men. grant stepped up to meet the sheriff. the terms of capitulation were again stated, and there was some signing of paper. of those things my recollection is indistinct; for i was straining my eyes towards the groups of settlers inside the walls. when i looked back to the conferring leaders the silence was so intense a pinfall could have been heard. the keys of the fort were being handed to the nor'-westers and the hudson's bay men had turned away their faces that they might not see. the vanquished then passed quickly to the barges at the river. each of the six drunken fellows, whom i had last seen in the late governor semple's office, the highlanders who had spied upon me when i visited fort douglas but a year before, the clerks whom i had heard talking that night in the great hall, and many others with whom i had but a chance acquaintance, filed down to the river. seeing all ready, with a north-west clerk at the prow of each boat to warn away marauders, the men came back for settlers and wounded comrades. i would have proffered my assistance to some of the burdened people on the chance of a word with frances sutherland, but the colonists proudly resented any kind offices from a nor'-wester. i saw louis laplante come limping out, leaning on the arm of the red-faced man, whose eye quailed when it met mine. poor louis looked sadly battered, with his head in a white bandage, one arm in a sling, and a dejected stoop to his shoulders that was unusual with him. "this is too bad, louis," said i, hurrying forward. "i forgot to send word about you. you might as well have stayed in the fort till your wounds healed. won't you come back?" louis stole a furtive, sheepish glance at me, hung his head and looked away with a suspicion of moisture about his eyes. "you always were a brute to fight at laval! i might trick you at first, but you always ended by giving me the throw," he answered disconsolately. "nonsense, louis." i was astounded at the note of reproach in his voice. "we're even now--let by-gones be by-gones! you helped me, i helped you. you trapped me into the fort, i tricked you into breaking a mirror and laying up a peck of trouble for yourself. surely you don't treasure any grudge yet?" he shook his head without looking at me. "i don't understand. let us begin over again. come, forget old scores, come back to the fort till you're well." "pah!" said louis with a sudden, strange impatience which i could not fathom. "you understand some day and turn upon me and strike and give me more throw." "all right, comrade, treasure your wrath! only i thought two men, who had saved each other's lives, might be friends and bury old quarrels." "you not know," he blurted out in a broken voice. "not know what?" i asked impatiently. "i tell you i forgive all and i had thought you might do as much----" "do as much!" he interrupted fiercely. "_o mon dieu!_" he cried, with a sob that shook his frame. "take me away! take me away!" he begged the man on whose arm he was leaning; and with those enigmatical words he passed to the nearest boat. while i was yet gazing in mute amazement after louis laplante, wondering whether his strange emotion were revenge, or remorse, the women and children marched forth with the men protecting each side. the empty threats of half-breeds to butcher every settler in red river had evidently reached the ears of the women. some trembled so they could scarcely walk and others stared at us with the reproach of murder in their eyes, gazing in horror at our guilty hands. at last i caught sight of frances sutherland. she was well to the rear of the sad procession, leaning on the arm of a tall, sturdy, erect man whom i recognized as her father. i would have forced my way to her side at once, but a swift glance forbade me. a gleam of love flashed to the gray eyes for an instant, then father and daughter had passed. "little did i think," the harsh, rasping voice of the father was saying, "that daughter of mine would give her heart to a murderer. which of these cut-throats may i claim for a son?" "hush, father," she whispered. "remember he warned us to the fort and took me to pembina." she was as pale as death. "aye! aye! we're under obligations to strange benefactors when times go awry!" he returned bitterly. "o father! don't! you'll think differently when you know----" but a hulking lout stumbled between us, and i missed the rest. they were at the boats and an old highlander was causing a blockade by his inability to lift a great bale into the barge. "let me give you a lift," said i, stepping forward and taking hold of the thing. "friend, or foe?" asked the scot, before he would accept my aid. "friend, of course," and i braced myself to give the package a hoist. "hudson's bay, or nor'-wester?" pursued the settler, determined to take no help from the hated enemy. "nor'-wester, but what does that matter? a friend all the same! yo heave! up with it!" "neffer!" roared the man in a towering passion, and he gave me a push that sent me knocking into the crowd on the landing. involuntarily, i threw out my arm to save a fall and caught a woman's outstretched hand. it was frances sutherland's and i thrilled with the message she could not speak. "i beg your pardon, mistress sutherland," said i, as soon as i could find speech, and i stepped back tingling with embarrassment and delight. "a civil-tongued young man, indeed," remarked the father, sarcastically, with a severe scrutiny of my retreating person. "a civil-tongued young man to know your name so readily, frances! pray, who is he?" "oh! some nor'-wester," answered frances, the white cheeks blushing red, and she stepped quickly forward to the gang-plank. "some nor'-wester, i suppose!" she repeated unconcernedly, but the flush had suffused her neck and was not unnoticed by the father's keen eyes. then they seated themselves at the prow beside the nor'-wester appointed to accompany the boat; and i saw that louis laplante was sitting directly opposite frances sutherland, with his eyes fixed on her face in a bold gaze, that instantly quenched any kindness i may have felt towards him. how i regretted my thoughtlessness in not having forestalled myself in the sutherlands' barge. the next best thing was to go along with grant, who was preparing to ride on the river bank and escort the company beyond all danger. "you coming too?" asked grant sharply, as i joined him. "if you don't mind." "think two are necessary?" "not when one of the two is grant," i answered, which pleased him, "but as my heart goes down the lake with those barges----" "hut-tutt--man," interrupted grant. "war's bad enough without love; but come if you like." as the boats sheered off from the wharf, grant and i rode along the river trail. i saw frances looking after me with surprise, and i think she must have known my purpose, though she did not respond when i signalled to her. "stop that!" commanded grant peremptorily. "you did that very slyly, rufus, but if they see you, there'll be all sorts of suspicion about collusion." the river path ran into the bush, winding in and out of woods, so we caught only occasional glimpses of the boats; but i fancied her eyes were ever towards the bank where we rode, and i could distinctly see that the frenchman's face was buried in his arms above one of the squarish packets opposite the sutherlands. "is it the same lass," asked grant, after we had been riding for more than an hour, "is it the same lass that was disguised as an indian girl at fort gibraltar?" his question astonished me. i thought her disguise too complete even for his sharp penetration; but i was learning that nothing escaped the warden's notice. indeed, i have found it not unusual for young people at a certain stage of their careers to imagine all the rest of the world blind. "the same," i answered, wondering much. "you took her back to fort douglas. did you hear anything special in the fort that night?" "nothing but that mcdonell was likely to surrender. how did you know i was there?" "spies," he answered laconically. "the old _voyageurs_ don't change masters often for nothing. if you hadn't been stuck off in the mandane country, you'd have learned a bit of our methods. her father used to favor the nor'-westers. what has changed him?" "seven oaks changed him," i returned tersely. "aye! aye! that was terrible," and his face darkened. "terrible! terrible! it will change many," and the rest of his talk was full of gloomy portents and forebodings of blame likely to fall upon him for the massacre; but i think history has cleared and justified grant's part in that awful work. suddenly he turned to me. "there's pleasure in this ride for you. there's none for me. will ye follow the boats alone and see that no harm comes to them?" "certainly," said i, and the warden wheeled his horse and galloped back towards fort douglas. for an hour after he left, the trail was among the woods, and when i finally reached a clearing and could see the boats, there was cause enough for regret that the warden had gone. a great outcry came from the sutherlands' boat and louis laplante was on his feet gesticulating excitedly and talking in loud tones to the rowers. "hullo, there!" i shouted, riding to the very water's edge and flourishing my pistol. "stop your nonsense, there! what's wrong?" "there's a french papist demands to have speech wi' ye," called mr. sutherland. "bring him ashore," i returned. the boat headed about and approached the bank. then the rowers ceased pulling; for the water was shallow, and we were within speaking distance. "now, louis, what do you mean by this nonsense?" i began. in answer, the frenchman leaped out of the boat and waded ashore. "let them go on," he said, scrambling up the cliff in a staggering, faint fashion. "if you meant to stay at the fort, why didn't you decide sooner?" i demanded roughly. "i didn't." this doggedly and with downcast eyes. "then you go down the lake with the rest and no skulking!" "gillespie," answered louis in a low tone, "there's strength of an ox in you, but not the wit. let them go on! simpleton, i tell you of miriam." his words recalled the real reason of my presence in the north country; for my quest had indeed been eclipsed by the fearful events of the past week. i signalled the rowers to go without him, waved a last farewell to frances sutherland, and turned to see louis laplante throw himself on the grass and cry like a schoolboy. dismounting i knelt beside him. "cheer up, old boy," said i, with the usual vacuity of thought and stupidity of expression at such times. "cheer up! seven oaks has knocked you out. i knew you shouldn't make this trip till you were strong again. why, man, you have enough cuts to undo the pluck of a giant-killer!" louis was not paying the slightest attention to me. he was mumbling to himself and i wondered if he were in a fever. "the priest, the irish priest in the fort, he say to me: 'wicked fellow, you be tortured forever and ever in the furnace, if you not undo what you did in the gorge!' what care louis laplante for the fire? pah! what care louis for wounds and cuts and threats? pah! the fire not half so hot as the hell inside! the cuts not half so sharp as the thinks that prick and sting and lash from morn'g to night, night to morn'g! pah! something inside say: 'louis laplante, son of a seigneur, a dog! a cur! toad! reptile!' then i try stand up straight and give the lie, but it say: 'pah! louis laplante!' the irish priest, he say, 'you repent!' what care louis for repents? pah! but her eyes, they look and look and look like two steel-gray stars! sometime they caress and he want to pray! sometime they stab and he shiver; but they always shine like stars of heaven and the priest, he say, 'you be shut out of heaven!' if the angel all have stars, steel glittering stars, for eyes, heaven worth for trying! the priest, he say, 'you go to abode of torture!' torture! pah! more torture than 'nough here. angels with stars in their heads, more better. but the stars stab through--through--through----" "bother the stars," said i to myself. "what of miriam?" i asked, interrupting his penitential confidences. his references to steel-gray eyes and stars and angels somehow put me in no good mood, for a reason with which most men, but few women, will sympathize. "stupid ox!" he spat out the words with unspeakable impatience at my obtuseness. "what of miriam! why the priest and the starry eyes and the something inside, they all say, 'go and get miriam! where's the white woman? you lied! you let her go! get her--get her--get her!' what of miriam? pah!" after that angry outburst, the fountains of his sorrow seemed to dry up and he became more the old, nonchalant louis whom i knew. "where is miriam?" i asked. he ignored my question and went on reasoning with himself. "no more peace--no more quiet--no more sing and rollick till he get miriam!" was the fellow really delirious? the boats were disappearing from view. i could wait no longer. "louis," said i, "if you have anything to say, say it quick! i can't wait longer." "you know i lie to you in the gorge?" and he looked straight at me. "certainly," i answered, "and i punished you pretty well for it twice." "you know what that lie mean"--and he hesitated--"mean to her--to miriam?" "yes, louis, i know." "and you forgive all? call all even?" "as far as i'm concerned--yes--louis! god almighty alone can forgive the suffering you have caused her." then louis laplante leaped up and, catching my hand, looked long and steadily into my eyes. "i go and find her," he muttered in a low, tense voice. "i follow their trail--i keep her from suffer--i bring them all back--back here in the bush on this river--i bring her back, or i kill louis laplante!" "old comrade--you were always generous," i began; but the words choked in my throat. "i know not where they are, but i find them! i know not how soon--perhaps a year--but i bring them back! go on with the boats," and he dropped my hand. "i can't leave you here," i protested. "you come back this way," he said. "may be you find me." poor louis! his tongue tripped in its old evasive ways even at the moment of his penitence, which goes to prove--i suppose--that we are all the sum total of the thing called habit, that even spontaneous acts are evidences of the summed result of past years. i did not expect to find him when i came back, and i did not. he had vanished into the woods like the wild creature that he was; but i was placing a strange, reasonless reliance on his promise to find miriam. when i caught up with the boats, the river was widening so that attack would be impossible, and i did not ride far. heading my horse about, i spurred back to fort douglas. passing seven oaks, i saw some of the hudson's bay men, who had remained burying the dead--not removing them. that was impossible after the wolves and three days of a blistering sun. i told hamilton of neither le grand diable's death, nor louis laplante's promise. he had suffered disappointments enough and could ill stand any sort of excitement. i found him walking about in the up-stairs hall, but his own grief had deadened him to the fortunes of the warring companies. "confound you, boy! tell me the truth!" said father holland to me afterwards in the courtyard. le grand diable's death and louis laplante's promise seemed to make a great impression on the priest. "i tell you the lord delivered that evil one into the hands of the punisher; and of the innocent, the lord, himself, is the defender. await his purpose! await his time!" "mighty long time," said i, with the bitter impatience of youth. "quiet, youngster! i tell you she shall be delivered!" * * * * * at last the nor-westers' fort william brigade with its sixty men and numerous well-loaded canoes--whose cargoes had been the bone of contention between hudson's bay and nor'-westers at seven oaks--arrived at fort douglas. the newcomers were surprised to find us in possession of the enemy's fort. the last news they had heard was of wanton and successful aggression on the part of lord selkirk's company; and i think the extra crews sent north were quite as much for purposes of defence as swift travel. but the gravity of affairs startled the men from fort william; for they, themselves, had astounding news. lord selkirk was on his way north with munitions of war and an army of mercenaries formerly of the de meurons' regiment, numbering two hundred, some said three or four hundred men; but this was an exaggeration. for what was he coming to red river in this warlike fashion? his purpose would probably show itself. also, if his intent were hostile, would not seven oaks massacre afford him the very pretence he wanted for chastising nor'-westers out of the country? the canoemen had met the ejected settlers bound up the lake; and with them, whom did they see but the bellicose captain miles mcdonell, given free passage but a year before to montreal and now on "the prosperous return," which he, himself, had prophesied? the settlers' news of seven oaks sent the brave captain hurrying southward to inform lord selkirk of the massacre. we had had a victory; but how long would it last? truly the sky was darkening and few of us felt hopeful about the bursting of the storm. chapter xxv his lordship to the rescue even at the hour of our triumph, we nor'-westers knew that we had yet to reckon with lord selkirk; and a speedy reckoning the indomitable nobleman brought about. the massacre at seven oaks afforded our rivals the very pretext they desired. clothed with the authority of an officer of the law, lord selkirk hurried northward; and a personage of his importance could not venture into the wilderness without a strong body-guard. at least, that was the excuse given for the retinue of two or three hundred mercenaries decked out in all the regimentals of war, whom lord selkirk brought with him to the north. a more rascally, daring crew of ragamuffins could not have been found to defend selkirk's side of the gentlemen adventurers' feud. the men were the offscourings of european armies engaged in the napoleonic wars, and came directly from the old de meurons' regiment. the information which the fort william brigade brought of selkirk's approach, also explained why that same brigade hastened back to the defence of nor'-west quarters on lake superior; and their help was needed. news of events at fort william came to us in the red river department tardily. first, there was a vague rumor among the indian _voyageurs_, who were ever gliding back and forward on the labyrinthine waters of that north land like the birds of passage overhead. then came definite reports from freemen who had been expelled from fort william; and we could no longer doubt that nor'-west headquarters, with all the wealth of furs and provisions therein had fallen into the hands of the hudson's bay forces. afterwards came warning from our _bourgeois_, driven out of fort william, for fort douglas to be prepared. lord selkirk would only rest long enough at fort william to take possession of everything worth possessing, in the name of the law--for was he not a justice of the peace?--and in the name of the law would he move with like intent against fort douglas. to the earl's credit, be it said, that his victories were bloodless; but they were bloodless because the nor'-westers had no mind to unleash those redskin bloodhounds a second time, preferring to suffer loss rather than resort to violence. nevertheless, we called in every available hand of the nor'-west staff to man fort douglas against attack. but summer dragged into autumn and autumn into winter, and no lord selkirk. then we began to think ourselves secure; for the streams were frozen to a depth of four feet like adamant, and unless selkirk were a madman, he would not attempt to bring his soldiers north by dog-train during the bitter cold of mid-winter. but 'tis ever the policy of the astute madman to discount the enemy's calculations; and selkirk utterly discounted ours by sending his hardy, dare-devil de meurons across country under the leadership of that prince of braggarts, captain d'orsonnens. indeed, we had only heard the rumor of their coming, when we awakened one morning after an obscure, stormy night to find them encamped at st. james, westward on the assiniboine river. day after day the menacing force remained quiet and inoffensive, and we began to look upon these notorious ruffians as harmless. for our part, vigilance was not lacking. sentinels were posted in the towers day and night. nor'-west spies shadowed every movement of the enemy; and it was seriously considered whether we should not open communication with d'orsonnens to ascertain what he wanted; but, truth to say, we knew very well what he wanted, and had had such a surfeit of blood, we were not anxious to re-open hostilities. as for hamilton, i can hardly call his life at fort douglas anything more than a mere existence. a blow stuns, but one may recover. repeated failure gradually benumbs hope and willpower and effort, like some ghoulish vampire sucking away a man's life-blood till he faint and die from very inanition. the blow, poor eric had suffered, when he lost miriam; the repeated failure, when we could not restore her; and i saw this strong, athletic man slowly succumb as to some insidious, paralyzing disease. the thought of effort seemed to burden him. he would silently mope by the hour in some dark corner of fort douglas, or wander aimlessly about the courtyard, muttering and talking to himself. he was weary and fatigued without a stroke of work; and what little sleep he snatched from wakeful vigils seemed to give him no rest. his food, he thrust from him with the petulance of a child; and at every suggestion i could make, he sneered with a quiet, gentle insistence that was utterly discomfiting. to be sure, i had father holland's boisterous good cheer as a counter-irritant; for the priest had remained at fort douglas, and was ministering to the tribes of the red and assiniboine. but it was on her, who had been my guiding star and hope and inspiration from the first, that i mainly depended. as hard, merciless winter closed in, i could not think of those shelterless colonists driven to the lake, without shuddering at the distress i knew they must suffer; and i despatched a runner, urging them to return to red river, and giving personal guarantee for their safety. among those, who came back, were the sutherlands; and if my quest had entailed far greater hardship than it did, that quiet interval with leisure to spend much time at the selkirk settlement would have repaid all suffering. after sundown, i was free from fort duties. tying on snow-shoes after the manner of the natives, i would speed over the whitened drifts of billowy snow. the surface, melted by the sun-glare of mid-day and encrusted with brittle, glistening ice, never gave under my weight; and, oddly enough, my way always led to the sutherland homestead. after the coming of the de meurons, frances used to expostulate against what she called my foolhardiness in making these evening visits; but their presence made no difference to me. "i don't believe those drones intend doing anything very dreadful, after all, sir," i remarked one night to frances sutherland's father, referring to the soldiers. following his daughter's directions i had been coming very early, also very often, with the object of accustoming the dour scotchman to my staying late; and he had softened enough towards me to take part in occasional argument. "don't believe they intend doing a thing, sir," i reiterated. pushing his spectacles up on his forehead, he closed the book of sermons, which he had been reading, and puckered his brows as if he were compromising a hard point with conscience, which, indeed, i afterwards knew, was exactly what he had been doing. "aye," said he, "aye, aye, young man. but i'm thinking ye'll no do y'r company ony harm by speerin' after the designs o' fightin' men who make ladders." "oh!" i cried, all alert for information. "have they been making ladders?" he pulled the spectacles down on his nose and deliberately reopened the book of sermons. "of that, i canna say," he replied. only once again did he emerge from his readings. i had risen to go. frances usually accompanied me to the outer door, where i tied my snow-shoes and took a farewell unobserved by the father; but when i opened the door, such a blast of wind and snow drove in, i instantly clapped it shut again and began tying the racquets on inside. "o rufus!" exclaimed frances, "you can't go back to fort douglas in that storm!" then we both noticed for the first time that a hurricane of wind was rocking the little house to its foundations. "did that spring up all of a sudden?" i cried. "i never saw a blizzard do that before." "i'm afraid, rufus, we were not noticing." "no, we were otherwise interested," said i, innocently enough; but she laughed. "you can't go," she declared. "the wind will be on my back," i assured her. "i'll be all right," and i went on lacing the snow-shoe thongs about my ankle. the book of sermons shut with a snap and the father turned towards us. "let no one say any man left the sutherland hearth on such a night! put by those senseless things," and he pointed to the snow-shoes. "but those ladders," i interposed. "let no one say when the enemy came rufus gillespie was absent from his citadel!" the wind roared round the house corners like a storm at sea; and the father looked down at me with a strange, quizzical expression. "ye're a headstrong young man, rufus gillespie," said the hard-set mouth. "ye maun knock a hole in the head, or the wall! will ye go?" "knock the hole in the wall," i laughed back. "of course i go." "then, tak' the dogs," said he, with a sparkle of kindliness in the cold eyes. so it came that i set out in the sutherlands' dog-sled with a supply of robes to defy biting frost. and i needed them every one. old settlers, describing winter storms, have been accused of an imagination as expansive as the prairie; but i affirm no man could exaggerate the fury of a blizzard on the unbroken prairie. to one thing only may it be likened--a hurricane at sea. people in lands boxed off at short compass by mountain ridges forget with what violence a wind sweeping half a continent can disport itself. in the boisterous roar of the gale, my shouts to the dogs were a feeble whisper caught from my lips and lost in the shrieking wind. the fine snowy particles were a powdered ice that drove through seams of clothing and cut one's skin like a whip lash. without the fringe of woods along the river bank to guide me, it would have been madness to set out by day, and worse than madness by night; but i kept the dogs close to the woods. the trees broke the wind and prevented me losing all sense of direction in the tornado whirl of open prairie. not enough snow had fallen on the hard-crusted drifts to impede the dogs. they scarcely sank and with the wind on their backs dashed ahead till the woods were passed and we were on the bare plains. no light could be seen through the storm, but i knew i was within a short distance of the fort gate and wheeled the dogs toward the river flats of the left. the creatures seemed to scent human presence. they leaped forward and brought the sleigh against the wall with a knock that rolled me out. "good fellows;" i cried, springing up, uncertain where i was. the huskies crouched around my feet almost tripping me and i felt through the snowy darkness against the stockades, stake by stake. ah! there was a post! here were close-fitted boards--here, iron-lining--this must be the gate; but where was the lantern that hung behind? a gust of wind might have extinguished the light; so i drubbed loudly on the gate and shouted to the sentry, who should have been inside. the wind lulled for a moment and up burst wild shouting from the courtyard intermingled with the jeers of frenchmen and cries of terror from our people. then i knew judgment had come for the deeds at seven oaks. the gale broke again with a hissing of serpents, or red irons, and the howling wind rose in shrill, angry bursts. hugging the wall, while the dogs whined behind, i ran towards the rear. men jostled through the snowy dark, and i was among the de meurons. they were too busy scaling the stockade on the ladders of which i had heard to notice an intruder. taking advantage of the storm, i mounted a ladder, vaulted over the pickets and alighted in the courtyard. here all was noise, flight, pursuit and confusion. i made for the main hall, where valuable papers were kept, and at the door, cannoned against one of our men, who shrieked with fright and begged for mercy. "coward!" said i, giving him a cuff. "what has happened?" a flare fell on us both, and he recognized me. "the de meurons!" he gasped. "the de meurons!" i left him bawling out his fear and rushed inside. "what has happened?" i asked, tripping up a clerk who was flying through the hallway. "the de meurons!" he gasped. "the de meurons!" "stop!" i commanded, grasping the lap of his coat. "what--_has_--happened?" "the de meurons!" this was fairly screamed. i shook him till he sputtered something more. "they've captured the fort--our people didn't want to shed blood----" "and threw down their guns," i interjected, disgusted beyond word. "threw down their guns," he repeated, as though that were a praiseworthy action. "the s-s-sentinels--saw the court--full--full--full of s-soldiers!" "full of soldiers!" i thundered. "there are not a hundred in the gang." thereupon i gave the caitiff a toss that sent him reeling against the wall, and dashed up-stairs for the papers. all was darkness, and i nigh broke my neck over a coffin-shaped rough box made for one of the trappers, who had died in the fort. why was the thing lying there, anyway? the man should have been put into it and buried at once without any drinking bout and dead wake, i reflected with some sharpness, as i rubbed my bruised shins and shoved the box aside. shouts rang up from the courtyard. heavy feet trampled in the hall below. hamilton, as a hudson's bay man, and father holland, i knew, were perfectly safe. but i was far from safe. why were they not there to help me, i wondered, with the sort of rage we all vent on our friends when we are cornered and they at ease. i fumbled across the apartment, found the right desk, pried the drawer open with my knife, and was in the very act of seizing the documents when i saw my own shadow on the floor. lantern light burst with a glare through the gloom of the doorway. chapter xxvi father holland and i in the toils behind the lantern was a face with terrified eyes and gaping mouth. it was the priest, his genial countenance a very picture of fear. "what's wrong, father?" i asked. "you needn't be alarmed; you're all right." "but i am alarmed, for you're all wrong! lord, boy, why didn't ye stay with that peppery scotchman? what did frances mane by lettin' you out to-night?" and he shaded the light of the lantern with his hand. "i wanted these things," i explained. "ye want a broad thumpin', i'm thinkin', ye rattle-pate, to risk y'r precious noodle here to-night," he whispered, coming forward and fussing about me with all the maternal anxiety of a hen over her only chicken. "listen," said i. "the whole mob's coming in." "go!" he urged, pushing me from the desk over which i still fumbled. "run for those dogs of mercenaries!" i protested. "ye swash-buckler! ye stiff-necked braggart!" bawled the priest. "out wid y'r nonsense, and what good are y' thinkin' ye'll do--? stir your stumps, y' stoopid spalpeen!" "listen," i urged, undisturbed by the tongue-thrashing that stormed about my ears. in the babel of voices i thought i had heard some one call my name. "run, rufus! run for y'r life, boy!" urged father holland, apparently thinking the ruffians had come solely for me. "run yourself, father; run yourself, and see how you like it," and i tucked the documents inside my coat. "divil a bit i'll run," returned the priest. "hark!" the de meurons' leaders were shouting orders to their men. above the screams of people fleeing in terror through passage-ways, came a shrill bugle-call. "go--go--go--rufus!" begged father holland in a paroxysm of fear. "go!" he pleaded, pushing me towards the door. "i won't!" and i jerked away from him. "there, now." i caught up a club and loaded pistol. the nor'-westers had no time to defend themselves. almost before my stubborn defiance was uttered, the building was filled with a mob of intoxicated de meurons. rushing everywhere with fixed bayonets and cursing at the top of their voices, they threatened death to all nor'-westers. there was a loud scuffling of men forcing their way through the defended hall downstairs. "go, rufus, go! think of frances! save yourself," urged the priest. it was too late. i could not escape by the hall. noisy feet were already trampling up the stairs and the clank of armed men filled every passage. "jee-les-pee! jee-les-pee! seven oaks!" bawled a french voice from the half-way landing, and a multitude of men with torches dashed up the stairs. i took a stand to defend myself; for i thought i might be charged with implication in the massacre. "jee-les-pee," roared the voices. "where is gillespie?" thundered a leader. "that's you, rufus, lad! down with you!" muttered the priest. before i knew his purpose, he had tripped my feet from under me and knocked me flat on the floor. overturning the empty coffin-box, he clapped it above my whole length, imprisoning me with the snap and celerity of a mouse-trap. then i heard the thud of two hundred avoirdupois seating itself on top of the case. the man above my person had whisked out a book of prayers, and with lantern on the desk was conning over devotions, which, i am sure, must have been read with the manual upside down; for bits of the _pater noster_, service of the mass, and vesper psalms were uttered in a disconnected jumble, though i could not but apply the words to my own case. "_libera nos a malo--ora pro nobis, peccatoribus--ab hoste maligno defende me--ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me--peccator videbit et irascetur--desiderium peccatorum peribit_----" came from the priest with torrent speed. "jee-les-pee! jee-les-pee!" roared a dozen throats above the half-way landing. then came the stamp of many feet to the door. "wait, men!" hamilton's voice commanded. "i'll see if he's here!" "_simulacra gentium argentum et aurum, opera manuum hominum_," like hailstones rattled the latin words down on my prison. "one moment, men," came eric's voice; but he could not hold them back. in burst the door with a rush, and immediately the room was crowded with vociferating french soldiers. "_manus habent, et non palpabunt; pedes_----" "is gillespie here?" interrupted hamilton, without the slightest recognition of the priest in his tones. "_pedes habent et non ambulabunt; non clamabunt in gutture suo_," muttered the priest, finishing his verse; then to the men with a stiffness which i did not think father holland could ever assume-- "how often must i be disturbed by men seeking that young scoundrel? look at this place, fairly topsy-turvy with their hunt! faith! the room is before you. look and see!" and with a great indifference he went on with his devotions. "_similes illis fiant qui faciunt ea_----" "some one here before us?" interrupted an englishman with some suspicion. "two parties here before ye," answered the priest, icily, as if these repeated questions rumpled ecclesiastical dignity, and he gabbled on with the psalm, "_similes illis fiant qui faciunt ea, et omnes_----" "if we lifted that box," interrupted the persistent englishman, "what might there be?" "if ye lift that box," answered father holland with massive solemnity--and i confess every hair on my body bristled as he rose--"if ye lift that box there might be a powr--dead--body," which was very true; for i still held the cocked pistol in hand and would have shot the first man daring to molest me. but the priest's indifference was not so great as it appeared. i could tell from a tremor in his voice that he was greatly disturbed; and he certainly lost his place altogether in the vesper psalm. "_requiescat in pace_," were his next words, uttered in funereal gravity. singularly enough, they seemed to fit the situation. father holland's prompt offer to have the rough box examined satisfied the searchers, and there were no further demands. "oh," said the englishman, taken aback, "i beg your pardon, sir! no offence meant." "no offence," replied the priest, reseating himself. "_benedicite_----" "sittin' on the coffin!" blurted out the voice of an english youth as the weight of the priest again came down heavily on my prison; and again i breathed easily. "come on, men!" shouted hamilton, apprehensive of more curiosity. "we're wasting time! he may be escaping by the basement window!" "_jam hiems transiit, imber abiit et recessit; surge, amica mea, et veni!_" droned the priest, and the whole company clattered downstairs. "quick!--out with you!" commanded father holland. "speed to y'r heels, and blessing on the last o' ye!" i dashed down the stairs and was bolting through the doorway when some one shouted, "there he is!" "run, gillespie!" cried some one else--one of our men, i suppose--and i had plunged into the storm and raced for the ladders at the rear stockades with a pack of pursuers at my heels. the snow drifts were in my favor, for with my moccasins, i leaped lightly forward, while the booted soldiers floundered deep. i eluded my pursuers and was half-way up a ladder when a soldier's head suddenly appeared above the wall on the other side. then a bayonet prodded me in the chest and i fell heavily backwards to the ground. * * * * * i was captured. that is all there is to say. no man dilates with pleasure over that part of his life when he was vanquished. it is not pleasant to have weapons of defence wrested from one's hands, to feel soldiers standing upon one's wrists and rifling pockets. it is hard to feel every inch the man on the horizontal. in truth, when the soldiers picked me up without ceremony, or gentleness, and bundling me up the stairs of the main hall, flung me into a miserable pen, with windows iron-barred to mid-sash, i was but a sorry hero. my tormentors did not shackle me; i was spared that humiliation. "there!" exclaimed a hudson's bay man, throwing lantern-light across the dismal low roof as i fell sprawling into the room. "that'll cool the young hot-head," and all the french soldiers laughed at my discomfiture. they chained and locked the door on the outside. i heard the soldiers' steps reverberating through the empty passages, and was alone in a sort of prison-room, used during the régime of the petty tyrant mcdonell. it was cold enough to cool any hot-head, and mine was very hot indeed. i knew the apartment well. nor'-westers had used it as a fur storeroom. the wind came through the crevices of the board walls and piled miniature drifts on the floor-cracks, all the while rattling loose timbers like a saw-mill. the roof was but a few feet high, and i crept to the window, finding all the small panes coated with two inches of hoar-frost. whether the iron bars outside ran across, or up and down, i could not remember; but the fact would make a difference to a man trying to escape. much as i disliked to break the glass letting in more cold, there was only one way of finding out about those bars. i raised my foot for an outward kick, but remembering i wore only the moccasins with which i had been snowshoeing, i struck my fist through instead, and shattered the whole upper half of the window. i broke away cross-pieces that might obstruct outward passage, and leaning down put my hand on the sharp points of upright spikes. so intense was the frost, the skin of my finger tips stuck to the iron, and i drew my hand in, with the sting of a fresh burn. it was unfortunate about those bars. i could not possibly get past them down to the ground without making a ladder from my great-coat. i groped round the room hoping that some of the canvas in which we tied the peltries, might be lying about. there was nothing of the sort, or i missed it in the dark. quickly tearing my coat into strips, i knotted triple plies together and fastened the upper end to the crosspiece of the lower window. feet first, i poked myself out, caught the strands with both hands, and like a flash struck ground below with badly skinned palms. that reminded me i had left my mits in the prison room. the storm had driven the soldiers inside. i did not encounter a soul in the courtyard, and had no difficulty in letting myself out by the main gate. i whistled for the dogs. they came huddling from the ladders where i had left them, the sleigh still trailing at their heels. one poor animal was so benumbed i cut him from the traces and left him to die. gathering up the robes, i shook them free of snow, replaced them in the sleigh and led the string of dogs down to the river. it would be bitterly cold facing that sweep of unbroken wind in mid-river; but the trail over ice would permit greater speed, and with the high banks on each side the dogs could not go astray. to an overruling providence, and to the instincts of the dogs, i owe my life. the creatures had not gone ten sleigh-lengths when i felt the loss of my coat, and giving one final shout to them, i lay back on the sleigh and covered myself, head and all, under the robes, trusting the huskies to find their way home. i do not like to recall that return to the sutherlands. the man, who is frozen to death, knows nothing of the cruelties of northern cold. the icy hand, that takes his life, does not torture, but deadens the victim into an everlasting, easy, painless sleep. this i know, for i felt the deadly frost-slumber, and fought against it. aching hands and feet stopped paining and became utterly feelingless; and the deadening thing began creeping inch by inch up the stiffening limbs the life centres, till a great drowsiness began to overpower body and mind. realizing what this meant, i sprang from the sleigh and stopped the dogs. i tried to grip the empty traces of the dead one, but my hands were too feeble; so i twisted the rope round my arm, gave the word, and raced off abreast the dog train. the creatures went faster with lightened sleigh, but every step i took was a knife-thrust through half-frozen awakening limbs. not the man who is frozen to death, but the man who is half-frozen and thawed back to life, knows the cruelties of northern cold. in a stupefied way, i was aware the dogs had taken a sudden turn to the left and were scrambling up the bank. here my strength failed or i tripped; for i only remember being dragged through the snow, rolling over and over, to a doorway, where the huskies stopped and set up a great whining. somehow, i floundered to my feet. with a blaze of light that blinded me, the door flew open and i fell across the threshold unconscious. * * * * * need i say what door opened, what hands drew me in and chafed life into the benumbed being? "what was the matter, rufus gillespie?" asked a bluff voice the next morning. i had awakened from what seemed a long, troubled sleep and vaguely wondered where i was. "what happened to ye, rufus gillespie?" and the man's hand took hold of my wrist to feel my pulse. "don't, father! you'll hurt him!" said a voice that was music to my ears, and a woman's hand, whose touch was healing, began bathing my blistered palms. at once i knew where i was and forgot pain. in few and confused words i tried to relate what had happened. "the country's yours, mr. sutherland," said i, too weak, thick-tongued and deliriously happy for speech. "much to be thankful for," was the scotchman's comment. "seven oaks is avenged. it would ill 'a' become a sutherland to give his daughter's hand to a conqueror, but i would na' say i'd refuse a wife to a man beaten as you were, rufus gillespie," and he strode off to attend to outdoor work. and what next took place, i refrain from relating; for lovers' eloquence is only eloquent to lovers. chapter xxvii under one roof nature is not unlike a bank. when drafts exceed deposits comes a protest, and not infrequently, after the protest, bankruptcy. from the buffalo hunt to the recapture of fort douglas by the hudson's bay soldiers, drafts on that essential part of a human being called stamina had been very heavy with me. now came the casting-up of accounts, and my bill was minus reserve strength, with a balance of debt on the wrong side. the morning after the escape from fort douglas, when mr. sutherland strode off, leaving his daughter alone with me, i remember very well that frances abruptly began putting my pillow to rights. instead of keeping wide awake, as i should by all the codes of romance and common sense, i--poor fool--at once swooned, with a vague, glimmering consciousness that i was dying and this, perhaps, was the first blissful glimpse into paradise. when i came to my senses, mr. sutherland was again standing by the bedside with a half-shamed look of compassion under his shaggy brows. "how far," i began, with a curious inability to use my wits and tongue, "how far--i mean how long have i been asleep, sir?" "hoots, mon! dinna claver in that feckless fashion! it's months, lad, sin' ye opened y'r mouth wi' onything but daft gab." "months!" i gasped out. "have i been here for months?" "aye, months. the plain was snaw-white when ye began y'r bit nappie. noo, d'ye no hear the clack o' the geese through yon open window?" i tried to turn to that side of the little room, where a great wave of fresh, clear air blew from the prairie. for some reason my head refused to revolve. stooping, the elder man gently raised the sheet and rolled me over so that i faced the sweet freshness of an open, sunny view. "did i rive ye sore, lad?" asked the voice with a gruffness in strange contradiction to the gentleness of the touch. now i hold that however rasping a man's words may be, if he handle the sick with gentleness, there is much goodness under the rough surface. thoughtlessness and stupidity, i know, are patent excuses for half the unkindness and sorrow of life. but thoughtlessness and stupidity are also responsible for most of life's brutality and crime. not spiteful intentions alone, but the dulled, brutalized, deadened sensibilities--that go under the names of thoughtlessness and stupidity--make a man treat something weaker than himself with roughness, or in an excessive degree, qualify for murder. when the harsh voice asked, "do i rive ye sore?" i began to understand how surface roughness is as often caused by life's asperities as by the inner dullness akin to the brute. indeed, if my thoughts had not been so intent on the daughter, i could have found mr. sutherland's character a wonderfully interesting study. the infinite capacity of a canny scot for keeping his mouth shut i never realized till i knew mr. sutherland. for instance, now that consciousness had returned, i noticed that the father himself, and not the daughter, did all the waiting on me even to the carrying of my meals. "how is your daughter, mr. sutherland?" i asked, surely a natural enough question to merit a civil reply. "aye--is it frances y'r speerin' after?" he answered, meeting my question with a question; and he deigned not another word. but i lay in wait for him at the next meal. "i haven't seen your daughter yet, mr. sutherland," i stuttered out with a deal of blushing. "i haven't even heard her about the house." "no?" he asked with a show of surprise. "have ye no seen frances?" and that was all the satisfaction i got. between the dinner hour and supper time i conjured up various plots to hoodwink paternal caution. "mr. sutherland," i began, "i have a message for your daughter." "aye," said he. "i wish her to hear it personally." "aye." "when may i see her?" "ye maun bide patient, lad!" "but the message is urgent." that was true; for had not forty-eight hours passed since i had regained consciousness and i had heard neither her footsteps nor her voice? "aye," said the imperturbable father. "very urgent, mr. sutherland," i added. "aye." "when may i see her, sir?" "all in guid time. ye maun bide quiet, lad." "the message cannot wait," i declared. "it must be given at once." "then deleever it word for word to me, young mon, and i'll trudge off to frances." "your daughter is not at home?" "what words wu'l ye have me bear to her, lad?" he asked. that was too much for a youth in a peevish state of convalescence. what lover could send his heart's eloquence by word of mouth with a peppery, prosaic father? "tell mistress sutherland i must see her at once," i quickly responded with a flash of temper that was ever wont to flare up when put to the test. "aye," he answered, with an amused look in the cold, steel eyes. "i'll deleever y'r message when--when"--and he hesitated in a way suggestive of eternity--"i'll deleever y'r message when i see her." at that i turned my face to the wall in the bitterness of spirit which only the invalid, with all the strength of a man in his whims and the weakness of an infant in his body, knows. i spent a feverish, restless night, with the hard-faced scotchman watching from his armchair at my bedside. once, when i suddenly awakened from sleep, or delirium, his eyes were fastened on my face with a gleam of grave kindliness. "mr. sutherland," i cried, with all the impatience of a child, "please tell me, where is your daughter?" "i sent her to a neighbor, sin' ye came to y'r senses, lad," said he. "ye hae kept her about ye night and day sin' ye gaed daft, and losh, mon, ye hae gabbled wild talk enough to turn the head o' ony lassie clean daft. an' ye claver sic' nonsense when ye're daft, what would ye say when ye're sane? hoots, mon, ye maun learn to haud y'r tongue----" "mr. sutherland," i interrupted in a great heat, quite forgetful of his hospitality, "i'm sorry to be the means of driving your daughter from her home. i beg you to send me back to fort douglas----" "haud quiet," he ordered with a wave of his hand. "an' wa'd ye have me expose the head of a mitherless bairn to a' the clack o' the auld geese in the settlement? temper y'r ardor wi' discretion, lad! 'twas but the day before yesterday she left and she was sair done wi' nursing you and losing of sleep! till ye're fair y'rsel' again and up, and she's weel and rosy wi' full sleep, bide patient!" that speech sent my face to the wall again; but this time not in anger. and that dogged fashion mr. sutherland had of taking his own way did me many a good turn. often have i heard those bragging captains of the hudson's bay mercenaries swagger into the little cottage sitting-room, while i lay in bed on the other side of the thin board partition, and relate to mr. sutherland all the incidents of their day's search for me. "so many pounds sterling for the man who captures the rascal," declares d'orsonnens. "aye, 'tis a goodly price for one poor rattle-pate," says mr. sutherland. whereupon, d'orsonnens swears the price is more than my poor empty head is worth, and proceeds to describe me in terms which mr. sutherland will only tolerate when thundered from an orthodox pulpit. "i'd have ye understand, sir," he would declare with great dignity, "i'll have no papistical profanity under my roof." forthwith, he would show d'orsonnens the door, lecturing the astonished soldier on the errors of romanism; for whatever mr. sutherland deemed evil, from oaths to theological errors, he attributed directly to the pope. "the ne'er-do-weel can hawk naething frae me," said he when relating the incident. once i heard a fort douglas man observe that, as the search had proved futile, i must have fallen into one of the air-holes of the ice. "nae doot the headstrong young mon is' gettin' what he deserves. i warrant he's warm in his present abode," answered mr. sutherland. on another occasion d'orsonnens asked who the man was that mr. sutherland's daughter had been nursing all winter. "a puir body driven from fort douglas by those bloodthirsty villains," answered mr. sutherland, giving his visitor a strong toddy; and he at once improved the occasion by taking down a volume and reading the french officer a series of selections against romanism. after that d'orsonnens came no more. "i hope i did not tell nor'-west secrets in a hudson's bay house when i was delirious, mr. sutherland," i remarked. the scotchman had lugged me from bed in a gentle, lumbering, well-meant fashion, and i was sitting up for the first time. "ye're no the mon wi' a leak t' y'r mouth. i dinna say, though, ye're aye as discreet wi' the thoughts o' y'r heart as y'r head! ye need na fash y'r noodle wi' remorse aboot company secrets. i canna say ye'll no fret aboot some other things ye hae told. a' the winter lang, 'twas frances and stars and spooks and speerits and bogies and statues and graven images--wha' are forbidden by the holy scriptures--till the lassie thought ye gane clean daft! 'twas a bonnie e'e, like silver stars; or a bit blush, like the pippin; or laughter, like a wimplin' brook; or lips, like posies; or hair, like links o' gold; and mair o' the like till the lassie came rinnin' oot o' y'r room, fair red wi' shame! losh, mon, ye maun keep a still tongue in y'r head and not blab oot y'r thoughts o' a wife till she believes na mon can hae peace wi'out her. i wad na hae ye abate one jot o' all ye think, for her price is far above rubies; but hae a care wi' y'r grand talk! after ye gang to the kirk, lad, na mon can keep that up." his warning i laughed to the winds, as youth the world over has ever laughed sage counsels of chilling age. i can compare my recovery only to the swift transition of seasons in those northern latitudes. without any lingering spring, the cold grayness of long, tense winter gives place to a radiant sun-burst of warm, yellow light. the uplands have long since been blown bare of snow by the march winds, and through the tangle of matted turf shoot myriad purple cups of the prairie anemone, while the russet grass takes on emerald tints. one day the last blizzard may be sweeping a white trail of stormy majesty across the prairie; the next a fragrance of flowers rises from the steaming earth and the snow-filled ravines have become miniature lakes reflecting the dazzle of a sunny sky and fleece clouds. my convalescence was similar to the coming of summer. without any weary fluctuation from well to ill, and ill to well--which sickens the heart with a deferred hope--all my old-time strength came back with the glow of that year's june sun. "there's nae accountin' for some wilful folk, lad," was mr. sutherland's remark, one evening after i was able to leave my room. "ye hae risen frae y'r bed like the crocus frae snaw. an' frances were hangin' aboot y'r pillow, lad, i'm nae sure y'd be up sae dapper and smart." "i thought my nurse was to return when i was able to be up," i answered, strolling to the cottage door. "come back frae the door, lad. dinna show y'rsel' tae the enemy. there be more speerin' for ye than hae love for y'r health. have y'r wits aboot ye! dinna be frettin' y'rsel' for frances! the lassies aye rin fast enow tae the mon wi' sense to hold his ain!" with that advice he motioned me to the only armchair in the room, and sitting down on the outer step to keep watch, began reading some theological disputation aloud. "odds, lad, ye should see the papist so'diers rin when i hae calvin by me," he remarked. "it's a pity you can't lay the theological thunderers on the doorstep to drive stray de meurons off. then you could come in and take this chair yourself," i answered, sitting back where no visitor could see me. but mr. sutherland did not hear. he was deep in polemics, rolling out stout threats, that used scriptural texts as a cudgel, with a zest that testified enjoyment. "the wicked bend their bow," began the rasping voice; but when he cleared his throat, preparatory to the main argument, my thoughts went wandering far from the reader on the steps. as one whose dream is jarred by outward sound, i heard his tones quaver. "aye, frances, 'tis you," he said, and away he went, pounding at the sophistries of some straw enemy. a shadow was on the threshold, and before i had recalled my listless fancy, in tripped frances sutherland, herself, feigning not to see me. the gray eyes were veiled in the misty fashion of those fluffy things women wear, which let through all beauty, but bar out intrusion. i do not mean she wore a veil: veils and frills were not seen among the colonists in those days. but the heavy lashes hung low in the slumbrous, dreamy way that sees all and reveals nothing. instinctively i started up, with wild thoughts thronging to my lips. at the same moment mr. sutherland did the most chivalrous thing i have seen in homespun or broadcloth. "hoots wi' y'r giddy claver," said he, before i had spoken a word; and walking off, he sat down at some distance. thereupon his daughter laughed merrily with a whole quiver of dangerous archery about her lips. "that is the nearest to an untruth i have ever heard him tell," she said, which mightily relieved my embarrassment. "why did he say that?" i asked, with my usual stupidity. "i am sure i cannot say," and looking straight at me, she let go the barbed shaft, that lies hidden in fair eyes for unwary mortals. "sit down," she commanded, sinking into the chair i had vacated. "sit down, rufus, please!" this with an after-shot of alarm from the heavy lashes; for if a woman's eyes may speak, so may a man's, and their language is sometimes bolder. "thanks," and i sat down on the arm of that same chair. for once in my life i had sense to keep my tongue still; for, if i had spoken, i must have let bolt some impetuous thing better left unsaid. "rufus," she began, in the low, thrilling tones that had enthralled me from the first, "do you know i was your sole nurse all the time you were delirious?" "no wonder i was delirious! dolt, that i was, to have been delirious!" thought i to myself; but i choked down the foolish rejoinder and endeavored to look as wise as if my head had been ballasted with the weight of a patriarch's wisdom instead of ballooning about like a kite run wild. "i think i know all your secrets." "oh!" a man usually has some secrets he would rather not share; and though i had not swung the full tether of wild west freedom--thanks solely to her, not to me--i trembled at recollection of the passes that come to every man's life when he has been near enough the precipice to know the sensation of falling without going over. "you talked incessantly of miriam and mr. hamilton and father holland." "and what did i say about frances?" "you said things about frances that made her tremble." "tremble? what a brute, and you waiting on me day and----" "hush," she broke in. "tremble because i am just a woman and not an angel, just a woman and not a star. we women are mortals just as you men are. sometimes we're fools as well as mortals, just as you men are; but i don't think we're knaves quite so often, because we're denied the opportunity and hedged about and not tempted." as she gently stripped away the pretty hypocrisies with which lovers delude themselves and lay up store for disappointment, i began to discount that old belief about truth and knowledge rendering a woman mannish and arrogant and assertive. "you men marry women, expecting them to be angels, and very often the angel's highest ambition is to be considered a doll. then your hope goes out and your faith----" "but, frances," i cried, "if any sensible man had his choice of an angel and a fair, good woman----" "be sure to say fair, or he'd grumble because he hadn't a doll," she laughed. "no levity! if he had choice of angels and stars and a good woman, he'd choose the woman. the star is mighty far away and cold and steely. the angel's a deal too perfect to know sympathy with faults and blunders. i tell you, little statue, life is only moil and toil, unless love transmutes the base metal of hard duty into the pure gold of unalloyed delight." "that's why i tremble. i must do more than angel or star! oh, rufus, if i can only live up to what you think i am--and you can live up to what i think you are, life will be worth living." "that's love's leverage," said i. then there was silence; for the sun had set and the father was no longer reading. shadows deepened into twilight, and twilight into gloaming. and it was the hour when the brooding spirit of the vast prairie solitudes fills the stillness of night with voiceless eloquence. why should i attempt to transcribe the silent music of the prairie at twilight, which every plain-dweller knows and none but a plain-dweller may understand? what wonder that the race native to this boundless land hears the rustling of spirits in the night wind, the sigh of those who have lost their way to the happy hunting-ground, and the wail of little ones whose feet are bruised on the shadow trail? what wonder the gauzy northern lights are bands of marshaling warriors and the stars torches lighting those who ride the plains of heaven? indeed, i defy a white man with all the discipline of science and reason to restrain the wanderings of mystic fancy during the hours of sunset on the prairie. there is, i affirm, no such thing as time for lovers. if they have watches and clocks, the wretched things run too fast; and if the sun himself stood still in sympathy, time would not be long. so i confess i have no record of time that night frances sutherland returned to her home and mr. sutherland kept guard at the door. when he had passed the threshold impatiently twice, i recollected with regret that it was impossible to read theology in the dark. the third time he thrust his head in. "mind y'rselves," he called. "i hear men coming frae the river, a pretty hour, indeed, for visitin'. frances, go ben and see yon back window's open!" "the soldiers from the fort," cried frances with a little gasp. "don't move," said i. "they can't see me here. it's dark. i want to hear what they say and the window is open. indeed, frances, i'm an expert at window-jumping," and i had begun to tell her of my scrape with louis' drunken comrades in fort douglas, when i heard mr. sutherland's grating tones according the newcomers a curious welcome. "ye swearin', blasphemin', rampag'us, carousin' infidel, ye'll no darken my doorway this night. y'r french gab may be foul wi' oaths for all i ken; but ye'll no come into my hoose! an' you, sir, a blind leader o' the blind, a disciple o' beelzebub, wi' y'r babylonish idolatries, wi' y'r incense that fair stinks in the nostrils o' decent folk, wi' y'r images and mummery and crossin' o' y'rsel', wi' y'r pagan, popish practises, wi' y'r skirts and petticoats, i'll no hae ye on my premises, no, not an' ye leave y'r religion outside! an' you, meester hamilton, a respectable protestant, i'm fair surprised to see ye in sic' company." "'tis eric and father holland and laplante," i shouted, springing to my feet and rushing to the doorway, but frances put herself before me. "keep back," she whispered. "the priest and mr. hamilton have been here before; but father would not let them in. the other man may be a de meuron. be careful, rufus! there's a price on your head." "ho--ho--my _ursus major_, prime guardian of _ursa major_, first of the heavenly constellations in the north," insolently laughed louis laplante through the dusk. "let me pass, frances," i begged, thrusting her gently aside, but her trembling hands still clung to my arm. "impertinent rascal," rasped the irate scotchman. "i'd have ye understand my name's sutherland, not _major ursus_. i'll no bide wi' y'r impudence! leave this place----" "the bruin growls," interrupted louis with a laugh, and i heard mr. sutherland's gasp of amazed rage at the lengths of the frenchman's insolence. "i must, dearest," i whispered, disengaging the slender hands from my arm; and i flung out into the dusk. in the gloom, my approach was unnoticed; and when i came upon the group, father holland had laid his hand upon mr. sutherland's shoulder and in a low, tense voice was uttering words, which--thank an all-bountiful providence!--have no sectarian limits. "and the king shall answer and say unto them, 'i was a stranger and ye took me not in: naked and ye clothed me not: sick and in prison and ye visited me not. verily i say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me'----" "dinna con holy writ to me, sir," interrupted mr. sutherland, throwing the priest's hand off and jerking back. then louis laplante saw me. there was a long, low whistle. "ye daft gommerel," gasped mr. sutherland, facing me with unutterable disgust. "ye daft gommerel! a' my care and fret, waste--gane clean to waste. i wash m' hands o' ye----" but louis had knocked the scotchman aside and tumbled into my arms, half laughing, half crying and altogether as hysterical as was his wont. "i pay you back at las', my comrade! ha--old solemncholy! you thought the bird of passage, he come not back at all! but the birds return! so does louis! he decoy-duck the whole covey! you generous? no more not generous than the son of a seigneur, mine enemy! you give life? he give life! you give liberty! so does louis! you help one able help himself? louis help one not able help himself! ha! _très bien! noblesse oblige! la gloire!_ she--near! she here! she where i, louis laplante, son of a seigneur, snare that she-devil, trap that fox, trick the tigress! ha--ol' tombstone! _noblesse oblige_--i say! she near--she here," and he flung up both arms like a frenzied maniac. "man! are you mad?" i demanded, uncertain whether he were apostrophizing diable's squaw, or abstract glory. "speak out!" i shouted, shaking him by the shoulder. "these--are they all friends?" asked louis, suddenly cooled and looking suspiciously at the group. "all," said i, still holding him by the shoulder. "that--that thing--that bear--that bruin--he a friend?" and louis pointed to mr. sutherland. "friend to the core," said i, laying both hands upon his shoulders. "core with prickles outside," gibed louis. "louis," i commanded, utterly out of patience, "what of miriam? speak plain, man! have you brought the tribe as you promised?" it must have been mention of miriam's name, for the white, drawn face of eric hamilton bent over my shoulder and fiery, glowing eyes burned into the very soul of the frenchman. louis staggered back as if red irons had been thrust in his face. "_sacredie_," said he, backing against father holland, "i am no murderer." it was then i observed that frances sutherland had followed me. her slender white fingers were about the bronzed hand of the french adventurer. "monsieur laplante will tell us what he knows," she said softly, and she waited for his answer. "the daughter of _l'aigle_," he replied slowly and collectedly, all the while feasting upon that fair face, "comes down the red with her tribe and captives, many captive women. they pass here to-night. they camp south the rapids, this side of the rapids. last night i leave them. i run forward, i find le petit garçon--how you call him?--leetle fellow? he take me to the priest. he bring canoe here. he wait now for carry us down. we must go to the rapids--to the camp! there my contract! my bargain, it is finished," and he shrugged his shoulders, for frances had removed her hand from his. whether louis laplante's excitable nature were momentarily unbalanced by the success of his feat, i leave to psychologists. whether some premonition of his impending fate had wrought upon him strangely, let psychical speculators decide. or whether louis, the sly rogue, worked up the whole situation for the purpose of drawing frances sutherland into the scene--which is what i myself suspect--i refer to private judgment, and merely set down the incidents as they occurred. that was how louis laplante told us of bringing diable's squaw and her captives back to red river. and that was how father holland and eric and louis and mr. sutherland and myself came to be embarking with a camping outfit for a canoe-trip down the river. "have the indians passed, or are they to come?" i asked louis as mr. sutherland and eric settled themselves in a swift, light canoe, leaving the rest of us to take our places in a larger craft, where little fellow, gurgling pleased recognition of me, acted as steersman. "they come later. the fast canoe go forward and camp. we watch behind," ordered louis, winking at me significantly. i saw frances step to her father's canoe. "you're no coming, frances," he protested, querulously. "don't say that, father. i never disobeyed you in my life, and i _am_ coming! don't tell me not to! push out, mr. hamilton," and she picked up a paddle and i saw the canoe dart swiftly forward into mid-current, where the darkness enveloped it; and we followed fast in its wake. "louis," said i, trying to fathom the meaning of his wink, "are those indians to come yet?" "no. simpleton--you think louis a fool?" he asked. "why did you lie to them?" "get them out of the way." "why?" "because, stupid, some ones they be killed to-night! the englishman, he have a wife--he not be killed! mademoiselle--she love a poor fool--or break her pretty heart! the father--he needed to stick-pin you both--so you never want for to fight each other," and louis laughed low like the purr of water on his paddle-blade. "faith, lad," cried the priest, who had been unnaturally silent, because, i suppose, he was among aliens to his faith, "faith, lad, 'tis a good heart ye have, if ye'd but cut loose from the binding past. may this night put an end to your devil pranks!" * * * * * and that night did! chapter xxviii the last of louis' adventures i think, perhaps, the reason good enterprises fail so often where evil ventures succeed, is that the good man blunders forward, trusting to the merits of his cause, where the evil manipulator proceeds warily as a cat over broken glass. and so, altogether apart from his services as guide, i felt louis laplante's presence on the river a distinct advantage. "the lord is with us, lad. she shall be delivered! the lord is with us; but don't you bungle his plans!" ejaculated father holland for the twentieth time; and each time the french trapper looked waggishly over his shoulder at me and winked. "bungle! pah!" louis clapped his paddle athwart the canoe and laughed a low, sly, defiant laugh. "bungle! pah! catch louis bungle his cards, ha, ha! trumps! he play trumps--he hold his hand low--careless--nodings in it--he keep quiet--nodings worth play in his hand--but his sleeve--ha, ha!" and louis laughed softly and winked at the full moon. "the daughter of l'aigle, she cuff louis, she slap his cheek, she call him lump--lout--slouch! ha, ha!--louis no fool--he pare the claws of l'aigle to-night!" at that, little fellow's stolid face took on a vindictive gleam, and he snapped out something in indian tongue which set louis to laughing. suddenly the indian's paddle was suspended in mid-air, and little fellow bent over the prow, gazing at the moon-tracked water. "_sacredie!_" cried louis, catching up water that trickled through his fingers, "'tis dried rabbit thong! they are ahead of us! they have passed while that scotch mule was balk! we must catch the englishman," and he began hitting out with his paddle at a great rate. we had overtaken mr. sutherland's canoe within half an hour of louis' discovery, and eric wheeled about with a querulous demand. "what's wrong? are they ahead? i thought you said they were behind," and he turned suspiciously to laplante. "you thought wrong," said louis, ever facile with subterfuges. "you thought wrong, mister high-and-mighty! camp here and watch; they come before morning!" "no lies to me," shouted eric, becoming uncontrollably excited. "if you mislead us, your life shall----" "pig-head! i no save your wife for back chin! camp here, i say," and louis' fitful temper began to show signs of sulking. "for goodness' sake, eric, do what you're told! we've made a bad enough business of it----" "give the frenchman a chance! do what you're told, i say, ye blunderers! troth, the lord himself couldn't bring success to such blundering idiots," was father holland's comment. "i'll take na orders frae meddlesome papists," began the scotchman; but little fellow had forcibly turned the prow of the canoe shoreward. i gave them a shove with my paddle. frances took the cue, and while her father was yet scolding raised her paddle and had them close to the river bank. "get your tent up here," i called to conciliate them. "then come to the bank and watch for the indians." a bit of clean gravel ran out from the clay cliff. "that's the ground," said i, as the other canoe bumped over the pebbles; and i stopped paddling and dangled my hand in the water. something in the dark drifted wet and soft against my fingers. ordinarily such an incident would not have alarmed me; but instantly a shudder of apprehension ran through my frame. i scarce had courage to look into the river lest the white face of a woman should appear through the watery depths. clutching the water-soaked tangle, i jerked it up. something gave with a rip, and my hand was full of shawl fringe. "what's that, rufus?" asked father holland. "don't know." i motioned him to be silent and held it up in the moonlight. distinctly it was, or had been, red fringe. "do you think--" he began, then stopped. our keel had rubbed bottom and hamilton was springing out of the other canoe. "yes, i do," i replied, choking with dread. "this is too terrible! he'll kill himself! go up the bank with him! keep him busy at the tent! little fellow and i'll pole for it. the water's shallow there----" "what do _you_ think?" said the priest to laplante. "t'ink! i never t'ink! i finds out." but all the same, louis' assurance was shaken and he peered searchingly into the river. "aren't you coming? what's your plan?" called eric. "certainly we are, but get this truck to higher ground, will you?" i hoisted out the camp trappings. "i want to paddle out for something." "what is it?" he asked. "something lost out there. i lost it out of my hand." frances sutherland, i know, suspected trouble from the alarm which i could not keep out of my speech; for she pressed to the water's edge. "get the tent ready," i urged. "what's the meaning of this mystery?" persisted hamilton sharply. "what have you lost?" "don't press him too closely. faith, it may be a love token," interjected father holland, as he stepped ashore; but he whispered in my ear as he passed, "you're wrong, lad! you're on the wrong track!" i leaped back to the canoe, little fellow and the frenchman following, and we paddled to the shallows where i had caught the fringe. i prodded the soft mud below and trailed the paddle back and forward over the clay bottom. louis did likewise; but in vain. only soft ooze came up on the blade. then little fellow stripped and dived. of course it was dark under water, as it always is dark under the muddy red, and the indian could not feel a thing from which fringe could have ripped. had my jerk disturbed whatever it was and sent it rolling down to mid-current? i asked father holland this when i came back. "tush, faint-heart," he muttered, drawing me aside. "'tis only a trial of your faith." i said something about trials of faith which i shall not repeat here, but which the majority of people, who are on the tenter-hooks of such trials, have said for themselves. "faith! pah!" exclaimed louis, joining our whispered conference, while eric and mr. sutherland were hoisting a tent. "that shawl, it mean nodings of things heavenly! it only mean rag stuck in the mud and reds nearabouts here! i have told the great bear and his snarl englishman the indians not come till morning. they get tent ready and watch! you follow louis, he lead you to camp. the priest--he good for say a little prayer; the indian for fight; louis--for swear; rufus--to snatch the englishwoman, he good at snatching the fair, ha-ha." he darted to the shore, calling little fellow from the canoe and leaving father holland and me to follow as best we could. "we'll be back soon, eric," i shouted. "we're going to get the lie of the land. keep watch here," and i broke into a run to keep up with the french trapper and the indian, who were leading into the woods away from the river. i could hear father holland puffing behind like a wind-blown racer. abruptly the priest came to a stop. "by all the saints," he ordered. "go back to the tent!" i turned. a white form emerged from the foliage and frances was beside me. "may i not come?" she asked. "no--dearest, there will be fighting." "no--lord--no," panted father holland coming up to us. "we're not swapping one woman for another. what would rufus do without ye?" "you are going for miriam?" she questioned, holding my hand. "god speed you and bring you back safely!" "say rather--bring miriam," and i unfastened the clinging hand almost roughly. "come on, slugs, sloths, laggards," commanded laplante impatiently, and we dashed into the thick of the woods, leaving the white figure alone against the shadowy thicket. she called out something, of which i heard only two words, "miriam" and "rufus"; but i knew those names were uttered in supplication and they filled my heart with daring hope. surely, we must succeed--for the little statue's prayers were following me--and i bounded on with a faith as buoyant as the priest's blind trust. thus we ran through the moon-shafted woods pursuing the flitting, lithe figures of trapper and indian, who scarce disturbed a fern leaf, while father holland and i floundered through the underbrush like ramping elephants. then i found myself panting as hard as the priest and clinging to his arm for support; for illness had taken all the bravery out of my muscles, like champagne uncorked and left in the heat. "brace yourself, lad," said the priest. "the lord is with us, but don't you bungle." a long, low whistle came through the dark, a whistle that was such a perfect imitation of the night hawk, no spy might detect it for the signal of a runner. after the whistle, was the soft, ominous hiss of a serpent in the grass; and we were abreast of louis laplante and little fellow standing stock still sniffing forward as hounds might scent a foe. "she may not be there! she may be drown;" whispered louis, "but we creep on, quiet like hare, no noise like deer, stiller than mountain cat, hist--what that?" the night breeze set the leaves all atremble--clapping their hands, as the indians call it--and a whiff of burning bark tainted the air. "that's it," said i under my breath. the smoke was blowing from wooded flats between us and the river. cautiously parting interlaced branches and as carefully replacing each bough to prevent backward snap, we turned down the sloping bank. i suppose necessity's training in the wilds must produce the same result in man and beast; and from that fact, faddists of the various "osophies" and "ologies" may draw what conclusions they please; but i affirm that no panther could creep on its prey with more stealth, caution and cunning than the trapper and indian on the enemy's camp. i have seen wild creatures approaching a foe set each foot down with noiseless tread; but i have never seen such a combination of instincts, brute and human, as louis and little fellow displayed. the indian felt the ground for tracks and pitfalls and sticks, that might crackle. louis, with his whole face pricked forward, trusted more to his eyes and ears and that sense of "feel," which is--contradictory as it may seem--utterly intangible. once the indian picked up a stick freshly broken. this was examined by both, and the indian smelt it and tried his tongue on the broken edge. then both fell on all fours, creeping under the branches of the thicket and pausing at every pace. "would that i had taken lessons in forest lore before i went among the sioux," i thought to myself. now i knew what had been incomprehensible before--why all my well-laid plans had been detected. a wind rustled through the foliage. that was in our favor; for in spite of our care the leaves crushed and crinkled beneath us. at intervals a glimmer of light shone from the beach. louis paused and listened so intently our breathing was distinctly audible. a vague murmur of low voices--like the "talking of the trees" in little fellow's language--floated up from the river; and in the moonlight i saw laplante laugh noiselessly. trees stood farther apart on the flats and brushwood gave place to a forest of ferns, that concealed us in their deep foliage; but the thick growth also hid the enemy, and we knew not at what moment we might emerge in full view of the camp. so we stretched out flat, spying through the fern stalks before we parted the stems to draw ourselves on a single pace. presently, the murmur separated into distinct voices, with much low laughing and the bitter jeers that make up indian mirth. we could hear the crackling of the fire, and wormed forward like caterpillars. there was a glare of light through the ferns, and louis stopped. we all three pulled abreast of him. lying there as a cat watches a mouse, we parted first one and then another of the fronds till the indian encampment could be clearly seen. "is that the tribe?" i whispered; but louis gripped my arm in a vice that forbade speech. the camp was not a hundred feet away. fire blazed in the centre. poles were up for wigwams, and already skins had been overlaid, completing several lodges. men lay in lazy attitudes about the fire. squaws were taking what was left of the evening meal and slave-women were putting things to rights for the night. sitting apart, with hands tied, were other slaves, chiefly young women taken in some recent fray and not yet trusted unbound. among these was one better clad than the others. her wrists were tied; but her hands managed to conceal her face, which was bowed low. in her lap was a sleeping child. was this miriam? children were with the other captives; but to my eyes this woman's torn shawl appeared reddish in the fire glow. "let's go boldly up and offer to buy the slaves," i suggested; but louis' grip tightened forbiddingly and little fellow's forefinger pointed towards a big creature, who was ordering the others about. 'twas a woman of giant, bronzed form, with the bold stride of a conquering warrior and a trophy-decked belt about her waist. the fire shone against her girdle and the stones in the leather strap glowed back blood-red. father holland breathed only one word in my ear, "agates;" and the fire of the red stones flashed like some mystic flame through my being till brain and heart were hot with vengeance and my hands burned as if every nerve from palm to finger-tips were a blade point reaching out to destroy that creature of cruelty. "diable's squaw," i gasped out, beside myself with anger and joy. "let me but within arm's length of her----" "hold quiet," the priest hissed low and angry, gripping my shoulder like a steel winch. "'vengeance is mine,' saith the lord! see that you save the white woman! leave the evil-doer to god! the lord's with us, but i tell you, don't you bungle!" "bungle!" i could have shouted out defiance to the whole band. "let go!" i ordered, trying to struggle up; for the iron hand still held me. "let go, or i'll----" but louis laplante's palm was forcibly slapped across my mouth and his other hand he laid significantly on his dagger, giving me one threatening look. by the firelight i saw his lips mechanically counting the numbers of the enemy and mechanically i audited his count. "twenty men, thirty squaws and the slaves," said he under his breath. an indian left the fire and approached the captives. "see! watch! is that woman miriam?" demanded the priest. "she'll take her hands from her face now." "of course it is!" i was furious at the restraint and hesitancy; but as i said before, the experienced intriguer proceeds as warily as a cat. "you not sure--not for sure--_mon dieu_--no," muttered laplante; and he was right. with the forest shadows across the captives, it was impossible to distinguish the color of their faces. taking a knife from his belt, the indian cut the cords of all but the woman with her hands across her face. a girl brought refuse of food; but this woman took no notice, never moving her hands. thereupon the young squaw sneered and the indian idlers jeered loud in harsh, strident laughter. this roused the big squaw. she strode up, little fellow all the while with glistening teeth following her motions as a cat's head turns to a mouse. with the flat of her hand she struck the silent woman, who leaped up and ran to a wigwam. in speechless fear, the child had scrambled to its feet and backed away from the angry group towards the ferns; but the light was fitful and shadowy, and we could recognize neither woman, nor child. "i can't stand this any longer," i declared. "i must know if that's miriam. let's draw closer." father holland and i crawled stealthily to the very border of fern growth, louis and the indian lying still and muttering over some plan of action. "hist," said the priest, "we'll try the child." unlike naked indian children, the little thing had a loose garment banded about its waist; but its feet were bare and its hair as raven black as that of any young savage. it stood like some woodland elf in the maze of heavy sleepiness, at each harsh word from the camp, sidling shyly closer to our hiding-place. we dragged forward till i could have touched the child, but feared to startle it. putting his hand out slowly, father holland caught the little creature's arm. it gave a start, jerked back and looked in mute wonderment at our strange hiding-place. "pretty boy," crooned the priest in low, coaxing tones, gently tightening his hold. "is it white?" i whispered. "i can't see." "good little man," he went on, slowly folding his hands about it. drawing quickly back, he lifted the child completely into his arms. "is boy sleepy?" he asked. "call him 'eric,'" i urged. "is eric sleepy?" the child's head fell wearily against the priest's shoulder. snuggling closer, he lisped back in perfect english, "eric's tired." at once father holland's free hand caught my arm as if he feared i might rush out. for a moment neither of us spoke. then he said, "give me your coat." i ripped off my buckskin-smock. wrapping the sleeping boy about, the priest laid him gently among the ferns. "where's the mother?" asked father holland with a catching intake of breath. i pointed to the wigwam. the big squaw had come out, leaving miriam alone and was engaged in noisy dispute with the men. louis and little fellow had now wriggled abreast of us. "ha, ha, _mon brave_--your time, it come now! you save the white woman! i pay my devoirs to the lady, ha, ha--i owe her much--i pay you both back with one stroke, one grand stroke. little fellow, he watch for spring surprise and help us both! swoop--snitch--snatch--snap her up! 'tis done--tra-la!" and louis drew up for all the world like a tiger about to spring, but the priest drew him down. "listen," commanded the churchman, in the slow, tense way of one who intended to be obeyed. "i'll go back and come up by the beach. i'll brow-beat them and tongue-whack them for having slaves. they'll offer fight; so'll i. they'll all run down; that's your chance. wait till they all go. i'll make them, every one. that's your chance. you rush! try that! if it fail, in the name of the lord, have y'r weapons ready--and the lord be with us!" "they'll kill you," i protested. "let me go!" "you? what about frances?" "pah!" said louis. "i go myself--i trick--i trap--i snare 'em----" "hush to ye, ye braggart," interrupted the priest. "gillespie is as flabby as dough from an illness. 'tis here you sit quiet, and help with miriam as ye'd save y'r soul! howld down with y'r bouncing nonsense, lad, and the saints be with ye; for it's a fight there'll be, and there is the fightin' stuff of a soldier in ye! never turn to me--mind ye never turn to help me, or the curse of the fool be on y'r head--and the lord be with us!" "amen." but i spoke to vacancy. while a rising wind set the branches overhead grating noisily, he had risen and darted away. louis laplante, contrary to the priest's orders, also rose and disappeared in the woods. little fellow still lay by me, but i could not rely on him for intelligent action, and there came over me that sense of aloneness in danger, which i knew so well in the mandane country. the child's slightest cry might alarm the camp, and i shivered when he breathed heavily, or turned in his sleep. the indians might miss the boy and search the woods. instinctively my hand was on my pistol. it was well to be as near miriam's tent as possible; and i, too, took advantage of the wind to change my place. i moved back, signalling the indian to follow, and skirted round the open till i was directly opposite miriam's wigwam. why had louis gone off, and why did he not come back? had he gone to keep secret guard over the priest, or to decoy the vigilant sioux woman? in his intentions i had confidence enough, but not in his judgment. at that moment my speculations were interrupted by a loud shout from the beach. every indian in camp started up as if hostiles had uttered their war-cry. "hallo, there! hallo! hallo!" called the priest. indians dashed to the river, while bedraggled squaws and naked children rushed from wigwams and stood in clamorous groups between the lodges and the water. the topmost branches of the trees swayed back and forward in the wind, alternately throwing shafts of moonlight and shadows across the opening of miriam's wigwam. when the light flooded the tent a solitary, white-faced form appeared in dark, sharp outline. the bare arms were tied at the wrists, and beat aimlessly through the darkness. and there was a sound of piteous weeping. should i make the final, desperate dash now? "don't bungle his plans," came the priest's warning; and i waited. the squaws were very near; and the angular figure of diable's wife hung on the rear of the group. she was scolding like a termagant in the sioux tongue, ordering the other women to the fray; but still she kept back, looking over her shoulder suspiciously at miriam's tent, uncertain whether to go or stay. we had failed in every other attempt to rescue miriam. if the lord--as the priest believed--had planned the sufferer's aid, his instruments had blundered badly. there must be no more feeble-fingering. "thieves! thieves! cut-throats!" bawled father holland in a storm of abuse. "ye rascals," he thundered, cutting the air with his stick and purposely backing away from the camp to draw the indians off. then his voice was lost in a chorus of shrill screams. the moonlight shone across the wigwam opening. the captive had heard the english tongue, and was listening. but the sioux squaw had also heard and recognized the voice of a former prisoner. she ran forward a pace, then hesitated, looking back doubtfully. as she turned her head, out from the gloom of the thicket with the leap of a lynx, lithe and swift, sprang the crouching form of louis laplante. i felt little fellow all in a tremor by my side; the tremor not of fear, but of the couchant panther; and he uttered the most vicious snarl i have ever heard from human throat. louis alighted neatly and noiselessly, directly behind the sioux woman. she must have felt his presence, for she turned round and round expectantly. louis, silent and elusive as a shadow, circled about her, tripping from side to side as she turned her head. but the fire betrayed him. she had wheeled towards the forest as if spying for the unseen presence among the foliage, and louis deftly dodged behind. the move put him between the fire and his antagonist, and the full profile of his queer, bending figure was shadowed clear past the woman. she turned like some vengeful, malign goddess, and i thought it all up with the daring trapper; but he doffed his red toque and swept the advancing fury the low bow of a french courtier. then he drew himself erect and laughed insolently in the woman's face. his careless assurance allayed her suspicions. "oh, 'tis you!" she growled. "'tis i, fleet-foot, winged messenger, humble slave," laughed louis, with another grotesque bow; but the rogue had cleverly put himself between the squaw and miriam's tent. i should have rushed to miriam's rescue long since, instead of watching this by-play between trapper and mountain cat; but as the foray waxed hotter with the priest, the young braves had run back to their tents for guns and clubs. "stand off, ye scoundrels," roared the priest, in tones of genuine anger; for the indians were closing threateningly about him. "stand back, ye knaves, ye sons of satan," and every soul but louis laplante and the sioux squaw ran with querulous shouts to the river. "cruel! cruel! cruel!" sobbed a voice from the wigwam; and there was a straining to break the thongs which bound her. "cruel! cruel! hast thou no pity? o my god! hast thou no pity? shall not a sparrow fall to the ground without thy knowledge? is this thy pity? o my god!" the voice broke in a torrent of heart-piercing cries. i could endure it no longer. "have at ye, ye villains! come out like men! now, me brave bhoys, show the stuff that's in ye! a fig for y'r valor if ye fail! the curse o' the lord on the coward heart! back with ye; ye red divils! out with ye, rufus! the lord shall deliver the captive! what, 'an wuld ye dare strike a servant o' the lord? let the deliverer appear, i say," he shouted, weaving in commands to us as he dealt stout blows about him and receded down the river bank. "take that--and that--and that," i heard him shout, with a rat-tat-too of sharp thuds from the staff accompanying each word. then i knew the quarrel on the beach was at its height; and louis laplante was still foiling the sioux's approach to miriam's wigwam like a deft fencer. "follow me, little fellow," i commanded. "have your knife ready," and i had not finished speaking when three shrill whistles came from louis. 'twas his old-time signal of danger. above the hubbub at the river the sioux squaw was screaming to the braves. bounding from concealment, i tore off the layer roofing of the wigwam, plunged through the tapering pole frame, shaking the frail lean-to like a house of cards, and was beside miriam. again i heard louis' whistle and again the squaw's angry scream; but little fellow had followed on my heels and stood with knife-blade glittering bare at the tent-entrance. "hush," i whispered, slashing my dagger through the thongs around her hands and cutting the rope that held her to the central stake. "we've found you at last. come! come!" and i caught her up. "o my god!" she cried. "at last! at last! where is the child? they have taken little eric!" "we have him safe! his father is waiting! don't hesitate, miriam!" "run, little fellow," i ordered, "across the camp. get the child," and i sprang from the wigwam, which crashed to the ground behind me. i had thought to save skirting the woods by a run across the camping-ground; but when my indian dashed for the child and the sioux saw me undefended with the white woman in my arms, she made a desperate lunge at laplante and called at the top of her voice for the braves. louis, with weapons in hand, still kept between the fury and miriam; but i think his french chivalry must have been restraining him. though the sioux offered him many opportunities and was doing her best to sheathe a knife in his heart, he seemed to refrain from using either dagger or pistol. an insolent laugh was on his face. the life-and-death game which he was playing was to his daring spirit something novel and amusing. "the lady is--perturbed," he laughed, dodging a thrust at his neck; "she fences wide, tra-la," this as the barrel of his pistol parried a drive of her knife; "she hits afar--ho--ho--not so fast, my fury--not so furious, my fair--zipp, ha--ha--ha--another miss--another miss--the lady's a-miss," for the squaw's weapon struck fire against his own. "look out for the braves, have a care," i shouted; for a dozen young bucks were running up behind to the woman's aid. "ha--ha---_prenez garde_--my tiger-cat has kittens," he laughed; and he looked over his shoulder. that backward look gave the fury her opportunity. in the firelight blue steel flashed bright. the frenchman reeled, threw up his arms, and fell. one sharp, deep, broken draw of breath, and with a laugh on his lips, louis laplante died as he had lived. then the tiger-cat leaped over the dead form at miriam and me. what happened next i can no more set down consecutively than i can distinguish the parts in a confused picture with a red-eyed fury striking at me, naked indians brandishing war-clubs, flashes of powder smoke, a circle of gesticulating, screeching dark faces in the background, my indian fighting like a very fiend, and a pale-faced woman with a little curly-headed boy at her feet standing against the woods. "run, _monsieur_; i keep bad indians off," urged little fellow. "run--save white squaw and papoose--run, _monsieur_." now, whatever may be said to the contrary, however brave two men may be, they cannot stand off a horde of armed savages. i let go my whole pistol-charge, which sent the red demons to a distance and intended dashing for the woods, when the sioux woman put her hand in her pocket and hurled a flint head at little fellow. the brave indian sprang aside and the thing fell to the ground. with it fell a crumpled sheet of paper. i heard rather than saw little fellow's crouching leap. two forms rolled over and over in the camp ashes; and with miriam on my shoulder and the child under the other arm, i had dashed into the thicket of the upper ground. overhead tossed the trees in a swelling wind, and up from the shore rushed the din of wrangling tongues, screaming and swearing in a clamor of savage wrath. the wind grew more boisterous as i ran. behind the indian cries died faintly away; but still with a strength not my own, always keeping the river in view, and often mistaking the pointed branches, which tore clothing and flesh from head to feet, for the hands of enemies--i fled as if wolves had been pursuing. again and again sobbed miriam--"o, my god! at last! at last! thanks be to god! at last! at last!" we were on a hillock above our camp. putting miriam down, i gave her my hand and carried the child. when i related our long, futile search and told her that eric was waiting, agitation overcame her, and i said no more till we were within a few feet of the tents. "please wait." i left her a short distance from the camp that i might go and forewarn eric. frances sutherland met me in the way and read the news which i could not speak. "have you--oh--have you?" she asked. "who is that?" and she pointed to the child in my arms. "where's hamilton? where's your father?" i demanded, trembling from exhaustion and all undone. "mr. hamilton is in his tent priming a gun. father is watching the river. and oh, rufus! is it really so?" she cried, catching, sight of miriam's stooped, ragged figure. then she darted past me. both her arms encircled miriam, and the two began weeping on each other's shoulders after the fashion of women. i heard a cough inside hamilton's tent. going forward, i lifted the canvas flap and found eric sitting gloomily on a pile of robes. "eric," i cried, in as steady a voice as i command, which indeed, was shaking sadly, and i held the child back that hamilton might not see, "eric, old man, i think at last we've run the knaves down." "hullo!" he exclaimed with a start, not knowing what i had said. "are you men back? did you find out anything?" "why--yes," said i: "we found this," and i signalled frances to bring miriam. this was no way to prepare a man for a shock that might unhinge reason; but my mind had become a vacuum and the warm breath of the child nestling about my neck brought a mist before my eyes. "what did you say you had found?" asked hamilton, looking up from his gun to the tent-way; for the morning light already smote through the dark. "this," i said, lifting the canvas a second time and drawing miriam forward. i could but place the child in her arms. she glided in. the flap fell. there was the smothered outcry of one soul--rent by pain. "miriam--miriam--my god--miriam!" "come away," whispered a choky voice by my side, and frances linked her arm through mine. then the tent was filled and the night air palpitated with sounds of anguished weeping. and with tears raining from my eyes, i hastened away from what was too sacred for any ear but a pitying god's. that had come to my life which taught me the depths of hamilton's suffering. "dearest," said i, "now we understand both the pain and the joy of loving," and i kissed her white brow. chapter xxix the priest journeys to a far country again the guest-chamber of the sutherland home was occupied. how came it that a catholic priest lay under a protestant roof? how comes it that the new west ever ruthlessly strips reality naked of creed and prejudice and caste, ever breaks down the barrier relics of a mouldering past, ever forces recognition of men as individuals with individual rights, apart from sect and class and unmerited prerogatives? the catholic priest was wounded. the protestant home was near. manhood in protestant garb recognized manhood in roman cassock. necessity commanded. prejudice obeyed as it ever obeys in that vast land of untrameled freedom. so father holland was cared for in the protestant home with a tenderness which mr. sutherland would have repudiated. for my part, i have always thanked god for that leveling influence of the west. it pulls the fools from high places and awards only one crown--merit. it was little fellow who had brought father holland, wounded and insensible, from the sioux camp. "what of louis laplante's body, little fellow?" i asked, as soon as i had seen all the others set out for the settlement with father holland lying unconscious in the bottom of the canoe. "the white man, i buried in the earth as the white men do--deep in the clay to the roots of the willow, so i buried the frenchman," answered the indian. "and the squaw, i weighted with stones at her feet; for they trod on the captives. and with stones i weighted her throat, which was marked like the deer's when the mountain cat springs. with the stones at her throat and her feet, the squaw, i rolled into the water." "what, little fellow," i cried, remembering how i had seen him roll over and over through the camp-fire, with his hands locked on the sioux woman's throat, "did you kill the daughter of l'aigle?" "non, _monsieur_; little fellow no bad indian. but the squaw threw a flint and the flint was poison, and my hands were on her throat, and the squaw fell into the ashes, and when little fellow arose she was dead. did she not slay la robe noire? did she not slay the white man before monsieur's eyes? did she not bind the white woman? did she not drag me over the ground like a dead stag? so my fingers caught hard in her throat, and when i arose she lay dead in the ashes. so i fled and hid till the tribe left. so i shoved her into the water and pushed her under, and she sank like a heavy rock. then i found the priest." i had no reproaches to offer little fellow. he had only obeyed the savage instincts of a savage race, exacting satisfaction after his own fashion. "the squaw threw a flint. the flint was poison. also the squaw threw this at little fellow, white man's paper with signs which are magic," and the indian handed me the sheet, which had fallen from the woman's pocket as she hurled her last weapon. without fear of the magic so terrifying to him, i took the dirty, crumpled missive and unfolded it. the superscription of quebec citadel was at the top. with overwhelming revulsion came memory of poor louis laplante lying at the camp-fire in the gorge tossing a crumpled piece of paper wide of the flames, where the sioux squaw surreptitiously picked it up. the paper was foul and tattered almost beyond legibility; but through the stains i deciphered in delicate penciling these words: "in memory of last night's carouse in lower town, (one favor deserves another, you know, and i got you free of that scrape), spike the gun of my friend the enemy. if r-f-s g--p--e, e. h--l-t-n, j--k mack, or any of that prig gang come prying round your camp for news, put them on the wrong track. i owe the whole ---- ---- set a score. pay it for me, and we'll call the loan square." no name was signed; but the scene in the quebec club three years before, when eric had come to blows with colonel adderly, explained not only the authorship but louis' treachery. 'tis the misfortune of errant rogues like poor louis that to get out of one scrape ever involves them in a worse. now i understood the tumult of contradictory emotions that had wrought upon him when i had saved his life and he had resolved to undo the wrong to miriam. little fellow put the small canoe to rights, and i had soon joined the others at the sutherland homestead. but for two days the priest lay as one dead, neither moaning nor speaking. on the morning of the third, though he neither opened his eyes nor gave sign of recognition, he asked for bread. then my heart gave a great bound of hope--for surely a man desiring food is recovering!--and i sent frances sutherland to him and went out among the trees above the river. that sense of resilient relief which a man feels on discharging an impossible task, or throwing off too heavy a burden, came over me. miriam was rescued, the priest restored, and i dowered with god's best gift--the love of a noble, fair woman. hard duty's compulsion no longer spurred me; but my thoughts still drove in a wild whirl. there was a glassy reflection of a faded moon on the water, and daybreak came rustling through the trees which nodded and swayed overhead. a twittering of winged things arose in the branches, first only the cadence of a robin's call, an oriole's flute-whistle, the stirring wren's mellow note. then, suddenly, out burst from the leafed sprays a chorus of song that might have rivaled angels' melodies. the robin's call was a gust of triumph. the oriole's strain lilted exultant and a thousand throats gushed out golden notes. "now god be praised for love and beauty and goodness--and above all--for frances--for frances," were the words that every bird seemed to be singing; though, indeed, the interpretation was only my heart's response. i know not how it was, but i found myself with hat off and bowed head, feeling a gratitude which words could not frame--for the splendor of the universe and the glory of god. "rufus," called a voice more musical to my ear than any bird song; and frances was at my side with a troubled face. "he's conscious and talking, but i can't understand what he means. neither can miriam and eric. i wish you would come in." i found the priest pale as the pillows against which he leaned, with glistening eyes gazing fixedly high above the lintel of the door. miriam, with her snow-white hair and sad-lined face, was fanning the air before him. at the other side stood eric with the boy in his arms. mr. sutherland and i entered the room abreast. for a moment his wistful gaze fell on the group about the bed. first he looked at eric and the child, then at miriam, and from miriam to me, then back to the child. the meaning of it all dawned, gleamed and broke in full knowledge upon him; and his face shone as one transfigured. "the lord was with us," he muttered, stroking miriam's white hair. "praise be to god! now i can die in peace----" "no, you can't, father," i cried impetuously. "ye irriverent ruffian," he murmured with a flash of old mirth and a gentle pressure of my hand. "ye irriverent ruffian. peace! peace! i die in peace," and again the wistful eyes gazed above the door. "rufus," he whispered softly, "where are they taking me?" "taking you?" i asked in surprise; but frances sutherland's finger was on her lips, and i stopped myself before saying more. "troth, yes, lad, where are they taking me? the northern tribes have heard not a word of the love of the lord; and i must journey to a far, far country." at that the boy set up some meaningless child prattle. the priest heard him and listened. "father," asked the child in the language of indians when referring to a priest, "father, if the good white father goes to a far, far away, who'll go to northern tribes?" "and a little child shall lead them," murmured the priest, thinking he, himself, had been addressed and feeling out blindly for the boy. eric placed the child on the bed, and father holland's wasted hands ran through the lad's tangled curls. "a little child shall lead them," he whispered. "lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation. a light to lighten the gentiles--and a little child shall lead them." then i first noticed the filmy glaze, as of glass, spreading slowly across the priest's white face. blue lines were on his temples and his lips were drawn. a cold chill struck to my heart, like icy steel. too well i read the signs and knew the summons; and what can love, or gratitude, do in the presence of that summons? miriam's face was hidden in her hands and she was weeping silently. "the northern tribes know not the lord and i go to a far country; but a little child shall lead them!" repeated the priest. "indeed, sir, he shall be dedicated to god," sobbed miriam. "i shall train him to serve god among the northern tribes. do not worry! god will raise up a servant----" but her words were not heeded by the priest. "rufus, lad," he said, gazing afar as before, "lift me up," and i took him in my arms. "my sight is not so good as it was," he whispered. "there's a dimness before my face, lad! can _you_ see anything up there?" he asked, staring longingly forward. "faith, now, what might they all be doing with stars for diadems? what for might the angels o' heaven be doin' going up and down betwane the blue sky and the green earth? faith, lad, 'tis daft ye are, a-changin' of me clothes! lave the black gown, lad! 'tis the badge of poverty and he was poor and knew not where to lay his head of a weary night! lave the black gown, i say! what for wu'd a powr irish priest be doin' a-wearin' of radiant white? where are they takin' me, rufus? not too near the light, lad! i ask but to kneel at the master's feet an' kiss the hem of his robe!" there was silence in the room, but for the subdued sobbing of miriam. frances had caught the priest's wrists in both her hands, and had buried her face on the white coverlet. with his back to the bed, mr. sutherland stood by the window and i knew by the heaving of his angular shoulders that flood-gates of grief had opened. there was silence; but for the hard, sharp, quick, short breathings of the priest. a crested bird hopped to the window-sill with a chirp, then darted off through the quivering air with a glint of sunlight from his flashing wings. i heard the rustle of morning wind and felt the priest's face growing cold against my cheek. "i must work the master's work," he whispered, in short broken breaths, "while it is day--for the night cometh--when no man--can work.--don't hold me back, lad--for i must go--to a far, far country--it's cold, cold, rufus--the way is--rugged--my feet are slipping--slipping--give a hand--lad!--praise to god--there's a resting-place--somewhere!--farewell--boy--be brave--farewell--i may not come back soon--but i must--journey--to--a----far----far----" there was a little gasp for breath. his head felt forward and frances sobbed out, "he is gone! he is gone!" and the warmth of pulsing life in the form against my shoulder gave place to the rigid cold of motionless death. "may the lord god of israel receive the soul of his righteous servant," cried mr. sutherland in awesome tones. with streaming eyes he came forward and helped me to lay the priest back. then we all passed out from that chamber, made sacred by an invisible presence. * * * * * valedictory. 'twas twenty years after father holland's death that a keen-eyed, dark-skinned, young priest came from montreal on his way to athabasca. this was miriam's son. to-day it is he, the missionary famous in the north land, who passing back and forward between his lonely mission in the athabasca and the headquarters of his order, comes to us and occupies the guest-chamber in our little, old-fashioned, vine-grown cottage. the retaking of fort douglas virtually closed the bitter war between hudson's bay and nor'-westers. to both companies the conflict had proved ruinous. each was as anxious as the other for the terms of peace by which the great fur-trading rivals were united a few years after the massacre of seven oaks. so ended the despotic rule of gentlemen adventurers in the far north. the massacre turned the attention of britain to this unknown land and the daring heroism of explorers has given place to the patient nation-building of multitudes who follow the pioneer. such is the record of a day that is done. produced from images made available by the hathitrust digital library.) [illustration: virginia "cautiously pushed aside the portiere, then entered the room."] an oregon girl alfred ernest rice scenes: portland, oregon, and environs. time: within the last fifteen years. personae: john thorpe: director, investment co. constance: his wife virginia: his sister, an oregon girl dorothy: his five-year-old daughter hazel brooke: his niece smith: his irish coachman philip rutley: ex-president, investment co. jack shore: ex-secretary investment co. james harris: retired merchant mrs. harris: his wife sam harris: his nephew, and hero joe corway: secretly engaged to virginia, but forsakes her for hazel mr. williams: attorney at law dr. mackay: the harris family physician simms: a detective wells: harris' coachman gene, spike: boys ship's officers, and others introductory in the year -- a legend adorned with gold and bearing the significant words, "the securities investment association, mr. philip rutley, president, mr. jack shore, secretary-treasurer," appeared on the glass panel of a certain office door on third street, in the city of portland, oregon. these two men were middle-aged bachelors, and moved in select society. through their social standing they had persuaded two wealthy men of the city to lend their names as stockholders and directors in the company; but the investment company's business failed to meet the expenses which the social living of the two promoters felt were demanded of them, and the inevitable happened, viz., a resort to dishonest manipulations of sundry bond transactions by which the two wealthy directors had to "make good." it resulted, on discovery, in the immediate closing of the office and prosecution of the offenders was ordered; but because of their social standing and promise to leave the city at once, criminal proceedings were suspended. three years elapsed. in the medium-sized room of a plainly furnished flat, in a genteel suburb of the "bay city," a man sat brooding over the ill luck which had pursued him for the past few years. this man, as he sat with elbows on his knees and chin resting on his hands, was looking through the open window and out over the bay, out over that far off rugged ridge of purple and gray and white that projected up in the clear ethereal blue, northward, gazing with eyes fixed into nothingness, for he was deeply absorbed in a review of his past career and of the sunny time he had enjoyed while living in portland. his straw colored hair, verging to a sandy hue, framed a smooth shaven face of marked strength and intelligence. his eyes of a bluish gray, were bright when shielded by spectacles, worn more from fashion than necessity, glittered with keenness and energy. jack shore rarely allowed his naturally aggressive and buoyant spirits to remain for long depressed by a gloomy retrospect; but the purpose of his prolonged stare at vacancy on this occasion was attributable to the necessity of another visit to mr. loan-on-personal-property. his reverie was ended by the abrupt entry of his companion, philip rutley, who drawled out in quiet tones: "jack--aw--i beg pardon. i see you are engaged." jack looked at his visitor, noted his dignified bearing and unwonted coolness as he removed his gloves; noted the smile of cunning pleasure that played about his mouth and, from experience, concluded that some deep scheme had been thought out and a line of action forming. "well, phil," he replied, "what game is on now?" "a well dressed lady and gentleman, strangers," began phil, "halted me on market street and addressed me as 'my lord beauchamp.' they warmly shook my hand and gushingly insisted that i promise them the pleasure of presenting our very dear friends,--mr. and mrs. orthodox--to lord beauchamp at the palace tonight." "of course, you consented!" quietly laughed jack. "ahem! unfortunately i had instructed my secretary to 'clear' the yacht for the north this evening, and as all arrangements were complete, must beg, with profound regrets" (and he bent low with courtly grace) "to decline the pleasure. should you be visiting england next summer, my cordial invitation to rest a month or so at--a--beauchamp, isle of wight." "and you--" "beckoned a passing cab; bade them 'adieu' and drove on a few blocks." "i congratulate you on your iron-clad nerve," laughingly remarked jack. "and you withdrew with your new title,--a--me lord beauchamp, sitting jauntily, like a chip on your shoulder,--undisturbed." "how could i do otherwise? you know i am opposed to shocks, but seriously, jack, the incident has suggested a way out of our embarrassment." "how?" "by carrying the thing on and be a lord in fact, with you as my secretary." jack laughed, low and yet with a heartiness that was rollicking in its abandon, and then added by way of parenthesis: "i shall announce 'your grace's' intention to visit portland." "precisely! you are well aware of the great esteem in which me lord beauchamp is likely to be held there, particularly by our friends, the thorpes, harrises, et al." "a proper entry will create quite a stir among the fashionable set," remarked jack reflectively. "and give us opportunities to 'work' them some." "are you agreed?" "yes," responded jack. "it will be a damn good joke, anyway," and again he laughed, for as the horn of plenty flitted before his vision his spirits soared once more, above the measly depths of want and anxiety. "as an american," he continued, "you have as much right to play the role of lord, general or judge as any other name by which your friends may be pleased to 'dub' you." chapter i. within the perimeter of a great semi-circle window in a large luxuriously furnished room of a fashionable residence not far from hill, in the city of portland, two women sat reading. it was an autumn afternoon, just after a light shower, a little warm but rarely matched for the unusual splendor of its soft, dreamy atmosphere--calm and clear as infinite space. the incessant roar of the city's commerce floated up and through the screened windows in muffled echoes, but the readers being accustomed to the sound, were undisturbed. at length one of the readers, a girl who had not seen more than twenty summers, closed the book she had just finished reading and broke the silence with the remark: "most interesting! a great story!" "yes," exclaimed her companion, looking up, "particularly in its treatment of the bogus count. indeed, it is realistic enough to be true." "so it appears!" replied the maid, "but just imagine such a thing to happen--as for instance a tramp to impersonate successfully lord beauchamp!" "my lord is a gentleman 'to the manor born,' and impossible of counterfeit." "i understand the reception by mrs. harris is to be given in his honor?" "yes," replied mrs. thorpe, and smiling she went on: "he has promised to take tea with us today." "and do you know," said hazel in an awed tone, "he's a knight of the order of the garter? it is reported that he is to be married to a beautiful san francisco girl." "i have heard it mentioned, but i hardly think his lordship seeks a wife in america, because he is very wealthy." "but, constance,--love is sometimes eccentric!" "quite true, when its underlying motive is mercenary. you remember philip rutley." "constance!" exclaimed the girl, with a stamp of her foot. "you know the wise proverb, 'let sleeping dogs lie.'" it was then that philip rutley, impersonating lord beauchamp, was ushered in, accompanied by mr. joseph corway. "ah! my lord," greeted constance arising from her seat. "this delightful corner has lured us to forget to welcome you at the portal of our home. allow me the pleasure of introducing miss hazel brooke, and you, mr. corway,--well you know we are always 'at home' to you." as rutley deliberately placed a monocle to his eye, he said, "a corner with such an entrancing vista," carelessly waving his hand toward the open, "is a pardonable lure to dreamy forgetfulness." then he stared at the girl and, as he supposed, conveyed the desired impression, muttered: "charming!" and that word, uttered with quiet and apparently involuntary emphasis, at once made hazel brooke his friend, and, to add to the favorable impression which rutley perceived he had created, he bowed low and said suavely: "miss brooke will permit me to say, i rejoice in her acquaintance." "your lordship may find me a deceiver." "i shall not believe so winsome a flower can be unreal." and he again fixed the monocle to his eye and stared at her in pleased assurance. "art simulates many charming things of nature," remarked mrs. thorpe, and she slyly glanced at hazel. the girl almost laughed; but her gentle breeding came to the rescue, and she bore rutley's stare with admirable nonchalance, until mr. corway, feeling a little amused at lord beauchamp's monopoly of the girl's attention answered mrs. thorpe: "yet nature cannot be excelled in anything that is beautiful in art." for which he received from the girl a smile that thrilled him with a conviction that no lord, no croesus, nor commoner, could dethrone him from her heart. the ordeal in which hazel found herself under rutley's disconcerting stare, was terminated by mrs. thorpe. "your lordship must be familiar with many beautiful things of nature. by the way, i want you to visit our conservatory. we have some choice exotics there from the orinoco." rutley removed his monocle, and turned to mrs. thorpe. "my secretary obtained some rare specimens in bogota, nevertheless i shall consider it a pleasure to visit your collection, for indeed it must be superb, judging from such natural beauty already in evidence." "you are coming, too," said mrs. thorpe, turning to hazel and mr. corway. "thanks!--that is,--we shall join you presently," stammered mr. corway, looking at hazel with a half smile. mrs. thorpe looked amused as she said: "oh, very well," and then, halting on the threshold, turned again and added: "hazel, dear, don't forget the conservatory." rutley and mrs. thorpe had scarcely gone when hazel exclaimed: "well! i'm waiting for you." "of course," corway replied haltingly; then, after a pause, "hazel!" "miss brooke--please," she corrected, with a tantalizing smile. "oh--confound it. hazel"--he began again. "are you coming?" she interrupted, moving away, but with an aggravating smile playing fitfully about her face. whereupon he bowed low, with mock formality, approached her offering his arm. "i crave the honor." the girl placed her hand in his arm with a promptness that flushed his face, but immediately blanched it with the teasing remark: "it's to be only as far as the conservatory, you know." "and from there around the grounds," he replied tenderly. "oh!" she exclaimed. "you insist on going the rounds with me? oh, very well!" and they laughed together. shortly after they had gone, the portieres of an entrance to the left were cautiously parted and a young girl peeped in, then entered the room. she was the embodiment of youth, happiness and expectancy. she was dressed in the whitest of white muslin. a narrow band of magenta-colored silk encircled her slender waist, the long, loose ends of the bow flowing almost to her feet, while her mass of raven black hair drawn back from her fair white forehead, and coiled at the back of her shapely head lent a queenly grace to a divinely moulded form. the suppleness of her carriage, intensified by the simplicity of her soft, faultless dress, was a poem of delight which needed no skill of adornment to beautify; no touch of art to dignify. across the room she stole, as lightly as though her feet were winged, and listened at the door. "i am sure i heard his voice!" then with a smile of joy, she tripped to the open window overlooking the piazza, and looked out, murmuring--"how i long to see him. my joe! handsome, manly joe, i adore you. and these, his flowers--his favorite flower, our beautiful rose," drawing from her hair two red roses, which she kissed again and again. "i hurried home because i could not remain away from you, and now--oh, the joy of a glad surprise--i hear footsteps!" and she listened expectantly, then turned to behold mrs. harris, an elderly lady of portly bearing and elegantly dressed, who was at that moment entering from the piazza. "why, virginia, i am delighted. you look the happiest girl in the land," taking her hand and kissing her. "oregon peach-bloom on your cheeks, too; i'll wager you are just in from the farm, you hayseed." "yes, and i've had the most delightful time," replied the girl softly. "romped over the fields of sweet-smelling clover, and through the orchards, and helped in the hay-field, too," she laughed joyously. "hands up! i mean the palms," said mrs. harris, in mock severity. "it must have been a silver rake you handled in the hay-field," she resumed, after scrutinizing the palms of virginia's outstretched hands, "for there isn't even a callous." "it is harvest time," replied the girl, laughing, "and the harvest moon is death to callouses, you know." "we've missed you, dear, at seaside," said mrs. harris. "but still you look just as charming as though you had been there the entire season." "you rude flatterer. the seaside is nice, but i love our dear old farm home in the valley, best. yet"--virginia continued, demurely, with downcast eyes, "it seemed a little dull this year, and, you see, i have a reason for coming in before the harvest is over." as the girl stood with downcast eyes, her countenance appeared exquisitely regular, dignified and very beautiful. "ah, dear!" exclaimed mrs. harris, with admiration. "an affair of the heart--a man in it, eh, dear?--i know him. he will be here in a few moments--lucky fellow!" "will he?--are you sure?" "dear me! how joyful you are!" said mrs. harris, staring kindly at her. "oh, if you had been away from your sweetheart for so long a time as i have been from mine"-- "ha! ha! ha! ha!" laughed mrs. harris. "why, virginia dear, only two weeks! really you carry me back to my own girlish days, just after i met james--i remember well--my heart nearly fluttered out of its place." "my heart fluttered out of its place weeks and weeks ago, and will not flutter back, unless"-- "unless what, dear?" "unless he despises it," she said, with a sigh. "well, the dear boy is pining to see you. that i know, so there is a pair of you." "is he getting thin?" questioned virginia, eagerly. "not exactly, but--listen!" and mrs. harris held up a warning finger as she looked out over the piazza. "he is coming!" "oh, dear!" exclaimed virginia, in an ecstacy of joy. "i shall hide and surprise him. oh! his favorites have wilted. i will pluck fresh ones in the conservatory, and hasten back--don't tell!" and with that she flew out of the room through the portieres. as mrs. harris stood alone in a contemplative mood, she said aloud to herself: "oh, dear! these hearts of ours! how foolish they make us at times--i have often thought our sam was a 'lady killer,' now i am sure of it." just then sam harris stepped across the piazza and entered the room. sam was a young man just having passed his twenty-fourth birthday. his strong chin was indicative of fidelity to his friends, and his mass of reddish, curly hair lent expression to a jovial expression of countenance. sam was particularly joyous in anticipation of meeting virginia thorpe. "have you seen her, auntie?" and he straightway opened a door leading to the library and looked in; then he closed it. mrs. harris quietly watched him and became disturbed with misgivings, lest his zeal in his present frame of mind would impair the dignity she considered so essential to his enterprise as well as to the position the harrises held in society. it was therefore necessary to impress on him the importance of "proper" form, which she immediately undertook, and addressed him with calm stateliness. "now, sam, i warn you to be careful how you greet virginia. remember, though but twenty-two, she is an accomplished young lady." "don't i know it!" he replied, with a satisfied smile. "don't touch the portieres, sam! sam!" she exclaimed in alarm, but her command was unheeded, and sam spread them wide apart, much to his aunt's consternation. no one being behind the portiere, she appeared amazed, but quickly recovering her composure, continued: "dear me! how very strange! oh, yes, i forgot. she has gone to the conservatory." then she muttered in low tones: "now i have said it, and she told me not to tell." "well, i'm off to the conservatory, too--eh, auntie! don't follow me," and he strode toward the piazza. "sam! sam! remain here. i have something to say to you." "well, be quick, auntie. you know i am crazy to see her. eh! i guess so." "'crazy!' well, remember the least display of rudeness or unseemly eagerness will be promptly met with a frown of displeasure." "auntie, she's finer than the petals of a rose." "but, like a rose, too, she is just as sensitive," cautioned mrs. harris, as she majestically moved over to the mantel--and then she abruptly turned, at a fresh thought. "sam, for the sake of our social prestige--for my own hope that your affection shall be reciprocated"-- "love, auntie!" interrupted sam. "that's the word. it's short and to the point. eh?" quite undisturbed by the interruption, she continued: "and for the supreme pleasure it would afford me to see the house of harris united to the house of thorpe, i desire that you give me an example of the manner you intend to approach virginia." the idea appeared so grotesque to sam that he gave a slight inclination of his head, a habit he had somehow acquired in the "desert," and exclaimed in startled emphasis: "ea-ah! how?" "by addressing me as you would her." with a smile broadening his face and a roguish twinkle of the eye, he exclaimed: "can't be done, auntie! you ain't the real thing. can't work up any excitement over a counterfeit." "sam! it grieves me to say that i fear for your success. her rejection of your suit would mean humiliation for us. therefore i insist that you remember what i have told you and address virginia as i shall instruct you." sam was too shrewd to oppose his aunt's determination--a previous experience having taught him the desirability of quietly agreeing with her notions, so with a smile of acquiescence he answered: "all right, auntie! fire away." drawing herself up in a stately pose, she passed to the end of the room, turned, and again faced him. "now, sam, i request you to impress upon your memory every word i utter, so that you may salute your lady-love in a similar manner. do you comprehend?" "i think so, auntie," and thereupon thrust his hands in his trouser pockets. "sam, remove your hands from your pockets. it is neither good form nor in accordance with polite usage, for a gentleman to bury his hands in his trouser pockets, when in the presence of a lady." "all right, auntie!" and he grinned broadly as he removed the offending hands. with a most affable smile, yet maintaining a dignified carriage, she advanced down the room, halted midway, and gracefully bowed, then continuing, extended her hand, which sam took. she again bowed and carried his hand to her lips; then taking both his hands in hers and looking straight into his eyes, smiled and said: "i am delighted to have the honor of congratulating miss thorpe on her safe return." she then released his hands and proceeded across the room. "is that all?" came from sam, in a burst of dismay. mrs. harris turned sharply and emphatically exclaimed: "yes, sam. in your conversation with virginia beware of gushing familiarity. nothing to my mind is more likely to jeopardize your suit than absurd vulgarity." so saying, she again turned and proceeded toward the door. "auntie, i can do better than that. why, you left out the best part." and his eyes twinkled mischieviously, while a laugh on his face was suppressed with difficulty. she turned quickly, and in much surprise exclaimed: "dear me! i didn't know it. what is it?" "i will show you." with that sam passed to the end of the room and turned. "now, auntie, i'll try to think that you are my sweetheart, virginia." smiling, he proceeded down the room, halted midway, bowed and then continued toward his aunt, took her right hand, clasped it between his two, and looked into her eyes. he then raised her hand to his left shoulder and while he held it there, pressed her waist with his right arm--"i am delighted to welcome you home again." pressing her closer to him--"believe me--i--i can never forget--that i--i,"--then he became absent-minded and, to save himself, suddenly blurted out--"i love you--there!" and he kissed her lips and embraced her vigorously. then, with a whirl, he released her, laughing as he did so, and exclaimed: "ah ha! i guess so, eh, auntie?" mrs. harris recovered herself, in the middle of the room, and gasped out: "oh, dear! what a shock. i am sure i am twisted all out of shape." sam stood with a satisfied grin on his face, and thrust his hands in his trouser pockets, and watched her. "that was love! the real thing--eh, auntie!" "dear me," she exclaimed, between her labored breathing. "i was never treated to anything so rude in my life. your arm, sam. assist me to the piazza. i must have more air." "auntie, you wait till i try it on virginia. oh, my! eh!" meanwhile a little scene was being enacted in the conservatory, destined to produce the gravest consequences to others than those directly concerned. after examining the rare plants, mrs. thorpe and my lord had passed out to an attractive bed of massed chrysanthemums, fringed with geraniums, then in full flower--leaving hazel and corway alone. propitious fate again granted him the opportunity he so ardently desired. they were looking at some violet buds, concealed by giant canna leaves and a profusion of palms, when there passed through the girl's frame one of those mysterious thrills--which man designates magnetic, but which providence has really made inscrutable to the human understanding. "i wonder," she faintly exclaimed, and slowly turning her head--their lips met. though stolen, it was delicately done--one of those exquisite little gems of cause and effect, which naturally happen to true sweethearts. they stood looking at each other in surprised silence. "i did not grant you that privilege," at length broke from hazel, in a faltering manner--her cheeks flushing and her soft blue eyes dancing. "i could not resist the temptation," and taking her two hands in his, added: "hazel, i love you! will you be mine?" "why, mr. corway!" replied the maid, disengaging herself. she spoke and acted quietly, while a bewitching smile shone in her eyes. at that moment, unnoticed by them, a shadow suddenly darkened the doorway. it did not tarry long, and swiftly disappeared. unseen herself, virginia had entered the conservatory, her footfalls as light as her joyous young heart, the happiest of the happy. hearing that voice, she had paused, then gently parted some leaves and--the smile died on her lips. she stood for a moment like one transfixed, listening in an amazed wonder, then, undiscovered, she silently withdrew into deeper foliage. "why draw away from me, hazel?" went on corway. "because! you may not be sincere!" replied the girl, shyly. "not sincere? hazel, from the first moment that i beheld you i felt that i stood in the presence of my fate." "but, mr. corway,"--she returned, with that provoking smile still lurking about the corners of her pretty mouth--"don't you love any other?" "no," he softly replied. "are you sure?" "sure!" "not even virginia?" "i respect her, but do not love her--oh, hazel, do not keep me in suspense. tell me you requite my love--promise to be mine, to cherish and protect forever"--and again he took her unresisting hand in his and drew her near him. "well, this is so serious that--don't you think that i should have a little time to consider it?" her face had taken on a half-serious look, but the little cloud was quickly chased away by a happy smile. nor did it escape the eager eye of her sweet-heart. he saw that her hesitation was not to be taken seriously, and as a test he said in soft, tremulous accents: "then the girl i would die for does not love me, does not care for me--" turning half around to him, in a pleading and half-reproachful way, she tenderly emphasized: "oh, i do love you, joe, with all my heart." and throwing wide her arms, fell on his breast, with the joy of a maiden's first love flushing her face. and then their lips met--deep in the sweet intoxication of love's first confiding trust. "thou perfect flower! to express the fullness of my heart would be impossible," he joyfully exclaimed. and thus, while pressing her hand on his shoulder and feeling a ring on her finger, he gently removed it. "oh! that's virginia's ring; that is, i got it from her," she protested feebly, her head pillowed on his breast. "it shall be a 'mizpah' of trust, dearest, and shall come back to you with an engagement ring," he softly replied, as he slipped it into his vest pocket. in one of virginia's happy girlish moments, she had picked up the ring from constance's dressing table, and admiring its beauty, smilingly slipped it upon her own finger, with the owner's permission to wear it awhile, but with the injunction to "be careful not to lose it, dear, for i value it very highly. it was john's gift to me before we were married"--and then later, on that same day, with hazel's arm clasping her waist and her own arm clasping hazel's, the two happy girls strolling through the grounds--to have hazel remove it in the same admiring fashion and slip it on her own finger, virginia yielding to her young cousin, just as constance, in perfect trust, yielded to her. and then in the morning, all forgetful of the ring, she left for the valley farm. and now, on her sudden return, she beheld that same ring taken by corway as a size for hazel's engagement ring, and heard him declare "it shall be a mizpah of trust, dearest." a sigh unconsciously escaped her; a sigh freighted with the blood of fibers as love tore itself away from her heart. hazel heard it, and in alarm said to corway: "what is that? did you hear it? so like a moan?" he looked around. "you were mistaken, dearest; there is none here but you and me." "oh, yes, i heard it"--and with a timidity in which a slight sense of fear was discernible, said: "let us go out in the open." but he held her firm, loath to release the beautiful being clasped close to his heart. "this is for truest love"--and he kissed her again, as she looked up through eyes of unswerving fidelity. "this for never-faltering constancy"--and again their lips met--"and this, a sacred pledge of life's devotion, god helping me, forever more"--and their lips met yet once again. then they passed out to join mrs. thorpe and rutley. virginia had witnessed the pledge that meant the blighting of her life's fond hopes, and she had heard his passionate declaration. with straining eyes and a very white face, she watched them depart, till there welled up and gathered thick-falling tears that mercifully shut him out from her sight. she sat down on a bench. she thought of the honeyed words and eager attention with which he wooed her, and made captive her young heart's deepest, most ardent passion, and now his perfidy was laid bare. with an effort she became more composed, and exclaimed aloud: "so, the almighty dollar is the object of joseph corway's devotion." and as her indignation increased, she sprang from her seat, and with quivering voice, said: "oh, god! and i did confide in him so fondly, trusted him so guilelessly, and now our engagement is ended and all is over between us--forever." and notwithstanding her effort to suppress them, sob after sob burst forth. strong-minded and of powerful emotions, virginia thorpe was a queenly woman, a woman whose friendship was prized by her acquaintances, and whose wealth of intellect was a charm to a strikingly graceful figure; and the love that was in her nature once awakened, grew and intensified day by day till at last a steadfast blaze of trust and confidence glorified her personality. such she bore for corway--until she discovered he loved hazel. oh, what a change then came over her, as her heart yielded up its dearest desire in tears of scalding bitterness. "oh, joe! tenderly i loved you, passionately i adored you, and you led me to believe that you loved none but me, yet all the time your heart had gone out to another, and this is no doubt the real reason you wanted our engagement to be kept a secret, and my love, which no woman had greater, was but a plaything!" she thought to herself. she looked at the roses she had unconsciously held in her hand, with infinite tenderness, then crushed them, and broke them. "farewell, sweet emblems of truth and love." and throwing the flowers, which she had so fondly kissed but a few moments before, among dead leaves on the ground, said in a voice that trembled with the pathos of the death of love's young dream: "thus perish all my young life's happy hopes. gone! gone among the things that are dead." sobs of bitterest disappointment again burst from her lips. suddenly she brushed her hand across her eyes--it was then that virginia's transformation took place. from the guileless, joyful, winsome maid, emerged a woman--beautiful, but alas, subtle, alert and avenging. with a stamp of her foot she said, with sudden determination: "away with these tears. what have i to do with human feelings now? i will conquer this weakness, though in the process my heart be changed to stone. "now, corway, beware of me, for you shall know that the love you have toyed with has changed to hate, an unappeasable, undying hate, and you shall learn, too, that a woman's revenge will pause at nothing that will help to gratify it." then she slipped out of the conservatory, with the intention to get to her room, if possible, unobserved, but was halted by hearing constance say: "virginia, dear! i wish to make you acquainted with lord beauchamp." there was no chance for evasion or escape. virginia had not noticed them as she passed, for they were hidden by the angle of the conservatory, and she was quite close to them when addressed by constance. quick of wit, the girl realized that some excuse was necessary to account for the appearance of her tear-stained face. halting in her flight, she drew her handkerchief and commenced to rub her eyes, and speaking with faltering lips, for the wound in her heart was yet raw and tender, she said: "your lordship finds me at an awkward moment--something has gotten into my eye, and causes me acute pain, but please believe, i esteem it an honor to number your grace among my acquaintances." "dear heart!" exclaimed constance, at once proceeding to examine the girl's eye. "let me try to relieve you!" as virginia felt the touch of loving fingers on her eyelids, she felt powerless to restrain her emotion, and great tears welled up. her weary head fell forward upon her friend's shoulder, and she sobbed: "oh, constance, dear, the world to me is one black charnel house." the gentle nature of constance leaped out in sympathy which, for the moment, smothered her surprise. she threw her arms around virginia and kissed her on the temple. that virginia suffered was enough, she felt instinctively that such an outburst of grief was from a far deeper source than that produced by the mote in her eye. virginia always had confided in constance. that desire to communicate, so natural in youth, was strong in the girl. in hazel, she had been met with a sort of pity, till she ceased to touch upon girlish secrets with her altogether, but in constance she found one who would not chide even folly, and so these two were, by the nature of things, very close friends. "there, dear heart," soothingly said constance, "rest awhile, for i know the pain must be severe." rutley was an involuntary witness to this bit of feminine sympathy, and, no doubt, recalled it to memory in the events that were to come. his immediate concern, however, expressed itself in a cold, matter-of-fact manner. "oftentimes," he said, "the protection supplied by nature to the human eye seems insufficient, and consequent suffering must be endured. i trust miss thorpe will soon find relief." "oh! i am sure the pain is only temporary," half rebelliously replied virginia, drawing away from constance, and rapidly recovering her self-possession, as she brushed the tears from her eyes. "there," she said, "it is passing away now, and i can see quite distinctly already. why, how like your lordship resembles a past acquaintance," she remarked, as she eyed him critically. "indeed, if the acquaintance you mention was not consigned to the gallows, it might be no sin to resemble him," responded rutley, stroking his vandyke beard. "oh! his offense was quite serious, poor fellow! some shady bond transaction with an investment association, in which he, and one jack shore, were the officers. i have heard that the directors agreed not to prosecute them on condition that they left the city and never returned." "in england, were it not for the color of my hair, i should have been taken often for the marquis of revelstoke," and to the girl's dismay, he stiffened up and directed on her a most austere and frigid look, then deliberately fixed the monocle to his eye, and remarked, as his frame faintly quivered, as with a slight chill--"it's deuced draughty, don't-che-know!" he then removed the monocle, and suddenly resumed his habitually suave manner. picking up a binocle, which lay on the table, he turned to look toward mt. hood--"sublime!" he exclaimed. "it is very beautiful and white today," remarked constance. "indeed," assured rutley, "it seems close enough to touch with my outstretched hand." "my lord's arm would need to be thirty miles long," smiled mrs. thorpe, who was then ascending the steps. "a long reach," responded rutley, lowering the glass. "the illusion is due to our clear atmosphere," replied mrs. thorpe. "i presume so," agreed rutley. "at times the air is phenomenally clear. one day this past summer i fancied i could make out the 'mazamas,' who were then ascending the mountain," quietly remarked virginia. "aw, indeed, very likely; quite so," continued rutley, handing the glass to constance, and then turning to virginia with an alluring smile, added: "and then, the ladies--are so bewitchingly entertaining." "presumably your idea of american girls has suggested the art of flattery." "no, no!" he replied. "it's no flattery, i assure you." just then hazel and mr. corway approached the group standing on the piazza. virginia saw them, and with an affected sigh, she turned to john thorpe, who was standing at the head of the piazza steps, and who also was looking at the approaching couple, and taking him aside, said in a low voice: "john, has it occurred to you that corway is a handsome man?" "he certainly is good looking and well proportioned, too," replied thorpe, with a quizzical stare at his sister, and his stare developed a smile, as he added, pleasantly: "but why?--are you, too, becoming enamored of this handsome man?" with downcast eyes, and sudden flushed cheeks, that betrayed the shame she felt at the part she had elected to assume, her answer was given in a low, serious voice: "i have reason to warn you as my cousin's guardian, that his intentions are not of the best." thorpe felt a strange gripping sensation creep into his heart, and then he, too, looked serious, but his seriousness quickly passed, as he thoughtfully muttered: "no, no, 'tis impossible!" and then, in a more unperturbed manner, said slowly: "his reputation for honor and rectitude is above reproach." though his muttering was scarcely audible, virginia heard him. "are you sure?" she replied, in a voice equally subdued, and with a flash of anger in her meaning glance. "you may find that he will bear watching. and you also may find that his attention to hazel is an insult to our family honor." the possibility of hazel, his guileless orphan niece, of whom he was so proud, could be the victim of a base deception, had never entered his mind, and so it happened that the first shadow that had darkened the serenity of his trust, was, strangely enough, projected by his sister. as his eyes again fell upon hazel's sweet, sensible face, then lifted to the manly, honest countenance of her companion, he at once banished the fear from his mind, and impatiently exclaimed: "oh, this is nonsense!" then he turned on his heel, hesitated, and again turned, and looked furtively at corway, muttering: "yet i cannot banish the thought. i wonder what causes virginia--no, i have never suspected him of vice." then he slowly disappeared through the vestibule. as corway and hazel approached the steps, virginia seemed to stiffen and slightly shudder. she felt like ice, and disdained the slightest recognition which he made to her. she turned away with a look of ineffable contempt, and moved slowly over to rutley and constance. corway instinctively felt that she had been a witness to his scene with hazel, but he affected unconcern, and allowed the incident to pass without comment. during the brief time this significant episode was being enacted, hazel's attention was attracted to sam and dorothy approaching on the drive, so she was unaware of the change that had come over her cousin. "you must come in, sam, 'cause i like you, and you haven't been to see us for a long time--oh, mamma, we have had such fine fun, sam and i"--and there appeared from around the corner of the piazza dorothy thorpe pulling sam harris along by the sleeve. "well, sam," said mrs. thorpe, overlooking him from the piazza, "we thought you had forgotten us." "no, indeed," replied sam, and as he discovered virginia, he added under his breath: "at least not while that fair party is around." "of course, you have acted as mrs. harris' escort?" "my aunt is on the lawn," he answered, and then as he ascended the steps, greeted virginia. "miss thorpe will permit me to congratulate her upon her safe return." "i have had quite a journey," replied virginia coldly. "well, you have enjoyed it?" ventured sam, and then he noted a swift questioning glance of anger. in his dilemma, he felt an awkwardness creeping over him and grinned broadly, and then stupidly faltered: "that is, i guess so!" "you guess wide of the mark." "aha," replied sam, with a roguish twinkle of the eye, "my eyes do not deceive me, eh?" "flattery is embarrassing to me. i beg of you to avoid it." and she thereupon, with a look of weariness, turned and disappeared through the vestibule. "i guess so! i guess so!" exclaimed sam, abashed, and a flush of mortification overspread his face. "do you like auntie, sam?" abruptly questioned the child. she had softly stolen to his side, unperceived, and her voice sounded so close as to startle him. "ea, ah!--well, i should think so," he unconsciously muttered. "mercy!" exclaimed mrs. thorpe, who could ill repress a smile--"dorothy, dear! i think the robins are calling for you out in the sunshine." "come, little one," said sam, glad of an opportunity to escape from an awkward position. "and while you are listening to the feathered songsters, i'll keep a sharp lookout for the fair party you call auntie. come," and he took the child's hand and the two ran down the steps. darting around the corner, they almost collided with john thorpe and mrs. harris, who were approaching to join the company on the piazza. "ha--democratic hazel in the role of 'noblesse oblige,' is something new--congratulations, my lord, on the conquest!" said mrs. harris. "i am proud of the acquaintance of so fair a a democrat," and confronting mrs. harris, he continued: "england's nobility lays homage at the feet of your fair democrats, for they are the golden links in the chain of conquest." "and it is my hope that soon one of the golden links will bear the distinguished title, lady beauchamp," replied mrs. harris, while her eyes flashed a merry twinkle in the direction of hazel. "of course," remarked mr. corway, who, flushed with jealousy resented the allusion. "his lordship doubtless since his arrival in the country has been overwhelmed with offerings of the youth and beauty of america." "it seems to me that you are talking in mysteries," remarked hazel. mr. corway moved toward her. "i appeal to the shrine of beauteous hebe for vindication." "ha! ha! ha! ha!" laughed the girl. "wouldn't it be a surprise if the appeal should be negative?" "but the shrine of hebe is not often invincible," rejoined constance. "you must remember there is hope and there is perseverence--but this is irrelevant," and, turning to mrs. harris, continued: "have you left mr. harris at rosemont?" "oh, no! james is out in the flower garden, discussing rose culture with virginia." "then i propose that we join them," said mrs. thorpe. "and i suggest a stroll through the lovely lawn, under the glory of autumn foliage," added rutley, who immediately turned and offered constance his arm, and the two passed down the steps. hazel and corway were following rutley, when john thorpe attracted the girl's attention by quietly exclaiming: "hazel!" she at once turned to corway: "i shall be with you directly--uncle has something to say to me." as mr. corway and mrs. harris passed down the steps, john thorpe and hazel entered the house. "you have something to say to me, uncle?" "yes, hazel," and as they passed into the drawing room he bit his lip in an endeavor to appear unperturbed. with a girl's intuition, she scented something unpleasant, and with a timid and startled look, she faltered: "what--is it uncle?" "hazel," he began, and his eyes rested on his beautiful niece--very beautiful just then, her eyes bright and clear and "peach-bloom" of health, the famed oregon coloring so becoming to the sex, and as he looked at her he became suddenly conscious of a struggle raging in his breast. a struggle between doubt and confidence--but he stumbled on slowly--"i think--you show more--concern for--a--the company of mr. corway than prudence--i mean--hazel!" at that moment virginia pushed aside the portiere and silently stepped into the room. john thorpe paused, for he saw the girl's face whiten, and her eyes look into his with an expression of wonderment, and then his heart seemed to leap to his throat, and choke him with a sense of shame at his implication. he put his arm gently about her, looked into the depths of her blue eyes, and said, kindly: "as you love the memory of your father and your mother, hazel, beware that you do not make too free in the society of corway. let your conduct be hedged about with propriety"---- "uncle!" she interrupted, drawing away from him like a startled fawn hit from ambush. virginia saw her opportunity to sever the friendship between her brother and corway. before her transformation she would have been shocked beyond measure at so wicked a falsehood, as she then decided to launch. impelled by a consuming desire for revenge, no blush of shame checked her mad course, and "no still small voice" warned her of her sin. she said: "john, if our family honor is to be protected from scandal, you will prevent your niece from having further to do with mr. corway." both john and hazel turned toward her. a deep silence ensued. implicit trust and confidence, the confidence begotten in perfect domestic peace and contentment, had followed john thorpe--but now, for the first time, he found a tinge of shame and indignation had crept into his heart--and he could not banish it. at last he gravely broke the silence--"have you no answer to this, hazel?" the girl's eyes flashed resentment, but she refrained from angry expression, for to her uncle she always showed the greatest deference, yet her voice trembled a little as she said, with girlish dignity: "i decline to reply to such an absurdity." "hazel!" warned virginia, "you are dangerously near ruin when in the company of that man, for his reputation is anything but clean." again a painful silence followed, hazel, appearing incapable of clearly understanding just what it was all about, stood dumb with astonishment, while john's varied emotions were seen plainly through the thin veneer of tranquility he tried to maintain. john thorpe was jealous of the honor of his house. the mere thought of its possible violation bruised and lacerated him. proud of his high position in society; proud of his high rectitude; proud of his father's untarnished life; proud of the fact that not the faintest shadow of scandal could ever attach to his house or name--the hinted criminations of his his orphan niece, maintained in his home as one of the family, beat upon him with much the same effect as the horrifying wings of a bat upon the face of a frightened child. virginia saw and felt that the crisis of her ruse was near. again a flush of daring sprang into her eyes, ominous of deeper sin, but john unconsciously spared her from further commitment. doubt was master at last, for he chose to lean toward virginia. "hazel!" he exclaimed, his white, grave face betraying a keen sense of his shame. "your rash fondness for that man is a sacrifice of affection, and i shall forbid him visiting our house." "a wise precaution," commented virginia. at last hazel's indignation broke through all restraint. "i am astonished at your implications," she retorted, her voice becoming pathetic with the sense of her wounded honor. "my 'rash fondness'! uncle!" and she drew her slight form up erect, her eyes flashing defiance: "if to believe in mr. corway's preferment is a sacrifice of affection, then that sacrifice is to me an exalted honor, for i have consented to become his wife!" "hazel!" gasped john thorpe, amazed and dismayed at her declaration. "i have suspected such a calamity would happen--but even now it is not too late to prevent it!" exclaimed virginia, sharply. "why, virginia," reproached hazel, with a stamp of her foot. "you insult me!" and she turned away to conceal the tears that arose. during a short, impressive silence, mrs. harris abruptly entered the room, followed by corway and sam. "dear me!" she exclaimed, as she smilingly surveyed the trio, "james has often gone into raptures over the domestic cooing of the thorpes, but i was quite unaware that it made them careless of the wishes of their guests. "thorpe, your arm"--and she swept down the room and seized his arm. "hazel, i have brought you an escort," and with a smile at virginia, "i don't think that sam is far away. you cannot refuse to come now." hazel proudly accepted corway's arm. then they turned to leave the room. as they neared the door, virginia exclaimed, with low but startling irony: "il. cavalier is careful to make it appear he is delighted with the society of his affianced. no doubt feeling an honorable justification for his mercenary felicity. ho, ho," virginia laughed, her lips quivering with scorn. "the situation is charming. ha, ha, ha, ha." the principals to this little drama understood its meaning perfectly, but while mrs. harris paused for an instant in wonderment, her easy nature forbade worry--and so the incident quickly passed out of her memory, and sam was too shrewd to show that he heard it, and with his round face beaming with unquenchable admiration, bowed and offered his arm to her, accompanied by the characteristic side movement of his head--"ea, ha, i guess so--eh, auntie?" the joyous manner of utterance was like a shaft of sunshine bursting through the dark, tragic clouds of impending storm. virginia's first attack fell short of accomplishing the purpose intended, yet the seed of doubt, of suspicion and fear of family disgrace had been grounded in her brother's mind, and it would be strange, indeed, if corway's position proved invulnerable to more carefully-planned attacks. it must be remembered that an opportunity had come at an unexpected moment, and she impulsively seized upon it. through it all, however, virginia must be credited with a sincere belief that corway's intentions toward hazel were as insincere and mercenary as they had been to her. chapter ii. the night of the harris reception at "rosemont," in honor of lord beauchamp, was beautiful. dark, yet serene and tranquil as the illimitable void through which the myriad of glittering stars swept along on their steady course. the long, gentle, sloping, velvety lawn, stretching away from the broad steps of the great columned piazza, down to the placid waters of the willamette, was artistically beautified by clusters of magnolias and chestnut trees and native oaks and firs, while the soft sway of advanced autumn was disclosed in the mellow, gorgeous tints of the oak and maple leaf projected against the dark evergreen of the stately fir; and afar off, to the north, through vistas in the foliage, gleamed the steady electric arc lights of the city. marble statuary glistened in white repose, and groups of majestic palms and ferns and holly stood illumined in the soft light of frosted electric globes and quaint oriental lanterns. out from the deep shadow of a wide-spreading oak, and remote from the range of illumination, an old, decrepit and poorly clad man emerged, peering cautiously about, as if afraid of discovery. as he approached near the house and came under the gleams of light, it could be seen that he was gray-haired and a cripple, for he hobbled slowly with the aid of a stout stick. he proceeded to a clump of ferns and close to a high-back, rustic seat, behind which he stood partially concealed. feeling satisfied that he had not been seen, and that he was alone, that part of the grounds being temporarily deserted, he muttered impatiently: "where the devil does rutley keep himself? i've been dodging about these grounds for an hour trying to locate him, and to get posted." the words had scarcely escaped his lips when down behind the seat he ducked. simultaneously, virginia thorpe and william harris appeared, descending the piazza steps. "congratulations, mr. harris, on your reception. it is a brilliant affair, and the grounds are simply beautiful." "i am delighted at receiving congratulations from a lady whose taste is acknowledged without a peer." "now, mr. harris, you know i object to flattery," responded virginia, in a deprecating tone of voice. "why, i have lost my fan. how unfortunate! i fear i have dropped it in the ball-room." "i shall try to find it immediately. no, no; no trouble whatever." "thanks, mr. harris. i shall await your return here." as mr. harris hastened up the steps, virginia leisurely moved a few yards, and then sat down on a seat, quite unconscious of the figure crouched in hiding behind it. the proximity of virginia did not suit the fellow, and he forthwith endeavored to sneak away unseen, but the noise, faint as he made, attracted her attention. she sprang to her feet with a slight, terrified shriek, but quickly recovering her self-possession, as she noted his aged and bent condition, gently said: "poor old man, your intrusion on these premises may be unwelcome." after a pause, evidently for an answer, she went on kindly: "do you seek alms?" leaning on his stick he humbly removed his hat, and said in abject tones: "pitty da sorrar dees old-a da gray hairs. eesa mak-a da bolda to come a da here, so much-a da rich-a kind-a people to da poor old-a men lik-a da me. ten-a years eesa black-a da boot; saw da-ood, sella da ba-nan, turnoppsis, carrotsis, ca-babbages; do any-ting for mak-a-da mon, go back-a da sunny italy. look-a da lame! canna da work--mussa da beg, sweet-a da lady--kind-a charity." "dear me!" replied virginia, regretfully. "i haven't a coin with me, but let me advise you to begone, for you must know that if you are discovered here your age will not protect you." the old man bowed low. "essa many tanks, kind-a lady. essa da go." "and mark me, sir," added mr. harris, who had quickly returned with the fan. "should i find you loitering around these grounds again tonight, officers will take care of you." "oh, signor! dona tell a da po-lis. da poor a da old a man essa much da hunger. begga do mon to buy a da bread. eesa da all-a signor. eesa da all." "oh, mr. harris, please lend me a coin for him. i fear he really is in need," broke in virginia. "there!" responded mr. harris, throwing him a coin. "you can thank this benevolent lady, whose presence affords you liberty. not a word. off with you from these grounds. begone." the old fellow picked up the half-dollar piece, and hobbling away, soon disappeared into the shadow. "it is a pleasure to return your fan. i found it in the vestibule uninjured." "thanks, mr. harris," said virginia, receiving the fan. "i shall be more careful of it hereafter." "ea-ah, i guess so, eh, uncle!" broke in sam, striding toward them. "oh, oh, sam! really!" laughed mr. harris, as he looked meaningly at him. "ah! you seem delighted." "i think so, eh, uncle," accompanied by the habitual side movement of his head. "congratulate me on having found miss thorpe after a long search," and turning to virginia, he added, with a smile broadening his face--"you have promised to dance with me. may i indulge in the pleasure now?" "yes, sam," she replied, with an air of fatigue, "but i would rather you defer the pleasure." "miss thorpe is fatigued and sam is too much of a gallant to deny her a little rest," appealed mr. harris. "cert!" answered sam, as a shade of disappointment flitted across his face. "anything i can do to serve miss thorpe shall be done." "thank you, sam," replied virginia, relieved. "i will call upon miss thorpe to favor me with her company later, eh, uncle?" and sam bowed and quickly disappeared. "sam is a noble-hearted fellow! ranged the texas plains a few years, didn't he?" "yes," replied mr. harris. "when a lad he was threatened with consumption, and physicians recommended a few years of out-door life in texas. it cured him, but he became a little fixed in the customs. sterling fellow, though--great heart--all heart. be seated," pointing to the seat which she had previously occupied. at that moment there appeared descending the piazza steps mr. corway, with hazel and constance on either side of him. "your reason, corway, for doubting his title of lord?" interrogated constance. "i possess no proofs," replied corway. "i but express an opinion," and he discreetly refrained from further utterance on the subject, though his thoughts were insistent on his identity of lord beauchamp as philip rutley. "but you must have some grounds even for an opinion," persisted constance. "well, if he is not a lord," hazarded hazel, who, purposely or otherwise, by her joining the discussion, released mr. corway from an embarrassing reply, which at that time he was loath to make, "he certainly should be one, for he is such a dear, sweet man, so eminently exact and proper." "and so distinguished, don't-che-know," finished mr. corway, with such peculiarly keen mimicry and smiling abandon as to draw from hazel a flash of admiration, and from mrs. thorpe a ripple of laughter with the remark, "satire unmasked by cupid." further conversation was interrupted by beauchamp himself, who appeared alone, descending the broad piazza steps. "it's so warm in there i decided to refresh a little in the cool air." he halted a moment on one of the steps, fixed the monocle to his left eye, and lordly surveyed the two groups. after evidently satisfying himself as to their personnel, he deliberately removed the monocle from his eye and resumed his passage down the steps. "miss thorpe here, and mr. harris, and mrs. thorpe, and the fair hazel"--and ignoring corway, he went on--"then i shall have no need to commune alone with my thoughts." "i am sure my lord beauchamp is too much of a devotee to the 'tripping muse' to absent himself very long from the ball-room?" volunteered constance. "indeed it would be difficult for me to enjoy myself for any length of time away from the place where, as byron puts it, 'youth and beauty meet, to chase the glowing hours with flying feet.'" and moving over to hazel, he said: "by the way, you have promised me the pleasure of dancing with you the next waltz." "indeed!" replied the maid, eyeing him archly, "the honor of a waltz with my lord is too rare a favor to be neglected." the gracious and suave smile with which rutley answered her was not at all appreciated by mr. corway. and as rutley glanced his way, their eyes met. virginia saw it. she instantly grasped the full meaning of that glance--the deadly hatred of rivals. rutley, with familiarity begotten of mutual esteem, as he fondly hoped, linked hazel's yielding arm in his and led her toward the piazza. "by the way," and he spoke very confidently, "mr. corway seems to have a warm attachment for mrs. thorpe"-- the girl halted and looked questioningly at him. "i mean," continued rutley, in a sort of apologetic tone, "he is apparently quite the lion with her." passing a few feet near them were john thorpe and mrs. harris, who had appeared unnoticed from another part of the grounds. john thorpe plainly heard rutley's allusion to corway and his wife, and became profoundly sensible of that same strange feeling infolding him, as he experienced when virginia first intimated corway's questionable character. "is it possible that, after all, constance, and not hazel, is the real object of his attention?" he was conscious of a sense of jealousy arising within him, and so strong and virulent as to be beyond control, and compelled him to turn aside, to conceal the anger that must be depicted on his face. he halted while mrs. harris joined virginia and mr. harris. "mrs. thorpe is most attractive," hazel at length replied. "i have heard that not long ago he was attached to miss thorpe, but lately has transferred his affection to another," continued rutley. "virginia was fond of his society, yet 'tis not always, you may remember, that those who have won our love return it." the strains of dreamy music drifted out upon the air. "well, at present, corway seems persistent in his attentions to mrs. thorpe." again john thorpe winced at the connection of his wife's name with corway. and then rutley felt himself pushed aside, while corway offered his arm to hazel. "will you accompany me to the ball-room?" hazel drew a step aside and exclaimed, half angrily, yet seemingly rather pleased at corway's audacity. "joe!" "hazel!" he responded with just the faintest suggestion of command in his voice. it was his first assumption of authority over his affianced, and he won--for unlike the "feminine forwards" of the new school, she appreciated his strong character and showed it by clinging to his arm. neither of these two men could be considered handsome, though corway had the advantage of being more youthful and taller of stature, with large, bright eyes and dark curly hair, which with clear-cut, manly features, seemed to charm the fancy and captivate the maiden's eye. while rutley's graceful and pliant frame carried more elegance, an assumed superb superiority, a cold, ironical disdain and lofty ease, bespoke an imperious nature, indifferent to that soft, beguilement so charming to women. corway turned to rutley, and, bowing low, exclaimed, with studied politeness: "i beg my lord's pardon," and so saying, he passed up the piazza steps with hazel and disappeared within. they were closely followed by mr. harris and mrs. thorpe. rutley fixed the monocle to his eye and stared at the retreating corway in blank amazement. meanwhile, john thorpe was absorbed in profound thought, and oblivious of his surroundings, said to himself: "what can his lordship mean? corway's persistent attention to my wife! was that mere accidental gossip? he shall explain!" and he looked fixedly at rutley. it was at that moment that mrs. harris, having reached his side, said: "your arm, thorpe. dear me!" and she started back at seeing his gloomy face. "why, i declare, the frowning 'ajax' could not look more unsociable." for a moment thorpe displayed confusion, but by a strong effort subdued his agitation and offered his arm. "of late," he explained, "my nervous system has been subject to momentary shocks." leading her toward the piazza, "i beg your pardon." "i am afraid that unless you provide yourself with a mask for such occasions the shock is likely to become contagious," she remarked, as they passed up the steps. meanwhile rutley, having removed the monocle from his eye, allowed his frigidity to dissolve, and, slowly stepping a few paces toward the east end of the house, paused under the shadow of a magnolia, and at once seemed to plunge in deep reflection, to be startled a few moments later by hearing virginia close to him, in a low tone, saying: "how does my lord propose to resent that insult?" seeing him alone, she had noiselessly and unperceived, stolen to his side, convinced by what she had just discovered, that he was meditating some sort of revenge on corway, and she determined to ascertain its nature. her fertile brain had already conceived rutley her ally, and it was with no uncertain or wavering purpose that she approached him with a question pregnant with sinister import. rutley looked at her steadily, as though trying to penetrate her motive, then, without moving his eyes from hers, said deliberately: "well, if he doesn't apologize, my friend will call on him." "you mean a shooting affair?" "i do not say, but i understand that is a popular way in this country to avenge an outrage." "yes, that is true," she said, "particularly in our west, but it is fast going out of fashion. in fact, on the coast, it is seldom practiced now. besides, my lord, i advise you not to try it. i've heard he's a dead shot," and she abruptly stopped and looked furtively about, and then, in a more discreet tone of voice, said: "will you walk?" he instantly comprehended her desire to confide something of interest to him, and as they slowly proceeded over the soft, velvety grass, and without betraying haste to know what she was evidently anxious to disclose, he replied, sneeringly: "ah, he is! well, these affairs are settled in an honorable way in a gentleman's country." "i again warn you not to try it," she said. "if you do, you will likely find yourself a subject for some hospital surgeon." "indeed!" laughed rutley, with a sarcastic ring in his voice. she halted, turned to him, and continued in a low tone. "yes, there is a better plan--that insult can be wiped out in a more effectual manner." "how?" for one moment virginia looked far off across the placid waters of the willamette, over and beyond the rugged hills shrouded in gloomy repose. was it the "still small voice within her crying in anguish 'beware, beware'," if so, it was unheeded, drowned in the impetuous desire for revenge. shocked and enraged by the discovery of what she considered corway's perfidy, a strain of virulent passion possessed her, and subdued her softer and otherwise most charming personality. "corway has done me a wrong i never will forget, and i shall not pause at any opportunity to avenge it. my cousin, hazel, is betrothed to him. my brother has a rash, impetuous temper, and is exceedingly jealous of our family honor. by insinuating corway's insincere attachment to hazel, his money-mad impecuniosity, and so forth, you will produce a coolness between john and corway that may end in their complete estrangement. we are watched," she whispered. "let us move on." her alert eyes had discovered sam standing alone on the piazza steps, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked at them. she guessed his purpose, but was too far away to hear him say angrily: "if that lord attempts any fooling with that fair party, i'll give him some eye-shutters, i guess so!" without heeding the episode, rutley replied: "but you must know that your brother has not insulted me, and you must also be aware that the attempt to influence him may fail." "if you will follow my directions john will consider you his friend. if properly managed you need have no fear of its ultimate success. for several months last year john was in china. during that time corway paid frequent visits to his home." "but"--interposed rutley, quickly. "do not misunderstand my meaning," responded virginia, with an involuntary flash of indignation. "corway is a man of great moral probity. but john may be brought to think him something the reverse. do you understand?" "i will have satisfaction!" exclaimed rutley. "somebody is following us," whispered virginia. "where?" queried rutley. "i fail to see anyone." "it may have been the shadow of the swinging light," at length she remarked, reassured, and, dismissing the thought from her mind, continued: "i have already warned you of a duel. to prove how insincere corway's affection is for hazel, you may call my brother's attention to a ring that he wears on the little finger of his left hand. i let hazel have it for a short time because she admired it, and begged it from me, and corway took it from her." "has the ring any peculiar feature by which it may be distinguished from others?" "yes, a single diamond set in a double heart of pearls." "is it yours?" he asked, softly. "no," virginia promptly answered, but she added in a hesitating manner, as though weighing the propriety of further explanation--"that is--well--it is mine for the purpose. i let hazel have it unknown to constance." and so it happened, a slip of the tongue, one inadvertent, indiscreet admission, gave him his cue. a vision opened to his mind and he immediately speculated on its possibilities. "then the ring belongs to mrs. thorpe?" he questioned, insidiously. "yes," virginia affirmed, in a halting way. "john gave it to constance before they were married." "oh, indeed!" rutley exclaimed, and he muttered low and meaningly, while the whites of his eyes gleamed with sinister import. "corway wears a ring given by john thorpe to his wife." soon as he had spoken virginia heard and instinctively felt that she had been indiscreet in admitting the ring belonged to constance, and said by way of caution: "of course, i trust in the honor of your lordship to refrain from connecting mrs. thorpe's name with the ring, or to, in any manner, let it be known that you know it is not mine." evidently rutley did not hear her, for he was absorbed in thought--thought that produced an evil gleam in his eyes. a slight pause followed, and taking it for granted my lord would not betray the trust she reposed in him, she said, as looking in his eyes with significant daring: "draw john's notice to it as confirming corway's bold and deceitful attention to hazel." virginia was aware that john would recognize the ring as his wife's, but she under-rated the violence of the storm it would precipitate, and she trusted too much in her own ability to control it in the direction she desired. she likewise rated beauchamp as a weak, egotistical, effeminate sort of man. she was now to experience her great mistake. rutley in his turn fixed his gaze steadfastly upon her, and which became so intense, so mysteriously searching, as to cause her, strong-minded woman as she was, to feel she was but a weak thing beside him. he spoke quietly and without the faintest tremor in his voice. "do you know to whom you suggested this?" "lord beauchamp," she timidly responded. and then there suddenly sprang into her eyes a new light, accompanied by a slight start. "why do you start?" asked rutley, not for a moment removing his eyes from hers. "no, 'tis impossible. you cannot be philip rutley?" she gasped, as she drew back amazed. "for you have already denied him once to me." "yes, i am he!" he exclaimed. there followed a moment of profound silence. rutley watching the effect of his disclosure upon her. and she, at first astounded by his audacious nerve, at length grasped his position, and finally smiled, as though in admiration of his arch achievement. "you are a master imposter," she broke in. "be as clever with the material i have given you, and corway will not long stand in your way." "did hazel tell you of my proposal to her three years ago?" "yes," she answered promptly. "i believe she rejected me at that time because of corway," he musingly added. "your opportunity is at hand," she affirmed. "i accept it;" and then he cautioned in a low tone: "be careful never to breathe my real name." "and you--you will continue to be?"--and she smiled quizically as she put the question. "my lord beauchamp." "a most consummate scoundrel!" she added pleasantly. "the scoundrel begs to share the compliment with his colleague, miss virginia thorpe," he ironically replied, again bowing low. that accentuated remark by rutley revealed to her with sudden vividness the detestable character she was developing. acutely sensitive, the stigma smote her with a repugnance that stung and smarted as quivering flesh under the sharp cut of a lash; and being naturally of a fiery temper, she passionately retorted, "it's false!" the words had scarcely escaped her lips when she realized her indiscretion, and faltered, "i--i--mean--" and then unable to recover from her sudden flight of passion, or to completely subdue her agitation, she burst out aloud, in utter disregard of her surroundings, "oh! it is awful, awful!" rutley was alarmed, and hastily gripped her wrist, and in low tones cautioned, "for god's sake, hush! don't shout it to the winds! remember, you urged this damnable business upon me. do you want me to give it to the world?" his artifice succeeded, and under his influence she became quieter. "no! no! no!" she whispered. "don't, please!" then again she stared at the ground as though dazed with some vague terror. suddenly she covered her face with her hands and moaned, "what have i done?" then, arising from a place of concealment close by, the old italian cripple previously mentioned doffed his hat and said, "eesa da bet, much-a keep-a do mon! do poor old-a man, eesa beg-a da mon, a da charity signora, signor." tossing him a coin, rutley said, "this is an unseasonable place for your calling, old man." then, turning to virginia--"permit me to escort you to the house." "i don't like that old man," she replied. "he is prying about everywhere. do you think he heard me?" "i have no fear of that," replied rutley, as they moved on toward the house. "he appears quite old and no doubt is partially deaf." "very well," responded virginia, "and now that we understand each other, i think it time for me to mingle with the guests." as they disappeared in the distance, the old cripple followed them, flitting from shadow to shadow, with catlike agility, astonishing in such an apparently old man. having arrived at the piazza steps, rutley and virginia parted. returning some distance into the shadow, he softly laughed. "a little startled, eh? didn't think i could impersonate a peer of england's realm. well, she knows the secret now and i can safely rely on her assistance because corway has cast her aside for hazel. she has given me material with which to strike at him and i will strike home--but not as she suggests. oh, no!" and again a sinister smile crept over his face. "dangerous, but hazel's wealth is worth the risk. "meanwhile, i am getting short of funds, and cannot keep up the pace much longer, unless my other plan succeeds. but should i fail altogether----" and he became absorbed in deep study, silent and motionless as the statue of lincoln by which he stood, but only for a moment. "everybody here lionizes me, believing i am a genuine nobleman." and then he looked up with a far-off, triumphant expression in his eyes and a cunning smile on his lips, "my lord will borrow a few thousand on his--name--just for a temporary accommodation, and then he will vanish." a slight noise behind startled him and caused him to look about; but, discovering no one, he regained his composure. to make sure, however, he called in a low voice, "jack! jack!" whereupon the old cripple again stood forth from his concealment, this time from behind the trunk of the wide spreading oak and, leaning on his stick, obsequiously doffed his hat. "i uncover to a prince of villainy." "ha, ha, to my arms, you rascally imposter!" joyfully exclaimed rutley, as he embraced him. halting and drawing away in pretended surprise, jack exclaimed with dreamy reflection, "naw, eesa, not-a bees-a da imposeator. eesa be ital-e-own!" "splendid, jack!" exclaimed rutley with admiration. "your disguise is perfect, but"--and rutley laughed--"a little pale about the gills, eh?" "eesa look-a like-a ma fadder," and jack proudly expanded himself. "make-a da great-a soldier. note-a da pale here--naw," touching his ears. "garibaldi geev-a ma fadder dees-s da palestrino," and jack threw open his coat and proudly displayed a medal. "palestrino!" exclaimed rutley gleefully. "jack, things are coming our way with a rush. did you hear her--the maiden fair, with the blue black hair, how she plays into our hands?" jack grinned and chuckled, "ah, ah--a portland rose, phil!" "incomparably beautiful, jack! but, oh, such devilish thorns!" "good for twenty thousand simoleons at any rate? eh, phil?" "twenty thousand or bust, jack," grinned rutley. "you watch me do the trick. i'll make thorpe wish he were dead. i shall connect his wife's name instead of hazel's with corway." "what!" gasped jack, dismayed by rutley's daring. "by a little juggling of facts, as it were, i'll make thorpe believe corway wears the ring given him as a love token by constance. it was thorpe's gift to his wife. do you comprehend? now, do you understand how simple a thing it will be to make thorpe wish he were dead? remember how he and old harris broke up our investment company? "maybe i don't," replied jack dolefully, rubbing his stomach in a significant manner. "and, jack!" and rutley glinted at him meaningly and said very seriously, "that fellow corway suspects me." "the devil he does! we must get him out of our way." "tomorrow!"--and for the space of perhaps five seconds they looked meaningly at each other. then rutley broke the silence. "the child is in the house," continued rutley seriously and in a low voice. "good!" responded jack. "i was afraid your tableau scheme had failed and dorothy remained at home." "not at all. they jumped at the idea," laughed rutley, "and on my suggestion mrs. harris begged for dorothy's presence at the 'fete'." "fate!" corrected jack. "too pointed," calmly remarked rutley. "well, the tableau was a great success, 'hebe' attended by 'circe' and 'cupid'." "dorothy as 'circe' posed splendidly; she is the pet of the guests"--and, lowering his voice, rutley continued gravely: "i have persuaded her indulgent mother to let the child remain up and enjoy her honors a little longer; she may be out and around now at any moment." "she wears a white dress and with a light brown sash about her waist. long golden hair--oh, you know her." "i shall keep a sharp lookout and take her the first opportunity." "skip!" suddenly cautioned rutley. "somebody's coming. keep in the deep shadow." "trust me." and as jack turned to move away he said to himself, "tonight there'll be things doing, for the devil is at work and hell's a-brewing." rutley watched jack vanish in the gloom, then muttered to himself, "why this fear? out with it and to my purpose." some readers would call it fate, others would probably have construed it as accidental, while yet again others of a more scientific turn of mind would have reasoned it a result of that strange magnetic attraction whereby two minds, simultaneously engaged in deep absorbing thought on the same subject, are mysteriously drawn toward each other. that john thorpe was alone at that moment descending the steps of the piazza, was proof of the phenomenon, there could be no question, and that he was deeply thinking of a subject very near and dear to him was also evident, for he paused on one of the steps and clapped his hand to his forehead as though to draw out some evil thing that lay leaden within. once he shivered as if shaken with a cold of the shadow of some indefinable disaster about to overwhelm him, and then he passed on down the steps muttering to himself in an abstracted manner, "doubt; terrible, torturing doubt; i cannot endure it!" "welcome, mr. thorpe," came from rutley in the mild regularly moderated voice of a man content with his surroundings. "it only needs the quiet tones of a gifted conversationalist to make this beautiful spot supremely pleasant. all honor to mrs. harris and her companion." mrs. harris, accompanied by virginia, had just then appeared from around the east side of the house--"ah, my lord, your absence from the ballroom occasions much inquiry," said mrs. harris. "mrs. harris will confer a favor by satisfying the inquirers with the excuse that his lordship is enjoying a smoke with a friend. does my lord approve the answer?" replied john thorpe, eyeing rutley furtively. "most decidedly!" he affirmed. "then virginia and myself will be spectators of the next waltz. your lordship will favor us with your company soon? mr. thorpe, you will not forget your promise to constance for the newport?" "just in time, eh, auntie, i guess so!" cut in the cheerful voice of strenuous sam, who had bounded down the steps and stood in front of them before they could turn around. "oh, horrors!" gasped virginia under her breath. "why, sam!" laughed mrs. harris, "you want me to dance with you again and virginia here?" "oh, no, not you! i mean her, auntie. if you please," and he bowed to virginia as he offered her his arm. without an instant's hesitation she accepted his arm and at the same time so artfully masked her real feelings that the hot blood raced with joyous glee to the very roots of his hair and caused him to say proudly, "ha, ha! at last, eh, auntie!" "i shall be a witness, sam," replied his aunt in a tone which conveyed a warning. on ascending the steps virginia paused to gather up her skirt, turned half around and looked very significantly at rutley. he met her glance and bowed. the action brought mrs. harris also to a stop. observing the halt, mr. thorpe exclaimed, "his grace and myself will be along presently. au revoir." and as the party moved on, sam rejoined under his breath, "i guess so, but not with his fair party, not if sam knows it." in the silence that followed for both men, now being alone, were alert, instinctively apprehending danger, john thorpe drew from the inside pocket of his coat a small cigar case and tendered it to rutley. silently and with studied poise, rutley took therefrom a cigar and returned the case. thorpe then took from the case a match, lighted and offered it to rutley, who, having meanwhile clipped the end of the cigar with a penknife, accepted the light and then broke the silence with, "are you not going to smoke, thorpe?" "not at present. a stroll through the grounds is more to my fancy." "agreed!" promptly responded rutley, who added, "and may the exercise lighten your spirits, which appear heavy tonight." "yes, unfortunately i have never been able to conceal my emotions, hence the correctness of your conjecture. my spirits are heavy tonight," replied thorpe in a low voice and with a deep, long drawn sigh. it was plain to rutley that thorpe was evading an abrupt approach to some potent question in his mind, feverishly eager, yet dreading the kind of information it might elicit. "bad digestion, thorpe. headaches, troubled dreams and the like fellow," suggested rutley in his jerky manner. "deeper!" added thorpe in a low voice. "ha!" exclaimed rutley significantly, as he eyed his companion askance. "family!" "oh, god! what shall i do?" suddenly broke from thorpe in a stifled cry of anguish. "i cannot carry the load!" and then he did that which some readers might term a cowardly thing. no doubt he was actuated by motives irresistibly impelling in a man of his peculiarly sensitive nature. with head bent low, much as a culprit condoning his infamy, humbled as was his pride, to thus confide his misgivings to a stranger, he began in a low voice: "my lord, a few moments since i casually heard you drop a remark suggesting a knowledge of my domestic affairs. i speak to you in confidence, and i am sure your grace will spare me the humiliation of feeling that confidence is misplaced. your position gives you at times the advantage of hearing--a--things said of others that is of no moment or concern to you." rutley's first thought was, "my opportunity to strike at corway has come," and if thorpe at that moment could have seen the cunning leer play about the corners of rutley's mouth and the flash of exultation that sprang into his eyes, he might have hesitated, nay, ceased to have conversed with him further on such a grave subject. but the fleeting smile went unseen, the exultant flash as quickly disappeared, and in its place a very serious look came over rutley's face, as in a low voice he replied, slowly but very distinctly. "really, thorpe, i am at a loss to understand your motives in questioning me on matters relative to your domestic affairs, and though i may possess information in which i am not particularly interested, still to asperse the character of any person on mere rumor is not compatible with the dignity or honor of my house; however, if you will be explicit on the subject of your singular request, i shall, through sympathy, communicate all i have heard to relieve or confirm your mind of a--i fancy--a terrible suspicion." for a few moments thorpe could not control his agitation. overpowered by a sense of shame, his imagination at once conjured up dreadful thoughts. "sympathy! a--a--to relieve or confirm a terrible suspicion! my god! what does he mean?" and he placed his left hand tightly over his breast as if something hurt him there, while a cold sweat stood out on his brow. then with a forced calmness, said: "a--a--have you heard any disparaging remarks about--a--mr. corway?" "well, thorpe, you know 'tis not honorable to repeat the 'chic' scandals one hears, though to satisfy you i will say that if you will look at the little finger of corway's left hand, you will see a gold ring with a single diamond set in a double heart, which he at times--a--carelessly displays." "a ring with a single diamond! what of it?" impatiently questioned thorpe. "oh!" replied rutley, with an imperturbable stare, "it was a love token from mrs. john thorpe." "you lie!" exclaimed thorpe, the nails of his fingers imprinting deeply in the flesh of his tightly clenched fists, with the fierceness of the passion that had flamed within him. "i do not lie!" rutley calmly and slowly replied, as he looked steadily into thorpe's eyes. "you confound my wife with hazel," hoarsely accused thorpe. "i reiterate," responded rutley, in the same even tone of voice, "the particular ring in question was a gift from constance, john thorpe's wife, and not from hazel." gasping for breath, thorpe turned his head aside and groaned as he remembered it was his gift to constance before they were married. suddenly he gripped rutley by the sleeve. they halted and confronted each other. and the dark formless shadow that had followed them also halted. "from whom have you your information?" queried thorpe, looking into rutley's eyes. "i do not feel at liberty to mention, but it can be substantiated." "by whom?" demanded thorpe. "well, i don't know of any person more capable than a--a--mr. thorpe's wife!" replied rutley in a most nonchalant and matter-of-fact manner. and even through the depth of the gloom that surrounded them he saw the scarlet flush of rage and shame flame across thorpe's white brow as he bowed his head, humbled to the dust. for a moment not a word was spoken by either of the men. suddenly thorpe looked up and hoarsely said: "my wife! give me two or three, one which she can substantiate." "my dear thorpe," deprecatingly pleaded rutley. "you have called upon me to undertake a very unpleasant task." "your lordship has gone too far to recede. i must know all"--and there was imminent danger in thorpe's quivering voice, which rutley felt was not to be trifled with. "well--one thing--corway's close and steady attention to her during your absence in china." "you mean to hazel?" said thorpe, with a look so deeply concentrated that the movement of a single hair of rutley's eyelash would have meant an instant blow on the mouth. "no, i mean--to your wife," accentuated rutley. "their secret and protracted wanderings offended your sister. reproofs, reproaches and warnings were unavailing and ended in corway being refused admittance to your house, which resulted in frequent quarrels between your wife and your sister." thorpe here recalled virginia's warning, "corway will bear watching," and he moaned, "oh, god!" "he tried many pretenses to regain communication with your wife," resumed rutley, "one being to visit hazel brooke, for whom, except for her money, he has no regard whatever. at length on the discovery of secret correspondence, virginia became aghast at his boldness and contemplated seeking legal aid when you returned. of course, she retired and left the matter in your hands and she was unwilling at that time to shock your home-coming with a knowledge of the truth." "enough! enough! oh, god, what a vile thing has nestled here!" and john thorpe pressed both hands tightly over his heart in a vain endeavor to suppress the emotion that filled his throat and choked his utterances, and tears of shame gathered in his eyes as he continued slowly: "when--i--wedded constance--i took to myself the purest angel out of heaven. but now--! farewell happiness--farewell peace--forever! oh, corway, i want to clutch you by the throat!" turning to rutley, he added tensely, "follow me." "now for satisfaction," muttered rutley exultantly, and with a sinister smile on his lips he followed john thorpe up the broad steps and into the blaze of the brilliantly lighted ballroom. a shadow straightened itself up behind a bed of massed asters, deepened, grew thicker and resolved itself into the solid form of a man. it was jack shore. he had dodged them unseen and overheard their conversation. perhaps it was through hearing the conspiracy and its masterly execution that shocked him into moralizing on man's inhumanity to man. at any rate, he exclaimed half aloud, "as cold-blooded a bit of villainy as possible to conceive. i didn't think phil had it in him." suddenly he shrugged his shoulders. "i say, old man," cut in sam, appearing from the east side of the piazza, "you want to look alive there. you are getting too near the front. first thing you know uncle will have you sent up as a vag." though taken by surprise, jack, having just turned to move off into the deeper shadow, halted and, removing his hat, faced sam in an assumed most humble and abject terror, "signor, i don-a mean to come-a da close. jess-a tried to get-a da peep ov-a da grand-a fete of-a much-a da rich people. eesa da all, signor." "it's all right, old man, but take my advice and keep off the grounds. 'twill be better for your health." in the meantime dorothy had fluttered down the great steps and ran toward sam. "hello, little one! having lots of fun, eh!" and with the same, he caught dorothy's hands and he commenced to dance her about as he sang the words, "little bo-peep had lost her sheep and couldn't tell where to find them." "oh, don't sam; i want to find papa!" replied the child, impatiently. "you do, eh? now, don't you want me to be your escort?" "come, i'll tell you how to find him. you shall sit on my shoulder and be the tallest queen of the party, while i be the horse to 'lope about in search of your papa." "thank you, sam, but i can't stay for a ride now. i'm in such a hurry; some other time," and the child turned from him and ran toward the slowly retreating form of jack. "you are, eh? all right, and while you are looking for papa, i'm going to look for the fair party you call auntie. i guess so!" whereupon sam quickly sprang up the steps. arriving on the piazza he halted, turned around and looked toward the child as though the premonition of something wrong--something associated with the child's insecurity, being alone--had suddenly darted into his brain; but seeing others of the guests at that moment emerging from the east front of the house on the well lighted grounds, he dismissed the "still small voice" of warning from his mind and passed in among the dancers. "papa, papa! where is my papa?" called dorothy. jack, while pretending to leave the grounds, had kept a sly eye on sam, and upon that individual's disappearance, at once turned and answered the child in a voice soft and gentle, and soothing as that of dreamy italy. "yous-a tink-a your-a papa was-a da here-a. what eesa da name?" "thorpe!" replied dorothy, without the faintest fear or hesitation. "that is my name, too. i want to find him right away. can you tell me where he is? mama sent me to ask him to come and dance." "yes-a da child-a. eesa da know where eesa papa be. eef-a youse-a be note-a fraid and will-a come wid-a me, eesa take-a youse-a da papa," and the sly old man looked into her eyes with such beaming kindness that at once won her confidence. "i'm not afraid of you. i like old men. mama says we should respect old men. but i'm in such a hurry, you know. mama is waiting for me." "well, geeve-a me youse-a da hand and eesa take-a you straight-a da heem." without the least suspicion or timidity, she instantly placed her little hand in his and the two proceeded toward the river, much faster than his supposed crippled condition would lead an older person to expect. "youse-a love-a da papa and da mama much-a, donn-a youse?" he continued. "oh, yes! ever so much." "eesa good-a girl. we'll soon-a da fine eem," and he added to himself, "when the horn of plenty pours its golden stream into jack's pocket." while they were crossing a depression, or rather a long hollow formation in the contour of the grassy slope, and close to some locust trees, the thick foliage of which threw a deep shadow on the spot, jack thrust his free hand into his pocket and removed the stopper from a bottle of chloroform which he had provided for this occasion, and saturated a colored handkerchief with it. some of it passed through the lining of his pocket and immediately impregnated the air with its odor. dorothy got a whiff of it and drew away with the remark, "dear me, what a funny smell!" "naw, eesa--nicey da smell, jes like-a da poppy, so beautiful-a da flower," replied jack, reassuringly. "well, i don't like it, anyway," she said. at that moment she was standing a couple of yards from him, they had come to a halt, and it was necessary for him to act adroitly and with promptness, to reassure her and avoid arousing her suspicion, so he pretended to stumble and then fell to the ground. arising to his knees, he groaned as though in seeming pain, and gripped his right wrist with his left hand. "oh, oh! eesa da hurt-a bad. break-a da arm; oh, oh!" and in order to get her close to him, he said, "get-a da bot' in-a da pock'." the cunning fellow knew well how to touch the chord of sympathy that is ever present in the guileless heart of innocent childhood. the response came in a wondering look of infinite tenderness and compassion, for the child did not clearly comprehend jack's request and she asked: "did you break your arm?" "eesa da hurt-a bad. oh, oh!" he groaned, "get-a da bot', da bot'-a, child; get-a da bot'." "poor man! shall i run for the doctor?" "no, no, no, note-a da dock! help-a me get-a da bot' in-a da pock! quick-a, deeze-a side. put in-a da hand. take eem out--oh, oh!" perceiving that he meant her to take something out of his pocket, on the right side of his coat, and not understanding the significance of the word "bot," she drew near to thrust in her hand. that instant jack's left arm encircled her form and his right hand clapped the saturated handkerchief over her mouth and nostrils and held her to him. she struggled in his arms to free herself, but without avail. as a feeling of stupor stole over her senses, jack, still on his knees, watched her with the keenest of eyes, and muttered soothingly, "eesa nice-a da girl. nice-a da smell lak-a da dreamy italy." some rascals would have made short work of the matter, but jack was by nature very tender and considerate of children, which accounted for his slow application of the powerful drug. it soon had her under its influence, and when she became limp and nerveless he laid her on the grass. again he saturated the handkerchief and held it to her nostrils, and with distended, tragic eyes watched her doze into unconsciousness. feeling satisfied that she would not speedily recover, he let the handkerchief lie loose on her nostrils and mouth, then he arose to his feet and with the stealthy, catlike tread of an indian, skulked from shadow to shadow until he had made a complete circuit of the spot. having assured himself that no one was in the vicinity, he swiftly turned and again fell on his knees beside the child. he looked intently in her face and noted the sweet expression of childish innocence and trust in the repose. "she sleeps, beautiful child! as sweetly innocent and confiding as god ever inspired with the breath of life." then from under his coat, where a hump appeared in the back, he drew out a grey woolen cloth about four feet square and folded it about the child, gathered her in his arms and arose to his feet. "mine, mine, though no harm shall come to you, pretty one! twenty thousand dollars shall be the price of your liberty." and, keeping in the shadows and away from the lights as much as possible, he wended his way toward the river and soon became obscured in the distant gloom. when john thorpe, closely followed by rutley, entered the great ballroom in search of corway, the guests who saw him were struck with the pallor of his face and the strangely piercing yet lustreless dark eyes that shone out from beneath his shaggy, frowning eyebrows. his cold, stony look repelled all smiles and discouraged all questions. through the room he strode, regardless alike of the timid whisperings of women and offended stare of men. he cared not what they thought, for every sentiment of rudeness or discourtesy, every tender feeling of grief or pain, was drowned by his one great mad, overpowering passion to wreak summary vengeance on the author of his bitter shame. not for a moment had he suspected "my lord's" integrity and utter disinterestedness, and the maddening fire of his disgrace kindled within him and fanned to a crucible heat by rutley burned with unquenchable fury. men of the temperament of john thorpe are not blessed with a stoical mind in moments of great excitement, nor are they apt to pause and tranquilly reason out the pros and cons of this most prolific source of human tragedies. he had loved his wife too fondly and too well to go and openly charge her with unfaithfulness. his life heretofore had been very happy, but now the first "damned spot" in the clear blue of his domestic horizon would not out, the feeling of suspicion would not smother. and it grew and enlarged with amazing rapidity, and haunted him till the very thought of corway aroused his latent jealousy to a pitch that became unbearable. rutley had developed the demon within him. the love that had become a fixed part of his being, flooding him with its radiance, had been violently wrenched from his heart, and his only, all-absorbing, insatiable desire was to confront the man who was responsible for it. oh, for the frailty of human happiness! out near the steps of the east piazza a group of ladies and gentlemen, composed of mr. and mrs. harris, mr. corway and hazel were chatting merrily about the new waltz and incidentally they had referred to the prolonged absence of "my lord" and john thorpe from the ballroom. mrs. harris discovered them on the piazza approaching the steps and exclaimed, "ah, here come the truants." without a moment's hesitation, john thorpe descended the steps alone, rutley remaining on the piazza. "mr. harris," said john thorpe in a husky voice, "in the name of the society whom he contaminates, i demand that you eject that man from this place." this peremptory and extraordinary demand, coupled with its insinuation, stunned the hearers, who looked from one to the other in startled amazement. the dead silence that followed was broken by mr. harris, who answered in a grave, dazed way, as thoughts of thorpe's sanity flitted through his brain, "but, thorpe! i--what--i don't think--my hearing is not exactly right of late. i did not understand--" without removing his steady gaze from corway, mr. thorpe reiterated his words slowly and with stinging accentuation, "i demand that you eject that man from this place," and he pointed his finger dramatically at corway, while glints of merciless intent shot from his eyes. the red flushed into mr. harris's face as he realized the indignity his guests and himself were being subjected to. "thorpe--john--you are insulting all of us. mr. corway is my guest. what is the meaning of this affront to my hospitality?" "to defend my honor!" cried the distracted man, lost to all sense of propriety or decorum, "or to add my blood to the other crimes that disgrace him." "in the name of all that's astounding, what do you mean, thorpe?" exclaimed corway. "i mean that i intend to avenge the irreparable wrong i have suffered," replied mr. thorpe, fairly hissing the words from between his teeth. "irreparable wrong! to whom do you refer?" "to you, scoundrel! tell how you came by that ring!" mr. harris had listened to the two men with ill-concealed impatience, but when mr. thorpe called mr. corway, one of his guests, a scoundrel, and dangerous business appearing imminent, he could control his indignation no longer and shouted, "mr. thorpe's carriage immediately! here, sam, your assistance. wells, get some more help to maintain order." the words had scarcely been uttered, when sam, who had appeared with virginia on the piazza, sprang down the steps to his uncle's assistance. they were quickly joined by the coachman and gardener who, having chanced to meet in a nearby secluded angle of the porch, had heard the loud, passionate words and were at once available for duty. "hold, mr. harris!" spoke up corway, who seemed to be less disturbed than either thorpe or his host, "don't be hasty in this matter! mr. thorpe is certainly laboring under some delusion." "i will not listen to you," replied mr. harris, now worked up to a fury. "mr. thorpe's conduct is outrageous. away with him to his carriage." "i guess so!" responded sam, pulling off his coat and looking at his uncle sideways, "stampede the corral, eh, uncle? that's what you want!" "away with him!" repeated mr. harris, gesticulating with his arms wildly. the two lackeys advanced, encouraged no doubt by the assurance of sam's assistance. they were brought to an abrupt halt by corway, who stepped in front of them and declared with heat, "stand back! i demand an explanation!" in a low, hoarse voice that quivered with the intensity of his passion, with ghastly white face, and glittering eyes that flashed the lie to his forced calmness, thorpe replied: "you shall have it--blackguard, liar, and coward!" with which he struck corway on the mouth with the back of his closed hand. corway passionately rushed at him and attempted to strike, but mr. harris sprang between them and caught his upraised arm, and with the help of sam, separated them. when sam sprang down the steps to his uncle's assistance, virginia was left standing on the piazza watching the progress of the quarrel with intense interest and also evidently alarmed at the violent passion her brother displayed. with a woman's intuition, she surmised that rutley had worked on john's jealous susceptibilities with merciless finesse. rutley, who was watching her, noted her alarmed expression, and feeling it to be a sign of weakening purpose, stepped over and stood beside her, so silently that she was quite unaware of his presence. "it's a horrible wrong," she muttered. the words were caught by rutley, and he whispered, so close as to startle her, "remember the wrong corway has done you." the excited men barely had been separated when corway spoke with passionate emphasis, "you shall hear from me." "quite soon enough for your courage," sneered thorpe. "no, no, my brother shall not fight with him!" exclaimed virginia, appalled at the magnitude the quarrel had assumed. swiftly she glanced at rutley and said with tremulous lips: "what have you told him to cause such fearful passion?" "what you bade me," he coolly replied, and with a gloating smile on his lips, added: "the result is what you wanted, isn't it?" "not so terrible," she gasped. "there must be some awful mistake." and rutley's smile deepened, but as he looked into her horrified eyes and blanched face, and noted the change from vengeance to anxiety and consternation fast coming over her, he knew but too well when the change was complete, in a moment of frenzied zeal to explain and save her brother, she, womanlike, was likely to undo and wreck all his work. he realized that the moment was fraught with the gravest danger to his plans and person, and he acted quickly, but with the utmost coolness. her hand held straight down by her side was closed tightly, expressive of immediate and determined action. he gripped her wrist. it hurt her. the action concealed from others by the folds of her dress, succeeded in diverting her attention, and he followed it up by whispering, so that she alone heard him, "remember--the material you gave me; corway has met his deserts and you are avenged!" and then the voice of constance cleft the air, in a wild, terrifying scream. "john, john! save dorothy! she's adrift on the water." her piercing cry freighted with a mother's anguish, at once filled all who heard it with consternation, in the midst of which mrs. harris exclaimed, "dear me, how dreadful it all is!" all turned in the direction of the cry and almost immediately constance, in an agony of despair, and deathly white, frantically rushed among them. she looked appealingly from one to the other, her heart in her throat and pathos in her voice. "i heard her cry, 'mama! papa! help! save me!' oh, will no one rescue my darling?" "i'm off," said sam, in his short, sententious way, and rushed toward the river. the sudden strain on her nerves was greater than constance could bear. naturally of a weak constitution, the ordeal was overpowering; the mother's affection, forming a magnetic part of her heart, leapt out to her child and left her numb and cold almost unto death, and then her limbs trembled, and with sam's words ringing in her ears, down she sank, a senseless being. virginia's consternation was complete. she rushed down the steps, knelt beside her prostrate form, thrust her arm lovingly under her head and sobbed: "constance! dear constance! don't give way so. dorothy will be found." chapter iii. when constance revived, she found herself in a quiet room remote from noise or intrusion, whither she had been tenderly carried. virginia was with her, and with the aid of a professional nurse, who lived near by and was called in by mrs. harris, had been successful in restoring her to consciousness. the reception was still swinging along at its full height, and while a few of the guests had heard in an indifferent way of some trouble on the lawn, the reports were so varied and coupled with the fact that no names were obtainable to give the reports zest, the incident was soon forgotten, and by the great mass of the guests was not even heard of. it was a sore spot in her breast that throbbed and beat heavily upon the door of its prison as later she was being driven home in her carriage. not a word from john to soothe the aching void. she did not even inquire about him, contenting herself with the simple assurance that he was doing his best to find dorothy. for two days the strain was upon her, breaking down by its heart violence her constitution, already frail to the declining point. scarcely more than a year had passed since constance had been stricken down with typhoid fever of a malignant type. she had never regained her usual health and strength, and though the family physician had pronounced her recovery complete, there were those of her friends who, with bated breath, questioned his conclusion and predicted an after effect which in time would develop some strange and serious ailment. telephone inquiries regarding the lost child began to come in the second day, but none of any comfort to the distracted mother. not one intimation of her husband's quarrel with corway had reached her. mrs. harris had been careful, upon constance's recovery at the reception, not to breathe a word, or to allow, where she could control it, the faintest whisper likely to arouse her suspicion. and as for hazel, she had not clearly understood mr. thorpe's drift when he assaulted corway. nevertheless, she somehow had a vague idea that constance was the cause; but being a discreet young woman, she had refrained from mentioning anything about it to her, thus leaving constance completely ignorant of the true cause of john thorpe's absence from home. perhaps if she had not been so absorbed in the recovery of dorothy, her attention would have been arrested on perusing one of the daily papers by an ambiguous paragraph referring to a choice morsel of scandal on the "tapis" in a prominent family, and which was likely to terminate in a tragedy. it was a society paragraph separate from the report of the probable drowning of the child, dorothy thorpe. several personal acquaintances had become aware, through the crafty rutley, of a serious difference having arisen between john thorpe and his beautiful wife, and some of these personal acquaintances, with significant looks, at once connected it with the mysterious disappearance of the child. the fact that none of the fashionable set had visited her since the reception did not suggest a thought of being shunned. and so she waited for news of her child--waited with heart leaden with the chill of hope deferred--waited in momentary expectation of the home-coming of john. she watched for him through the window, foreshadowing by his appearance on the walk gladness or sorrow. "it is now the second day," she muttered, "since that eventful night, and yet no relief from this awful suspense. no word to cheer, or lead me to hope that dorothy lives." "it is no use grieving so much, constance," broke in hazel, who had just entered the room. "dorothy may be safe with her father, somewhere. try, dear, to think so, anyway. it is much the best." "i cannot put away that winsome face from my mind, hazel. something tells me that i shall see her no more," and tears came into her eyes, despite her efforts to restrain them. "there, yees be at it again, sure mam, yees do be makin' us all feel miserable." it was smith who spoke, in a soft, appealing voice, full of sympathy and tenderness, the common heritage of his race. he had entered the room by the parlor door, and stood with his hat in his hand--a short, thick-set man, with a full, smooth-shaven, ruddy face, strong in its lines of "true to a trust." his thin hair was tinged with gray. he wore a black frock coat that had seen considerable wear; in fact, that style of a coat was worn by him for the double purpose of partly concealing the "humiliating" curves of his short bent legs, and also the dignity he fancied it lent to his stature. he had been the family coachman for some years, and was familiarly called "smith." as constance turned to him, he continued with a look suggestive of tearful sympathy. "will yees try to forget the trouble, and be the token av it, may it plaise ye mam, just wipe away that tear, do, dear." "you have always been a good soul, smith," and constance tried to smile through her tears. "of course, but we are anxious to know the result of your search," remarked hazel. he was silent for a moment, and nervously commenced to fidget with his hat. "sure, ave yees'l wait till i think ave all the places i whint to, and all the people i sphoke to"--and he dolefully muttered under his breath--"sure i dunno what i'll rayport at all, at all--" "you are very thoughtful and persistent, smith," responded constance. "yis, indade, mam, i try to be that very same. sure, wasn't i up at rose-a-mant and walked the bache there and watched the boats, but niver a sight did i git ave mr. thorpe." "i know john is leaving no stone unturned to find dorothy," assured constance, "but you, poor man, you must be tired with your long walk." "the walk was long, but me heart was warrum for yees, and i didn't moind it at all, at all. sure, the child may not be in the water at all. will yees try to think so, dear?" and again the beseeching look came over his expressive face. "do you think so, smith?" interrogated hazel. "well, i 'ave me own ideas, miss, and to be plain, and not hurtin' yees failin's, i think she was kidnapped." "you do?" questioned hazel, surprised, for such a possibility had never crossed her mind. "i do," he replied. "sure, i have no rason to think so, miss, at all, at all; but says i to myself, says i, 'i'll just flim-flam around the 'dago' quarters in south portland, on me own account, keeping a sharp lookout betimes.'" "what did you find there?" again asked the girl. "nothin' i wanted, miss, unless it war a sassy fellow wid a big black moustache, and a skin full ave greenbile." "but you were not looking for him," replied hazel. "not wan bit, miss, though i do belave now he do be lookin' for me. indade, miss, i was not failin' well at all, at all. sure, wasn't the little darlint missin', and between the sorrow at home and the failin' in me heart, and the long walk, and the cowld mornin', and the sassy look the fellow gave me--" "what were you doing that so offended him?" interrupted hazel. "indade, i was just walkin' around carbut strate and hood strate for a little divarsion--not wan bit more or less, miss--an' he axed me what i wanted. says i to him, says i, respectful-like, 'maybe yees can tell me did yees see a little girl strayin' about widout a home. a lady sint me to inquire.' "he immejetly made some raymark, quick an' sharp-like, about the dam desavin' wimmen--" "oh!" hazel exclaimed, interrupting him. "shocking!" exclaimed constance. [illustration: smith--"indade miss, oi followed wid wan on the soule ave his plexus."] "sure--and i beg yees pardon fir sayin' it, darlints, but that's just what he towld me and niver a wink whint wid it, the blackguard! "i up and axed him who he'd be refarrin' to, because i had in my moind a sartin lady wid trouble ave her own. "he says, says he, wid a snarl, 'none ave yees business.' "widout thinkin' whether he meant anything by it or not, i tould him he was a gintleman and a liar, too. so i did." "you insulted him!" exclaimed hazel, astounded. "indade i did, miss, in foine style, sure"--and he spoke softly to hazel--"he got it right betwix the two eyes, and i followed it wid wan on the soule ave his plexis." "you did!" hazel exclaimed, amazed, yet with an irrepressible smile that flickered about her pretty mouth. "i did!" he replied gravely. "is the soul of one's plexus in his eyes, smith?" interrogated hazel. "sure, some say it do be the cramps; but i think it do be trouble ave the bowels, miss," he answered. "poor man!" exclaimed constance, and she looked at smith reproachfully. he quickly turned to her with a disgusted look on his face, and slowly exclaimed, "yis mam!" during the silence that followed smith realized that he had spoken hastily and rude, and the disgust so palpably in evidence quickly merged into a look of grave concern. his native wit, however, came to his aid in a singular apology. "while the fellow hunted for a soft spot on the pavement, i called up a nearby doctor to help him," he said. "you shall be repaid," constance assured him in an absent manner. "plaise god, it will not be the 'dago' who'll do it!" he solemnly replied, and then he softly asked. "be there any more arders, mam?" "no, smith, you must be in need of rest. thank you for all your kindness," and constance turned from him with grief, unaffected, still on her face. "god bless yees!" he replied, and then as he turned to leave the room, said to himself, "i shud loike to see the wan--bad luck to him--who brought all this trouble on the poor missus," and he shut his teeth tight in silent rage. after he had gone constance pressed her hand down on the top of her head and said distractedly, "still no word of encouragement; no relief to this strain that seems to be tearing my brain asunder!" under the circumstances, inaction, to one of hazel's temperament, was anything but pleasant, and the young girl was to be condoned rather than censured for desiring to get away from the distress that pervaded the house. moreover, she felt that something must be done to relieve the strain that weighed so heavily upon constance. "don't you think i had better see mrs. harris, dear?" she said, with a wistful look of sympathy at constance. "perhaps she may have something to tell." "very well," replied constance. "do, dear, if you think some good may come from your visit. virginia may be home soon and i shall not be alone." "i shall get my wraps." after hazel had left the room, constance, dispirited and sadly out of harmony with smith's simple recital of his search for dorothy, stepped out on the piazza, as though the air of the close room oppressed her. the sky was cloudy, the air raw and cold. dorothy's pet canary, with its bill thrust under its wing, rested on the perch of its cage, glum and inert, immediately before her. "poor thing!" she exclaimed tenderly. "sweet, sweet! look up, pet!" the dainty little beauty, with a throat of silky mellowness, looked curiously about, gave a "cheep" of recognition and then again buried its bill under its wing. "even my darling's pet will not be comforted." and tears stole into her eyes as she turned away from the bird. "oh, sam, i've been so anxious to hear from you! have you found my darling?" sam had approached the steps unseen by her, and when she turned away from the bird he stood directly in front of her, though at a little distance. her mind at once recalled his words, which rang in her ears as she sank to the ground on that fateful night of the reception, and it was therefore the first and most natural question uppermost in her mind when she saw him. he started back in evident surprise and answered confusedly: "well--i--i am sure, mrs. thorpe, if i had found her, i should only be too glad to--to tell you." "and you have no tidings of her? but--come in, i am sure something important brought you here." she entered the house, followed by sam, who muttered to himself, "she's conjuring tears already, but i'm proof, were they to fall like rain. i guess so!" upon entering the room he looked at her steadfastly and quizically. there was something in his look, too, that bore the imprint of effrontery. she stared at him and asked timidly with alarm in her voice. "oh, what do you know of her?" "i--i--beg your pardon, mrs. thorpe, but--well, the truth is, i called to know if you have any information of her." "how can you ask that question of me?" replied constance brokenly, while again the tears welled up in her eyes. "you see, madam--ahem! you won't be offended with me, for god knows i do not mean any offense to you, but--ahem--you see, madam, you are the unhappy cause of as fine a hearted gentleman as was ever born being a broken-spirited, a--a--blighted man!" "sam!" she affrightedly exclaimed. "what are you saying?" "this," continued he, with dauntless determination, "and i'll tell you the truth. you are the talk of the town, and they say you--you--you've secured the child from your husband." her face became ashy white as the meaning of john's absence from home dawned on her mind. she staggered, then sank into a chair. presently she looked up with a sort of dazed, wandering expression and tried to smile through watery eyes. "my cup of woe is very full, sam! please don't jest with me!" he wiped the perspiration from his brow, for he felt his resolution to accomplish what he had set out to do was fast crumbling. he rushed on, "i am not jesting. no, i guess not! i know i am paining you, but i have a duty to do which i shall do, as i have always done through my life. and as this affair occurred at my uncle's place, they say he knows more about it than he cares to tell, which he doesn't. and i have come to see if you really don't know something of the whereabouts of dorothy, as that would relieve my uncle and aunt of much embarrassment--at least--i guess so!" her lips trembled with the pathos of her reply: "did i know of the fate of my child, heaven could not bless me with a more joyful desire--to let you know, to let your aunt know, that dorothy is--is safe. as it is, i would to heaven that i were dead and with my darling." and her head fell forward on the table as a burst of heart-rending agony shook her frame. it was evident sam was uneasy and much affected by her distress. he coughed and tried to clear his throat again and again. "ahem!--you must excuse me, mrs. thorpe--ahem! but--but, lord--lord! i can't bear to hear you take on that way. ahem! ahem! i'm rough and thoughtless in my way, and it seems harsh and brutal to speak to you as i have done--i guess so!--and if any man in my hearing says you have hidden your child--why, by heavens, i'll knock the lie back through his teeth." sam had forgotten his resolution to resist the influence of a woman's tears; moreover, he felt convinced he was standing in the presence of a true, atrociously wronged and much slandered woman, and in his eagerness to undo the wrong he had done her by practically charging her with the wrecking of her husband's happiness and connivance at the child's disappearance, had lost control of that gentleness he felt due to the weaker sex, especially this bereaved woman. he stammered an apology in a soft regretful tone of voice. "i--i--beg your pardon. i--i could not help it. these expressions will slip out now and again, won't they? i guess so. i am satisfied you are deeply grieved about dorothy, and i'm interested in her, too. the fact is, i was so anxious on my aunt's account that i have behaved like a brute. now please understand me, you are not friendless, for i shall do my best for you, and if dorothy is out of water i'm going to find her. i'm off now, so good-bye!" and he was gone--glad to get away from the distress that raised a lump in his throat which all his labored coughing could not dislodge. sam had entered her presence a scoffer. he had made up his mind that her grief was as deceitful as her reputed double life. he departed, her firm friend and almost choked with disgust at his own readiness to believe the foul reports, magnified by gossiping busybodies. gradually constances' emotion subsided. she sat upright in the chair. a significant dryness had come into her eyes as she stared at the wall with profound abstraction. out of the haze john thorpe's picture gradually emerged. suddenly she exclaimed in strangely low tones, almost a whisper--tones in which a woman's life was projected on the horoscope of faithfulness, immutable as the "rock of ages": "john! john! you are breaking my heart!" then her mind began to settle upon one object--to see her husband, john thorpe. "it must be some mistake!" she muttered. "it cannot be so. john would never treat me thus. i will have smith seek him and deliver a message at once." she went to her desk and wrote a hasty note, requesting john to come home to her immediately. with the sealed note in her hand, she hurried out to find smith. she found him fast asleep on an old couch just inside the coach-house door, and remembering his tired look, softly said: "poor man! how fatigued he must be! after all, what matters it for a few hours?" and then, instead of arousing him, she took his coat off the rack and gently covered him, murmuring in a broken voice that betrayed the pathos of her trouble: "asleep, with the peace of god resting on his face. heaven bless and reward your faithful heart. sleep on." returning to the house, she sat down at the table to think of a possible something she had done to cause john's unkind behavior. a shadow darkened the doorway. she turned mechanically. a tall, grave and elderly gentleman, with stooping shoulders and bared head, stood in the entrance. constance arose. he approached her and said softly: "i beg to apologize for the intrusion. the door being open, and seeing you within, i entered unannounced." "oh, mr. williams! have you any tidings of dorothy?" "i regret not being able to bring any tidings of your child. the river has been carefully dragged for a considerable distance in front of 'rosemont.' i fear she is drowned and the body carried down to the columbia." "my poor darling!" "there is yet hope, however, that your child lives. an old cripple--a disreputable looking vagabond--was seen lurking about the grounds the night she was lost. he has not been seen since. detectives are baffled in tracing him. he may have abducted your child. it's the only hope that she is alive, though i admit, a frail one." "heaven give me strength to hope it is so. but who could be so cruel as to steal away my little darling? no, no, she is drowned!" "i have to announce a disagreeable errand," and he paused, not quite satisfied of the propriety of the moment for so serious a declaration as he was about to make; but he at length continued hesitatingly: "as--as your--legal adviser--." again he paused. constance looked at him timidly. a cold, creepy fear of something dreadful about to happen chilled her. her blanched face and beseeching eyes warned him of very grave consequences. "what is it, judge?" she whispered with parched lips, "speak out; tell me what you have come for." "are you strong enough?--i think--perhaps--i had better defer--" "oh, yes, my strength is not great--but--the suspense--i cannot bear. let me hear--what it is." he hesitated no longer. "as your attorney, i have been served with a notice of an application for a divorce, by john thorpe, from his wife, constance." with bowed head he laid the document on the table. she clasped her hand to her head, clutched the back of a chair for support, for the suddenness and weight of the blow staggered her. she, however, managed to bear herself bravely up. "and--could--he really believe this of me?" she said distractedly. "he has, at the same time, placed at your disposal in the national bank a sum of money for your immediate wants." he paused. a solemn quietness pervaded the room. at length he continued in a low, grave tone: "i am prepared to receive instructions. shall i give notice of your intention to resist his application for divorce?" still leaning on the chair for support, and without lifting her bowed head, or raising her downcast eyes, she said in a voice barely articulate with the huskiness and tremor of threatened physical collapse, "please leave me for awhile. providence has seen fit to afflict me so sorely that i must beg a little time to try to think. but, stay!" and her voice gathered a little strength in an effort to keep from breaking down altogether: "i desire to receive nothing from john. i shall not reply to his complaint, and you will return the money he has placed to my credit in the bank. now, please leave me; i desire to be alone." during his professional experience, the "judge" had been a witness to many painful scenes, and familiarity had calloused somewhat his sense of sympathy. but as he gazed upon the white, spiritually chaste face of this frail woman, a conviction that a great wrong was being done to her forced and crowded itself upon his brain. "someone must answer for it before a higher than human court," he thought, and then with bent head he left her, feeling that he would value beyond price the power to effect a little gleam of sunshine to heal her broken heart. "dorothy! dorothy!" he muttered, and he passed out from her presence with words of tennyson on his lips: "oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, the sound of a voice that is still!" after he had gone, constance remained motionless. she was strangely quiet, yet wrapt in thoughts of bitterest shame and grief, the world had little left for her to care for. a sense of gloom enveloped her. its shadow bore heavily upon her oppressed spirits, smothering by its weight the stifled cry of her heart's anguish. it was therefore with a wondrously calm voice, pregnant with tragic pathos, that she at length broke the stillness: "i am sure of the cause of john's absence now, and the very worst has come to me. what now can compensate me for the humiliation of being thought by him so shameless and debased? oh, how wretched i am!" and with a moan, she placed her hand on the top of her head. "oh, heaven spare my reason--yet--what is reason to me now? or--life? my darling is drowned. john has left me, and with them hope and happiness are gone forever." it was then a strange, uncanny, desperate flash leapt into her eyes. suddenly she withdrew her hand from the top of her head, but instantly pressed it to her brow. in a moment her appearance underwent a great change. under the continuous strain, the strands of grief and despair had at last snapped asunder and up rushed an exultation that instantly overwhelmed all opposition to a suddenly conceived and terrible purpose. she whispered with an earnestness intense as it was significant: "there is a way out." then she suddenly burst into a frenzy of pathetic joy as she thought of the phial of laudanum in the medicine chest in her room. "a passage to my darling beyond!" she did not see virginia standing in the doorway, nor did she pause as some do to take a last farewell look at earth and sky. her mind was set upon the swift accomplishment of an object. upon reaching her room, she took up the phial of laudanum and then, as she fell on her knees, locked her hands together, and her voice softened into tenderness--softened in inexpressibly sweet and plaintive tones, as she cried out in a whisper of her soul's anguish: "rock of ages, cleft for me!" she was standing in the shadow of the valley of death. strangely coincident, the inspiring notes of the "star spangled banner" softly broke upon the air from a piano in the music room below. as the grand strains swelled upward, they were met with a break in the clouds through which the sun poured down a flood of dazzling glory. at that moment dorothy's pet canary began to sing. the delicate little feathered thing, that had nestled its bill under its wing in the raw cold of the morning, felt the warm influence of the sunshine that fell upon it, and looked up, twittered, lifted its voice in surprised gladness, and then in response to the soft strains that were pealing forth from the music room, broke into song. higher and higher it swelled, cleaving the air with its exultant melody. oh! the wild soaring flight of that joyous song! through the partly closed window it burst and flooded the room with its gladness and cheer. death stayed his hand. the little silken feathered throat of her darling's pet had turned aside the "grim sickle." she heard it. out over the entrancing beauty of autumn-dyed vegetation, her sad eyes wandered--wandered wistfully over nature bathed in the splendor of the sun's radiance. she heeded the call, and then, appalled at her contemplated sin, she cowered--bowed down--lower, lower. in tones of resignation--tones tremulous with awe of the omnipotent, she said: "have pity upon me, merciful heaven!" and then very softly virginia knelt beside her, gently encircling her waist with her arm, and looked into her spiritual face with eyes overflowing with tears. in a broken voice, scarcely articulate through a great sob, she said: "oh, constance! constance, dear, i am punished enough already!" after hazel had completed her attire for a visit to mrs. harris, she descended the stairs with the same feeling of gloom and depression upon her. slow and hesitating as was her action--as though undecided as to the propriety of leaving constance, and while drawing on her gloves, she aimlessly wandered into the music room and listlessly sat on the piano stool. then, with her head turned looking out of the window, she let her fingers ramble over the keys of the instrument. then she saw virginia pass up the walk and enter the house, but after the lapse of a few moments and her cousin not appearing, hazel entered the drawing room to greet her--but too late. through the open door she heard a step on the main stairs above. hazel followed. on passing the table the divorce bill caught her eye. for a moment she paused and picked it up; then laid it down, her breath coming in gasps, for she instantly realized a crisis of a very grave moment had appeared. she ran upstairs, surmising that virginia was connected with the "divorce bill," for she had not seen mr. williams. and then she heard virginia's voice. softly she stole to the door and looked in. there, kneeling on the floor, were constance and virginia, looking into each other's eyes, constance drawn back in timid alarm, and virginia blinded with tears, clasping the hand that held the laudanum phial, her free arm thrown lovingly around constance's waist. hazel silently drew back, an overpowering emotion suffusing her eyes with tears. "poor constance! her trouble thickens fast. what will the end be?" chapter iv. rutley had found time during the frantic appearance of constance at the "fete," to threaten virginia with public exposure if she failed to keep their secret. it was that threat that induced her to pause in a momentary conceived intention to demand an explanation from her brother. the passionate earnestness--the uncontrollable fury she discovered in her brother--produced an awe, and aroused her to a sense of some terrible mistake, and of the far-reaching effect her conspiracy with rutley was likely to have. each moment, instead of exultation, increased her sorrow at the course she had pursued. between fear of publicity of the part she had played, coupled with her hatred of corway, and consequent satisfaction in her triumph at his discomfiture--at the same time alarmed at her brother's imminent danger in a probably tragic affair--all contributed to indecision, and she realized to her dismay that she had placed herself in the power of a man who had proved himself a master "iago." her intuition caused her to shrink from him. he comprehended and pressed closer. despite her powerful will and keen perception, and possession of those womanly attributes of sympathy and kindness to suffering humanity, she felt herself incapable, just then, of defying him. the cry of constance that dorothy was in the water scattered the quarreling party, which rushed to the river's edge. virginia and mrs. harris remained with constance, but rutley made it his business to keep his eyes on her and under pretense of searching the grounds, remained near by, in order to restrain her from approaching her brother. her opportunity to undo all, which under a more prompt determination would have succeeded--was lost, simply because it had taken her some time to care for constance, and also to arrive at a fixed conclusion, irrespective of the threats or cajoling of rutley--and then john thorpe disappeared. two days she diligently searched for him, surmising that he was searching for dorothy, but all her efforts to locate him were fruitless. she had just returned from a stubborn search of the hotels, when she heard the frenzied cry of, "a passage to my darling beyond." she recognized the voice and stole through the doorway, just in time to see constance pass upstairs. as virginia entered the room, she passed the table on which lay the divorce paper. the printed word attracted her attention, and at once arrested her onward course. she picked it up. "john thorpe, from his wife, constance." horror and dismay swept across her face with lightning rapidity. here, then, was the key to rutley's horrible revenge. now she knew that constance was made to stand for hazel. the document dropped from her nerveless hand, and with wildly beating heart she flew up the stairs after constance. noiselessly she opened the door. before her--on her knees, with bowed head, the phial of laudanum between her clasped hands, was the woman who had received the terrible blow intended for corway. virginia's heart seemed to still its beating. her blood seemed to be congealing to ice as she stood incapable of motion, and listened to the piteous appeal from that pure, broken heart. in a moment she understood it all--the intent--the arresting hand of fate--the startled submission of a meek and contrite spirit to the divine will, and below--the divorce paper. satisfied that constance would not again attempt an act of self-destruction, and unequal, in her present frame of mind, to the task of ministering comfort to the woman whose grief must be partially laid to her door--for it must be remembered that virginia had not in any manner contributed to the abduction of dorothy, and was as much at a loss to account for the child's disappearance as her mother--she withdrew, her mission unfilled--her atonement inconceivably harder to accomplish. she seemed overcome with a suffocating sensation. she must have air. out of the house she mechanically passed. down the steps and around the grounds--under the silent falling vine and russet and golden-colored leaves she hurried, neither looking to the right nor to the left. born on her father's willamette valley farm, yet this city home, of her childhood and of her womanhood, now so enchantingly beautiful in its autumn glory, its fragrant coying whisper had no charm to impede her onward flight, no power to lift her bowed head. she was thinking of the one within. "and it is all my fault. i feel sure of that, for it would have been impossible for rutley to have angered john so much with any other name. i must have been mad ever to have confided in him that it was constance's ring. "oh, what shall i do? what shall i do? god forgive me!" she moaned, as she sought solace under a maple. but there was no rest for her. she returned to the house. mechanically she opened the door and with one longing heartsore purpose--to seek the seclusion of her apartment--to throw herself on the couch and bury her face in her hands in a vain hope to get relief in tears. but there, just inside the door, on the hall table, she saw through moist-swollen eyes, something white. she picked it up. it was a letter addressed to her, in a coarse scrawl. she fled to her room, there she sat on a chair near the window and opened the letter. the characters were bold, but slovenly written, and almost illegible, and then somehow the light did not appear strong or bright as it should be. she bent over close to the window--no better, save that she could make out the word "virginia." becoming more interested, she turned on the electric light, and even then her eyes seemed weak, and the letters so run together as to appear blurred. she took up a magnifying glass that lay on the table, and by its aid was at last able to decipher the note. virginia, ther party as sends er this kin tell yer somethink about er party yer wud lie ter knows, perwiden yer meets me nere the top of the long steps at or eleven ternight--alone, mind yer--alone in ther city park. yerl be safe if alone. she was at once convinced that the note had a deep significance. she turned it over and over and read and re-read it again and again. it was clearly meant for a clandestine meeting--with whom? ha! the handwriting was evidently disguised, for it was quite different from that on the envelop, and the illiteracy plainly intended to deceive. nevertheless the information might be of inestimable value--perhaps john, maybe of dorothy. her mind was almost in a state of frenzy at her impotent efforts to undo the mischief she had wrought, and even this "straw" gave a certain measure of relief, by offering work for solution. "i will go!" she said aloud. having made up her mind to take the risk, her spirits lightened perceptibly. as the envelop bore no postmark, she at once plied the housemaid with questions. who delivered the letter? how had it come on the hall table? the questions were put in a quiet, indifferent manner, so as not to excite curiosity. at the usual time the maid had taken it from the private mail box, which was of iron and old-fashioned, and fastened to the porch buttress, and she guessed that the mail carrier had brought it with the other mail. virginia spoke kindly to the girl, and after casually commenting on the beautiful sunshine, returned to her room and prepared for the adventure. she utterly disregarded in her mind that the mail carrier had brought the letter. since it was not postmarked, it could not have passed through the postoffice. some one had sneaked in some time during the night or early in the morning and placed it in the box. that was her decision. chapter v. that night, heavily veiled, she entered the park, alone. she was familiar with the contour and walks and knew the location of the long steps, but in her agitation, she thoughtlessly took to the walk on the left of the main entrance. the darkness was not deep. above could be seen stray fleecy clouds, flitting athwart the vast realms of space, while the atmosphere near the earth's surface was laden with a thin vapor. down low on the horizon, above the line of hills, swung the half-moon, aglow with soft pale light, while the nearby electric arcs were scarcely affected by the haze that enveloped them. every element seemed to have conspired to make the night a fit one in its baneful purpose. as she proceeded, endeavoring to control her fears, though her heart beat wildly with misgivings, the stillness of the night was broken only by the sound of her own footfalls on the cement pavement, and ever and anon were mingled with the distant attenuated sounds of belated cosmopolitan life. at times her walk would be rapid, then slow and hesitating, almost a halt, as she approached some indefinite object, and as the clouds sped hurriedly across the face of the moon, grotesque shadows loomed up suddenly, shying her into moments of terror until discovered to be fantastic bushes or other odd-shaped growths. her sustained, keen, alert watchfulness preyed severely upon her tense nerves. at length she arrived at the place she thought designated in the note. she stepped off the walk onto the grass, and stood under the deeper darkness of a cedar. the stillness was profound; so much so that she fancied she could hear the throb of her own tumultuous heart. and to add to the unseasonable moment, the weird, uncanny howl of a jackal, confined in the park menagerie, pierced the night air and caused cold shivers to race up and down her frame. "it's a lonely spot," she whispered to herself. "and this is the top of the long walk. now the time--yet! i can see no one. i do not feel safe." just then a man moved slowly from the shadows near the fountain. he leisurely walked toward the reservoir. she watched him for a moment, until the pale moonlight again faded away, and darkness shut him from view. then, as if by inspiration, she suddenly remembered that the note directed her to the top of the "long steps." in her excitement, she had taken the wrong direction, and was then at the top of the long walk. cautiously as possible, she crept down the bank, crossed the bridge, that spanned the park's main artery, and though confusing in the darkness, she at last found her way to the appointed place without meeting or seeing anyone, but with nerves almost snapping asunder, and so fatigued that her limbs trembled. she sat on a bench near a clump of small firs to get a little rest, and while peering through the darkness, which at that point was faintly illumined by the mass of distant lights spread over the city before and beneath her, she made out the figure of a man walking leisurely on the drive below where she was sitting. she arose to her feet, and silently stepped in the deep shadow of a clump of trees, and watched him. she took him to be the same man she had seen a little while before near the fountain. as she watched him, another man, who had been concealed in the grove of trees, recently trimmed out to make way for the traditional group of indians in bronze, "the coming of the white man," and which now graces the spot--stole up with cat-like tread behind her, and then, quite close, halted, and silently stood regarding her. virginia was watching the stranger on the road, almost directly below her, with such intense eagerness as to be quite unconscious of the dark shadow behind her. "perhaps i am being watched," she thought. "i will go down the steps." she turned about, and was terrified to discover a roughly-clad man at her elbow. her heart seemed to stop its beat. "what do you mean? who are you?" she gasped. the man lifted his hat, bowed and softly said: "bees a-note a da fraid, signora de virginia. eesa nota-a do you-a da harm. i come to da meet-a you." his easy, respectful manner reassured her. relieved, she said: "then it was you who sent me the note this morning?" "he, he, he, he," he chuckled low, but exultantly. "eesa tole-a da self a-da letta would-a da fetch a-you." "what do you want--what am i--who are you?" he turned his head aside, and muttered to himself. "she doesn't recognize me as the old cripple," and evaded a direct answer by asking her: "donna you da know-a me?" "your voice sounds like"--and she thought of the old cripple who intruded on mr. harris' grounds a few nights since. "yes--what"-- and she halted, unable to frame her thoughts into words. he laughed low and gutturally. "he, he, he, he, eesa be a da fine-a artiste. make-a da boss actor--like-a salvina--bime by, eh?" "you--you--you kidnapped little dorothy," she almost shrieked, forgetting her fear, and searching him with glittering eyes. jack shore, for it was he, chuckled gleefully. "you make-a da wild-a guessa, signora, eesa not-a da old-a cripple." "you were in disguise, a beggar. i gave you money. what have you done with the child?" "what-a da child-a?" he asked, gruffly. "dorothy thorpe!" "he, he, he, he," he again chuckled, and sharply turned on her: "who tole-a you, eesa gott-a da kid?" "what did you want to meet me here for? was it not to tell me where dorothy is?" "oh, he, he, he, he," he laughed. "eesa jessa da thought-a youda like-a see me--alone--at night, signora." and he watched her from the corners of his eyes, as, with bent head, he muttered: "turnoppsis, carrotsis, ca-babbages, black-a da boots, steal-a da chil. anyting dees-a gett-a da mon. go back a da sunny italy!" "what was your motive for kidnapping the child?" she asked, without heeding his significant answer. "da mon!" he promptly replied. up to that moment he had equivocated. "you are frank," she rejoined, and then asked: "is dorothy safe?" "youse-a da bet she's a da safe," he proudly replied. "ah!" it was a sigh of glad relief that she uttered, for she believed the man's statement to be true, and with the information her spirits rose. "how many of you are there in this?" she quietly asked. "eesa not-a da beeze, jess-a da myself." "you told me you sent the note requesting this meeting. who wrote it? it was not you!" she demanded. jack was not expecting so pointed a question and was thrown somewhat off his guard by her abrupt eagerness. he answered thoughtlessly--or, it may have been, indifference to the importance. "eesa my good-a da friend." "so there are at least two of you in this 'over the road' business?" chagrined, he thought how easily he had been trapped. "hang it! i didn't mean to make a break like that." and then he exclaimed, between his teeth, for he realized too late the slip of his tongue. "see-a da here. da mon. eesa want. how much-a you-a da give to gett-a back-a da kid? speak a da quick." virginia perceived he was getting angry and restless. it was about that time that sam, who was lying on his stomach in a slight depression, peered over the rise in the ground a short distance from the two. he was a little too far away to hear distinctly, except occasional words, as their voices were pitched in a low key. "how much will i give?" replied virginia, surprised, and then her voice lowered again. "you are a poor man, no doubt, but you have your liberty, which is priceless, and i warn you of the severe penalty for the offense you are committing. it is most dangerous business." "liberty, wid out-a da mon! eesa be damn! say, signora, yous-a come-a down wid a da handsome da mon--eesa take de kid--wid da longa golda hair so nicey da shiney, and da bigg-a da brown eyes." "dorothy, i am sure!" she thought. "well, what do you call the handsome mon?" "eesa note-a bees-a da hard. eesa cheap at-a da twenty thous." "twenty thous--what!" "bigg-a da round flat dollairs!" "twenty thousand dollars!" angrily exclaimed virginia, for the moment forgetting herself, and then again her voice fell almost to a whisper. "you dare ask that from me! knowing that i have but to call and the police would hound you to prison." jack swiftly wheeled about and rolled his eyes in alarm. the word police startled him, and for the moment he verily believed they were within call, a circumstance he at once set down to his lax watchfulness, but he soon felt reassured, and, turning upon her said, sarcastically: "oh, that-a beesa a lettle a da game-a. he, he, he, he," he laughed low and gleefully, in strange contrast to the white of his eyeballs, which shone with sinister effect as he leered at her. "two play-a dees-a da trick, signora! wouldn't yous-a look-a da well bees-a compan-e-on ove-a mine, in a da pen, eh, signora. he, he, he, he," he again laughed. "eesa don-a da know some-a da ting about eesa da duc, eh! eesa don-a da hear a da game between ee mand a da signora da virginia, eh! sacremento!" he fairly ground out the last word between his teeth. virginia shuddered and then involuntarily exclaimed: "villain!" jack turned upon her swiftly, ceremoniously bowed, and again leered at her. then, with a most offensive smirk playing about his mouth, said: "tank-a da signora, my a da pard." her face burned with the red that flushed up. she felt that even the darkness could not conceal her flaming cheeks. she bent her head in humiliation and shame at the all too well merited rebuke. for a moment there followed intense stillness. she thought of what he had possibly heard at the harris reception. "his disclosure would incriminate me with rutley. still, it matters not. my duty to my god, my home and constance is to make reparation for the wrong i have done." she broke the silence in an assumed, haughty tone. "well, as you are poor and in need, i will give you five hundred dollars upon return of the child; but if you do not comply by noon tomorrow i shall inform the police." "eesa bett-a note!" he replied, with an unmistakable menace in his voice. "eef yourse da squeal on a da ma, signora--look-a da out!" and so saying, he slowly drew his finger across his throat. the action was most significant. "eesa bett-a da keep a da mum! understand-a! youse-a geeve a me a da twenty da thouse-a dollair, youse-a take a da kid--but youse-a da squeal!" and he drew close and hissed at her--"bett-a da look a for her eesa mong a da weeds in a da willamette." his attitude was so threatening, and his speech uttered with such savage earnestness, that it drove all courage from her heart. again she felt, as once before, at the harris reception, how puny a thing she was in the presence of a strong, masculine rascal. she, however, quickly mastered the momentary sickening alarm that had seized her, and assuming a bold, threatening manner, in which she astonished herself, for she felt anything but defiant just then, said in a voice low and determined: "scoundrel! if you harm that child, i, myself, will weave the rope to hang you!" jack leered at her. "so signora"--laughed, laughed low and derisively. "ha, ha, ha, signora lak-a da job, eh? eesa mak-a da boss a hang-a man, eh?" jack could not repress a smile of admiration at her courage, and his lips quivered to exclaim: "god, she is game!" "an-a deesea lettle white-a da hands-a," he sneered. "stain 'em all a da red, eh?" and he chuckled low, as though amused. "oh, ha, ha, ha." suddenly he changed his tone and again continued threateningly. "now look-a da ere. eef-a youse-a da want a kid, gett-a da mon a da quick--twenty da thous, for eesa tink a da move-a da way. may bees gett-a da organ en-a da monk, go down south amereek. eef youse-a danna da squeal, da kid bees-a da safe; but effe youse-a da tell a po-lis, eesa mak-a da me a devil," and he again drew close to her and hissed out between his teeth. "when eesa be lik-a dat, eesa does a da murda," and so saying, he thrust his hand inside his double-breasted short coat, and partially drew out a glittering knife. "eesa you da see?"--and he leaned over to her, a sinister glint shooting from the corner of his eye--"eesa slit more's a da one-a windpipe." as he replaced the knife, a low whistle sounded off toward the right. it startled him, for he muttered as if alarmed. "ha, some one is watching me." and without another word or moment of delay, glided off southward, and disappeared in the darkness. sam having seen the glitter of a knife against the dim city lights, unconsciously gave a low whistle of warning, and sprang to his feet. he believed virginia was in imminent peril. for a moment he stood irresolute, unwilling to uncover his identity to her or to in any wise have her think he had been shadowing her. then feeling satisfied she was not hurt, he sped away on the track of the italian. virginia was alone. she, also, had seen the figure of a man suddenly loom up on the right and then hasten after the supposed italian. the terror that now had seized her, the strain that gave artificial courage, so worked upon her nerves as to produce a trembling of her limbs, and to avoid a threatened collapse she sank down on the grass. her strength gradually returned, her agitation quieted and she began to think with lucidity. she had been followed by whom? most likely a detective in the pay of her brother. "thank god!" his unknown presence at a perilous moment had been sweetly welcome. "dorothy is not dead," she thought. "thank heaven for that, too; but she is in the hands of a murderous scoundrel, who would not hesitate to shed innocent blood were his own safety jeoparded." an attempt at rescue by the police would, no doubt, result in the death of dorothy. she must act alone, act at once. having arrived at that conclusion, she arose to her feet. to get dorothy home was the first thing to be done--the mother's life depended upon that. how could she get twenty thousand dollars to pay the ransom? she bent her head in thought. she had been instrumental in the ruin and disgrace of her only brother's happy home. if it was in human power to restore happiness to that home, she would do it. the italian is in desperate need of money. she could hypothecate her income; sell her jewels. "i will offer him all i can possibly obtain--then, if he will not release dorothy," and her voice took on a soft, strange, resolute calmness. "god helping me, i will take her from him, even though," and she looked at her own little white hands, "these do become stained red in the work." then she made her way out of the park, and returned to her home. chapter vi. sam had followed virginia and stood unseen within ten yards of her when that morning she sat under the maple after she had left constance. he noted how absorbed she was in thought--noted her grave, white, shocked face, and her bowed head. his sympathy went out to her. oh, what wouldn't he then have given to be able to clasp her in his arms, to comfort her--the woman he so madly loved! though free and impulsive in his manner with other women, to her he was as coy and modest and respectful as a boy of fifteen. he lingered near the premises for a time, from an impelling sympathy to be near her in her trouble, and hoping she would re-appear, but in that he was disappointed. he returned again in the evening, resolved to call on her. he ascended the piazza steps and crossed to the door, but somehow at the moment could not muster courage to push the button. after meditating for a moment, he turned and softly passed along the piazza. on reaching the south extension he halted, for the sound of a door softly closing caught his ear, and then he saw virginia emerging from the side entrance, closely veiled. in a moment sam was all alertness. he wondered at her veiled appearance at that hour, about half past ten, and at her avoiding the main front entrance. he followed at a distance and saw her enter a washington and twenty-third street car. he boarded the next one that came along. fortunately the interval between the two cars was short, there having been a breakdown on fifth and washington streets, resulting in the cars being bunched. sam stood at the front end of the car beside the motorman, and in the darkness--the front inside blinds being down--was able to keep a sharp lookout at the car just ahead. at the intersection of washington and twenty-third streets, the forward car stopped, and he distinctly saw a woman alight. "virginia!" he muttered, and as his car passed on, he saw her walking toward the park entrance. one block further along twenty-third street sam alighted, and rapidly retraced his steps to washington street. on rounding the corner, and coming into view of the park entrance, where blazed an arc light, he caught sight of her again, entering the gateway. sam briskly covered the distance, keeping well under the line of shadows. "did you notice the path a lady took, who entered the park a minute since?" he inquired of a park policeman. "yes; that way!" and the policeman waved his hand to the left. "thank you," and sam followed the direction indicated. a strange foreboding hurried him on. he was then fully aroused to something extraordinary about to happen. he walked on the grass whenever possible to muffle the sound of his footfalls, and soon was rewarded by making out the dim form of a woman some distance ahead, being still in the range of the gate arc light. there was no mistaking the figure. from that moment he never lost sight of her. to avoid suspicion of shadowing her, he took a diverging path and boldly clambered over the hill, and proceeded toward the children's playgrounds, apparently away from her. passing on and in the direction of the reservoirs, he at length stopped at the fountain. he was the "man near the fountain" whom she discovered while she was standing under the cedar. sam had stopped but a moment when, to his amazement, he discovered virginia suddenly had disappeared down the hillside. he at once followed her, and was the man she again saw on the driveway beneath her. again she disappeared, and he shrewdly suspected, into the deep shadow of the clump of firs nearby. he was straining his eyes diagonally up the slope, trying to penetrate the gloom, when a low scream of terror assailed his ears, and was quickly followed by a low, reassuring masculine voice. he determined to get near them. he threw himself flat against the bank and, shielded some by the unmowed grassy slope, dragged himself along for about fifty feet, to where the driveway, rounding westward, divided them from the long flight of steps. he passed within fifty feet of the couple, then cautiously pulled himself near the summit. the ridge was strategically of great value. it enabled him to flank them unseen. he immediately availed himself of its cover and sneaked slowly and cautiously along the side of the crest to a point which he judged to be near enough to them, and then he peered above the summit. the couple were between him and the dim city lights. he strained his ears to catch their words, and drew himself closer, inch by inch, fearing discovery, yet desperately anxious to catch the purpose of the meeting, and when he saw the glittering knife, his alarm gave expression in the low whistle. when he sprang on in pursuit of jack, it was with a determination to ascertain who he was, where he lived, and, if possible, to gain some knowledge of his purpose in this meeting with virginia at such an unseasonable time and place. the few words of low-spoken conversation he had heard gave him no clue to the real object of the meeting; but he was convinced that some grave and momentous purpose was involved to have induced virginia to keep so perilous an appointment alone. "did she make the appointment?" the thought was no sooner uttered than it gave place to another equally as suggestive, for just then thoughts raced through sam's brain with amazing rapidity. "or, rather, was she not compelled to meet the stranger by some power which he had obtained over her--some secret of her life which she feared--a deathly fear, of disclosure, and which this man knew, and its power he knew only too well, how to wield." the more he thought about it, the more the mystery, for such it appeared to him, deepened. he determined to fathom it. inured to a rough, open-air life on the texas plains, his constitution was hard and tough, and well seasoned for the job presented--and, it must be confessed, it was to his liking. sam felt his blood tingle as his enthusiasm rose to the prospect of a genuine adventure, and he hurried along, over the soft, yielding grass, to catch sight of the fellow ahead. a clump of low bushes suddenly confronted him. it was an unusually dark spot, and then, for the first time, he thought of the ugly knife the stranger had displayed, and realized that he himself was unarmed. he almost halted--wary of running into an ambush, and cautiously made a wide detour, meanwhile alert for any sudden surprise from the direction of the bush. discovering no sign of a crouching figure there, he hastened on, and finally caught sight of a moving shadow, as it crossed a faint shaft of light shot from a window of a dwelling on ford street, to his left. "ah, i guess so. that's the party," he muttered to himself, and from that moment sam was as keen on the trail as a sleuth on the scent, never losing sight of his quarry, but himself avoiding, as he believed, discovery. occasionally, as the moon cleared from an obscuring cloud, he could make out the man halting under the shelter of a fir or clump of saplings, evidently to listen for sounds of a pursuer, and then, seemingly satisfied, again move on. so far the direction of his course was toward the reservoir, but of a sudden he turned, and sharply cutting across sam's front, swiftly entered the deep gloom of a cluster of cedars, where he was lost to the eyes of the pursuer. it was plain that his man intended to avoid exit by the main gate, or by park avenue, a circumstance to cause sam keen chagrin, for he hoped by an adroit move to get a good square look at the fellow's face as he would pass under the entrance arc light. to the right, a foot path wound its way to the main gate. to the left of a cluster of dark firs stretched a comparative level, past the bear pit, and right down to the deer corral; but what park features lay beyond and between the firs and corral, he could not determine. in his effort to mislead sam, the fugitive had doubled on his track, and at that moment was but a short distance west of the starting point. sam reasoned that this man would not cross that smooth, grassy plot, nor emerge from his retreat and go down the path, but most likely would take a direct course through the cluster of firs, and under the shelter of their dark shadow strike the fence directly opposite, and so reach the barnes road, a hundred yards or so west of the park gate. it was obvious that time was an important factor. there being no possible place of concealment between his present position and the firs, he must either go back and take a circuitous route, or boldly approach by the path. he chose the latter. skirting the firs--for he dared not enter the cluster's gloomy precincts in his defenseless condition--he soon passed them and discovered a succession of odd-looking shrubs, trained to fantastic growths by the gardener. they afforded excellent cover right down past the bear pit to the deer corral fence, which ran along the brow of the hill; farther down, a second fence, which still exists, bounded the deer corral and separated the park from the barnes road. a little further along and against the upper picket fence (since removed), a mass of tangled ivy and virginia creeper foliage, revelled in wild luxuriance. the vines had seized upon and had grown about and over some dwarf locust trees, forming a series of natural bowers, rather picturesque by daylight, but at night, dismally dark and forbidding. sam hesitated, which was well for him, for under the shadow of these dark vines, rutley and jack shore had met by previous arrangement. they were silently watching him. "i cannot shake him off. he tracks me like a bloodhound," jack informed his companion, in a whisper. "the meddlesome fool!" replied rutley. "if he will not stop following you--why--he carries his life in his hands." "no, no! not that. we don't want any killing in ours, phil, anything but that. who is he?" "sam harris. i saw him follow virginia and was sure he would run foul of you." "the simpleton is harmless anyway. he is moving to the fence. see him? hist!" after studying the wild growth for a few moments, sam decided to approach it by way of the fence. there he suddenly dropped to his knees and crept noiselessly--very close beside the fence, toward the tangle. as he neared it he could make out its black cavernous recesses. twice he paused, his eyes strained with the utmost tension of watchfulness against a surprise, for he now fully believed that the man he was attempting to shadow was a desperate character. however, he crept nearer, hardly stirring a blade of grass, so cautious was his progress--so silent his movements. he listened intently, scarcely breathing, lest its sound should betray his presence. his hands gently touched a vine to part the leaves--instantly he was greeted with a hiss and a rattle, and then something glittered close to his eyes, which in the moment of his startled alarm he believed to be the glitter of a reptile's fangs. it caused him to bolt suddenly with a panicky feeling at his heart, and then it brought from jack a soft chuckle of merriment. "he's not as plucky as the girl. we must throw him off the scent at any cost," whispered rutley, "or we will be trapped." suddenly he laid his hand on jack's arm and continued with a low, sardonic laugh: "i have it, jack. you lead him down on the barnes road; i'll meet him there," and without any further delay rutley slipped down the steep slope to his automobile, which lay in the deep shadow of the canyon walls, a little further to the west, where he waited with the evil purpose in his heart for the climax. sam was no coward. he had faced dangerous situations fearlessly, but that hiss and rattle, in the stillness of a dark, lonely and forbidding place, fairly raised his hair, and lent a lightness to his feet that amazed him, when he halted and noted the distance covered in the few moments of his flight. "one of those deadly reptiles got out of the park zoo," he thought, "sneaked his way into that jungle--i guess so!" and he wiped the beads of perspiration from his face as he added aloud: "an almighty close call! but," and he looked up at the dark sky, and then around and about, and as gathering confidence returned to him, continued: "i shall not give up yet, not yet. i guess not." yet it was apparent his pursuit of the stranger had signally failed, and he stood motionless wondering what course then best for him to adopt. true, he was in a dilemma, and instinctively realized that to remain in the park was useless. so, without forming any practical conclusion, and for the purpose of keeping active, he again moved toward the fence. it was then he conceived the notion to climb over the fence and make a short descent to the gate, in order to catch sight of virginia, for she could not be far away yet, and to follow her and secretly to protect her on her return to her home. with that object in mind, he climbed the fence, and, securing a position on its top, looked cautiously about. he was some distance to the west of the tangle of vines, from which he was screened by the foliage of a small tree that grew nearby. [illustration: sam--"one of those deadly reptiles got out of the park zoo."] the gate light threw a faint glimmer along the fence, and on the barnes road in the gorge below. he peered down the steep hillside, and looked up and down the road. there being no one in sight, he let his legs slip quietly down the other side of the fence, and gradually lowered himself, without sustaining other injury than a few trivial scratches. as he brushed mechanically the debris which had clung to his clothes, he was surprised to see the figure of a man step out, seemingly from the fence itself, and slip down the hillside, and climbing the lower fence, cross the almost dry bed of the stream, close to the road, and proceed cityward. sam was sure the man, whoever he was, had not been on the corral side of the fence a moment before, and to give the mysterious appearance a deeper significance, the point of exit was about the location of the tangled vines. the appearance of the man differed from the one he had followed, inasmuch that one had on a long coat and bushy beard, the other wore a short pilot coat and mustache. for a moment sam was puzzled, and he scratched his head. suddenly he broke out in an unconscious whisper to himself, as though urged on by some supernatural agency, for afterward it surprised him when he thought of that moment: "damned if i don't think he's the same party i've been after, disguised." and he made straight for the place, as near as he could estimate, where the man had emerged. it was a few moments before he found it, but a close examination soon revealed two yielding pickets of the fence. true, just sufficient to admit a man's body sideways, but there it was, as he afterwards discovered, and perfectly screened from observation by masses of slender leaf-laded branches and twigs. the inner, bushy part being skilfully cut away. the trick employed to evade him was now palpable. the hiss, the buzzing rattle, the glitter--"ah; it was the glitter of a steel blade"--and at the thought he shivered, as with an icy chill, for he realized how dangerously near a death-trap he had ventured. as the reaction came, his face flamed with the hot blood of indignation and chagrin at the smart dodge by which he had been temporarily baffled. in the distance, down near the park entrance, was still dimly visible the retreating form of a man. sam determined to follow him. he slid and partly tumbled down the steep hillside, sprang over the lower fence, and crossed the bed of the creek and on to the road--and was so intent on his mission that he did not hear or see, until it was almost upon him, a dark, noiseless machine, approaching from the rear. he moved hastily aside to let it pass, but to his intense astonishment, the automobile followed him with evident intention of running him down. again he sprang aside, but too late. the front wheel grazed his left leg and swung him around on to the rear wheel, which hurled him violently to the ground. having accomplished his purpose, rutley at once stopped the machine, alighted, and examined sam. he was soon joined by jack, who asked, in a low voice: "have you killed him?" "i don't think so. bad gash on the side of his head, though." "dangerous?" "impossible for me to say." "just unconscious?" anxiously inquired jack. "yes; but i don't think he will interfere with us again for some time. what shall we do with him?" "take him home." "good idea," grunted rutley. "it becomes you decidedly well, jack, after being a villain, to play the good samaritan. well, take this handkerchief and bind his wound," and he raised sam's head while jack bound up the wound. "it will make old harris feel under an obligation to me." "and you can touch him for the loan of ten thousand, to square accounts," added jack. and again rutley laughed. "come, let's pack him on to the machine." chapter vii. shortly after the insult forced upon him by john thorpe at the harris reception, and finding it impossible to enjoy the spirit of the gay throng, mr. corway took his departure. disappointed in his endeavor to communicate with hazel, who deemed it discreet to avoid his presence until after the affair had been cleared up--and actuated by the purest motives, he could not but feel that he was the mistaken victim of some foul play with which fate had strangely connected him. he recalled the profound respect he had always entertained for and on every occasion he had shown mrs. thorpe. and as his thoughts of the affair deepened, his natural fire of resentment softened and died out as effectually as though he had been summoned to stand beside the deathbed of some very dear friend. and the more he thought of it, the more disagreeable and repugnant a quarrel with john thorpe appeared to him; yet his honor as a gentleman grossly insulted, forbade any other way out of it. finally he decided to consult mr. harris on the best course to pursue, and for that purpose determined to visit rosemont the next day. it was well on in the afternoon that he left his hotel for the jefferson street depot, and while walking along first street he noticed a closed "hack," drawn by a pair of black horses, rapidly proceeding in the same direction. as it passed him, he felt sure that he had caught a glimpse of lord beauchamp's profile, through the small, glazed lookout at the back of the vehicle. it was late when corway returned from rosemont, and strangely coincident, as he stepped down off the car he saw that same "hack" move off, and that same face inside, made plain by a chance gleam of light from a street lamp, that quivered athwart the casement of the door. but except for a thought of "devilish queer, unless 'me lord' was expecting some one," he attached no further importance to it, and dismissed it from his mind. he proceeded up jefferson street with head bent low, engrossed in deep meditation, for mr. harris was unable to give him any concrete advice on the matter, and he was recalling to memory every conceivable act he had committed, or words he had uttered that could have been possibly misconstrued by mr. thorpe to urge the latter to a frenzy and so violent an outburst, when he was abruptly halted by a peremptory order: "hands up!" simultaneously two masked men stepped out from the shadow of a gloomy recess of a building between second and third streets, and one of them poked the muzzle of an ugly-looking revolver in his face. at that moment mr. corway had his hands thrust deep in his light overcoat pockets, and the suddenness of the demand made at a time when his mind was in a perturbed, chaotic state, evidently was not clearly comprehended. at any rate, he failed to comply instantly, with the result that he received a heavy blow on the back of his head with some blunt instrument, which felled him like a log. his unquestioned personal courage, and his reputation of being a dead shot at twenty paces availed him nothing. he was not permitted time, short as was needed, to wrest his mind from its pre-occupied business to grasp a mode of defense, before he was struck down. he thought he had met with, what many others before him have met on the streets of portland after dark, a "holdup." when he recovered consciousness the smell of tar and whiskey was strong about him. to his dazed senses, for his brain had not completely cleared of a stunned sensation in his head, this smell was incomprehensible, and suddenly becoming startled, he cried out, half aloud: "for the love of god, where am i?" and then a recollection of the apparent "holdup" dawned on his mind. he lay still for a moment trying to trace his actions following the blow he had received, but in vain; all was a blank. it was very dark where he was lying, and he fancied he heard the swish of waters. he put out his right hand and felt the wooden side of a berth. he put out his left hand and felt a wooden wall. then he tried to sit up, but the pain in his head soon compelled him to desist. he lay quiet again and distinctly heard a sound of straining, creaking timbers. he at once concluded he was on a ship. "why! wherefore! good god, have i been shanghaied?" were the thoughts that leaped to his mind, and notwithstanding the pain in his head, he attempted to sit up, but his head bumped violently against some boards just above him, and he fell back again, stunned. he had struck the wooden part of the upper berth. he, however, soon recovered and commenced to think lucidly again. he knew how prevalent the practice of forcibly taking men to fill an ocean ship's crew had become in portland and other coast cities by seamen's boarding house hirelings, and he felt satisfied that he was one of their victims. he put his hand in his pocket for a match; there was none; and his clothes felt damp, then a fresh whiskey odor entered his nostrils. "have i been intoxicated?" the question startled him, but he could not remember taking any liquor. "no; i am sure of that, but why this odor; perhaps this berth has been occupied by some 'drunk'." a feeling of disgust urged him to get out of it at once, and he threw his leg over the side of the berth and stood upright. the pain in the back of his head throbbed so fiercely that he clapped his hand over it, which afforded only temporary relief. he then thought of his handkerchief, which he found in his pocket, and though smelling of whiskey, he bound it about his head. being now in full possession of his faculties, and feeling strong on his legs, he determined to investigate his quarters. "oh, for a light!" again he felt in his pockets for a match and found none, but he discovered that his watch was gone, and a further search revealed that every cent of his money was gone. at this time, in addition to occasional indistinct sounds of the swish of waters against the bow, he heard some tramping about overhead, as by barefooted men, acting seemingly under orders from a hoarse voice farther away. his first impulse was to shout to apprise them of his presence, but on second thought decided to remain silent for a time, or until he could determine their character. so he proceeded to grope around, first extending his foot in different directions, and then his hands. he found three berths, one above the other, and then, fearful of bumping his head against some projecting beam or other obstacle, put out his left hand as a feeler before him, and slowly worked along by the side of the berths. soon his foot struck something hard, unlike wood, for it appeared to give a little, and putting down his hand, felt it to be a coil of rope. it was in an open space at the end of the berths. a little further his foot struck some wood, and feeling about with his hand, found it was a partition wall. on rounding the partition a very thin ray of light issued from a crevice in front, and then he discovered steps. he crawled up to a door, opened it, and peered out on a pile of lumber. above it masts towered up into the darkness, with sails hoisted, but unset and flapping lazily to and fro in the wake of the breeze. it was near the dawn, light clouds almost transparent and partly obscuring the moon, drifted along in the sky, while here and there, through openings of deepest blue, glittered countless stars. the air was fresh, too, a little raw and chill, but good to inhale after the dead rank odor from which he had just escaped. an open space in the lumber pile just in front of the forecastle door, and left to facilitate ingress and egress, gave him room to stretch. the light that glimmered faintly through a chink in the door was from a lantern that hung on the fore mast, a few feet above the deck-load of lumber. by the aid of this light he looked over and along the surface of the lumber aft to where some men were dimly silhouetted against the aft sail, then swinging abeam, by a lantern on the poop. without hesitation he mounted the lumber and was immediately accosted by a gruff voice from behind: "where away now shipmate?" "that's something i should like to know," replied corway, turning around and facing the questioner. then he saw that the ship was being towed down the columbia river, of which he was certain by its width, by a steamer, and the man who had addressed him was leaning on the boom that swung over the forecastle. "you'll know soon enough when your 'watch' comes," said the man with a grunt that may have been meant for a laugh. "i say, friend," went on corway, pleadingly, "i am not a sailor, and as there must be some mistake about me being on this ship, may i ask what means were used to get me aboard?" "well, that's a rummie," said the fellow, leering at corway, and after a moment of seeming reflection, he continued: "well, i reckon it's not a mate's place to give out information, but bein' you've a sore top an' wearin' city clothes, i will say this much: you had stowed away such a bally lot of booze that you come to the ship like a gentleman, sir. yes, sir. and nothing short of a hack with a pair of blacks to draw it, would do for you, sir." "in a hack, you say!" exclaimed corway, alertly. "yes, sir; in a hack, just as we cast off from the sawmill wharf at portland." "strange! the hack i saw yesterday afternoon, and again at the depot last night, was drawn by black horses," muttered corway to himself, and after a moment of deep reflection, went on: "looks like a conspiracy to get me out of the way. i say, my good fellow, do you remember the time i was brought on board and how many were in the party?" "that's none o' my business," replied the mate, turning away. "oh, come now," said corway, pleadingly, for he believed this man could tell more about the affair than he cared to. "well, all i seen was three swabs that said they was from the sailor boardin' house, chuck you aboard about two bells," replied the mate, indifferently, as he straightened himself up. corway then noted the huge proportions of the fellow and thought: "what a terrorizing bully he could be to the poor sailors that chanced to anger him at sea." "but i never was in a sailor boarding house in my life." "oh, tryin' to crawfish from your bargain, eh?" laughed the big fellow. "it won't go; ship's bally well short-handed, long vige, too, and the capt'n had to do it!" "do what?" corway sharply snapped. "why, he pays over the money afore they'd h'ist ye over the rail. better talk to the capt'n. he's comin' for'ard now," and the mate stepped over and leaned on the bulwark. corway at once turned and moved toward the captain, who was approaching with his first officer, from amidships, smoking a cigar. "yes, i am the captain. what do you want?" "to be put ashore!" corway demanded. "i've been sandbagged and robbed, and evidently sold to you for a sailor, which i am not." "not a sailor, eh," the captain said, taking the cigar from his mouth and looking sharply at corway. "what did you sign the articles for?" "i never signed any articles." by this time corway was fully alive to his position and spoke with rising heat and ill-suppressed indignation. "oh, yes you did!" sneered the first officer, "but you were too drunk to remember it." "repeat that, and i'll choke the words back down your throat," and corway stepped menacingly toward him. the captain held up his hand warningly and looked at corway as if he was daffy, then said slowly and meaningly: "be careful, young man; that is insubordination; a repetition will land you in irons. the boarding-house master swore that he saw you sign the articles, and he had other witnesses to your signature to satisfy me before i paid him your wages for six months in advance on your order." "i signed no articles, and i know nothing about it," fumed corway. "and i again demand, as an american citizen, that you put me ashore, or i shall libel this ship for abduction." "ah, ah, ah," sneered the first officer, who was unable to conceal his ill-will to corway since the latter's threat to choke him. "give the dandy a lady's handkerchief, and he'll believe the ship's a jolly good wine cask." corway struck him square on the mouth. "take that for your insolence, you contemptible puppy," and following him up with clenched fists, as the officer stumbled back, said wrathfully: "if you speak to me that way again, i'll break in your anatomy." "here, judd," called the captain to the mate on the forecastle. "take this fellow to the strong room and keep him there on 'hardtack' for three days." "aye, aye, sir," replied judd. hearing the captain's orders, and seeing the commotion he had created, corway saw that his only chance for escape was to go overboard, and without further hesitation sprang toward the side of the ship for a plunge, but his toe caught on the edge of a warped board and down he went sprawling. the big mate jumped on him, and though he fought desperately, he was overpowered, and the last he remembered was being dragged by the collar over the lumber toward the forecastle. when he next got on deck the ship was far out to sea and bowling along in a stiff breeze. it is said that it is an ill wind that doesn't blow somebody good. so with mr. corway, for though the boarding-house toughs had nearly given him his quietus and sent him on a long journey, they had conveniently done him the effective service of quashing an encounter with john thorpe. chapter viii. when sam regained consciousness it was to find himself on a couch in his uncle's home, with the odor of ammonia in his nostrils. for a couple of minutes he lay very still, collecting his scattered senses, and then, as the clouds that darkened his brain cleared away, the events of the night dawned upon his memory. two men were in the room conversing in low tones. they were standing near the dressing-case, back of the couch, which had been drawn out to the middle of the room to facilitate examination of his injuries. one of the speakers he recognized by the voice as his uncle. the other he soon made out to be the family doctor. "then you are quite satisfied he is not badly hurt?" "so far as i have been able to examine him, yes. the concussion, when he struck the hard roadbed, produced insensibility. the cut of the cuticle covering the left parietal bone, just above the ear, is not dangerous, since there is no fracture. i do not anticipate any serious result, fortunately. it might have been worse--it might have been worse!" "quite true; still we should have more confidence in his recovery if we were certain the worst has passed." "all passed, uncle--i guess so!" spoke up sam, in cheery tones, and he sat up on the couch. "ha, ha, sam, my boy; not so fast. glad to hear your voice again, but you must rest; you must rest. you need it. the doctor insists," and mr. harris hastened to his side to urge him again to lie down. nevertheless sam arose to his feet and remarked: "all right, uncle! a little sore up there," and he motioned to the sore side of his head. "but that's all--i guess." "you must avoid excitement," cautioned the doctor. "and i advise you at once to take to your bed and remain there until i make a thorough diagnosis of your case, which i shall do in the morning." "not if i know it. not much--i guess not!" mentally noted sam. turning to mr. harris, he asked: "how long have i been unconscious, uncle, and who brought me home?" the question was put by sam with an eagerness bordering on excitement. it was noticed by both the gentlemen. "i insist that you go to bed, sam," pleaded mr. harris. "the very best thing you can do, sir," added the doctor. "of course, uncle, i shall do so to please you; but the only soreness i feel is on the side of my head, and i've often felt worse. but you have not answered my questions." "you were unconscious for about two hours. my lord beauchamp brought you home in an automobile. it seems he was returning from a spin out on the barnes road and accidentally ran his machine against you. he, like the perfect gentleman he is, immediately stopped and went to your aid. he recognized you and brought you home with all speed." "ah! very queer!" exclaimed sam, significantly. "what is queer, sam?" mr. harris interrogated, with a keen, penetrating, yet puzzled look. "why, that fellow," and sam checked himself from making a grave charge, by indifferently remarking: "oh, it seems queer to be run over," and then he looked up and continued: "doctor, i thank you for your attention; good night. "uncle, good night; i'm going to bed." "very sensible, sam; good night." "this powder is an opiate and will act to produce sound sleep, which is very essential to counter the shock your nervous system has received," said the doctor, as he laid out the potion. "take it, after getting into bed." "thank you," and sam fingered the powder gingerly. "good night, doctor." "good night, sir." as mr. harris and the doctor left the room sam stood for a moment in deep thought, then muttered to himself: "that fellow out there near midnight. no lights or gong on his machine. deliberately ran me down--and virginia about! did he know she was to be there?" he shook his head--"it looks queer." and then he lifted his eyes in a quick, resolute way. "i'll be back in the park at dawn--i guess so!" with that he flipped the opiate out of the window. chapter ix. it was in the gray of the dawn when sam alighted from the first outbound car at the junction of twenty-third and washington streets and immediately struck out for the city park. he was desirous of being the first visitor there, and he was inordinately curious to examine by the light of day the ground he had traversed a few hours previous, and particularly the spot where virginia had met the mysterious stranger, as also the tangle of vines in which he was satisfied had lurked most deadly danger. he had been urged on by an indefinable something, a sort of presentiment that quickened to impatience, his desire for an early trip to the park, and pursuing his way steadily along, afraid of no ambush now, for he was armed, he at length arrived at the spot which he recognized by the clump of firs close to the row of the esplanade benches. he examined the ground as carefully as the uncertain light would permit. discovering nothing unusual, he was about to abandon the search and make his way over to the tangle of vines, when on second thought he decided to wait awhile for stronger light. producing a cigar, he contentedly sat on a bench--the very same virginia had occupied--near a tree. sam was not of a romantic turn of mind, yet his attention was arrested by the sublime grandeur of the scene confronting him. the morning was emerging from the deep darkness of night, mild, clean and fresh. the base of the distant eastern hills was yet shrouded in inky blackness--a blackness intensified by a vast superimposed floating mass of thin fog, seemingly motionless in the noticeably still air. the billowy crest of this fleecy, semi-transparent mass of vapor reflected a mellow chastity, while the irregular points of the rugged mountain tops were sharply defined against the soft emerald, golden-pink light that streaked and massed the sky in the advance of a promising autumn morn. the huge, glistening white peaks of hood and adams and st. helens, towered in lofty majesty, clear and individually distinct above the high altitudes of the range that encompassed them, and even as he looked, a soft, rose-red tinge tipped the apex of mount hood, which appeared unusually close, and crept softly down the glacis of its snow-covered, precipitous sides. and nearer, at his feet, in a basin--the city spread out far and wide. the silvery green waters of the willamette river, cutting through the city's center, silently glided along its sinuous course to the columbia; while patches of thin mist flitted timidly about on its placid surface, to vanish like tardy spirits of a departing night. the grand panorama gave his usually buoyant spirits pause. gradually the light of his eyes changed from absorbing admiration to a reflective mood, in which the strange behavior of virginia thorpe was the predominating subject. that money, possibly blackmail, was the object of the stranger--scoundrel. sam could think of him in no other light after the night's experience. there was no doubt, for he had plainly heard her say in a loud, surprised tone, "twenty thousand dollars." suddenly the hoarse whistle of a far-off industrial establishment vibrated the air and aroused him from his deep reverie. the morning was well advanced. as the light in his eyes quickened from a pensive stare at the ground a few paces from his feet, he perceived a shred of red peeping between the blades of short grass. he picked it up. it was a narrow piece of soiled and worn ribbon, but attached to it was an old oxidized bronze medal, about the size of a silver quarter-dollar. the inscription upon its rim was in latin, but sam clearly made out one word, "garibaldi," from which he concluded its late owner must be an italian. from the smooth condition of the medal, and unweathered appearance of the ribbon, he judged it must have been recently lost. "what if it had been accidentally dropped by the man talking to virginia last night?" the idea was fraught with great possibilities. "a clue! a sure clue, as i live," and sam's enthusiasm soared with the recollection of seeing the man thrust his hand into the inside breast of his coat to show the knife, when it was quite possible the medal either became unfastened from its clasp, or being loose in his pocket, had been drawn out with the knife and slipped noiselessly to the ground. somehow sam's thoughts flew back to the night of his uncle's reception, and connected the old italian beggar loitering about the grounds with the medal. "was he the owner of the medal? and, if so, was he the same party that met virginia, and whom he had followed last night?" "heavens! could he have kidnapped dorothy?" a train of thought had been started and rushed through sam's brain with prodigious alacrity. "was the twenty thousand dollars he had heard virginia mention with surprise, a ransom?" "if virginia knew that dorothy was in the hands of the dago, why did she keep it secret? and what business had beauchamp out on the barnes road last night?" sam derided the idea of him being out there alone, for a spin. with these thoughts, and others, pregnant with momentous possibilities, he continued the search. finding nothing more, he sprang onto the path that led to the tangle of vines. there was the very spot. no mistaking it. along that fence he had crept in the darkness of night. those the leaves he had touched with his hands, and he thrust his stout cane among them, but no hiss, or rattle, or glitter of something sinister, greeted his probing now. into the gloomy recess of the jungle he made his way, derisively fearless of any possible lurking danger. he parted the overhanging foliage to let in more light. ah, it was all plain now. there close to his elbow was the artfully concealed exit through the foliage, and the pickets loose at the bottom. there the man had stood--not more than a foot of space separating them when sam's hand touched the leaves, and the glitter--well, it was the vicious glint of an ugly knife. of that sam now felt perfectly satisfied. pushing the leaves further apart to enlarge the opening overhead, so as to admit more light, he discovered several strands of hair of a brownish color clinging to the end of a broken twig in the cavity of the tangle, which he at once conjectured had been torn from the man's false beard. these strands of hair sam carefully gathered and placed between the leaves of his notebook. "maybe, maybe they'll be useful some day. i guess so," he muttered. he resumed the search, but with the exception of a few indistinct shoeprints on the soft soil, found nothing more to interest him, and squeezing himself through the aperture in the fence, he quickly emerged on the barnes road, well satisfied with his morning's work. one hour later, with his hat jauntily set on the side of his head, effectually concealing the wound, sam was walking on third street, in front of the "plaza" blocks, where several vegetable vendors rendezvous preparatory for their morning's work. several bustling women, hotel stewards and others were out early, marketing. as he wended his way through the bargain-driving throng, the loud voice of an olive-skinned huckster standing on the rear footboard of his heavily-laden wagon, attracted his attention. it was a covered, one-horse express wagon, common on the city streets, and contained a motley assortment of oranges, bruised bananas, melons and the like. he was putting in a paper bag some bananas he had sold to a woman, who stood by, at the same time talking volubly--evidently in an effort to fend off her too curiously searching eyes from the over-ripe fruit. "eesa good-a da lady. nice-a da ripe-a." "oh, they are too ripe! put in those other ones, they don't look so soft." "eesa note-a da soft-a; only a da black-a da skin. look-a," and he peeled a diminutive banana. "how nice and clean those are in that wagon over there. i think i'll buy some of them. you needn't mind putting those up for me." "sacre, tar-rah-rah! eesa beg-a da pardon, good-a da lady. take eem all for a ten-a da cent-a," and he thrust the bag of fruit into her hands. "eesa 'chink' wagon. show all-a da good-a side, hide-a da rotten side. da morrow, eesa sell-a da turnoppsis, carrottsis, cababages, every kind-a da veg-a-ta-bles. some-a time eesa black-a da boots. saw da ood. do anyting gett-a da mon. go back-a da sunny italy." he was so insistent, with fear of being made a subject for coarse remonstrance, she paid him his price and departed. whereupon he again began to bawl out in his peculiar dago dialect: "or-ran-ges! ba-nans! nice-a da ripe-a banans. ten-a cents-a doz-z. me-lo-nas! war-ter-me-lo-nas! nice-a da ripe-a musha me-lonas!" and he suddenly lowered his voice on observing sam halt in front of him. "eesa tenna cent-a da one. nice-a da ripe-a, my friend. take-a eem a da home, two for-a da fifteen-a da centa." and he handled a couple of small melons. "sacre, da damn," and his voice again rose to a high pitch, as he shouted: "me-lo-nas! ba-nans! nice-a da ripe-a da ba-nans. tenn-a cents-a doz!" the peculiar idioms of the fellow, and his manner of delivery seemed strangely familiar, and as sam moved along slowly, a pace or two, rumaging his brain for identification, he suddenly remembered the old cripple at his uncle's reception, and also, only last night, the mysterious stranger in the park. it may be pertinent to remark that jack shore had obtained most of his dago dialect from a close study of this very man. the similarity of speech and voice, therefore, was accountable for sam's mistake of identification. a moment later, among a passing throng, sam stopped and pretended to pick up a small copper-colored medal appended to a bit of soiled ribbon. he halted and ostentatiously displayed it, turning it over and over in his hands while examining it. it attracted the attention of an italian nearby, who at once claimed the medal. "if it is yours, no doubt you can describe certain marks which appear on its surface?" "i don-a have to. eets a garibaldi! giv-a da me!" "what else?" sam pressed for more definite information, for he immediately became convinced that this claimant was not the real owner. the word garibaldi attracted a second italian, a short, fat man, with huge, flat face, who was at once apprised of the find. he asked sam to let him have it for examination. sam refused to let it pass from his hands, explaining that this man had claimed it, but seemingly was unable to identify it. "i will deliver it to the officer," and he beckoned a policeman to approach. there followed instantly a lively colloquy between the two italians, the second one declaring it belonged to giuseppe--for he had seen him with it, and he turned to sam. "that man," indicating the fruit vendor, on express wagon license number , "is own it. i'm sure he will it tell-a you so," and he shouted, "giuseppe!" giuseppe heard and shouted back, "ta-rah-rah!" as they moved toward him the short man continued to address sam. "his fadder was wit garibaldi at palestrino." "giuseppe, have you lost your fadder's medal?" giuseppe had stepped from his wagon to the curb. with a surprised look he instantly replied, "no! eesa len eem to deeza fren." "when you len eem?" the short, fat man asked. "eesa bout five-six day. why for youse-a ax deeze-a question?" there was no mistaking the fact that giuseppe's frank response conveyed the truth. sam believed him. the short man again spoke. "this man pick eem up there. it belong to you. ask eem for it." "geeve it-a da me, boss." "this man has claimed it as his. yet he cannot identify it," replied sam. "now, to prove it is yours, tell me its size, and the letters on its two sides." "eesa bout as big as-a deeze." and giuseppe produced an american quarter dollar. "look-a da close. eesa one-a da side 'emanual rex.' below eet a garibaldi. in-a da middle eesa solidar holding a flag." "so far, good!" exclaimed sam, eyeing the man searchingly and committing to memory his every lineament. giuseppe continued, "eesa da odder side, 'palestrino, mdcccxlix.' in a da middle, 'liber.'" "correct!" said sam. "what color is the bit of ribbon?" asked the policeman. "eesa be da red. a leetle-a da faded," was the answer. sam was convinced that giuseppe was the real owner of the medal. a possible important discovery. and he smiled as their eyes met full, face to face. and the italian smiled at sam's open-faced frankness; but utterly unsuspecting the splendidly concealed satisfaction that prompted the smile from sam. "where does the man live to whom you loaned this?" asked sam. giuseppe appeared puzzled. he looked up the street, then down the street, but finally said, "i dunno, eesa move away las week." "where did he live?" "in-a da cabin--odder side nort pacific mill, at-a da giles lak." "what is his name?" "george-a da golda!" sam was careful to appear unconcerned, and, to avoid questions that might arouse suspicions of something "crooked"--"well," he continued, "i have no doubt the medal is yours, but it is a valuable souvenir, and as mr. golda may have something to say, i shall leave my address with this officer." he thereupon handed the officer a card, remarking, "please file it at your headquarters." then again turning to giuseppe, sam continued, "you notify mr. golda to call at the police station and put in his claim and i will be on hand with the medal at any time the authorities apprise me of mr. golda's arrival." the italian's disgust was plain and he ejaculated, "sacre da-be damn! eesa mak george-a golda fetch eem back. garibaldi geeve eet-a ma fadder." without further question, sam proceeded on his way to simm's office. that giuseppe was not the man sam was after, appeared certain, but that he was well acquainted with the fellow, there seemed no doubt. giuseppe must be watched, for he would find golda to get the medal back, as it was evident giuseppe treasured it as an heirloom. while deeply engrossed on this line of thought, sam was starting down third street on his way to detective simms' office, and had nearly reached alder street when his reverie was interrupted by a familiar voice, exclaiming, "good marnin', sor!" "how are you?" responded sam, recognizing smith. "sure, i'm failin' foine, axcipt"--and a wistful look came into his eyes--"axcipt for a sore spot in me heart. god shield her!" and he bent his head reverently. sam knew full well the object of smith's allusion, and said sympathetically, "you share in the sorrow of your house?" "indade: i do, sor! tin years ave i known her swate disposition. sure, didn't i drive her coach to the church whin she married him? and she was kind to my poor wife, too, whin she suffered betimes wid brankites. god rest her soule! she's wid the angels now! but i see yeese do be hurted!" "a bruise! an accident last night, but it's nothing, i guess! are you out for a bracer this morning?" "just a little sthrole, wid me eye open for signs." "signs of what?" "oh, the dinsity of the cratchur! sure, i do be always lookin' fer the little wan." "why don't you search the river?" suggested sam significantly; "her mother says she is drowned." "yis! poor woman! and she belaives it, too, so she do. but says i to myself, says i, some blackguard thaif has sthole the little sunbeam of her heart, which do be nearly broken entirely, so it do!" and smith turned his head away to hide the tears that came unbidden to his eyes. "do you think so?" "i do." "do you?" "i do, by me faith, i do, and ave i could lay me hands on the wan who is raysponsible fer it, sure there'd be somethin' doin'!" sam had slim faith in george golda calling at the police station to claim the medal, but he believed it possible to locate him by diligent and discreet inquiry. with that idea he beckoned smith into a lobby of an adjacent building, which at that early hour was untenanted, and produced the medal from his vest pocket. handing it to smith, he said guardedly, "i found it in the city park this morning." "sure i can't rade frinch at all, at all!" said smith, examining the bronze. "it's a garibaldi medal. i can trust you with it?" "phwat d'yees mane?" smith responded with a snap. "this," and sam added confidentially in a low voice, "circulate among the shanties and scow dwellers below the north pacific mill. show the medal, prudently, mind, but never let it pass out of your hands." "i want!" responded smith, thrusting it in his inside coat pocket. "be it raysponsible for yees hurt?" "of that--well, no matter--i fear where the fellow who lost the bronze lives--there will be found the little one." sam had spoken in a voice so soft and low and grave that it startled smith. during the pause that followed, he looked at sam in steadfast amaze. "do yees belave it?" he finally asked. "i do!" "sure, yees do be after me own hart. i tould thim some thaivin' blackguard----" "hush!" sam interrupted, "not so loud. if a fellow by the name of george golda claims it"---- "george golda!" repeated smith. "yes; if george golda claims it bring him to me. if he will not come, track him, and let me know where he lives as soon as possible. do it quietly." "sure, i will that. d'yees think he's the wan?" whispered smith, intensely interested. "we shall see," replied sam. "but don't part with the bronze. you will remember?" "i will, be me soul, i will, and be the token ave it, i'll"--and smith spat on his hands and made other significant manifestations quite understandable to descendants of a fighting nation. immediately thereafter sam continued on to simms' office, and there, closeted with the detective, related his experience. twenty minutes later, a quiet, unassuming, seedy-looking man carelessly lounged about in the vicinity of the plaza fountain, and no matter what position he occupied, or where he loitered, express no. and its driver never escaped from his sight. chapter x. the sun had traversed half the distance from the horizon to the zenith when rutley called at rosemont for information concerning the seriousness of sam's injuries, and incidentally to have a chat with hazel, for he was very fond of the girl. "we appreciate your lordship's anxiety to learn of sam's condition, and i am sure sam will express to you his gratefulness for promptly bringing him home," added mrs. harris. "i am glad he is able to be about," continued rutley, looking at the floor, "though i should imagine a few days of quiet rest after such a vigorous shake-up would be attended by beneficial results." "i am sure of it," said mr. harris; "for immediately he regained consciousness there seemed to come over him a worry about something--" "dear me!" exclaimed mrs. harris, in surprise. "i cannot conceive sam being worried about anything." "nevertheless, my dear, the boy did appear worried last night, or rather early this morning, and though he spoke and acted quite rational, still it has given me much concern." again turning to rutley, "and imagine my astonishment, too, when on going to his room early this morning i found he had gone." "he hadn't even been in bed--had evidently not undressed--just flung himself down on the couch." "you don't apprehend the wound exerts undue pressure on the brain?" queried rutley, in the most carefully studied manner, as he looked meaningly at mr. harris. "james, you should have insisted on the doctor remaining with the dear boy over night." "my dear, sam would not listen to it. i think nervousness and a gloriously fresh morning urged him to an early walk, and his return has been delayed by meeting some friends." "quite likely," responded rutley. "if sam continues to worry, i shall advise a trip to texas. the bracing air of that latitude has heretofore proven very beneficial to his constitution." "a happy idea, mr. harris," and the grave, concerned look that had settled on rutley's face relaxed and vanished in a smile of cunning satisfaction, as he thought how agreeable it would be to have that troublesome fellow out of the way. "i have crossed that country and can testify to the purity, dryness and health invigorating quality of its air. indeed, i do not think you could suggest a more wholesome vacation than a month of rollicking, free life on the texas plains." "a trip to texas may all be very well in its way, but i know something of the dear boy's malady and believe that no climatic change, temporary or prolonged, can be of the least benefit to him," impressively broke in mrs. harris. "well, well! now i do remember that when a boy sam fell and severely hurt his left knee; and so the old complaint is asserting itself again, eh? you see, your lordship"---- "dear me! how stupid men are!" interrupted mrs. harris, with much dignity. "ah! james, the dear boy's affliction is of deeper moment. it lacerates the very source and fountain of life. it is, i may add, an affair of the heart." "oh! you don't tell sam is--is--ahem, ahem!"--and to suppress a smile mr. harris coughed. "it is possible you misconceive your most estimable lady's meaning," suggested rutley, with a smile. "perhaps it is a case of heart failure." "nonsense!" "james!" quickly retorted mrs. harris, with asperity. mr. harris looked meaningly at her, then turned to rutley. "i beg your lordship's pardon. i did not mean to ridicule your suggestion. at the time i used the word 'nonsense' i was thinking of the fact, the one of love," replied mr. harris. "james! i never thought when i plighted my love to you it was nonsense!" and mrs. harris brushed a handkerchief across her eyes. "there, there, dear heart!" and mr. harris stepped to her side, tenderly turned her face upward and kissed her lips. "that day was the happiest of my life, though i have been happy ever since." "heart of gold!" exclaimed mrs. harris, smiling through her tears. "and i have never wished i had turned from that altar of our happy union." "i perceive the cause of sam's worry now, dear," and the irrepressible mr. harris turned to rutley, "you see, my lord, it is this way, a lovely young lady guest--since mr. corway's strange disappearance--is an inadvertent companion of our sam, and his troubles were brought on by the sly darts of a little fellow with wings." "wrong again!" asserted mrs. harris. "james, let me assure you in all candor that hazel brooke is not the lady our sam is worrying about, as the fair democrat can testify." just then hazel entered the room, a poem of grace; a rose glow overspread her soft cheeks, while her eyes sparkled with health and vivacity. rutley's eyes at once betrayed his admiration. the girl was quick to notice it and immediately evinced her pleasure by advancing straight to his side. "good morning, my lord. when i plucked this beauty," displaying a slender stemmed white chrysanthemum which was held between her fingers, "i instinctively felt that it was to adorn the breast of a distinguished friend, and now see where it flies for rest," and she smilingly fastened the flower to the lapel of his coat. "i shall proudly treasure it, for without doubt its chrysalis chastity is jealous of its human rival, hence the parting of the two flowers. is it not so?" questioned rutley, with the most winsome, yet grave smile he could fashion. "hazel--the lady beauchamp, sounds quite recherche," mrs. harris whispered to mr. harris. "looks as if it might be a go," he responded in like tones. "it is white and pretty," hazel murmured, casting a demure glance at her own faultlessly white dress and then naively remarked, while a serious question stole over her countenance: "i have just come from the water front, where i have been watching the men drag for poor little dorothy." "poor child! so sad to be drowned!" said mrs. harris, in a reflective mood. "or stolen!" exclaimed mr. harris. "i shall not give up hope until that old cripple is located." only hazel noticed the swift glance rutley shot at mr. harris, but she gave it no significance. "poor fellow, he feels the loss of his child very deeply," continued mr. harris. "yesterday thorpe was in one of the boats for three hours. my lord may see them dragging the river from the piazza." whereupon mr. harris and rutley went out on the piazza, leaving mrs. harris and hazel by themselves. "hazel, dear," spoke mrs. harris softly and confidentially, "there is a lady's tiara awaiting you, if my judgment is not faulty." "he seems to be a nice sort of man," replied the girl. "a nice sort of man!" remarked mrs. harris, astonished. "why, hazel! he is one of the nobility. superior, distinguished! do you note his condescending air? it is hereditary, my dear. conscious of being above us, yet every look and move indicates a study to make a descent to our level." "notwithstanding--i think--well--i prefer joe!" demurely insisted the maid. "he is not quite so polished, but--i like him better, anyway." "what! a commoner to a lord? a straw hat to a lady's tiara? why, hazel!" "that is my choice," replied the girl, quietly but firmly. hazel's calm dignity irritated mrs. harris, and she remarked with a puzzled expression of countenance, "dear me! i never could understand the fountain of your democratic ideas, hazel; and the enigma is deeper to me now than ever." hazel's reply, muttered with the same quiet dignity, was as puzzling to mrs. harris as ever. "i am an american, and i love our country too well to leave it for some foreign land." further conversation was cut short by mr. harris, who addressed hazel. "did you notice john thorpe in one of the boats, hazel?" "i think so; they were too far away to say positively," replied the girl. "well, here comes sam, and--and--yes, it's virginia thorpe!" exclaimed mr. harris exultantly turning to mrs. harris. "did i not say it was possible he had met with a friend? look how proud and joyous he seems walking by her side. no kink in his knee now. sound as a bell." "james, i beg again to correct you. sam is not lame. his malady has something to do with the charming lady by his side," remarked mrs. harris. "oh, i see. she has a pull on him, eh?" "yes, a most strenuous one, i may add, as you mere merchants speak of it." when sam entered the room, he was greeted by mr. and mrs. harris with much fervor. sam had removed his hat in the vestibule and unconsciously displayed the evidence of his night's encounter with the automobile. the sight of the plastered wound on his head caused mrs. harris to exclaim: "oh, my boy, my boy!" and she put her motherly arms about his neck. "all right, aunty!" said sam, as he lightly kissed her on the forehead. "never felt better. just a scratch. might have been worse. eh? i guess so!" and he held her at arms' length and grinned at her affectionately. "where is virginia? i am sure we saw her with you, sam!" questioned mr. harris. "she wouldn't come in, uncle. gone on down to the shore. she expressed a wish to find you there." "oh!" exclaimed mr. harris, with alacrity. "i shan't disappoint her. splendid young lady. brainy, good-looking, very fetching, eh, sam?" and so saying, he turned, bowed to rutley and left the room. "i am thankful you were not killed, and think how much we owe his lordship for having so promptly brought you home," continued mrs. harris. sam looked sharply at rutley, not having noticed him in the room before. rutley met his stare with a most affable bow and remarked, "i am pleased to see that mr. samuel harris is able to be about." there was a bit of keen cynicism, a sort of faltering regret in rutley's delivery, which did not escape detection by sam. it almost confirmed him in his suspicion that my lord had run him down in a deliberate attempt to kill or disable him. the impression caused him momentarily to withhold speech, even in his aunt's presence. the incident was noticed by mrs. harris, who at once concluded something was amiss with sam, and visions of dementia occasioned by the wound flitted across her brain. "dear me! what is coming over him?" she remarked in an awed voice. "he never acted so queer before. sam!" and she shook him and looked in his face as though she feared some distressing discovery. rutley was perceptibly uneasy under sam's steady stare and suddenly assumed a pose of freezing haughtiness, deliberately and with studied ceremony adjusted the monocle to his eye and fixed a stony stare at sam. then he turned to hazel, the very apotheosis of stilted grace and, offering her his arm, said in his most suave and gracious manner: "i shall be deeply sensible of the honor of your company for a stroll on the lawn." for a moment the girl hesitated, as though undecided between courtesy due her hostess and friendliness to my lord. observing the embarrassed expression of mrs. harris caused by sam's rudeness, she chose to accept rutley's arm, remarking, "it is so very beautiful this morning that i love to be out in the soft sunshine." then through the room they passed--passed mrs. harris, to whom rutley bent his head, passed sam, who might as well have been in the antipodes, for all rutley seemed to see of him, though he looked directly at him, through him, and beyond him, out into the sunshine, with a triumphant smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "oh, sam! you have humiliated me beyond anything i could ever dream of," said mrs. harris, whose pain and bewilderment was plainly evident. "aunty!" and sam stooped and gently kissed her forehead. "i'm sorry my rudeness got the best of me. i did not mean to offend or pain you; but i shall never apologize to that fellow. never! never!" his earnestness was so intense, so unlike his usual self, that his aunt abruptly arose from the chair and in a startled voice said, "dear me! why, what do you know, sam?" "why!"--and sam's face broke into a broad smile, his usual buoyant spirit asserting itself--"why, bless your dear soul, aunty, he's a villain!" "lord beauchamp a villain!" she exclaimed, horrified, and she straightened up in offended dignity. "sam, permit me to declare you shock me with your irreverence." "well, he gave me the jolt"---- "not another word!" and she held up her warning finger. "i perceive it my duty, a duty unhappily too long deferred, to instruct you in the art of proper form, especially when in the presence of the nobility," and so saying, she swept down the room with all the stately majesty of a grand dame. at the mantle she turned and continued, "the case being important, i shall read you a lesson on deportment by--by, dear me! i have forgotten the author's name. but that is immaterial. i shall get the book from the library. don't leave the room," and so saying she entered the library, to his great relief. sam was in a very serious frame of mind. the night's work had developed tragic possibilities, and anything of a lugubrious nature interposing in his trend of thought was dismissed at once. it was, therefore, no easy task for him to assume readily an air of nonchalance, even in the presence of his aunt, who had schooled him in the art. so the moment he was alone his thoughts plunged again into the absorbing events of the night, and presently he found himself considering the policy of making his aunt a confidant. "had i better tell her my suspicions?" he thought; "she will ask awkward questions. no, it will not do! not yet!" he was aroused from his reverie by a low, deep whispered "sst!" looking up, he saw smith peeping from behind the half open vestibule door. smith dared not enter the room for fear of disturbing mrs. harris and exciting her curiosity. he saw her enter the library and then he signaled to sam. having caught his attention, he held up a warning finger and again repeated "sst!" adding in a whisper, "ave some impartant news to tell yees." it was well that smith enjoined caution, for his eyes were expanded and aglow with excitement, and the muscles of his face, tense with serious import, twitched nervously. sam's exclamation of concern died on his lips, and he at once stepped into the vestibule, alert with expectation. softly closing the door, he said, "what is it, smith? speak low and be quick. aunty is in there"--and he indicated with his thumb the library. "sure, she's in good company, god presarve them. will yees listen, plaise?" "yes, hurry!" "whill. i flim-flammed around the scow dwellin's an' shanties on the neck ave lant betwix giles lak an' the river--just beyant the narth pacific mills, but divil a wan be the name ave garge golda cud i foind at all. sure, i was nearly dishartened entirely, so i wus, whin who shud bump forninst me but me frint kelly." "well?" grunted sam. "kelly is a longshoreman, and he understands his business, too, so he do; but he says he's too big and fat to wurruk much, an' i belaive him, too, so i do." "well, go on!" again grunted sam, impatiently. "sure, i showed him the garibaldi you gave me this marnin. 'where did yees foind that?' says he, careless like. "'i didn't foind it at all,' says i; 'my frint found it.' "'where at?' says he. "'in the city park,' says i. 'some fellow lost it last night.' "'sure?' says he, an' he looked at me hard. "'sure!' says i. 'phwat wud i be lyin' to yees fer?' "'an' phwat was the owner doin' out in the city park last night?' says he. "'divil a bit do i know,' says i. "'d'yees know him?' says he. "'faith, an' i do not; d'yees?' says i. "'indade i do,' says he. "'yees do?' says i. "'i do,' says he, 'fer a black-browed, black-moustached, divil-skinned dago.' "'where may be his risidence?' says i, not wan bit anxious, but with me best efforts to kape me heart from jumpin' up in me mout'. "'he lives in a scow cabin up beyant there, at ross island,' says he. "'he do, do he?' says i. "'he do!' says he. 'sure, ave i not talked wit him over that same bit ave bronze but yisterday?'" "'will yees show me the scow cabin?' says i. "'indade i'll do that same,' says he, 'and wan thing more,' says he. "hist!" and smith spoke very low and cautiously. "he heard a child cry--or maybe it was a cat. kelly didn't know which, not bein' interested." the two stared at each other for a moment in silence, then sam said: "how long has your friend kelly known him?" "i don't knaw--sure, i didn't ax him, but i thought it was impartant to tell yees at once. kelly is waitin' down be the shipyard. will yees come?" "i'll meet both of you there in an hour. sh! aunty is coming. mum is the word, smith!" "sure, the ould divil himself cudn't make me tell it to yees aunt." as he was leaving, smith said in a whisper, "we'll wait for yees." "i'll be along soon," replied sam, and he muttered thoughtfully, "may be something in it." chapter xi. suddenly sam became all attention, for he heard the voice of mrs. harris, who then reappeared with an open book in her hand. "the work is entitled 'chesterfieldian deportment,' by garrilus gibbs, ph.d. d. d., now, sam, i desire your strict attention to this paragraph," and she read from the book. "'nothing so militates against the first impression of a gentleman as ingratitude for a special service rendered; for example'"--and she looked at sam very significantly, as she lowered the book, "his grace was so solicitous about your hurt that, regardless of convenience and also of prior appointments, he hastened to make a personal call, rather than use the 'phone." "particularly so," sam added, provoked to grin, "when a right pretty and wealthy maid is in the corral. eh, aunty?" "that is my lord's prerogative, but i shall permit of no digression," she severely remarked. "to continue--'nothing to mind so convincingly proclaims the ignorance of an ill-bred commoner than vulgar liberty in the presence of a peer of england's realm!' you follow me?" "i guess i do, aunty," sam replied, with his characteristic side movement of the head, and then, as he stood in an expectant attitude, carelessly fingered, with both hands, his watch chain. "sam, stop fidgeting with your watch chain. it is characteristic of a nervous gawk. the very reverse of good form and quite unbecoming a well-bred, polite gentleman." "all right, aunty, fire away." and sam's eyes twinkled mischievously, as his hands fell by his side. "in order that the house of harris shall not be defamed through an act of discourtesy to one of its guests, i insist, first of all, that you give me an example of your expression of gratitude to his lordship for his great humanitarian act and kindness to you in your hour of insensibility." "ea--ah! eh!" ejaculated sam in laughing surprise, but much as he disliked to comply, he felt there was no use trying to dodge the issue. his aunt was determined and experience had taught him that in order to retain the indulgence of the "best and fondest aunt on earth," a discreet concurrence in her whims was imperative. so with an agreeable smile, he added, "all right, aunty, here goes." "for the purpose of approach, you may address me as 'my lord,'" interjected mrs. harris. "ha! that's easier, aunty," and a smile of satisfaction spread over his face. "proceed!" exclaimed his aunt, sententiously. "i beg to express to your lordship"-- "sam!" said mrs. harris, interrupting him, "you have omitted the very pith and essence of initiatory greeting." "ea--ha! how?" exclaimed sam, surprised. "by neglecting to make obeisance." "to you, aunty?" "to me. now, sam, beware of shyness. bow naturally and with unaffected ease." "all ready?" inquired sam. "proceed!" with that he bowed--bowed with a charm of grace that brought a look of pleased surprise from mrs. harris. it was evident she was already mollified. "i beg your lordship will permit me the honor personally to express my appreciation, and to tender to you my heartfelt thanks for your kind services to me last night." the smile of unaffected pleasure that brightened his face, at the knowledge that his aunt was pleased, assisted him wonderfully through the ordeal, for such he considered it. "my compliments, sam!" exclaimed mrs. harris, who appeared immensely pleased. "aw--deuced well delivered, don't che know!" they turned and beheld rutley and hazel standing in the doorway. sam's chagrin was very great, and conscious of his inability to conceal his disgusted facial expression, turned aside and muttered, "wouldn't that fizz you?" mrs. harris was evidently much gratified, for she pointedly remarked, "your lordship must now concede that our boy was not intentionally rude." as for sam, his vexation was great, and though he discreetly kept silence, the hot blood reddened his face perceptibly. he had unwittingly humbled himself to a man, who, he felt instinctively, was his enemy. just what brought rutley and hazel to the doorway in time to hear sam's expression of thanks was never explained. but it may be presumed he had some announcement to make which the unexpected apology from sam had made unnecessary. its effect on rutley was instantaneous, for his frigidity melted as snow beneath a summer sun. the monocle came down from his eye and a gracious, condescending smile overspread his face. "i am very sorry the accident happened, and i beg you to believe i have been deeply concerned about your hurt." "we are sure your lordship has suffered great mental anguish over the unfortunate affair," responded mrs. harris, relieved by rutley's condescension. "late yesterday evening," he went on, "i received information that a child resembling dorothy, and accompanied by a lady whose face was veiled, were seen entering a certain residence out near the park," explained rutley, continuing. "i beg you to understand that i entertain a deep interest in the fate of the child, and since the river has not yielded up its secret, and the voice of scandal is rife in innuendoes, i immediately set out to investigate. "unsuccessful, i had passed along the road and was returning, no doubt at higher speed than justified by the darkness of the night. absorbed in meditation, i must have temporarily been negligent of proper vigilance, when to my horror, the form of a man suddenly loomed up a few paces directly ahead." "dear me, how unfortunate!" exclaimed mrs. harris, shivering. "impossible to stop the swift moving machine, in the short space that separated us, i swerved to the right. "at that moment the man must have discovered me, for he, too, sprang to the right. the impact was inevitable. i hastened to the unfortunate one's assistance, and you may appreciate my amazement when i recognized my friend, your own relative. of course, i conveyed him home at once." "how very good of you," said hazel, with admiring eyes. "we shall never be able sufficiently to thank your lordship," added mrs. harris, "and we hope that our dear boy will not expose himself to so great a danger again." as to what sam thought of the explanation, he kept silent; nevertheless he turned half around and would have whistled significantly had he not at that moment checked himself, for fear of again embarrassing his aunt. it was at this moment virginia entered the room, insistently ushered in by mr. harris, who, profuse in politeness, said: "please do me the honor to be seated, for i know you must be fatigued." but virginia, on discovering rutley, seemed to be suddenly overcome with a timidity quite foreign to her usual self-possession, and shrank away as if to leave the room. observing her evident embarrassment and, of course, ignorant of the true cause, mr. harris concluded she had conceived him as declining her request, and he at once, in a confidential whisper, attempted to reassure her. "i can accommodate you with a check for five thousand today, and more in a week." "oh, i--i thank you very much," she replied, and though her nervousness was apparent, she managed to control herself. mr. harris gently led her to a seat, remarking in a whisper, "i'll write the check for you at once." she turned upon him very grateful eyes, but almost instantly a shadow crept across her face as she said, "the security i have to offer----" mr. harris looked pained, and lifting his hand, he interrupted her with, "don't, please don't let the security trouble you." again virginia's eyes unconsciously fastened upon rutley, who at the same time was regarding her with a keen inquiring gaze. it was the first time they had met since the night of thorpe's quarrel with corway, and although virginia had resolved to cast off all fear of his threat of incriminating disclosures, she nevertheless, while in his presence, felt a subtle influence change her rebellious disposition into a timorous apprehension. the sensation was so strange, so creepy, and at the same time so convincing, that she arose from the seat and muttered in broken accents, "i--i'll await you outside, mr. harris. the air in this room is--is so close." she had turned half around toward the door, when mrs. harris addressed her. "virginia, dear! don't go! most interesting. my lord has just related how last night he accidentally knocked sam down near the city park." virginia unconsciously repeated, "last night, he accidentally knocked sam down, near the city park." the information was so startling and her curiosity so keen that she stared at rutley and sam alternately, while they in turn stared at each other and at her most significantly. mrs. harris observed the wonderment her information had created, but without troubling her easy brains to penetrate the meaning, added, after due pause, "yes, dear--a bandaged head, as you see, was the result." "it was very dark, near midnight, and his lordship was driving an automobile fast." heedless of mrs. harris' further remarks and so absorbed in an effort to solve the puzzle that virginia thought: "what business had he out there at that time of night? did he know i was there? and sam there, too! it must have been he who followed me,"--and she shot such a swift meaning glance at him that had he caught it the effect must have been disconcerting. "queer, how late at night young men carry on their larks nowadays," broke in mr. harris with fine humor. mrs. harris was quick to correct him. "dear me! james, it was on urgent business, no less than a search for dorothy, but unfortunately unsuccessful." "i myself am also inclined to the belief dorothy was stolen. no doubt a demand will soon be made for her ransom," said mr. harris. "such a notion seems to me as far-fetched, as it is unlikely, for i do not believe the family has an enemy in the world," promptly rejoined mrs. harris. "vague insinuations of kidnapping find credence through the estrangement of the parents being given publicity," suggested rutley, in a soft, serious, yet bland manner, which brought from hazel an explosive reply, "i am sure constance had no knowledge of it." "impossible for constance to plot at an abduction of her own child, and as for john thorpe, his grief is too great to permit the faintest suspicion to rest on him," suavely admonished mrs. harris warmly. "john!" gasped virginia. she was the first to see thorpe standing in the vestibule, the doors of which had been left open. john thorpe had entered so quietly that none in the room saw him approach, and their conversation at the moment was so concentrated upon the mystery of dorothy's disappearance that none of them heard his weary footfalls draw near. he was careworn and haggard. if john thorpe felt any emotion on seeing virginia and hearing her startled voice, he gave no sign. unmoved, he coldly let his aching eyes rest on her, and then he lifted them to mr. harris. in that brief space of time, rutley saw in virginia's abashed eagerness to address her brother, a shadow of peril threaten him. the situation called for immediate action. he had previously noted his magnetic power over her and at once brought into requisition the wonderful "nerve" distinctly his heritage, and which had so often befriended him in moments of danger. under cover of the fresh interest manifested in mr. thorpe's appearance, he coolly, quietly, and without the least hesitation, quickly placed himself beside her, and whispered in her ear: "beware!" his tone was so menacing, though concealed by an unctious personality, that virginia shrank from him, yet with the low, rebellious exclamation: "scoundrel!" nevertheless, she timidly deemed it discreet to arrange a meeting with john alone. mr. harris silently grasped mr. thorpe by the hand. they had been close friends, socially and in business affairs for many years, and the hopeless, haggard, careless appearance of his long time friend touched mr. harris deeply. "poor fellow," he said, sympathetically. "you look all in." "sleepless nights and wearisome days have doubtless produced results," languidly replied mr. thorpe. "mr. harris, i have come to beg your hospitality for an hour's rest." "welcome to 'rosemont,' thrice welcome, my dear friend. i shall have a quiet room prepared at once. make yourself comfortable for a few moments until i return," and the energetic mr. harris immediately set out on his mission. "dear me!" commented mrs. harris, "if we could but unravel the mystery of dorothy's disappearance, what a relief it would be. do you think it possible the child was abducted, mr. thorpe?" "would to god i could believe it true," he gravely replied. "i am loath to believe that the mother was aware of it," interposed rutley, in his soft, lazy, drawling voice, "but"---- surprised, mrs. harris promptly interrupted him with: "dear me, have you heard that constance had intrigued for her child's disappearance?" rutley fixed his gaze on virginia, then transferred it to john thorpe as he falteringly replied to mrs. harris' question: "circumstances of a--a suspicious character tend to--a--implicate her." a dead silence followed. so silent, that sam suddenly cast an alarmed look at virginia, as though he feared she had heard him hiss--"the contemptible sissy!"--and was surprised that no response met his silent thought, either by look or word. virginia was speechless. yet she was bursting to tell them dorothy was alive, but in captivity. she remembered the terrible threat made by the italian in the park. it burned into her brain and made her tremble with anxiety lest the secret should get out and the child's life jeopardized thereby. but, how to deny the vile lie that constance was a party to the kidnapping? it was a question that baffled completely all the ingenuity that had aided her in other situations. while she was racking her brains for some guiding thought, to silence slanderous tongues, she heard john thorpe very gravely say: "my lord must be mistaken." it was such sweet relief to know that he did not believe constance was guilty of the crime that virginia unconsciously exclaimed: "thank heaven!" after john thorpe had expressed his disbelief in his wife's guilt, he slowly turned on his heel, intending to leave the room, for the conversation was painful to him and the company too closely associated with his unhappiness, for the quiet rest he so much needed. he had scarcely turned toward the door when he was halted by mr. harris, who had just entered from the hall, and announced a restful room in readiness for his immediate use. to his surprise, john thorpe turned and wearisomely said: "i thank you, mr. harris, but an important matter that i have neglected has just come to my mind. i beg to apologize for the needless trouble i have caused you." and he turned slowly and went toward the door. virginia perceived that unless immediate steps were taken, her opportunity to arrange a meeting with john would be lost. it was, therefore, with a startled cry of disappointment that she addressed him: "john! i have something"--she hesitated. thorpe halted on the threshold and half turned around. aghast, virginia arose from her seat, when rutley drawled out in his most suave accents: "miss thorpe is manifestly fatigued from over-exertion," and instantly taking her by the arm, led her reluctantly, and in timidity, to a seat on a divan, the end of which he wheeled forward, ostensibly to give her a better view of the lawn, then inundated with sunshine, but in reality to avert her eyes from the face of her brother. john thorpe gazed inquiringly for a second and then, with head bent, slowly and gravely left the house. mr. harris started to accompany thorpe, to press him to rest awhile, but on recalling his obligation to virginia, checked himself and turned into the library. sam's indignation at the vile, unkind thrust made on the character of a bereaved woman, spoke eloquently in his blazing eyes, nevertheless out of regard for his aunt's wishes he closed his teeth tightly in silence, but on seeing the pseudo lord's insistent familiarity with virginia, and noting her strange hesitant submission as he rather more than familiarly escorted her to the divan, sam's rage burst through his discretion and his manly, straight-forwardness asserted itself, in utter disregard of his aunt's warnings. rutley had evidently thrown out the base insinuation as a feeler, but the manner in which sam met it--met it squarely in the "wild west way," quickly disabused his mind of any idea he may have had that constance was friendless. "sir!" sam said; "i know but one little word that fitly characterizes your insinuation concerning mrs. thorpe," and unwilling to resist the natural gravity of his feet toward rutley, sidled up close to him, and, with a quiver of contempt in his voice, finished: "and down in texas they taught me to brand it 'a damned lie'!" sam was rewarded in a manner he little anticipated, and by the woman who had heretofore despised him, for with eyes that sparkled with admiration and lips that parted in a smile of glad surprise, she involuntarily murmured: "splendid, sam!" his silly, boyish side had vanished, and in its place his true, strong, sterling character stood revealed. in that one moment he knew that he had won from her a tribute of esteem, but he did not at that time realize that it was a long step toward the consummation of his devout desire--to win her heart. if an electric bolt had at that moment descended from the clear, ethereal blue, and wrecked the house, mrs. harris' consternation could not have been greater. "oh!" she faintly gasped. "dear me! oh, sam, how could you!" and then she staggered almost to collapse in his arms. for a moment rutley was astounded, then drawing himself up in a pose of statuesque haughtiness, again most studiously adjusted his monocle to his eye and directed at alert sam a stony stare of ineffable disdain. then he languidly drawled, without a muscle of his white, bloodless face moving: "aw, it's deuced draughty, don't-che know!" a few minutes later mr. harris beckoned virginia into the library. after delivering her the check he had promised, they together went out in search for john thorpe, but he had disappeared. had they looked more closely and further up the hillside, they might have seen a haggard man sitting in the shadow of a fir, apparently weary of the world, and pondering on the vicissitudes of life. chapter xii. in the meantime virginia had been doing her utmost, in a quiet way, to obtain the necessary amount of dorothy's ransom. conscious of an imperative demand likely to be made upon her at any moment, she had partially prepared for it by secretly borrowing some five thousand dollars upon her jewelry and income, and she had obtained five thousand more from mr. harris, who was eager to favor her, because of the obligations it would place her under to his family, particularly sam. it was useless to approach hazel for assistance, as john thorpe was administrator of her estate. however, she was in a fair way to get more on a trust deed for some real estate that was in her name--when the summons came, peremptory and threatening. she pondered over the situation long and profoundly, and having at length thoroughly made up her mind on a line of procedure, she prepared for the meeting. of delicate mould, carefully educated, and accustomed to vivacious and accomplished companions, virginia was little intended for the desperate enterprise she had determined to undertake, in the dead hour of the coming night. more than once she shuddered at the thought, but that vision of constance in the shadow of the "grim sickle," nerved her on to the rescue, and it also afforded her a sense of relief from the distress her mind endured. overwhelmed at the magnitude of the misfortune so suddenly overtaken constance, she hesitated not for an instant to risk her life in its undoing. personality, social position, beauty, youth, refinement--all were cast aside, unconsidered and unthought of in the execution of the one perilous act that confronted her. the intention to rescue dorothy may be construed under the conditions surrounding her as commendable, but in one so young and fair, it would appear hair-brained, impracticable and, worst of all, dangerously indiscreet. virginia had not been in any manner contributory to the disappearance of dorothy, and yet be it remembered, only a heroine pure and simple would dare brave the act. moreover, she had permitted constance to accompany her, thus immensely increasing her hazard and responsibility. that afternoon, thinking to cheer the mother, who was plunged in silent grief, virginia had intimated a suspicion that dorothy was a captive. instantly an unnatural calm possessed constance, and changed her sweet and tractable nature into a determined and obstinate resolution to accompany virginia. it was useless for the girl to plead additional peril. no excuse, no matter how artfully conceived or ingeniously framed, could turn constance from her purpose, to share in the danger. and what danger would not the mother brave to rescue her darling? so insistent, yet so strangely calm, as to cause a fear that the fevered excitement that burned so fiercely beneath the forced tranquility, would in a measure break out and jeopardize all--that virginia only at last reluctantly consented. but not before she had exacted a promise from constance to maintain the strictest silence. on their arrival at the foot of ellsworth street, they made their way cautiously along to a little cove above bundy's boathouse, where they discovered a small skiff with oars in row-locks. virginia had been informed that a boat would be provided for her at a certain spot, and therefore did not hesitate to avail herself of its use. whether anybody was watching her mattered little in her suppressed, excited state of mind. quietly she slipped the line and was in the act of drawing the skiff in position for constance to get in, when from afar, across the water, seemingly from the depth of the island woods, the cry of a crow penetrated the silent air. they stood still and listened--listened intently--with a vague, terrified notion that it was meant as a signal of danger. again she heard the cry, as distinct as before. constance gripped virginia's arm for support. [illustration: "virginia realized that in her own calmness and self-possession lay the surest support to her companion's strength."] "what does it portend?" virginia asked herself. "why should it come from the woods if it was a signal of her starting to cross the water. it may have been an answer to a flash from some one concealed nearby." she looked above, about, but the same darkness, the same quietness prevailed. not a leaf stirred to disturb the deep repose of night. afar off, down the river, a steamer whistled for the steel bridge draw. it startled her out of her reverie, and finally she concluded the "caw," which seemingly sounded from the opposite woods, was really at the shore, and resulted from the peculiar condition of the atmosphere. without further pause, and quietly as possible, they stepped into the boat, and at once commenced the passage. the water was calm and mirror-like, and virginia, having had some experience in handling a skiff, dipped the muffled blades with scarcely a sound. silently, slowly, cautiously, she propelled the boat along, ever and again turning her head to peer into the deep darkness shrouding the island. she headed the boat diagonally across the water, so as to strike near the middle of the island. she adopted that course in order that the cabin, which was quite invisible under the deeper shadow of the woods, would come in line between her and the harbor lights. her reckoning was correct. she had passed the object of her venture without discovering it, but as the island loomed denser and darker on drawing near, it enabled her to locate the craft with precision. she turned the boat, and keeping within the deep shadow that fringed the rim of the island, made straight for the cabin. as they approached it, the strain on constance became tense. virginia watched her narrowly, fearful for the consequences of a disappointment, and she realized, too, that in her own calmness and self-possession, lay the surest support to her companion's strength. the consciousness of that power nerved, steadied and aided her wonderfully. chapter xiii. "caw! caw!" sounded with startling distinctness in the still, dark wooded depths of ross island. for a moment the silence was intense; then it was broken again by the familiar, long-drawn out, guttural cry, "caw! caw!" of the black scavenger bird. and silence once more settled down upon the scene, and seemed deeper, thicker and more profound than before. it may have been a half a minute after the second cry when an answer, faint, though clearly audible, was echoed from a neighboring part of the woods. "come on!" quietly exclaimed sam harris, who, with john thorpe, stood beside the trunk of a fir that grew midway on the island near its north end. "an uncanny signal!" remarked mr. thorpe, in the same low tones. "yes, somehow i feel as though it betokens serious business," softly replied sam. "be careful. a thick vine here. step clear," he whispered, as they moved cautiously along. they had proceeded in silence some distance, part of the time groping their way by the aid of a match, lighted now and again, but artfully concealed, for the darkness was very deep, when through a rift in the wild growth of underbrush a man's form was seen to move. "wait!" suddenly whispered sam, in a warning tone. "there is a man ahead of us." there was no mistaking it, for as they stood stock-still in their tracks, they saw a man's form occasionally obtruding between them and an electric light that shed its rays from afar off, across the water. "do you think he is the detective?" asked thorpe, in a low voice. "wait!" and sam placed his two hands over his mouth so as to form a hollow, and called out in moderate tones: "caw! caw!" it was answered by a single "caw," low, but seemingly so near that they were startled, and for a moment felt that they were being deceived. they remained motionless and silent--sam with his hand grasping the butt of a revolver. the "caw" was repeated low, but with reassuring effect, for they now discovered that while the sound was apparently near, due to atmospheric conditions, it was in reality fully two hundred feet away. "detective simms," whispered sam. "he is waiting for us." "then let's hurry," urged his companion. the words had scarcely left his lips when thorpe's boot caught in a vine and down he went, making considerable noise as he stumbled and fell on his hip. "you must be more careful," enjoined sam, in a low tone, as he helped thorpe to his feet. "much haste, less speed, and then a little noise may endanger our success, i fear. are you hurt?" "no, thanks. let's go on," impatiently replied thorpe. as they drew near the detective, in order to make doubly sure of avoiding a trap, sam uttered in a low voice the word "hope!" it was a watchword previously arranged and provided as an additional precaution against a possible contingency of deep darkness rendering prompt recognition difficult. it was answered by the word "good," uttered in equally low and cautious tones, and which at once put them at their ease. almost immediately they met the detective at the edge of the clearing. before them, a little to the left, dimly but clearly outlined against the harbor lights, was a typical willamette river cabin, commonly known on the waterfront as a "scow dwelling," moored about fifty feet from the shore, broadside on. it was the object of their venture. so intent were they on sizing it up, and the problem of boarding it, that they were quite insensible to the magnificent panorama spread out beyond, and further to the left of portland by night. at their feet the dark, shimmering willamette silently glided along its course to the mighty columbia; the great bridges on which the street cars, in a blaze of light, swiftly crossed and recrossed the gloomy river; the darkly-outlined towering masts of the ocean shipping in the lower harbor, the great industrial landmarks that reared their lofty shadows in different parts of the city. the myriad of bluish electric lights, that shone out like diamonds in the clear, balmy night, spread out over the city and up and up, in terraces and by gradual stages, to the hills, and along the heights that stretched away north-westerly. for miles on either side of the river the lights spread out, till at length, in diminishing brilliancy, they were lost in the shadow of the distant rugged hills, whose irregular dark-wooded crests were sharply defined against the rare splendor of the firmament, then aglow with glittering stars. in fact, all the grandeur of the far-stretching panorama was neglected and lost to them in the intensity of their gaze upon the humble dwelling before them, built on a raft of logs. (booms of saw-logs are now moored abreast the cabin anchorage.) sam left thorpe and the detective and wormed his way nearer the shore, to a position where he could obtain a better view of the cabin. lying flat on his stomach, and concealed as much as possible, behind some driftwood and low, dead brush, he listened intently, and studied the situation with the practical eye of the frontiersman. he made out the cabin to be about twenty-four feet long, seven or eight feet high, with two small windows on the side which was nearest him. there being a light in one of the windows, he concluded the cabin was divided into at least two parts. the logs upon which the cabin was built projected some four feet at either end, on which was a platform, but no protecting railing. proof that the occupant was not a family man, as "scow-dwellers" with children are careful to have railings about their craft. he judged that the logs were large and water-soaked, and securely fastened together, and by their combined weight effected a certain stability and steadiness to the cabin resting thereon, during bad weather. there appeared no means of reaching the cabin except by boat or swimming, and the mud of the river bottom at that point was evidently deep. now and again he heard voices in the cabin, seemingly in altercation. but the distance was too great for him to distinguish the words. the quietness was profound except for the gentle lapping of the water, and disturbed occasionally by ripping sounds from a sawmill some distance down the river, which, if anything, added to the stillness instead of diminishing it. once he started at what sounded like a moan very near him, but it was so indistinct, so much like a faint whispering whistle, and it was immediately succeeded by the buzzing whirr of a bat as it darted about, and deep silence again environing him, that he dismissed the sound as a fantasy. he was mentally calculating upon the chances of a surprise and rescue, and in an attempt to drag himself a few feet nearer the water-line to catch, if possible, some words of the conversation going on in the cabin. he stretched out his right hand to grasp what appeared to be a piece of driftwood, to aid in pulling himself along. his hand fell upon the dry, warm body of some animal. he almost yelled aloud, so great was his fright. for a moment his heart beat madly. but the same strength of will that rushed to his aid in smothering the yell also quieted his agitation and restored his confidence. the incident had almost jeopardized the favorable prospect of their enterprise. but nothing untoward happening, he again put out his hand and touched the body. it was warm and did not stir. the animal was lying on its side, and he plainly felt a faint throbbing of its heart. he ran his hand down its legs, then along its spine to a large limb of a tree that lay across its neck. he concluded that it was a little dog when his hand felt a small rope wound tightly about the limb. his curiosity being fully aroused, he determined upon further investigation. not daring to light a match he did the next best thing that occurred to him. still retaining his prone position, sam passed his hand along the dog's spine to the fore shoulder, and under the piece of wood, to its neck. then he discovered the poor thing was in the last throes of strangulation. its breathing was scarcely perceptible. its tongue, swollen thick, protruded from its mouth. instantly his sympathy for the little sufferer became acute, and, without thinking of possible results should the dog recover quickly, whipped out his knife and severed the coils of rope about the limb. using his left hand as a lever, his elbow being a pivot, he pried up the weighty limb and with his right hand drew the dog from under it and to him. he quickly unwound the few remaining coils from around its neck, and as he did so, smiled with pleasurable emotion--for he was sure that he felt a feeble lick of the dog's tongue on his hand. a dog's life is an inconsequential thing, according to some people's way of thinking, but here was proof that under sam's rough and unpolished exterior there throbbed a heart full of gentleness and sympathy for suffering animals. he took the dog, which he then recognized as a small, shaggy scotch terrier, under his arm and stole back to the detective and mr. thorpe. in discussing the affair afterward, it was deemed probable that the detective, finding his long vigil at the edge of the woods tiresome, had unconsciously fallen asleep; though he indignantly denied it, and during that time the dog had been taken on shore and tied to a heavy piece of driftwood to give warning of the approach of strangers by night, but the poor thing had become tangled in the brush, and in its efforts to extricate itself had tightly twisted the rope about its neck, and the heavy limb had rolled over and pinioned it to the ground. in the meantime mr. thorpe and the detective were engaged in low, earnest conversation. "are you satisfied the child is my little dorothy?" asked mr. thorpe. "i am not positive, but i believe so. i have watched all the afternoon in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. once i heard a child cry." "yet the child may not be dorothy!" "true!" replied the detective, "but whether the child be yours or not, i am satisfied the little thing in that cabin is there against its will." "did you note any visitors to the cabin this evening?" "yes; a man rowed over from the direction of 'bundy's' about half an hour ago. he is in there now." "do you think the italian, his visitor and the child are the only ones there?" "i am positive they are the only ones in that cabin at this moment." "then let's wade out there," urged mr. thorpe. "careful!" cautioned sam, who had just come up. "i know the dago to be a cunning and dangerous man. we could not wade out that far any way, in the soft mud and tangled roots of that bottom. we must have the small boat." "what have you there?" it was the detective who spoke. "our first rescue. a mascot!" and then sam related the incident. "good!" exclaimed mr. thorpe. "its bark would have betrayed us." the three then held a brief consultation. shortly afterward sam retraced his steps along the trail, back to the steam launch, with the "mascot" steadily recovering, but still under his arm. chapter xiv. within the cabin, so zealously watched by the detective prior to the journey of thorpe and sam across the island, were the occupants--jack shore and his little captive, dorothy thorpe. the child was carefully and secretly guarded, and at the same time made as comfortable as the limited quarters of her captor would permit. jack shore was kind to the child, and though fully conscious of the severe penalty of his desperate undertaking should he be discovered, he nevertheless allowed her a certain freedom of the abode in which he had placed her, of course always providing for securely bolted outer doors. during the preceding night she had been secretly and quietly removed from her first hiding place to the cabin. her silence was obtained by the promise of being taken home should she be a good little girl, and not make a disturbance. but as a precaution she had been wrapped up in a manner so as completely to blindfold her, and in her childish confidence was conveyed without any trouble, in the dead hour of night, to the cabin. the interior of the cabin was divided into two rooms. the small one was used as a sleeping apartment, having two roughly-constructed bunks, one above the other. on one wall was a small four-paned window that gave light to the room. a small mirror, and a man's clothing hung on the wall, and a short, well-worn strip of carpet covered the floor. the large room served the purpose of a kitchen, dining room, pantry, laundry and general utility combined. there was a small cook stove in the corner near the dividing partition. one dishcloth and a couple of towels hung on a line across the corner of the room over the stove. a shallow box about three feet square, and nailed to the wall beside the window, served as a cupboard for provisions. a table, an old chair, a three-legged stool and a box constituted the remaining furniture. at night a lighted lamp rested on a bracket above the table, and on this particular night jack's coat hung beside the lamp. the main entrance door of the cabin was at the kitchen end, and opened inward. there was also a door at the bedroom end of the cabin, securely locked and bolted. the door in the partition between the two rooms was in line with the other doors, and had a small pane of glass, six by six inches, in the upper panel. on this eventful night dorothy was seated on the chair, her head resting on her arms on the end of the table, indifferently watching jack. he, with a cigar in his mouth and in his gray shirtsleeves, was standing in front of the table wiping a dishpan, the last of the evening cleanup. putting the pan away under the shelf, he hung the dishcloth beside its mate on the line, and carefully stretched it out to dry. then, as he sat down on the stool at the end of the table opposite dorothy, a smile of satisfaction stole over his dark, swarthy face when he surveyed the result of his work--a clean and tidy appearing room. "eesa be so nice-a da clean. so bute-a da corner. eesa like-a da fine-a house. tar-rah-rah! tink-a eesa get-a da fote-da-graph of eet a made. put eem in-a sunny da paper. eh-a da daize! what a use-a da tink? eh!" dorothy raised her head and looked at him in offended, childish dignity. "my name is not a da daize; it is dorothy!" "eesa like-a da daize a bet! what youse-a tink? eesa nicey da room, eh daize?" then the child indifferently looked at the corner with its stove and adjuncts. she had been detained in his company now--for four days, and, childlike, was intuitively quick in interpreting the broken, stumbling dago utterances of jack. "it is not so nice as our kitchen," she naively replied. "but maybe the photo will make people think you are a good cook!" "a da cook-a!--naw, eesa be damn! turnoppsis! carrotsis! cababbages! black-a da boots"-- "well, then," interrupted the child, pouting, "a rich man if you like; i don't care." "eesa mores-a da bet," and he smiled approvingly. "and a sunny-a da paper print under da fote-da-graph some-a ting like-a deeze--a da corner ova-a da dining room--maybees-a da den wud look-a da bet," he muttered reflectively. "in deeze-a home ova-a a signor george-a da golda--house-a dat, eh, a daize?" "is that your name?" she inquired. "eesa good-a da name? a daize." "may i stay in here when the photo man comes?" "sure-a daize!" "oh, good!" and the child clapped her little hands and laughed gleefully. jack looked at her quizzically, and then, seating himself on the stool, took the child between his knees. "tell-a me, da daize, what-a da for youse-a like-a da picture take-a here, eh?" "cause!" she answered shyly. "cause-a da what? speak-a daize." "i don't like to." "a daize! youse a know i bees-a da friend, speak-a." "well, then my papa would know where to find me." "i deez-a thought so. daize, youse-a tink i beez a da bad-a man. eh, why?" "'cause you promised to take me home and you have not." "well-a daize, your-a good-a da girl, and--eef-a da papa donn-a da come bees-a da morn, we'll-a go for-a da fine him, eh! now youse-a da like-a me now? eh, a daize?" "oh, i like you ever so much for that, and we'll go home tomorrow? "sure-a daize! now tell-a me some-a ting about a da virginia." "if i do you'll sure take me home tomorrow?" "sure-a daize! eesa beez a da good a da woman, eh? much a da like a you. eh, a da daize?" "oh, yes; she would do anything for me, and i love my aunt, too." "eesa look a da nicey. mose a beez a da rich, eh-a daize?" "my aunt does oil paintings, too." "eesa got a much a da mon, eh a daize?" "oh, yes; a pocket full," replied the unsuspecting child. "everybody says that she is rich, and i guess that it must be true," muttered jack, and he could not suppress a smile of satisfaction the child's information gave him. "eesa time to go a da bed, a daize. kiss a me good a da night." "if i do, you won't forget your promise?" "what a da promise?" "to take me home tomorrow." "sure a daize. i donna forget." then the child kissed him, and at the contact of her soft, warm lips with his--like a stream of sunshine, the child innocence of purest lips, pierced his heart with a shaft of kindly sympathy. "good a da night, a daize," he said in a voice soft and gentle. then he released the child and arose to his feet. it drew from her a look of steady admiration, and then she replied: "good night!" on the threshold of the sleeping apartment she turned and said: "i shall pray for you tonight, mister golda. i shall pray for you not to forget tomorrow." and she softly closed the door. as jack mildly stared at the child, the light in his eyes changed to a look far off, and there gradually stole over his face an aspect of infinite sadness, reminiscent of the days of his childhood. on resuming his presence of mind, he went to the cupboard and took from there a bottle. after removing the stopper he took a straight draught of liquor, turned low the light and tip-toed to the bedroom door, listened, and heard dorothy say: "oh, dear jesus, make george golda good; help him remember his promise to take me home tomorrow." jack was deeply moved by the child's sweet disposition, and he turned away disgusted at the despicable role he was enacting, and muttered reflectively: "good god, that i should come to this! from secretary-treasurer of the securities investment association to be a kidnapper of babes! "jack shore, the kidnapper! what a fall is here! yes, i have sunk so low as to abduct from a fond, suffering mother one of the purest gems of flesh and blood that ever blest a home. and for what? the almighty dollar! only that, and nothing more! curse the damned dollar that drives men to crime! "curse it for cramming hell with lost souls. i'll wash my hands of this whole business; i'll have no more of it; i'll take the child home!" the resolution was so cheering, so fruitful of kindly intent, and urged on by the "still, small voice" within him to do right, that he decided to fortify himself with a second drink of liquor. then a contra train of reflection seized him, and he whispered, as one suddenly confronted with an appalling calamity: "ah, ah! what am i saying? and i have scarcely a dollar in the world! have gone hungry for the want of it--and here is twenty thousand of the beautiful golden things actually in sight--almost at my finger tips!" and with the thought blank concern spread over his face, and the kindly purpose, the human compassion for his fellow being in its transient passage to his heart, again took flight and the "still, small voice" within him shrank abashed to silence. "out with this sentimental nonsense! the thorpes can stand the loss of a few thousand without a twitch of an eyelash." the sound of a couple of gentle taps on the starboard side of the cabin broke his train of audible thoughts and claimed his quick attention. the taps were repeated distinctly. he answered them with three light taps on the wall, given by the joint of his finger. then he quietly opened the door, and philip rutley, with the collar of his coat turned up closely about his face, stood in the opening. "all skookum, jack?" he questioned, in low tones, on entering. "all skookum, phil," answered jack, as he locked and bolted the door. "good! i love to look at the little darling. jack, she is a gold mine." and, so saying, rutley took the lamp from over the shelf and cautiously opening the door, peered within. "isn't she pretty?" then he quietly closed the door, replaced the lamp on the shelf, turned down his coat collar and said in a low, pleased voice: "well, old boy, our troubles are nearly over. virginia will come tonight." "alone?" queried jack, in low tones, and he looked significantly at his colleague. "yes, and with the ducats! i caused her to be secretly informed that she must meet you here by twelve o'clock this night, and prepared to pay the ransom. any liquor handy, jack? i'm feeling a bit nervous after that pull. the boat sogged along as heavy as though a bunch of weeds trailed across her prow." jack smiled, but proceeded to the cupboard and produced a bottle, together with a glass. removing the cork, he offered both bottle and glass to rutley with the remark: "old kaintuck--dead shot! the best ever. help yourself!" "that's an affectionate beauty spot about your right eye, jack," remarked rutley, taking the bottle and tumbler from him. "you haven't told me how it happened." "i was out on corbett street when that damned irish coachman of thorpe's sauntered along as though he had a chip on his shoulder, and he had the nerve to ask me if i had seen the child." "do you think he suspected you?" queried rutley, pausing with the glass and bottle in his hands. "no; it was a random shot. but it made me hot, and--well, the long and the short of it was the doctor worked over me an hour before i was able to walk." "i see," commented rutley, pouring some liquor into the glass and setting the bottle on the table. "a sudden and unexpected attack, eh! may the fickle jade smile on us tonight," and so saying, he drank the liquor with evident relish, and handed the glass to jack. jack, misunderstanding his quotation of the "fickle jade," interpreting it as meant for virginia, at once replied: "the jade may smile and smile, and be a villain, but she must 'pungle' up the 'dough.'" and pouring some liquor in the glass he drained it. jack's misapplication of the popular quotation caused phil to smile, then to chuckle. "ha, ha, ha, ha, the jade!" then he produced a couple of cigars from his vest pocket, and offering one to jack, continued: "she deserves no mercy." "none whatever," replied jack, as he took the cigar. "if she had not weakened, we should never have selected her to pay the ransom," resumed rutley. "ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed jack, as he put a match to the cigar. "her penitent mood makes her an easy mark. the price of her atonement'll be twenty thousand dollars." again rutley chuckled, chuckled convivially, for evidently the softening influence of the liquor relaxed his tensely attuned nerves. "ha, my boy, she shall not enjoy the bliss of restoring the child to her mother. i shall be the hero in this case," and he lowered his voice. "after virginia has paid the ransom, i shall take the child to her father." then he looked at jack significantly and laughed--laughed in a singularly sinister, yet highly pitched suppressed key. jack penetrated rutley's purpose at once and the prodigious nerve of the fellow caused him likewise to laugh. but jack's laugh was different from rutley's, in so much that it conveyed, though suppressed and soft, an air of rollicking abandon. "and get the reward of ten thousand dollars offered for the child's recovery." "precisely," laughed rutley. his laugh seemed infectious, for jack joined him with a "ha, ha, ha, ha. and borrow ten thousand more from old harris for being a good samaritan to his nephew, sam, eh! have another, phil," and again he laughed as he offered the glass. rutley took the glass and filled it. "a forty thousand cleanup, jack, just for a bit of judicious nerve! he, he, he, he," and then his laughter ceased, for the simple reason that his lips could not perform the act of drinking and laughing at the same time. "ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed jack, in response. "a damned good thing, eh, phil?" and he took the glass, filled it, and drank. "has anybody heard from corway?" "shanghaied," laconically replied rutley. "he's off on the british bark lochlobin. no fear of any trouble from him for several months." "how, in the name of god, did you do it?" asked jack, fairly enthralled with rutley's nerve. "oh, it was easy. fixed it up with some sailor boarding-house toughs, but i only got $ out of it all told, including his watch. but, my dear boy, that is not all i have planned in this plunge. you know i am desperately in love with the orphan?" "hazel!" exclaimed jack. "ho, that was plain long ago," and he laughed again. "she's the sweetest little girl in the world, jack, and the best part of it is, she has a cool hundred thousand in her own right." "marry her," promptly advised jack. "that is my intention, jack, and the day after tomorrow i visit rosemont to persuade her to elope with me. quite a society thrill--don't you know?" "thrill!" replied jack, astonished. "you mean sensation. hazel eloped with me lord beauchamp, knight of the garter. have one on that, phil." "oh, she's a darling, jack, and now that corway is out of the way--i think she'd like--to wear the garter," and he grinned jovially. "a garter is fetching, phil." "success to the garter! may lady hazel never let it fall; ha, ha," and jack laughed merrily as he filled the glass. "evil be to him who evil thinks. my garter, jack! he, he, he, he." there was no mistaking the fact that the two men were verging on the hilarious, and though fully aware of the importance of conversing in low tones, they continued, because they felt satisfied the critical period of their operations had passed and success was assured. again rutley laughed. "jack, i've had an itching palm today." "so have i. see how red it is with scratching, and the sole of my left foot has been tickled to fits." "the signs are right, jack. i congratulate you on your luck, and if it is as good as your judgment of liquor--it is a damned good thing." he laughed as he seized the glass. "this is the proof," and he forthwith tossed it off, and handed the glass to jack. jack's convivial spirits were quite willing. he took the glass, filled it, and laughingly said: "what is good for the devil, applies to his imp." then he drained the glass and again laughed. rutley joined in. "you make me blush! did you say your left foot tickled?" "yes!" "you will change domiciles. what do you say to secretary-treasurer of the securities investment association?" "what? resurrect the old s. i. a.?" jack replied, and he stared at rutley with amazement. "yes! thorpe and harris put us out of business. why not use their 'simoleons' to start up again?" and he chuckled with evident satisfaction. "agreed, phil! start her up with a full page ad in a sunday paper, eh? ha, ha, ha, ha--a damned good thing." "precisely! ahem," coughed rutley. "we are pleased to announce that our former fellow townsmen, mr. philip rutley and mr. jack shore have returned very wealthy." "and were received with open arms," added jack, and he laughed. "damned good joke, phil; damned good joke. have one on that!" and he turned and picked up bottle and glass from the table and offered them to his colleague. rutley always maintained a dignified bearing, yet his manners were quite unconventional, and suave, and easy, and it must be understood that neither of them on this occasion became boisterous. he took the proffered bottle and glass, poured liquor in the glass, and after setting the bottle on the table, said: "thirty days later, a-hem! we congratulate the stockholders of the reorganized securities investment association on the able and efficient management of your officers, manager philip rutley and secretary-treasurer jack shore." he then drained the glass and handed it to jack. "ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed jack, as he took the glass and poured the liquor in it, and pointedly added: "addenda! it affords us much pleasure to apologize for our former charge of wilful dishonesty against the gentlemen above mentioned. signed: john thorpe, james harris, committee." and jack drained the glass. "he, he, he, he," softly laughed rutley. "very proper, my boy; quite so!" "it only needs the measly 'yellow goods' to make it practical," suggested jack. "my dear, ahem, mr. secretary, don't let that trifle worry you. the 'yellow goods' are coming as sure as day follows night." "i hope the day will not again plunge us into night," laughed jack. "oh, don't put it that way," testily rejoined rutley. "disagreeably suggestive, you know--damned bad taste." rutley's supersensitiveness, in their present situation, was greeted by jack with a burst of suppressed laughter. "when eve tempted and adam bit, he took his medicine without a fit. have another, phil." without accepting the bottle, and seemingly without heeding the remark, rutley inquired, a bit seriously: "is the dog on guard?" "yes," replied jack, standing stock still, with the bottle in one hand and the tumbler in the other. "tied to a stick of driftwood on shore. no interlopers while snooks is on watch. why?" the question was asked rather soberly. "i received a tip that you are shadowed and trouble may come before dawn. when it comes the little one must not be here." "i agree with you," responded jack. "i've lost that medal somewhere, too." "ye gods!" gravely replied rutley, with an alarmed look. "if it falls into the hands of a detective, it may serve as a clue. curious, too. i recall now that the dog didn't bark or growl when i approached the cabin." "i wonder!" exclaimed jack. "maybe snooks has got loose and is wandering about the island. we had better make sure." setting the bottle and tumbler on the table, he opened the cabin door and stepped somewhat unsteadily on the platform. closing the door, he peered shoreward, then softly whistled. after listening intently, and hearing nothing, he called, in a low voice: "snooks! snooks!" receiving no response, and being unable to identify shapeless objects on the shore, through the darkness, he re-entered the cabin, quietly as possible, and with a concerned look on his face. "i believe the dog has got away. i'll go ashore and investigate." "i'll go with you," assured rutley. "jack, better see that the child's asleep." jack took the lamp from the bracket, opened the partition door, looked in at the sleeping child, and closed the door as gently as he had opened it. "sound asleep," he whispered. then he replaced the lamp, blew out the light, and made his way out onto the platform, accompanied by rutley. quietly they stepped into a small boat, fastened to the logs, and pushed off towards the shore. it was then jack remembered that he had not locked the door, and wanted to return for that purpose, but rutley demurred. "time is precious," he murmured, rather thickly. "besides we shall be gone only a few minutes, and it is unlikely that the child will stir in the darkness." chapter xv. they had scarcely reached the shore when another small boat came gliding noiselessly along down toward the cabin. the boat contained virginia and constance. as they approached near, propulsion ceased, and the boat drifted along. virginia turned half around on her seat, listened intently, and looked at the dark cabin, with eyes that fairly sparkled, in her effort to penetrate its interior. slowly the boat drew along the platform. quietly and cautiously they stepped out, and after fastening the line which held the boat to an iron ring which had been driven into one of the logs for that purpose, virginia took constance by the hand, which she felt tremble, and caused her to whisper: "courage, dear." then she tapped gently on the door. receiving no response, she tapped again, then tried the knob, and, to her amazement, the door opened. for a moment they stood on the threshold, irresolute. a whiff of tobacco smoke brushed their nostrils. virginia timidly stepped within, followed closely by constance. the darkness was intense, the stillness profound. "whew!" virginia ejaculated, in a whisper. "the den reeks with tobacco smoke. he must be asleep." she softly closed the door and lighted one of the matches which she had been careful to provide herself with. "there is no one here," whispered constance, in tones of terrifying disappointment. up to that time she had religiously kept her promise to observe the strictest silence, but when in the dim light produced by the match, her eyes swiftly took in the untenanted room, her heart sank in chilly numbness. virginia noted the famished, haunted look that had crept into her eyes, and as she turned away with a fresh pang in her heart, discovered the bottle and tumbler on the table. it suggested a clue, and she replied, in low tones, and in the most matter-of-fact manner, that, surprised herself, "he must be intoxicated, the beast." the coolness of the utterance had the effect, in a measure, of reassuring constance, who then, discovering a closed door directly in front, breathlessly exclaimed: "that door must open to another room." it was at that moment that the light died out. virginia stood stock still and listened. she pressed her left hand tight against her heart to still the terrible throbbing. she heard constance grope her way to the partition door. she heard the nervous fingers on the framework. she heard the latch click. "be careful, dear. oh, be careful, dear!" admonished virginia, in a whisper of frenzied anxiety--and then she heard the door pushed open. a moment of profound silence and then followed the sound of a step within. constance stood beside dorothy--with only the deep darkness and two feet of empty space separating them. who shall say that the subtle power which impelled the mother on in the dense darkness, first to the door, then to open it, and then to step within beside her child, was not magnetic intuition? virginia softly followed her to the door, produced a match and rubbed it against the casing. at that moment constance was standing inside the threshold, her right hand still on the open door latch; her back to virginia. she was looking straight ahead into the darkness. the scraping of the match caused her to turn her head. "oh, dorothy, darling!" was all that the poor heart-broken mother could utter. so sudden and great was the transport called forth by the discovery of dorothy quietly sleeping near her elbow, that her senses grew dizzy, and as she sank to the floor on her trembling knees, convulsively outstretched her hands to clasp the face of her child. it was a favor of fate that placed them at that moment alone with the child, for whom virginia was prepared to sacrifice her life to rescue. a decree that paid homage to the act of a heroine. true, the unhappy cause that impelled her to act was indirectly of her own making, and a sense of justice and remorse urged her to remedy it. nevertheless the act itself, for daring the rescue, was most heroic. when constance threw her hands out to clasp dorothy, the child awakened with a start, and at the same time the match light became extinguished. after her prayer, dorothy laid down on the bunk without undressing, as had been her custom, since in the custody of jack, and almost immediately fell asleep. her guileless little heart, cherishing confidence in his promise, provoked a smile of spiritual beauty that settled on her sweet young face--unflect by earthly misgivings. as she slept there came into her dream a vision of terraces, grown over with lovely flowers, and there were green, grassy plots and gorgeous colored butterflies darting in and out among the flowers and golden sunshine. and out from somewhere, in the serene hazy distance, came the silvery song of her own canary bird. where? and as she looked and listened, a butterfly, oh, so large and beautiful, with semi-transparent rose, pearl wings dotted and fringed with emerald gems, hovered tantalizingly near her. she was tempted to catch it, but each time, though perilously near, it evaded her tiny clutch, and so drew her on over velvety lawns and grassy slopes to a babbling brook. the prismatic winged thing fluttered over some pebbles and alighted on a slender willow twig. she stood on a stone, reached out to clutch the beauty, and just as her little fingers were about to close on it, the voice of her mother rang out in frantic warning--"dorothy! dorothy!" and then her foot slipped, and as she was falling she felt herself suddenly clasped in strong arms, and borne upward, to awake with the cry of "dorothy" ringing in her ears. for a moment or two the child lay perfectly still, then gradually to her returning senses, the room smelled of tobacco smoke, and supposing that it was her captor's hand that clasped her face, said: "oh, mr. golda, the room is full of smoke!" "hush, dear," cautioned virginia. "your mother and aunt virginia are here." "oh, mamma and aunty!" joyfully exclaimed dorothy, for she recognized virginia's well-known voice, and sitting up, said: "you've come to take me home, haven't you?" again the match light faded out. the voice of dorothy seemed to thrill constance with new energy, for, with a frantic effort, she partially recovered her composure. she struggled to her feet, and in a rapture of thanksgiving, folded the child to her heart. "oh, my darling, my darling, please god, they shall never take you from me again. no, never again." and she kissed her with a passionate joy, such as only a fond mother can feel for her helpless infant. "oh, mamma, i am so glad," responded dorothy, clasping her little arms about her mother's neck. "dorothy, dear, where is he?" questioned virginia, in a whisper. "he was in the room when i came to bed, auntie." "he is not there now. he must be away." and a prospect of getting the child away without a struggle nerved her to instant action. "come," she exclaimed, "we must go at once. don't speak, sweetheart. silence; come, constance, quick!" "yes, yes; go on," was constance's almost hysterical reply. and so, with the child in her arms and virginia pulling at her sleeves to guide and hasten her, they groped as cautiously as possible in the darkness, towards the cabin door. they had proceeded a few paces when virginia, in her eagerness, rubbed against the table; she stepped aside to clear it, and in doing so, jolted constance. it was then, under the strain of the stiffled emotions of the past few days, and the great excitement attendant on the present enterprise, together with the sudden reactionary joy of again clasping her child, that the first symptom of the mother's mental breakdown occurred. "oh," she faintly screamed, "the boat rocks," and she would have fallen to the floor had not a chair, the only one in the cabin, luckily stood nearby. she stumbled against it and sank upon the seat, with dorothy tightly clasped in her arms. unable in the darkness to comprehend the pause, virginia tugged urgently at constance's sleeve. "come along, dear, we must be quick." "very well! why don't you use the paddles?" replied constance, in an altered tone, a strange metallic ring in her voice, and with less agitation than she had recently displayed. still unable, or rather refusing herself to think anything was wrong, and with a panicky impatience to be gone from the den, virginia again urged constance to hasten. "don't sit there, dear! come along! we have not a moment to lose. shall i carry dorothy?" the answer startled her; a new terror had appeared. "don't you see that i am holding my heart tight. i cannot let go to help you. make the boat go faster. why don't you paddle." virginia's heart leaped to her throat. "her mind is giving away," she exclaimed, with a gasp. there, then, the typhoid aftermath, which had been predicted would develop in time in constance some strange and serious ailment, had found a lodgement, and now, bursting into life, lay siege to nature's most wonderful creation, the human brain. a moment of terrifying consternation followed. "what shall i do now?" virginia distractedly exclaimed. "paddle, paddle, paddle," feebly responded constance. unmindful of the reply, virginia stood as if transfixed with despair. she racked her brain for a way out. the situation was fast verging on the tragic. "i will barricade the door!" she determined. "no, he may smash in the roof or sink us; i must get them away somehow." "oh, constance, dear, try to be strong. fight down this weakness. the boat is waiting. we must escape. help me! oh, god, help! help!" her voice began in a subdued, frantic appeal, and ended in a sob of heart-rending despair for succor. like a shaft of sunshine bursting through a rift in the dark, lowering clouds of dismay, came the answer from constance: "i will! i will! let me think! oh, yes, we had better go now. lead on! hasten!" and she arose from the seat. "thank heaven. the dark spot has gone," virginia fervently exclaimed. "her brain has cleared again." how joyfully she struck another match further to accelerate their passage. "keep close to me, dear. are you tired? let me help you." and she placed her right arm about the waist of constance, the match held forward in her left hand lighting the way. they had proceeded a few steps when the door opened. she drew back with a slight, terrified exclamation: "oh!" jack shore stood in the doorway. chapter xvi. the men had been ashore, had found the rope cut in several places, and the dog gone. the circumstances were so suspicious and frought with so much danger to them, that they decided upon the immediate removal of the child. on their return toward the cabin, rutley discovered a faint glimmer of light within, and in a whisper, called jack's attention to it. "i am sure i blew it out," jack whispered, alarmed. "do you think the child awakened and struck a match?" again whispered rutley. "no; no matches within her reach. perhaps virginia has come. hello! a strange boat here." "the light moves," continued rutley, in a whisper. "i will get out here," whispered jack, and he sprang out of the boat quietly onto the platform. "take the boat to the other end of the cabin." as he opened the door, the profile of the women and child appeared, dimly outlined by the match light held in virginia's hand. as she staggered back, surprised and terrified, for the moment, jack pushed his way in, closed the door, bolted and locked it, and put the key in his pocket. then he struck a match and lighted the lamp. [illustration: "virginia drew back with a slight terrified exclamation, 'oh!' jack shore stood in the doorway."] after surveying the group, he gruffly laughed. "ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, signora make a da bold a break in a da house, eh? ha, ha, ha, ha. eesa try tak a daize from a da nicey home, eh? ha, ha, ha, ha." "yes," she replied, without hesitation or a qualm of fear in her voice. "that was my intention, but the devil's emissary has blocked it." without a trace of fear, quietly and strangely free from agitation, constance made her way to the door, and laid her hand on the bolt to unfasten it. jack took hold of her small, round wrist, turned her about and pushed her back a few paces. "note a beez in a da hurry, signora." "who are you?" she timidly asked. "ha, ha, ha, hic, eesa compan-e-on say i beez a da devil," jack laughed jeeringly. "oh, very well," she replied, mildly. "the devil is always hungry for someone. who do you want now?" "a daize, a da daize. yous a lak a me, eh, a daize?" "no, no; the devil shall not have my heart. my precious darling now." and constance shrank from him, pressing the little form tighter to her breast. "but you may have money," she indifferently added. jack smiled and bowed obsequiously. "ten-na years eesa sella da banans, turnoppsis, carrottsis, cababbages--mak a da mon, naw! now eesa steal a da kid, do anyting for a mak a da mon. da mon, da mon," he repeated slowly three times, with deep-toned dago emphasis. "then eesa-go back a da sunny italia," a phrase that escaped his lips as though shot from a rapid firer. in the meantime rutley had entered from the other door, locked it, and softly crept to the partition door, where he stood listening and noting, through the small glass panel, the situation within. scorning preliminaries, virginia said: "i have brought you all that i could get. take it!" and she laid a package of crisp banknotes on the table. jack's eyes bulged and glistened at the sight of so much money within his grasp. he eagerly picked up the package, which was fastened in the middle by a band of paper, flipped the ends of the banknotes back and forth with his finger, then proceeded to count the money. his action was business-like. without unfastening the band, he held one end of the package firmly down on the table with the knuckles of his left hand, doubled the other end back, and held it with his fingers and let each note slip back separately to a flat position on the table, until he counted them all. meanwhile virginia had gently pushed constance to the seat, and as she watched him she muttered, as though speaking to herself: "i could get no more than ten thousand dollars. if that will not satisfy him, then let fate come to the rescue, for a life hangs on the issue tonight." "turnoppsis, carrottsis, ca-babbages, ta-rah-rah. eesa fat a da pack," said jack, as he thrust the package of money inside his vest. "saw da ood, hic"--but it appearing loose and risky to keep it there, he took it out, rolled it up and forced it in his trousers' back pocket. "black a da boots, hic." still feeling dissatisfied with the security of either pocket he at last put it in the inside pocket of his coat, hanging near the lamp over the table. and then he turned to virginia. "eesa part a da mon? hic. much a beez a da tanks, signora." "you will now liberate the child?" she pleaded, in faltering speech. "ta-rah-rah! you sa fetch a me only a da half!" exclaimed jack, feigning surprise at her request. "yousa da rich. gotta da mon a plent. go, signora, get a moores a da mon. leave a daize a da here." "mr. golda, i'll not stay. i am going home with mamma!" and dorothy pouted indignantly. seeing him obdurate, and fearing the effect of a forcible separation from her mother now so fondly clasped in her arms, virginia resolved to try persuasion once more, before putting into execution the plans she had matured as a last and desperate resort. with blanched face, its very seriousness compelling attention, she said, in a faltering voice: "if your heart is human you cannot look upon that stricken mother without feeling that in the last great day the judge of all will judge you as you now deal with her." he turned from her without a word, derision betrayed in his face, contempt in his action. it, however, placed jack in a dilemma. there the mother, for whom he felt a kindly interest, quietly resting with her lost darling in her arms, yet ever and anon a scared, haunted look flitted from her eyes. he looked at the girl a moment, then broke into low, derisive laughter. "ha, ha, ha, ha. eesa fine a da lady. he, he, he, he. signora beez a da accomplice ova da conspirator to break a up a da brodder's home, eh? signora good a da lady." "ha, ha, ha, ha," and suddenly lowering his voice, said: "turnoppsis, carrottsis, ca-babbages," then paused and picked up the bottle to take a drink. "if the child goes home now," he thought, "phil gets no reward; no," and he set the bottle down on the table with a bang, without taking the premeditated drink. "no, ma sees a daize a beez a da safe. ma sees no a da harm come a daize." "i have brought you all the money i could obtain, and now i demand that you release the child," virginia said, firmly. "eesa be damn! yous a fetch a me a da mon, a da rest, ten a thous, an an--a daise beez a da liber. eesa da late a now, signora. much a bet for a youse a da go home, hic." virginia's blanched but resolute face indicated that the critical moment had arrived. then her voice quivered slightly, as with suppressed, quiet dignity, she said: "i shall give you no more." the declaration aroused constance. she looked up. "yes, oh, yes; give him more!" she exclaimed, in plaintive alarm. "he shall have a million, two million; i will get it for him." the extravagant offer, the soft, troubled, pensive stare, caused jack to straighten up and gaze directly at her. virginia's alert eyes at once caught the superstitious fear that had suddenly betrayed itself in his face. "don't you see her mind is giving way!" she exclaimed, and while he stood staring at constance, she seized the occasion as one favorable for escape. "come dear," she urged, "he will not stop us now." "it is dangerous," was the soft, helpless reply. "the clouds are thickening, and the storm will soon burst." "courage, dear, the clouds will soon roll by. come," virginia urged, half lifting her to her feet. "oh, very well, we must go," was the indifferent response. a step forward, and again that timid, startled, fawn-like terror overcame her. "oh, dear," she plaintively exclaimed, "the boat rocks; hold fast to me, sweetheart." and she halted with a swinging motion, as though her limbs were incapable of firmly sustaining her. with distended eyes. jack stared at her. "heavens!" he thought; "i cannot separate that poor mother from her child. i cannot do it. if phil wants the reward he must take the child home himself." the thought was scarcely developed when the voice of his partner rang out from the other room, hoarse, disguised, and peremptory: "what's the matter with you? separate them! take the kid and turn the woman out." then it was virginia realized that she had two men to deal with instead of one. undaunted, her courage arose to the occasion. she had come prepared for trouble of a most serious nature, and in her determination to succeed, it mattered little, now that she had shaken off the first trembling of fear, whether one or more men stood in her way. she stepped over close to jack, bent forward and looked up sideways in his face, a magnetic fire scintillating from her eyes that seemed to pierce his inmost thought, and slowly drew his gaze to her. under the spell jack forgot his assumed character, for once he forgot to use the dago dialect. "don't look at me in that way; it was not all my work," he said, apologetically. he had spoken in plain english. yet in virginia's tensely excited frame of mind it passed unchallenged. "you acknowledge a share in it. and if you lay a hand on her child, i'll call down upon you the blasphemy of a madhouse." the art she employed to play upon his heightened imagination was intensely eloquent, and exquisitely enacted. on the impulse of the moment the threat served to unnerve him completely and had jack been the only one to deal with, their escape at that moment would have been certain. a prey to his own secret superstition, though openly ridiculed theosophy, jack stood spellbound, his fear distorted by the influence of the liquor he had drunk. true, rutley had braced him some, but virginia threw about him a glow of such awesome consequences that he again weakened and unconsciously repeated under his breath: "the curse of a madhouse! oh, i can't do it! i'm a bit human yet." then came a second roar from rutley, impatient and contemptuous. "separate them, you chicken-hearted knave! separate them, damn you, and be quick about it, too!" a slight jar at that moment struck the cabin. jack came out of his semi-trance with a shudder and, recovering his nerve, seemed to be disgusted at his momentary weakness, and forthwith he attempted to get between the women and the cabin door, addressing the child: "a daize a mus stay a dare. yous a lak a me, eh a daize?" "wretch, stand back!" virginia commanded. she realized that the supreme moment had come. jack leered at her. without further heed he addressed the child: "a daize, yous a da know i beez a kind to you," and he took hold of her arms. "let a da go eesa say hic. let a da go da kid." "no, no!" constance cried, as she resisted his effort to separate them. "you shall not have my darling! you shall not take her again." "take your villainous hands off!" ordered virginia, and at the same time she dealt him a stinging blow in the face, which caused him to loose his hold on dorothy and stagger back. at that moment, too, he was startled by footsteps on the roof. he paused with a confused idea whether the sound on the roof had not really emanated from rutley in the other room. concluding in favor of the latter, he continued: "yous a da defy a me eh, hic, sacramente! eesa mak a da let a go da kid, or eesa break a da arm." meanwhile virginia had placed herself between constance and jack and, drawing a revolver from under her jacket, leveled it at him. utterly reckless of her own danger, and her eyes ablaze with daring she exclaimed in a voice low and thrilling with intense determination, "stand where you are, you vile epitome of a man! dare try to bar our way out, and witness heaven, i'll rid the earth of a scoundrel too long infesting it!" a quaking pause followed, more trying to her nerves than the peril of the situation itself, and she backed toward the door. her action provoked an exclamation from jack. "god, the girl's game!" he stood mentally measuring the space that separated them, while a cunning leer developed on his face. he was about to spring, when sam's shuffling on the roof became distinct. "another accomplice! god protect the child!" murmured virginia. and then in the moment of her dismay, jack sprang forward and grasped her pistol hand. she fired, but the excitement had unnerved her, and the bullet went wide of its mark. in the struggle that ensued he forced her down on her knees, wrenched the weapon from her hand. as he was placing it in his pocket, it slipped from his grasp and slid along the floor, where it lay beyond his reach, near the partition door. then he leered at her, and pinioned her hands behind her. "now kiss a da me." notwithstanding the danger of her position, she managed to suppress her terror, and she exclaimed defiantly, "never!" and with one concentrated desperate effort in which all the suppleness, strength and agility of youth were called into action, succeeded in breaking his grasp, and sprang to her feet. deprived of her revolver, yet she had foreseen such a contingency, and had provided a last means of defense. she produced a small dagger from her corsage. her fingers tightened convulsively around the handle, and she said in a trembling voice: "back, you ruffian! the point is poisoned! beware!" the action was so quick, and the blade glittered aloft with such deadly intent, that jack leaped back. meanwhile rutley's attention had been absorbed by the struggle going on between jack and virginia, but when he heard the footsteps on the roof his alarm became manifest. "i must get the child at once, or all will be lost," he muttered. hastily taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he tied it about the lower part of his face, then he swung open the partition door and entered, the same instant that jack had forced virginia to her knees. without a pause, he promptly made for constance, grasped the child and tried to tear her from her mother. constance, too affrighted to scream, resisted with all her might. "let go, damn you--let go, or i'll drown her!" and with savage hands he wrenched dorothy away from her. trying to escape with dorothy in his arms, rutley confronted virginia. "release her!" she demanded. he looked at the dagger, quivering ominously in her hand, and dorothy dropped from his nerveless hands and he jumped back beside jack, hoarsely exclaiming, "god, she's a tartar!" "run to your mother, dorothy! to the boat, constance, quick!" urged virginia, as she stood erect, fearless and tragic between the men and their prey. "are we curs to be daunted by this oregon girl, this slip of a woman?" exclaimed rutley hoarsely. "beware! the edge is sharp, the poison deadly!" cautioned virginia, in a voice that thrilled and which left no doubt as to her determination to use the weapon to the limit of her ability. jack laughed--laughed low, hoarse and sarcastically. "he, he, he, he, he. scarce da fine a lady--wid a da white a nice a hand. mak-a eem all a da carmine, eh? he, he, he, he, he, he." she made no reply, yet there darted from her eyes a lightning flash of desperate purpose. rutley clearly understood the sign and, leaning over close to jack, whispered: "we must get the knife from her at all hazards." "signora, good a da lady, eh! mak a da bloody fista, eh!" jack leered as he concentrated his gaze upon the girlish form drawn up to her fullest height before him. again he laughed low and hoarsely: "ha, ha, ha, ha! eesa know a da way to fix 'em!" swiftly opening the partition door, he thrust in his hand, pulled a covering off from the bunk, then after closing the door, he proceeded rapidly to tie the corners together, muttering meanwhile, "eesa mak a da loop, lak a da bag. see! ha, ha, ha, ha!" to virginia the trap appeared so simple and ingenious, its application so promising of success, that as she watched its preparation her heart leaped to the opportunity presented as a last chance. "attack them now--attack them now!" urged her judgment with startling force. louder it seemed to grow, till at last, maddened by the very repugnance of its conception, a sickening sense of fear overpowered her, her nerves suddenly collapsed, and she seemed to lose the power of action. having completed the snare, which had taken only a few moments to prepare. jack bent forward, showing the white of his teeth as a wolf of its fangs when about to spring on its prey. "now together!" he whispered. virginia saw her danger and realized the crisis of all her efforts to make atonement for the wrong she had caused constance was at hand. again the affrighted despairing cry burst in an audible whisper from her lips. "help! help! oh, god in heaven, help!" just what jack would have done in his fury it is impossible to say, for the liquor had frenzied him, and virginia's stubborn resistance had aroused in him a latent devil. his intention, whatever it may have been, was frustrated by sam, who at that moment smashed in the window, covered him with his revolver and shouted, "throw up your hands!" the crash of broken glass arrested jack's attention, and upon looking around he discovered the muzzle of a large caliber revolver thrust through the broken window and leveled straight at him. so sudden was the surprise, so unexpected and imminent the danger, that he automatically flung up his hands. upon crossing the island, after leaving thorpe and the detective at the edge of the wood, sam had immediately boarded the launch, and stowing the dog in a comfortable position on cotton waste in the "fo-castle," directed the engineer to proceed to the north end of the island. on arriving at the point agreed upon, aside from the cabin's range of city lights, sam got into a small boat, provided for the occasion, and pushed ashore, after having conveyed thorpe and the detective on board the launch. a consultation was held, and it was arranged that the detective and smith, who had remained in the launch, should go in the small boat, assail the south door and cut off escape in that direction, while thorpe and sam in the launch would take a position at the main door of the cabin. after securing an axe from the launch, the detective and smith proceeded as quickly as possible on their mission. instead of rowing, they paddled along, indian fashion, the dip of the blades scarcely disturbing the silence that enveloped them. the launch steamed slowly along in the boat's wake, and just as noiselessly, and was the first to touch one of the logs which supported the cabin. they heard voices within that seemed feminine and familiar to both sam and thorpe, though uncertain on account of the low tone. as prearranged, sam stealthily clambered up on the roof and crawled to the starboard side, where he lay flat on his stomach, and peered head down, in through the loose curtained four-paned window. what he saw prompted him to instantaneous action, and the crash of broken glass followed. rutley immediately grasped the situation as one fraught with the gravest peril. he saw that sam's revolver covered jack, and saw, too, that a few feet nearer the partition door would place him in a position out of line of sam's aim, as the small cupboard, beside the window, formed an angle that sheltered that part of the room. on the instant, therefore, he leaped toward the partition door. as he sprang toward the door, his eyes fastened on jack's coat. to secure the package of money from its pocket was, for his deft fingers, but the work of a moment; then into the sleeping room he darted and closed the door. while jack's hands were up, thorpe called from the outside to open the door. at the same time he shook it violently, and began to batter it with the axe. during this time constance stood with her back to the wall, her arms straight down by her side, with the palms of her hands flattened against the boards, as one seeks support at times on a ship at sea. she appeared insensible alike to fear or position. yet the horror of the affair shone in her distended eyes. "the boat rocks, the storm is upon us," she muttered. at the moment smith commenced to batter the other door of the cabin, jack took the chance, and sprang to one side, out of line of sam's revolver. "it's the police!" he exclaimed wildly, and in the panic that seized him he quite forgot his assumed character. he picked up the revolver that he had wrenched from virginia, and which lay upon the floor, and his attitude became so threatening and malignant as to cause her to utter a slight terrified scream. even dorothy's large innocent eyes blazed, and she struck at him in defense of virginia. "mr. golda, you're a bad, bad man." the child's voice raised in jack a "forlorn hope," for he muttered, "dorothy shall be my guarantee of escape." simultaneously the door flew open under thorpe's blows, and he stood in the entrance. "oh, papa, papa!" cried dorothy, as she ran toward him. seeing his opportunity, jack desperately clutched the child with his left hand. swinging dorothy in front of him, and before her father, he pointed the revolver at her head, and in that position addressed him in a sort of screeching yell, "stop!" thorpe stood horror-stricken. his heart leaped to his throat. "my god! madman, what will you do?" he hoarsely exclaimed, and motioned as if to rescue the child. with a tighter clutch, and a more maddening menace, jack again addressed him, "stop, not a step nearer!" and to emphasize his purpose, he placed the muzzle of the revolver close to her head. observing the desperate peril in which dorothy was placed, and with a courage born of horror and despair, virginia stole to jack's back, and with a wild frantic scream of "save her!" seized his pistol hand between both her own, and in the struggle that immediately ensued, and in which all her strength was exerted, the weapon fell to the floor. and then sam tore open the broken window, swung himself through to the floor, and instantly grappled with jack. virginia's attack forced jack to release dorothy, who was immediately gathered in her father's arms. "safe, my blessed child, safe!" he fervently exclaimed. and then poor virginia, courageous, strong-minded, kind-hearted, passionate virginia, having sustained the frightful nervous strain till the last moment, swayed, and sank to the floor in a swoon. meanwhile constance stood beside the cabin door, staring at the men in a dazed and vacant manner. she had heard virginia, and repeated mechanically, "save dorothy!" and now repeated after mr. thorpe, in tones as though a very dear voice had kindled a spark calling back loving recollections. she drew her hand across her brow, as though trying to clear away some web that obscured her memory, and stared at her husband like one suddenly awakened from a dream. a moment after and she whispered with awe in her voice, "john! john!" almost immediately rutley had returned to the room without the child, but with jack's money, the door near him was being battered. he at once concluded that the game was up, and his own safety necessitated an immediate escape. how? he must decide at once. how many surrounded the cabin? ha! if he only knew, and then the hatch occurred to him. he knew the big logs upon which the cabin was built raised it some ten or twelve inches above water. there lay his way--out--quick. he lifted the cover, and silently sank beneath the floor between the logs. then he let the trap door fall back in position above him, just as the cabin door gave way and the detective entered, followed by smith, who handled an axe. it was then that constance seemed to recover suddenly her reason, for she rushed toward her husband with outstretched arms, exclaiming in a voice fraught with rapturous thanksgiving, "john! john and dorothy!" an inexpressible joy shone in her eyes. but her advance was met with a cold, stern frown and a backward wave of the hand. not a word escaped him. for a moment she stood irresolute; then she passed the tips of her fingers across her brow again and again--"oh, this horrible dream that i cant' shake off!" again she seemed to recover her reason and her voice, soft and sobbing, said, "john, you don't believe me shameless and debased, do you? you can't believe it, for it is false, false, i say! and the boat won't clear from it! let me help"--and her voice hardening, she went on--"give me a paddle. we must escape. save dorothy!" and she threw out her hands to him appealingly. a swift compassionate look swept across thorpe's face. the first doubt of his wife's guilt had seized upon his brain, and he said chokingly, "my god, is it possible my wife is innocent?" he had half turned around to her, but on remembering the ring, his face again set stern, then without another word he waved her back with a single motion of his hand. but the sound of his voice had once more stirred up a filament of intelligence and she sobbed, "john! john!" she got no further. she saw him turn away and, placing her hand to her side, trembled, and with a moan on her lips, sank down beside virginia. and at that moment the detective appeared in the partition doorway and was followed closely by smith, who, upon seeing the prostrate woman, senseless on the floor, at once concluded a foul crime had been committed, and exclaimed, with horror and rage on his face: "oh, the murtherin' blackguard!" in the struggle jack broke from sam and stooped to pick up the revolver. but sam, coached in texas, had him covered with his own revolver in a twinkling, and with the characteristic side movement of his head, said with a grin of satisfaction, "if you touch it, i'll send a bullet through your brain!" chapter xvii. after jack shore had been securely handcuffed, and after a hasty but bootless search for his partner in crime, detective simms hustled him into the launch, and desiring to get him behind the prison bars without delay, ordered the engineer to run the boat across the river at once so as to avoid any attempt at release by possible confederates. a hasty examination of both constance and virginia convinced mr. thorpe that they were not seriously hurt, and were rendered senseless only by a shock of great mental excitement. to remain until after their recovery would only add torture to a painful situation; he therefore made them as comfortable as the limited means at hand would allow, and then taking dorothy with him, boarded the launch, leaving sam and smith to watch over and care for his wife and sister until the arrival of a physician, whom he intended to dispatch to their aid as quickly as possible. dorothy objected to leaving her mother, but was sternly overruled and awed into submission by her father. ten minutes after her rescue the boat was speeding toward madison street landing with john thorpe and dorothy, jack shore and detective simms, taciturn and grave. as the boat drew away, both sam and smith silently contemplated the two insensible women on the floor. for some moments neither spoke a word, profoundly absorbed in a grave contemplation of the questionable necessity of the two women undertaking so dangerous a mission. to sam it appeared plain they had very recently learned of dorothy's place of captivity; but why they had not imparted the information to some of their male friends, why they had kept her place of concealment secret, and why, also, they had undertaken her release just prior to the arrival of her father on the scene, was a mystery. it only resulted in a suspicion that they had somehow heard of john thorpe's premeditated attempt at rescue, and were alarmed lest dorothy should fall into his hands. smith's mind was not of an analytical nature; in fact, he did not think their presence was attributable to anything other than a mother's natural heart-breaking longing to recover her darling as swiftly as possible, and in the enterprise virginia had joined her. and as he thought of the indifference and cruel desertion of john thorpe with her child, for whom she had made such a sacrifice, a solemn, serious look of sadness gathered on his face and deepened into contempt and anger. and the compassion in his heart welled up and at length broke from between his lips, in unconscious mutterings. "sure, he tuk her darlint from her an' left her lyin' there, too, so he do, on the hard flure, wid her sinses gone out from her hid complately. the heartless man!" "the trouble between them is serious," sam replied, as he knelt down beside virginia and commenced to chafe her hands. "sure, don't i know it, so i do!" rejoined smith, as he followed sam's example and set to chafing constance's hands between his own. "an' he's broke her heart entirely, so he ave," he went on, "an' her hands do be numb wid no life in thim at all." then he was silent for a time and worked industriously to bring back into her hands the warmth that had fled. suddenly he asked sam in an eager, anxious whisper, "do yees belave she'd do wrong?" "no!" sam promptly replied. "naither do i. indade she's as swate an' innocint a lady as wan ave hivin's angels. sure, she cudn't do wrong at all, at all." "not at all!" responded sam gravely. "an' the mister shud ave better sinse than to trate her so unkind, don't yees think so now?" "thorpe is a damned fool, i guess!" sam answered gloomily. "indade, i do belave it, too, so i do!" again there was silence. again it was broken by smith, who said in a low, confidential tone: "i'll tell yees, i belave it do be some attracious divil ave come betwain thim." "you do!" sam snapped at him, as though he interpreted smith's allusion a direct reference to virginia. "indade i do, so i do!" "why do you think so?" sam asked, a tinge of annoyance at smith's persistence still appearing in the manner of asking. "isn't she an angel? an' it's only the divil cud sipporate an angel from her husband. sure, man, dear, what more do yees want to prove it?" a twitching of virginia's eyelids at that moment caught sam's attention. it was nature's first harbinger of approaching consciousness. he held up his hand for smith to be silent. the twitching, however, ceased, and her eyelid remaining closed, again became motionless. "a false alarm!" he muttered, and proceeded to chafe her hands more industriously than before. it was evident that sam liked the occupation; for this young lady had unconsciously woven a mesh of enthralling servitude about his heart, and his idolizing; passionate fondness had at last been rewarded by unexpectedly finding himself permitted to caress her at will; to stroke her hair, to contemplate her fair face, to press her hands between his own. sam shrewdly suspected that virginia was somehow the cause of thorpe's estrangement from his wife, but wherefore and why, were parts that she alone could explain, and her lips were sealed. that she was also mysteriously connected with the abduction of the child, he felt was a moral certainty. and her meeting with the italian in the lonely park at dead of night could have offered no other solution. it had acted as a temporary restraining factor upon the ardor of his love and admiration. but now, as she lay so still and insensible in his care and protection; now, as he gazed on her fair features, all his doubts of her chastity and loyalty to those she loved vanished, and an all conquering fondness suddenly burst in a flood of radiance upon him, sweeping away all his misgivings before it, irresistible and impetuous as the flight of an avalanche. it was very quiet at that moment; so still that the rippling water, as it lapped along the logs which supported the cabin, sounded very distinct. smith imagined he heard a splash, and assuming a listening attitude, said cautiously, "phwat may that mane?" after a pause, sam alertly remarked, "we have not kept a lookout. what if the dago's partner should steal in on us?" smith's eyes blazed with anger. laying constance's hand down, he sprang to his feet. "be the power ave justice," he exclaimed between his teeth, "sure, an' it do be a divil ave a bad job the rogue'll take on, to boord us now." "if you see anybody lurking near, call me," said sam. "niver yees moind! just lave the thavin' blackguard to me! i'll attind to him!" smith answered, a savage joy betrayed on his face, and, seizing hold of the axe, he crept softly to the door. after listening a moment, he opened it and stepped out, closing the door behind him. again there was silence. again sam tenderly smoothed away virginia's abundant silky black hair from her face, and fondly chafed her temples. and as he thought of her swift recovery, a recovery that would place a great gulf between him and this one girl who could make him the happiest being on all god's green earth, he muttered; "oh, for one touch of those ruby colored lips--even if it be stolen." virginia's face was very close to him, and as he looked at her he detected a faint warmth in her cheeks; noted the fine mold, the delicate tracery of blue veins through her clear white skin--the temptation was very great. his heart thumped wildly and then--unmindful of the impropriety, or unwilling to resist the natural inclination of his arm to slip under her full, round, snowy neck--raised her head and touched her lips with his. the contact germinated a magnetic spark that raced through her veins and instantly awoke her to life. she sprang to her feet, the red blood of active youth flushing her face to crimson. for one moment she looked indignant, fully conscious of the liberty he had taken. sam bent his head abashed, and said apologetically--said in tones and manner that left no mistake as to his honest love and deep respect for her--"you looked so beautiful that--really now--i could not help it--forgive me!" her mobile face, that had set in a shock of alarm, indignation and scorn, softened and, as the events of the night flooded her memory, changed to a smile. for one moment it loitered in her eyes and on her lips, and then again changed to a grave, serious look that developed tears in her beautiful blue eyes. she held out her hand to him. were his eyes deceiving him? could he believe it? yes, and he stood dazed with overpowering joy that she was not offended at the liberty. he took her hand and gently carried it to his lips. then she turned to the aid of constance, knelt beside her, felt her hands, her face, her neck, and asked him. "who was so mean to strike her down?" for answer he sadly shook his head, and replied gravely, "she sank to the floor after john thorpe refused her." then bitter tears trickled down virginia's face as she continued to chafe her hands; but finding her efforts to restore warmth were unavailing, the same gripping at her heartstrings again possessed her. she raised her eyes to him, a frantic pleading in her voice, "help me, sam; oh, help me bring back the life that has nearly fled!" "help you!" he repeated proudly, as he stood in front of the girl who had for the first time asked of him a favor in her distress, the favor of a "good samaritan." and then, looking straight at her, he said, very seriously, as he knelt and took constance's other hand, "the strength that god has given me is at your service, now and forever!" she understood, and he noted with pleasure that no swift questioning glance of anger, no look of weariness and turning away, as once before, followed his magnanimity. at that moment smith, who stood on the platform just outside the cabin door, was heard to say in a loud voice: "move on there! the channel be over beyant, in the middle ave the water! kape yees head more sout be aste!" then he was heard muttering indistinctly, with only such disjointed words as "blackguard," "whillip" and "divilish rat," clearly audible. it was soon, however, followed by angry words delivered in an aggressively belligerent voice: "be hivins, don't yees come near us! kape off, sure, d'yees moind, yees blackguards, or i'll put a hole through yees bottom that'll sink yees down to the place where yees do belong, so ye do!" suddenly changing his voice to an anxious tone, said, "phwat d'yees want? phwat's that? doctor, sure! praise be to god! oh, we've been waitin' for yees, doctor dear, till our hearts do be broken entirely. be me soul, it's the thruth; not wan bit more nor less. come, dear, yees do be wanted quick!" a lurch at the cabin told that the launch had arrived. the door was hastily opened and smith pushed the doctor in. "there they be, sure, lyin' en the flure wid no sinse in thim at all, at all. do yees be quick, doctor, and hivin'll reward yees!" skillful application of proven restoratives, however, failed to produce sensibility, and the doctor considered the case so grave that he ordered constance be removed to her home as quickly as possible. she was, therefore, tenderly taken on board the launch and conveyed home. the sun's rays had burst through and dispersed the early morning mists before constance recovered from the shock, but, alas! with the shadow of a wreck enveloping her. chapter xviii. the next morning sam determined upon a personal interview with the prisoner. upon arrival at the county jail, where the prisoner had been transferred, sam encountered smith, who was standing on the curb talking to a policeman. "how dy yus do, sor?" was smith's greeting. "getting along as fast as could be expected," he answered. "it do be surprisin' the number ave blackguards there do be infesting the straits ove portland after dark these days. houldups, an' 'break-o-day johnnies' an' 'shanghoin' an'--an' kidnappin'--an' what bates me, all the worrk to be had at good wages the while--whill wan ave the rogues do be off his bait for a time, so he do!" "sure, smith, no mistake about that," sam laughed. "we slipped it over him in fine shape last night. have you seen him this morning?" "indade oi 'ave, sor, and he's the very wan that run the soule ave his plexis ferninst me hand the other day for spakin' disrespectful ave a lady." "i came to see him," sam said, with a smile at smith's chivalry. "indade! sure yees'll not recognize him as the wan we tuk last night at all, fir the color ave hair do be turnin' from black to a faded straw, so it do." "through terror of his position, i suppose." "not wan bit, sor. it came out in the wash. it do be this way. yees see, the orficers cudn't get him to spake wan worrd an' no sweatbox or other terror ave the force did he fear, at all, sure! so they turned the water on him, after takin' off his clothes with the aid of two 'trustys,' and it was raymarked by the jailer that his skin do look uncommon fair, an the hair on his limbs was a sandy color, an' not black, like the hair on his hid, and his mustache oily black, too, so it do." "artificial coloring," suggested sam. "sure, that's jist phat the jailor sid, the very same worrds, although do yees naw the color blend av his nick from the color bone up was a beautiful bit of worrk, as nate an' natural as anything yees would want to see." "he is possibly an italian artist." "sure, he's no italian at all, fir the trustys soaped an' lathered an' scrubbed all the dago off ave him. he raysisted loike a madman, but it was no use, and whin they held him under the shower bath his heavy black mustache fell off onto the floor. wan ave the trustys picked it up and said, says he: 'by jimminy, he's no dago at all; he's a scoogy.' an' i say so, too, so i do. and the jailer raymarked it was just as he expected, and then he tould them to get the scoogy into his duds." "i will try and get permission to see him." sam then entered the office, followed by smith. they were readily allowed to see the prisoner, and upon approaching his cell, sam recognized him at once, and the sheriff wrote on the record, opposite the name of george golda--"alias, jack shore." an hour later sam harris was closeted with detective simms, in his office. "i believe the fellow who escaped from the cabin last night," said sam, "was jack shore's partner philip rutley, otherwise known as 'lord beauchamp'." "why do you suspect the lord to be philip rutley?" inquired the detective. "because they were partners in business, and inseparable chums socially," replied sam. "and where one was to be found, the other was not far away." "you say he got ten thousand dollars from the bank on your uncle's indorsement?" inquired the detective. "yes," replied sam, "and tomorrow afternoon he is to be uncle's guest at rosemont." "well, tonight my lord will attempt to leave the city, but he will find it impracticable," remarked the detective, dryly. "i desire you to keep strictly mum on this matter for twenty-four hours, and i promise you positive identification of his lordship." later, detective simms, smoking a cigar, sauntered carelessly into the "sweatbox," where jack shore was still confined, and dumb as a stone statue on the question of kidnapping. after silently looking at jack for a time, he said with a smile: "if you had been shrewd you would not be here. you were sold." "then i am either a knave or a fool?" interrogated jack, carelessly. "to be frank," laughed simms, "you are both. a knave for trusting rutley, and a fool for doing his dirty work. i suppose you will think it is a lie when i say he 'tipped' us to the cabin for the ten thousand dollars reward offered by mr. thorpe for recovery of the child, and a promise of immunity from imprisonment." "who is rutley?" nonchalantly asked jack. "why, your partner; that fellow who has been masquerading as a lord." "lord who?" "come, now," simms laughed. "why, me lord beauchamp! surprised, eh?" and again simms laughed and looked at jack questioningly. "well," he continued at length, "you must be a cheap guy to believe that fellow true to you. see here, he gave the whole thing away. don't believe it, eh? well, i'll prove it. we knew the time miss thorpe was to be at the cabin. we knew the dog was on watch and removed it. we knew the exact time rutley was to be with you, and arranged for him to get away without your suspicion. why, our man was waiting with a boat as soon as he got out of the cabin." "did he get away?" it was the first question that jack had asked, though non-committal, in which simms detected a faint anxiety. simms was the very embodiment of coolness and indifference. "not from us, no; but he is out on bail." that assertion was a masterstroke of ingenuity, and he followed it up with the same indifference. "would you like to know who his sureties are?" jack maintained a gloomy silence. "just to convince you that i am not joking, i will show you the document." and simms turned lazily on his heel and left him. returning a few moments later with a document, he held it for jack to look at. "do you note the amount? and the signatures?--james harris, john thorpe. you must be familiar with them," and the detective smiled as he thought of the trick he was employing to fool the prisoner, for he had himself written the signatures for the purpose. "jack's breathing was heavier and his face somewhat whiter, yet by a superhuman effort he still maintained a gloomy frown of apparent indifference. "the reward was paid to him this morning," continued the detective, between his puffs of smoke. "how much?" asked jack, unconcerned. "ten thousand dollars!" "quite a hunk!" jack said, carelessly. for he thought of the package that rutley had deftly abstracted from his pocket in the cabin, and he was glad of it, for it would be used in his defense. and then he muttered to himself: "this 'duffer' is slick and thinks he can work me, but i'll fool him." "the fellow is pretty well fixed," continued the detective, as he eyed jack inquisitively. "clear of this case with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket." "what!" exclaimed jack, for the first time amazed, and then checking himself, said negligently: "i understood you to say the reward was ten thousand dollars?" "so i did. ten thousand reward and that ransom money of miss thorpe's." "the devil he has!" jack was beginning to waver. he thought of rutley holding back the "tip" that he was shadowed, and also about the dog not barking at his approach, for some time after he had entered the cabin. either of which incidents, had it been mentioned immediately upon entry, would have made escape possible. it seemed to corroborate the detective's assertion--that he was sold. his jaws set hard. "can you prove that to me?" "sure!" chapter xix. on the afternoon of the second day following the rescue of dorothy, mr. thorpe, accompanied by his child, visited mr. harris by urgent invitation. the trees were still dressed in their leafy glow of autumn glory and, with the luxuriant green velvety grass of the lawn, invited a pause for contemplation of the entrancingly serene and happy condition earth intended her children to enjoy. above was a clear, infinitely beautiful blue sky, through which the radiant orb of day poured down its golden shafts of light in masses of exuberant splendor and warmth. it was an environment singularly touching and persuasive in its appeal to human nature for "peace on earth and good will toward men." as john thorpe and his child walked up the path toward the house and arrived near the spot where his quarrel with mr. corway had taken place, just one week previous, he could not but halt, sensitive to the insidious influence so softly streaming about him--so gentle, yet so powerful in contra-distinction to the unhappy change that had so recently come into his life. oh, for something to banish the bitter memories conjured up as his gaze riveted on the "damned spot" where his wife's inconstancy had been told to him. and as he looked, a far-off dreamy stare settled in his eyes, as there unrolled before his vision the sweet bliss of happy years fled--gone, as he thought, never to return. "oh, god!" he exclaimed, overwhelmed with sudden emotion, and he clapped his hand to his forehead as an involuntary groan of anguish welled up from his heart. his composure slowly returned to him, but the eroding effect of his smothered anguish would not obliterate, and he found himself thinking, "it was unwise to come to this place--here where memory is embittered by recollections of what has been. terrible revelation! terrible! yet--i could not have been brought to credit it but for the evidence of my eyes." these words seemed to startle him with a new light, for he paused, and then in a voice almost reduced to a whisper, fruitful with eager doubt, said, "what have my eyes proved to me? is there room for a possibility of a mistake? no, no! the ring is evidence of her guilt. oh, constance, when i needed you, the world owned no purer or more perfect woman; but now--fallen, fallen, fallen!" while deeply absorbed in sad reflection, dorothy stole to his side and, looking up, wistfully, in his face, said: "dear papa, isn't mama here, either?" the question from the child, uppermost in her mind, aroused him from his heart-aching reverie. he looked at her sternly. "mama," he repeated; "child, breathe that name no more! banish it from your memory! oh, no, no, no! i did not mean that!" and he turned his head aside with downcast eyes, shocked and ashamed at his passionate outburst in the presence of his little child. he sat down on a bench and put her on his knee, and as he did so became conscious of the child again looking wistfully in his eyes. "well, you are sorry for leaving mama in that old cabin, aren't you?" it forced him to turn his eyes away from her, and with a tremor of pain in his voice, muttered: "twenty times the child has said that to me today," and, turning to her, he said gently and with infinite compassion: "dorothy, you are too young to comprehend. it is my intention to remove you from the home of your birth, to take you east, and educate you there. now, don't trouble me with questions, dear," and he kissed the fair young brow and, looking into her sweet innocent brown eyes, he saw reflected in them her mother's. then he turned his head aside and muttered: "so much like her mother! oh, constance! constance! my judgment condemns you, but my heart--my heart will not leave you!" down from the house leisurely strolled mr. harris and hazel. "his grace has just communicated to me the most amazing information about virginia. it is so absurd that i felt quite angry with him for mentioning it," hazel said quite seriously. "and what did he tell you?" inquired mr. harris. "if it is no secret?" "he told me that it is common talk that she was found in the cabin with constance at the time of dorothy's rescue by her father, having just rewarded the italian for abducting the child, and that they both swooned when uncle found them there." "lord beauchamp must have been misinformed," broke in mr. harris, with a grave face. "if such were the case sam would have told me. all idle tattle--mischievous gossip!" "ah! mr. thorpe and dorothy!" "oh, darling!" exclaimed hazel, and she gathered the child in her arms, kissed her, and flew off to the house with her. "well, john, i am glad to meet you again," shaking his hand, "though to tell the truth, i did not expect you." "it has cost me bitter memories, mr. harris." "i have long since discovered," continued mr. harris, "that while time cannot heal a deep-rooted sorrow, it softens many of its asperities. when do you depart for the east?" "i have made arrangements to leave tomorrow." "you are doing just what would prompt any man in like position to do. i trust we shall hear from you occasionally." "it is now my purpose, after arranging for dorothy's education, to travel abroad for an indefinite period, but i shall endeavor to keep in communication with you." linking his arm in that of his guest, mr. harris said: "come, john, let us join mrs. harris on the piazza. she is anxious to have a chat with you." turning in the direction of the house, to their surprise they confronted virginia. mr. thorpe at once withdrew his arm from that of mr. harris, and stepping aside with an offended dignity, remarked reproachfully: "i was not aware of having merited the honor you do me." mr. harris threw up his hands deprecatingly. he understood the purport of the allusion and was dumb. he had been quite unaware of the presence of virginia, and knowing of the estrangement between brother and sister, felt embarrassed. he was rescued from his dilemma by virginia, who addressed him in a grave voice. "please leave us, mr. harris." his respect and esteem for her was sincere and great. her good sense and becoming modesty had often impressed him as a woman of sterling qualities. utterly disbelieving and discrediting the insinuations and innuendoes which rutley had set afloat to his own advantage concerning her antagonistic relation with her brother, he conceived her to be the unhappy subject of a combination of circumstances over which she had no influence. a prey to anxiety, she retained little of the color and less of the vivacity formerly so conspicuously her heritage; yet her broad brow glistened white with an intellectuality that beautified her with spiritual chastity. he was struck, too, with her very serious and pallid face, and his heart went out to her. he bowed low in answer to her request, and without a word gravely turned away and left them. john thorpe saw that virginia was suffering from some great mental strain, nevertheless he chose to appear icily indifferent. he attributed her contrite appearance to the fact that he had surprised her and constance in the cabin with the abductor of his child. he could conceive of no reason for them being there other than collusion with the italian, for he believed they were cognizant of dorothy's place of imprisonment all the time, and while it was possible the italian held the child for ransom, they kept her place of concealment secret, under the belief that she was safer from seizure by thorpe than at home or with friends, and also that it would draw the sympathy of acquaintances to constance, and though dorothy told him in her childish way that virginia had given george golda money, a minute search of his clothes and about the cabin failed to disclose it, and john thorpe interpreted her defense of dorothy as an unexpected contingency arising from the frenzied fury of the italian to save himself from capture when he found escape cut off. when virginia swooned, it mercifully relieved her from a most embarrassing and painful position. such were his thoughts as he directed a stony stare of freezing haughtiness upon her--the woman, his sister, whom he now regarded as beyond the pale of blood relationship. "i did not expect to meet you here," he said in a voice grave with a sense of the worry from which he was suffering and from which wrong he could not, no matter how he reasoned, disassociate the name of his sister. "i have tried to find you--to meet you--to--in short, to demand an explanation of this affair; but until now i have been unsuccessful." she spoke hesitatingly and with a slight tremor in her voice, otherwise there was no indication of the great emotion that she was laboring under. in short, her demeanor, while firm and of simple dignity, was of the gravest character imaginable. "you have broken all ties between us," he answered slowly. "john, john! don't turn away! stop!" and she held up a warning finger as, stepping in front of him, she barred his way. "you shall hear me. for i believe what i have to tell you is of the utmost importance. but first, what cause have you for divorcing constance?" "you ask that question?" he slowly emphasized. "yes, i ask that question," as steadily and definitely she regarded him. "if on my return from china you had not concealed from me her infatuation for that man--that fellow corway--this unhappy trouble would have been over long ago." "i have concealed nothing from you! john, i am sure it is all a mistake." "all a mistake?" he angrily repeated. "you concealed nothing from me! when her notoriety was of such common gossip that strangers were familiar with details!" "if you had not degraded constance by so meanly believing the palpable artifice of a--a stranger," quietly and gravely replied virginia--"if you had but given her an opportunity to defend herself, you would have found no cause for divorce; no cause even to fear the tainted breath of scandal could ever attach to constance. oh, john, it is all wrong! constance is innocent! she has never been untrue to you!" excitedly he turned to her, his face ablaze with the fervor of his amazement, as he repeated: "innocent--constance! constance innocent!" "yes," promptly responded virginia. "i who know it, swear it is true--swear it is the truth in the sight of that high throne before which we shall all stand in the judgment day. "it was i who originated the dreadful insinuations against mr. corway." "yes, yes! that may be true--but--" and thorpe's manner again relapsed to a heart-aching resignation, as he sadly added: "he wore my wife's ring!" "yes, that is true, john, but unknown to her and most assuredly without her consent," eagerly asserted virginia, and she related the manner corway obtained the ring, and how she subsequently had indiscreetly informed beauchamp it was "your gift to constance." those of poor wayward humanity who, in moments of great passion have done a great wrong, know what torture is silently endured as day and night, in moments awake and in dreams asleep, the crime haunts them, and knocks, knocks, knocks, without ceasing, upon the soul's door for release of the secret. such were virginia's feelings, and the sweet happiness experienced when she confessed her sin shone in her face with convincing truthfulness. john listened to her with ever increasing amazement, and when she had concluded, his cold, austere demeanor had perceptibly softened. yet thorpe breathed hard. "you vilified corway's character and i have heard recently of his--of her mad infatuation for him and of his frequent visits to our home while i was away in china." "the source of your information was a lie. you received it gratuitously from beauchamp, did you not?" "i have not mentioned the source of my information. why do you think he was my informant?" "because he hated corway." "and you conspired with him to ruin my home," quickly interrupted thorpe, and again coldly turned from her. "you shall hear me!" and virginia insistently gripped his coat sleeve and turned him toward her. "i have sought you too long to explain this unhappy affair, and now that i have found you, you must hear me out." smothering his impatience, thorpe said: "well!" "i loved corway, oh, so fondly!--but, alas, too well, and i allowed myself to cherish the belief that in his endearing manifestations he reciprocated my love. but on my premature return from the farm, i unexpectedly heard him declare his passion for hazel. then an all absorbing desire for revenge possessed me. "i resolved to break their engagement and first endeavor to estrange him--from your friendship. to accomplish that end i traduced his character and created a suspicion that his attention to hazel was insincere and mercenary, expecting that after corway was denied access to your home, i could smooth over the unpleasantness between you and hazel and eventually annul his betrothal to her. but your informant juggled the names, made constance the subject of corway's affection instead of hazel, and led you to believe the ring was a love token from her to him." "he insisted and repeated that constance was the guilty one and not hazel," dubiously commented thorpe. "i understand now, it was out of revenge," she laconically replied. "revenge! what wrong have i done lord beauchamp?" questioned thorpe, amazed at virginia's disclosures. "you will understand when i disclose, as i have recently learned that he is philip rutley, masquerading as lord beauchamp." "god of our fathers!" exclaimed thorpe, clapping his hand to his white forehead, to still the pain of sudden doubt of his wife's inconstancy, that had seized him. "what punishment is this inflicted on me?" then turning to virginia with fierce light in his eyes, he sprang at her. in one bound he clutched her by the wrist, glared in her eyes, and said: "and you, my only sister, have known all this and permitted him to wreak his vengeance upon my innocent wife, who never bore him malice, or did him wrong by thought, word or deed." "i did not think that harm would fall on constance." yet even before she had finished speaking, a change came over thorpe, and his grip on her wrist loosened. a victim of doubt and suspicion, his moods were as changing and variable as the coloring of a chameleon. apparently he was not yet satisfied of the complete innocence of his wife or of the truthfulness of his sister, for he said, in a voice saddened by reflection: "that does not explain your connection with the abduction of dorothy." "i have them with me," she muttered, appreciating the importance of clearing herself. "yes, they are here," and she hastily produced from her corsage an envelope having had the foresight to preserve them as most precious testimony in case of need. the moment had come and found her prepared. handing him the two notes, with a winsome expression of thankfulness, she said: "read them, john, this one first, and you will know why i was in the cabin." she had handed to him the two notes received from george golda, though in reality they had been penned by his colleague, rutley. the first note asked for a meeting in the city park. the second demanded the amount of ransom that night on penalty of removal of dorothy. "the time was urgent in the extreme," she continued. "unable to secure the amount of ransom demanded, i resolved to go alone to the cabin, determined to rescue dorothy." "you entered then." "but you were not alone; constance was with you," he corrected. "when i told her my purpose, she pleaded so hard. oh, so hard to go with me, that i could not deny her. i have told you all." john thorpe was not the only listener to virginia's pleading. intensely interested, neither of them noticed sam harris approach, and with him the little scotch terrier, which had completely recovered from its painful experience on the launch at ross island. when he first caught sight of them confronting each other, he gave a low whistle of surprise, and then, as he drew near to address them, involuntarily he heard her last words. his eyelids twitched with pleasure as he listened to the idol of his heart vindicate constance. smothering a cry of joy, he turned and at once withdrew, muttering to himself: "lord, how light my heart feels! virginia is doing the right thing now, i guess. come, doctor"--the name he had given to the dog--"we'll leave them for awhile, eh?" and the brown eyes of the grateful canine looked up at him with almost human intelligence and affection. john thorpe's demeanor had undergone a great change in the few minutes he had listened to virginia. his frigid haughtiness had softened, through successive stages, to a gentleness bordering on compassion. "i will take care of these," said he, in a voice of tenderness, as he placed the notes in his pocket. "but, oh, god in heaven! what shall i say to my beloved wife?" "you believe me, john?" virginia cried, in a tone of heartfelt thankfulness--her eager gaze fastened on his face. her pleading touched him deeply. he took her in his arms, gently kissed her fair brow, and in a broken voice, said: "virginia, we are only human, with human failings; but in your honor and truthfulness of this dreadful affair, god bear witness to my faith!" a devout joy flushed the pallor of her beautiful face, as she responded with a thankful heart, purified as gold with fire: "my prayers are answered, and my brother is himself again." "yes, virginia," he continued, with the fervor of family pride, as he thought of the part she had taken in dorothy's rescue--"and in that book which shall be opened in the last great day, there will be pointed out by the recording angel--my sister's atonement." then, without releasing her, he went on in an altered, anxious voice: "and my darling wife! where is constance? tell me, virginia, that i may go to her at once and plead her forgiveness." "what shall i say?" she whispered, awestruck, caught in a moment of forgetfulness of the woman who suffered for it all. "i must not tell him where she is. no, no, no! not yet!" and she battled to subdue her agitation that she might invent some plea to postpone the meeting with his wife. "not now; not now, john," and drawing away from him, unconsciously put out her hand as though to ward off some impending evil. "why not?" he asked in surprised tones. "i must see her. i must know where my darling wife is at once!" a flash of pain shot athwart the girl's features as she muttered under her breath: "oh, dear! what shall i tell him, what shall i say? what shall i do now?" thorpe hastily stepped forward to her assistance, and with concern in his voice, said: "virginia, you are ill!" "let me rest for a moment or two"--trying her utmost to appear unperturbed, and as she sank on a bench, continued brokenly: "i shall be all right presently. the long walk--the terrible strain"-- "my dear sister, you need assistance," interrupted thorpe. "you must let me help you to the house and obtain proper care for you," and he tenderly attempted to lift her to her feet. "no, no, no!" she quickly responded; "i--shall be better in a few moments. just a little--quiet rest, john, and alone, please. i shall soon be well again." "as you desire, virginia; but i shall tell mrs. harris." "no, no, john! don't tell her! i wish to be alone for awhile." "very well, dear; as i have a message for mr. harris, shall seek him at the house; but i will return in a few moments," and then, considerate for her wish to be alone, he left her. helpless to resist the impetus of her consuming desire to reunite john and his wife, constance, she yet dreaded the aftermath of the shock his discovery must surely produce. virginia knew not which way to turn or what course to pursue. "oh, auntie! auntie! i'm so glad you've come. mamma is coming to see me, too. isn't she?" and dorothy, having caught sight of virginia, ran to her, and then, not to be denied, in her childish way climbed up on the bench beside her and affectionately clasped her little arms about her neck. "papa doesn't like her," she proceeded, in a low, serious, confidential manner, "and wants me not to like her, too. but i shall like her. i shall always love-dear mamma-as-long-as-i-live!" the last few words were uttered in a quivering voice, but with a decision that appeared marvelous in one so young. folding her arms about the child, virginia fondly looked into her eyes. "god bless you, sweet, winsome soul!" and then they kissed. "aunty, won't you take me to mamma?" pleaded the child. a ray of light had at last unexpectedly illumined a path for virginia to pursue. suddenly releasing the child, she arose to her feet and said, with animation: "some good may come of it. i will seek mrs. harris and have her detain john while i bring constance--and dorothy together--before he meets her. yes, darling," she said, taking dorothy's hand; "you shall see your mother." chapter xx. on a low point of land formed by a bend in the willamette, a couple of boys were playing at what is termed "skipping." the exercise consisted in throwing a stone so as to make it skim along the surface of the water in a series of long skips, the greater number of skips attesting the skill of the thrower. the surface of the river was very smooth and placid, which was a factor in tempting the boys to the exercise. they had been at it for some time and, boy-like, in their enthusiasm, had overdone it, and consequently were beginning to fag, when one of them suddenly spied an exceptionally smooth, round flat stone, suitable for the purpose, and stooped to pick it up. the other boy, a short distance behind him, seeing his opportunity, cried out in a frolicksome spirit: "hi! gene! hold, there." and he immediately ran and, placing his two hands on the stooping boy's back, lightly leaped over him, straddle fashion, and then himself took a stooping position further on, subject to a like performance. at once the sport known as "leap-frog" was entered into with zest by the boys. it carried them some distance along the river shore, and they were so engrossed with the new exercise, which sustained in their case, at all events, the old adage that, "a change of occupation is a good recreation," as to be entirely oblivious of approaching a solitary woman dressed in sober gray, sitting on a stump of driftwood near the water's edge and gazing vacantly on the river. one of the boys, named gene, big-limbed, loose-jointed and clumsy, in doing his turn, and while astraddle the "frog," lost his balance and tumbled sideways, dragging the under boy over with him. the smaller boy, named spike, got to his feet first, and with a fire in his eye, angrily said: "youse do it again and i'll smash you one." "i couldn't help it. it was your fault, anyway, why didn't you hold steady," replied gene. "you big lubber; youse done it on purpose." said spike, rubbing his shin. "i'm not going to play any more," and as he turned away, muttered to himself: "i've a notion to soak him one." "oh, look!" cried gene. "a woman's agoing in swimming with her clothes on!" the boys at once forgot their differences, drew close together and watched her with much curiosity. "say, but the water is cold. i was in yesterday and couldn't stay a minute," said gene. "gee, but i got my clothes on quick! i was near froze." "she's skeart already; see how she's looking about--must-a lost somethin'." "let's ask her," said gene. "youse shut up, won't you." "she's saying something. hear?" "sounds like 'dorothy,'" said spike. "look at her dig them hands in the water." "say, she's crazy, sure!" whispered gene. at which they drew back awe-struck, yet fascinated by the grotesque buffoonery inseparable from the insane. "somebody'd better go and phone the cops," whispered spike, excitedly. "she'll get drowned, and then we'll get in a bar'l of trubble." "i'll go," said gene, half frightened, and glad of an excuse to get away from the uncanny spectacle. "who's got a phone near here?" he asked. "up at the big house, yonder. harris'. they's got one, but youse don't want to leave me here alone with that crazy woman. she's coming ashore. kin youse hear what she's saying?" they listened intently. "i'm sure i saw her," she said in tones strangely pitiful. "her golden hair floated on the surface like a silken mesh--then sank down, down--ah, there it is again." and she outstretched her hand and tried to grasp something. "gone again! oh! i wish someone would help me get her. i am so tired and the river is so deep and cold," and as she stepped out from the water onto the shingle, her frame shivered as with a chill. she sat on the stump of driftwood, fatigued by exertion. "let's go and talk to her," whispered gene. "youse better not. youse can't tell what them crazy people will do sometimes. they ack queer mighty sudden." "say! she wouldn't hurt anything. ain't she nice looking! i'll bet she was kind when she was all right," said gene. "talks of golden hair. must be her baby drowned has made her crazy," said spike. "i'm going to speak to her, anyway," and so saying, gene boldly approached her. "say, lady! what are you looking for?" he asked, as he timidly stood in front of her. "dorothy," she softly answered, and then slowly shifted her wistful eyes from the water to the boys. "whose dorothy?" asked spike, with an air of quiet respect, as he joined gene and stood in front of her. "the sweetest babe in all the world. see, in this--her likeness," and she drew from the bosom of her dress a medallion and held it for the boys to look at. "sure! she's a beaut!" exclaimed spike, admiringly. "say, that picture is just like you," remarked gene, looking over the medallion at the face before him. "yous dress is wet, missus," said spike. "were you looking for your baby there?" queried gene, nodding toward the river. she suddenly arose to her feet and listened, meanwhile tenderly replacing the medallion in her corsage. "i must not rest longer. the storm will soon be on us. the boat rocks." she paused in a listening attitude: "her voice! i hear it again. she is calling, 'mamma, papa, help! save me!' there! there!"--and she pointed over the water. "see that golden web glistening in the sunshine. it's her hair. she's beckoning me! give me the paddles!--the paddles, quick!" and then she cried out with a gasp that sounded very much like a sob: "save dorothy!" chapter xxi. when john thorpe left virginia in search of mr. harris, he found him in conversation with sam, at the foot of the piazza steps. above them, on the piazza, was seated mrs. harris. "i understand," remarked mr. harris to sam, "that there was another man in the cabin, but somehow he escaped." "there was another man there," replied sam, "but he went down through a trap door in the floor, uncle." "did he drown," questioned mr. harris. "oh, no! the logs raised the floor of the cabin about a foot above the water. he got away between them and swam ashore. we didn't find it out until he had made good his escape." it was then mr. thorpe addressed mr. and mrs. harris. it being the first opportunity presented to perform a duty, that was clearly incumbent on him, and without further hesitation, he said: "mr. and mrs. harris and sam, who heard me abuse mr. corway on this ground last wednesday night, i wish now to recall what i then said. if an entire misapprehension of facts can be an excuse for the animosity with which i then spoke, i am anxious to apologize for my behavior, as circumstances have made me aware how unjust were my aspersions. i regret that mr. corway is not present to receive my apology and to shake hands with him, for there is not a man in oregon for whom i have greater respect." mr. harris was unable to conceal his gratification at the sudden ending of an unpleasant dilemma, and exclaimed: "john, i heartily congratulate you on the agreeable termination of an ugly affair." "dear me! i am really delighted," added mrs. harris, who, having gotten up from her chair at the first few words uttered by john thorpe, and leaning forward on the piazza railing, stared at the men below in rapt attention. and sam joined in the general joy by exclaiming, with a broad grin and a whirl of his hat: "whoop! let's celebrate the burial of the hatchet, eh, auntie." "how vulgar," quietly remarked mrs. harris, as she straightened up, and with severity plainly graven on her face, said: "sam, i desire a word with you after dinner." "ya-ah! may good digestion wait on appetite, eh auntie! i guess so," replied sam, with a roguish twinkle of his eye and the inimitable side movement of his head. "dear me," continued mrs. harris, "i may as well be resigned to the inevitable, for i fear the 'texas brand' will never groom out." "i must go home," exclaimed mr. thorpe. "my impatience to meet constance is consuming me. mrs. harris and gentlemen, pray pardon my haste," and, lifting his hat, he withdrew. then sam related in detail the bath and discovery of jack shore at the jail. "fact, uncle," he continued, "a regular fiend." "what! jack shore, of the securities investment association!" exclaimed mr. harris, with surprise. "the same identical chap, uncle." "dear me; who was his confederate?" questioned mrs. harris. "we have yet to discover, but suspect a certain person well known to you." "whom do you suspect?" sharply demanded mrs. harris. "a much-honored member of society," replied sam, with fine sarcasm. "but we must have his name," insisted mrs. harris. she was promptly supported by mr. harris, who said: "by all means, we must know who he is." "my lord beauchamp!" sam answered, with emphasis. "dear me," gasped mrs. harris. "what a shock!" and then, recovering herself, she repeated doubtfully: "lord beauchamp an imposter?" "he's a villain anyhow, auntie!" exclaimed sam. "the same 'gent' who ran me down when i was tracking the dago up there near the city park--thought he put me out of business." "what proof have you that he is an imposter?" demanded mrs. harris, sternly. "yes, proof, proof! that is what we want!" exclaimed james harris, visibly agitated. "to satisfy himself the detective cabled our ambassador at london to make inquiry. this morning he received a reply." and so saying, sam took from his pocket an envelop containing a cablegram and handed it to mr. harris, with the remark: "uncle, the detective turned it over to me at noon." mr. harris took from the envelop the cablegram, and adjusting his eyeglasses, read aloud: "there's only one lord beauchamp in england's peerage, and he, with whom i am personally acquainted, was at the embassy yesterday." it was signed "white." then mr. harris looked over the paper in his hand--over the eyeglasses into nothingness, with an expression on his face of deep chagrin, and in a low voice, as though muttering to himself, indiscreetly said: "damn the luck! the fellow is into me for ten thousand dollars." the words had scarcely escaped from his lips when mrs. harris, her eyes staring with astonishment, sharply exclaimed: "ten thousand dollars! why, james henry, you must have been hypnotized!" it caused sam to smile, and remark with a look of reproach: "auntie!" "he came to me with a plausible story and many regrets, unexpectedly ran short of funds; produced a cablegram purporting to come from his brother, the duke villier, only yesterday, authorizing him to draw for two thousand pounds. to oblige him i indorsed the draft, went with him to the bank, and it was immediately honored. i will phone for a policeman at once," and mr. harris turned away to put his purpose into effect, when sam intercepted him. "stay, uncle; i have taken upon myself the duty of swearing out a warrant for his arrest, and in order there shall be no possibility of his escape, i have arranged with detectives, having jack shore in charge, to identify and arrest him." "james, do not wait a moment!" impatiently exclaimed mrs. harris. "have him arrested at once." "auntie, he cannot escape the officers, who are concealed, waiting signal," sam assured her. and then, as if fate had so ordered, the object of their anathemas--in the company of hazel, complacently sauntered from the tennis lawn, and, rounding the angle of the house, suddenly appeared close to the group. "it was so stupid of me. i am sure your lordship did not enjoy the game at all," said the girl. it was at that game of tennis that rutley found opportunity to propose marriage to hazel, for he believed that she was so disappointed at corway's disappearance, and which he took care to insinuate was through cowardice, and that she was so impressed with his rank, wealth and manners, that it would be easy to persuade her; but he found the girl repelled his advances so firmly and decisively that he at once abandoned the idea of attempting to entice her to elope, and abruptly ended the game. and so, because of his love for this girl, he had delayed his purpose to escape from the city, and jeopardized his chances accordingly. when rutley's eyes first rested on james harris, he involuntarily started at the change in his looks, but though seemingly perturbed for an instant, his self-possession never really deserted him. straight on to the broad steps he strode with a suavity of manner quite in keeping with his usual phlegmatic bearing. whatever distrust or apprehension may have troubled his thoughts, no exterior indication was visible. his face was impassive and inscrutable as the "sphinx." his nerves were steel, his acting superb. "i find in miss brooke an expert tennis player," he said, addressing mrs. harris, who was leaning forward, her hands resting on the rail, staring at him. "it's an outrage, sir! a damned outrage!" explosively exclaimed mr. harris, who was unable to control his indignation. still unperturbed, rutley turned to mr. harris and said: "i quite agree with you, sir, for the scandal is deplorable, and corway should be punished." turning to mrs. harris, he continued: "indeed, mrs. harris, you americans seem to excel in most everything where skill and brains are essential." there was not a flaw or tremor in his voice to betray an uneasy mind or prescience of a coming storm. it was then, however, he realized that something was wrong, for he noticed that they were looking coldly at him. slowly drawing himself up with a haughty bearing, he carefully adjusted the monocle in his left eye and turned slowly about as he stared at each of them, and said in slow, sharp, biting accents: "it's deuced--draughty--don't--che--know!" "yes, quite chilly, isn't it, old chappie! i guess so!" declared sam, patronizingly. "i demand, sir, the return of ten thousand dollars that you swindled me out of yesterday," said mr. harris, with indignation flushing his face. "and i demand, in the name of the law, ten thousand dollars that you stole from--a--george golda, while in the scow-dwelling night before last," said sam. still unperturbed, rutley merely shifted his eyes from one to the other without moving his head or a muscle of his body, much in the manner of an automaton, and answered with a drawl: "aw, a money swindle! and a--a--theft of money from a scow-dwelling! really, gentlemen, this is--a--a--a--deuced good joke!" and then he laughed, laughed in a shrill, screechy falsetto key, unnatural, and chilling as an icy breath from the arctic. "this is no joke, sir, as you will soon realize." "you have been detected. your villainy is exposed, and your damned rascality is at an end," said the irate mr. harris. "for twenty years in the pen at salem, eh, old chappie!" said sam, with a grin of satisfaction. "curse the luck," muttered rutley to himself. "what a fool i was not to have vanished last night. it's deuced ugly, don't-che know," he continued aloud, in the same cutting accents. "let me warn you, gentlemen, there is a limit to one's forbearance!" "you are a cheat, a villain, an imposter!" fumed mr. harris. "and there is the proof," and he flourished the cablegram in rutley's face. "you are imposing on the public under the cloak of an assumed title, and unless you immediately hand over to me ten thousand dollars i shall give you into custody." "of the officers of the law, eh, auntie?" and as sam uttered the last words, up went his right hand extended straight with the index finger pointing aloft. it was the signal agreed upon for the officers to appear, and forthwith they emerged with jack shore between them, and smith following, from a vine inclosed arbor, partially concealed by a group of trees a few rods down the hill. pretending not to notice the approach of the officers and their prisoner, sam grinned at rutley and banteringly said: "come now, own up, you intentionally put me 'out of business' with the automobile. but it was a bungled job, wasn't it, old chappie?" rutley yielded not an iota of his haughty bearing. totally unsuspecting the near approach of the officers from behind, he directed a frigid, steady, contemptuous stare at his accusers, and with an air of puzzled understanding, said: "what is the meaning of this insult to my honor? i again warn you, gentlemen, of your liability for libel." "law is a venturesome sport, my lord," ironically exclaimed sam. "let me introduce mr. george golda"-- rutley leisurely turned and stared at jack. --"alias, jack shore," continued sam, with a laugh. "well, my poor man. what is your mission?" interrogated rutley. jack stared steadily at rutley, but kept silent. "ha, ha, ha, ha, ha," derisively laughed rutley. then turning to the group, said: "what new joke is this, gentlemen?" again he turned toward jack in pretense of a closer scrutiny. that rutley was surprised was quite evident, and he stepped forward with some object in view. mr. harris seemed to imagine some purpose in rutley's movement, and stepping in front of him, said: "hold, your little game is up!" "i guess so," quickly added sam, who stood ready to assist. realizing he was at bay, rutley recovered his self-possession as quickly as he had lost it. again he laughed in that high-pitched, screechy key of ineffable disdain. "he, he, he, he," and turning to mr. harris said, sarcastically: "the idea! you, a retired merchant, a successful business man; experienced in the qualities of keen perception, of fine discrimination, of the most perfect discernment and adroitness, to support this outrage," and he waved his hand toward jack. and again drawing himself up erect, haughtily fixed his cold gray eyes steadily on mr. harris, and continued in a drawl: "it's deuced ugly, don't-che know; deuced ugly, by jove." while rutley had been speaking, virginia appeared on the scene. "ha, virginia," sharply called out mrs. harris, and she beckoned to her to hasten. "now we shall prove his villainy." "ha, ha," sneered rutley. "now you shall realize how foully you have slandered me. the lady will prove that i am lord beauchamp." as virginia approached near, mrs. harris being unable to contain her impatience, again addressed her: "virginia, dear! can you enlighten us as to that man's identity?" rutley tried to catch her eye, and at last, having succeeded, lifted his eyebrows meaningly, then nearly closed his eyes as he fixed on her a stare of glittering concentration. "madam," he ejaculated significantly, "beware! these gentlemen and ladies have dared to question my right to the title of lord beauchamp, and i have assured them that you know me, of course you do, and will tell them so." his manner was confident and insinuating, but he had over-rated his power of hypnotic influence over the girl. she looked at him steadily, in which freezing haughtiness, contempt and pity were commingled. her fear of him had passed. she did not falter now. "yes, i know you; and you are known to all present, but, unhappily, not as thoroughly as you are known to me." "who is he?" demanded mrs. harris. "beware!" cautioned rutley, "for what you say you must prove in a court of law." defiant, the girl spoke, her enunciation clear and faultless. "his name is philip rutley, and he is masquerading as my lord beauchamp for fraudulent and unlawful purposes." "ha, ha, ha," laughed rutley, sarcastically. "delightfully refreshing, gentlemen." "oh!" came from hazel, and then, as if doubting the announcement, exclaimed: "but the color of rutley's hair is on the pumpkin order." "when the dye is washed out it will be on the pumpkin order again," laughed sam. "he of the investment company?" questioned mrs. harris, with a puzzled expression of countenance. "the very same chap, auntie," said sam. "dear me, such ingratitude!" and mrs. harris looked disgusted. "why, the rascal promised never to return if we would not prosecute him." "he, he, he, he, how very funny," derisively laughed rutley, in that high-pitched, screechy falsetto key he was so well trained in, and at times he nervously stroked his vandyke beard. "i shall at once bring an action at law against you for malicious libel," upon which he started to pass mr. harris. his purpose was understood and frustrated by sam, who promptly seized him by the collar. "i guess not!" "well done, sam!" exclaimed mrs. harris. "take your hands off!" demanded rutley, who began to scuffle violently with sam. "hold him fast, sam," cheerfully encouraged mr. harris, who rushed to sam's assistance, followed by smith. "i guess so." at that moment, by a dexterous movement, rutley slipped out of his coat, swiftly turned, and exclaimed: "damn your eyes, take that," and violently struck at sam, who adroitly dodged the blow, dropped the coat and squared up to him. "i'm your huckleberry; i guess. good time to square that little run-down now. come down the hill out of the sight of the ladies." "i'll go wid yees," volunteered smith. "sure, an' i'll see fair play, an' may the divvil take me lord." mr. harris picked up rutley's coat and there fell out of one of the pockets two packages of banknotes. he let the coat fall and picked up the packages. flourishing them about his head, he laughed--"ha, ha, ha, ha." the detective turned to jack and said, quietly: "you wanted the proof: there it is," and he pointed to the money held by mr. harris. "he will be pinched, but mr. thorpe is to secure his release." "why, there are twenty thousand dollars here!" exclaimed mr. harris, examining the packages of money. "now you believe me, don't you?" said the detective to jack. "yes," replied jack, "you were right," and then he stepped forward alone, close to rutley, and with a sneer on his face, confronted him. "so, my noble partner! you gave me the kiss of 'judas' for ten thousand shekels, eh?" rutley was amazed, but maintaining his imperturbability, exclaimed: "you propound a riddle, my poor man. i don't know you." "ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed jack, bitterly. "the riddle should be plain with the key in your keeping. but i know _you_, me lord beauchamp, alias philip rutley. now, damn you, take the medicine your treachery awards you." rutley straightened up, his mortification was very great. naturally astute, shrewd and alert, for once he had been caught napping. with distended, staring eyes, he whispered, aghast: "jack, jack," and then, recovering himself, composedly said: "a--my poor fellow, you are mistaken; i don't know you," and then he swung himself about and laughed in that peculiar, high-pitched key--"he, he, he, he; he must be crazy." "crazy, eh!" and jack laughed low, hoarsely and derisively. "ha, ha, ha, ha. the detective told me you had sold me for the reward offered for recovery of the child, but i would not believe him. now! i know he told the truth. for the proof is there," and he pointed to the money in the hands of mr. harris. "the proof that you betrayed your partner"-- "you lie! you lie! damn you, you lie!" exclaimed rutley bitterly, as he swiftly turned to jack, and then muttered to himself: "ye gods, i have been trapped by a fluke." then, with marvellous nerve, declared: "oh, this is preposterous; i will immediately bring some friends and prove that you malign me," and so saying he turned to move off. "detective simms, he is your man; arrest him!" said mrs. harris. on seeing his chance of escape lessening every moment rutley abandoned all idea of further defense, and made a grab for his coat. quick as was his action, he could not outmaneuver sam, who promptly threw himself upon rutley's back, and locked his arms about him, pinioning him as in a vice. and while in that position the detective slipped on the handcuffs. on releasing him, sam turned with a broad grin of satisfaction to his aunt--"how is that for the texas brand, eh, auntie?" he got for his answer a smile, and an exclamation that pleased him immensely. "splendid, sam." "the neatest bit of work done since his partner tried to find a soft spot on carbit strait pavement," added smith, with a look of admiration. in the meantime mr. harris had been examining the packages of money, turning them over and over, looking first at one and then at another. of a sudden his face lit up with a smile, as he exclaimed: "why, this is mine; the identical package that he obtained from the bank on my indorsement. i can swear to it. but this?" and he looked meaningly at virginia. "it looks like the package of notes i gave the italian for dorothy's ransom," she replied. "he never sold me after all," muttered jack, who became painfully astonished on hearing mr. harris declare that rutley had obtained one of the packages of money from the bank on his indorsement. and as the plan by which he was tricked into betrayal of his accomplice became evident, his chagrin deepened to grief. he turned to rutley and said, brokenly: "phil, i take it all back," and then he muttered absently as he realized the futility of regret. "but it is too late--i have been tricked into a confession." "the jig is up," replied rutley. "i shall take my medicine like a man." "that money must remain in the custody of the police until the court decides for the owner," said the detective. "certainly," affirmed mr. harris, who handed him the two packages. "this one is mine, and contains ten thousand dollars. and this contains a like amount and belongs to miss thorpe. i shall apply to the court for restitution tomorrow," remarked mr. harris. "very well, sir. now please hand me that coat and we will go," said the detective. mr. harris picked up the coat and handed it to the detective. "keep it, old man," advised rutley, with lofty disdain. "keep it as a memento of how you were once charmed by one of england's nobility," he laughed derisively. "i will have no gift from a thief," indignantly exclaimed mr. harris, as he handed over the coat. "officers, away with them." "good-bye charles, reginald, de coursy, west-ma-coate cosmos, me lord beauchamp. fare thee well," said sam, with a grin. it was at that time that the little scotch terrier began to sniff at jack's trouser legs inquisitively. the dog had wandered near him, attracted by the sound of his familiar voice, and though it evidently scented something intimate, could not recognize his former master in the changed appearance resultant on his enforced bath. and so the dog sniffed and sniffed while the glint of its upward turned eyes ominously resented any friendly overture. jack had noticed the dog about, and now that it was sniffing at his leg, he softly spoke to it, saying: "good-bye, snooks," whereupon to his surprise the dog growled at him. again he said, soothingly: "good bye snooks," putting out his hand to fondle it, but the dog, in one of those singularly unsympathetic moods rare to its nature, would have none of him, and barked at him furiously. it was the finishing stroke to his shame and degradation. "an outcast, a stranger, so low i have fallen that my own dog barks at me." "come along," urged the detective to rutley and jack. but rutley halted and turned to hazel, with the same marvellous air that had won for him confidence in critical moments of "my lord's" career. "ta, ta, pet," said he, in his softest blandishment to hazel. "that was a ravishing kiss you gave me in the conservatory awhile ago. ta, ta," and he threw her a kiss with his free hand and followed it with a tragic scowl at sam. "the horrid man," indignantly exclaimed hazel. "good-bye, virginia," and he smiled patronizingly at her. "you 'peached' on your pal, but rogues do that sometimes. tra-la." "officer, away with them," ordered mr. harris, with disgust. "get a move on, old chappie," said sam. "come along," urged the detective. but rutley balked, and looking at mrs. harris, laughed, the same high-pitched, uncanny laugh he had used previously. "i had almost forgotten you, auntie," he drawled in his most suave and engaging manner. "you know that it is bad form to take one's leave without saying 'adieu,' and believe me," and he again laughed, "i thank you for your lavish reception in honor of the fake lord." "officer, away with them," stormed mr. harris. though rutley was forced away a step or two he still kept his eyes fixed on mrs. harris, and managed to hold his ground long enough to add, ironically: "adieu, auntie! ta, ta!" "march yees blackguards, march," said smith, pushing the men along. "how very rude! i have never had anything so scurrilous said to me before in my life." "he wasn't a real lord, auntie. only tried to act like one, eh, i guess so," and sam inwardly chuckled at the balm he offered for her discomfiture. "sam, you had better assist the officers to the railway station," suggested mr. harris. "oh, quite to my fancy, uncle!" and sam immediately proceeded after the detectives and their prisoners. the silence that fell on the group as they watched the prisoners move down the hill was broken by hazel, who, turning to mr. harris, said: "it was clever of sam. indeed, uncle, it seems to him is due the honor of breaking the spell of a pretender." "i am satisfied now that my lord will serve a 'spell' with his partner in the state penitentiary," replied mr. harris. "a fate that deservedly overtakes adventurers and imposters," remarked mrs. harris. "and a most pungent warning to the frantic race society runs to entertain titled swindlers!" added mr. harris, gravely. at that moment sam hurriedly reappeared and approached mr. harris, who hastened to meet him. "what is wrong, sam?" "has he got away?" was the anxious inquiry. "i guess not, uncle," replied sam, who seemed excited, and then nodding his head toward the river, said, in an undertone. "something out of gear down there. a boy just told me a woman was wading in the water trying to find her drowned baby--and--and i thought"-- "what! who do you think she can be, eh? it cannot be"--and they exchanged significant glances. sam tapped his head impressively. "the boy said she plunged her hands in the water, talked queer, and heard her call 'dorothy.'" "if it should be her! good god! and john must be hereabouts, too. let us go to her at once. quietly, make no fuss. come along," and mr. harris turned hastily. "what is the trouble now, james?" called out mrs. harris. "no time," was all the satisfaction she got, and the two hastened down to the shingle. "dear me! something serious has happened, i am sure!" and seeing a boy standing irresolute on the walk, addressed him: "here boy, do you know what is going on down there?" "a crazy woman," the boy answered, drawing near. "she's wading in the river." "poor thing!" sympathetically exclaimed mrs. harris. "what is she wading in the river for? did you hear her speak?" "yes'm, a little; but i was afraid and didn't stay but a minute. i came up to phone the police." "dear me! what did the poor creature say?" "she said her baby was drowned. i'm pretty sure she called it dorothy." an agonizing shriek of "constance!" broke from the three women simultaneously, and horror and consternation was depicted on every countenance. "almighty heaven!" exclaimed virginia, whose face had blanched at the news. "she has followed me here. i'll get some wraps, for poor constance must be chilled through and through," and with that she hastened into the house. "virginia, dear!" mrs. harris called after her, "you will find wraps in my room." hazel had already started toward the river, and noting the girl's impatience, she went on: "hazel and i will not wait for you." as mrs. harris followed after hazel, she kept muttering: "dear me! what a shock! what a shock to one's nerves!" chapter xxii. the officers, with their prisoners, had reached the railway track, and were leisurely walking toward the little station when a commotion in a group of people on the shingle, a couple of hundred yards ahead, attracted their attention. smith, who had accompanied the officers, started to investigate. he had proceeded but a short distance when his movement was accelerated by seeing mr. harris and sam hastening down the slope toward the little group before mentioned. upon arrival at the station, one of the officers, simms, hurried forward to ascertain the cause of the trouble, for evidently something serious had happened. the two prisoners were thus left, handcuffed, it is true, but under guard of only one officer, whose attention was also attracted by the excitement ahead. the officer gave his prisoners little attention, for he believed they were perfectly secure, as jack's right wrist was handcuffed to the officer and rutley was linked to jack. rutley soon found that he could "slip the bracelet" and, nudging jack, displayed his free hand. jack gave him a significant wink, at the same time gently nodded his head for him to "break." for an instant rutley was tempted to strike down the unsuspecting officer, and attempt to release jack, but the chance of detection in the act, and inviting instant pursuit was so great, that he decided to try to escape alone. silently he stepped apart; farther, then he slipped behind the station. a swift, noiseless dash to a culvert, through it and up along a small ravine, soon put him out of sight of the officers. his last view of them convinced him that they were still unmindful of his escape. arriving at a considerable elevation, to where a clump of brush concealed him from the view of those below, he paused and took a hasty glance around. the sweep of the slope was too clear and unobstructed for any possibility of escape to the woods that covered the hill a couple of hundred yards distant, without him being seen. his determination was daring and instant. he would enter "rosemont house," seek a hiding place, secure some sort of disguise, and in the night effect his escape. following the depression he soon appeared on a level with the house. taking advantage of such cover as was afforded by shrubbery and hedges, and cowering close to earth, he quickly traversed the space that had separated him from the house. throwing himself prostrate among some ivy that grew in thick profusion along the basement of the south side as a protection from the winter rain, he lay there effectually concealed and listened with tense nerves for sounds of pursuit. the silence was unbroken save for the spasmodic whirr of a lawn mower on a distant part of the grounds. having recovered his wind, he looked up. above him was an open window, but screened. if he could enter by that window he might gain the loft without discovery, and once there he felt satisfied that a good hiding place could be found. the front entrance would be easier, but the risk of being seen crossing the piazza was too great. he decided to try the window. arising from his concealment, and refreshed by his short rest, enthusiasm bounded through his veins. "i will get away yet," he muttered between his clenched teeth. "i saw the women following harris down to the shore and the house must be deserted by all save the servants, and they are likely in the kitchen." another swift glance at the window, and mentally estimating its height from the ground, he felt certain that an entrance through it was practicable. there was no time to be lost. the "water table" afforded a footing, and by the aid of an iron trellis erected to support a climbing vine, he reached the window. there an obstacle was encountered. he tried to raise the screen, but it would not budge. in his exasperation he nearly tore his finger nails off trying to raise it from the bottom. realizing that he was becoming excited he at once forced a calmness which he deemed highly essential, if he was to succeed. every moment, too, was fraught with danger of discovery. pushing his hand against one side of the screen edgewise in an attempt to loosen it, the thing suddenly fell in. the thick carpet smothered the noise. he had unwittingly pressed against the edge that inclosed the springs, and in so doing released the other edge of the screen from the groove. noiselessly he sprang inside. it was the library. he turned and cautiously scanned the hillside. no persons were in sight. then he quietly replaced the screen. his daring coolness and nerve were now under full control. he stole out of the room, into the hall, with every sense alert to avoid discovery. his goal was the attic. he knew that the only way to reach it was by the service stairs, which he could use from the second floor. before him was the main stairs. without a moment of hesitation he leaped up the soft, thick, velvet-covered steps, his footfalls as silent as the tread of a cat. a door was ajar on his left; he cautiously pushed it open and entered. he saw at once that it was sam's room. he glanced about, then opened a dresser drawer. "ha, a revolver!" it was the work of a moment to examine the magazine. "empty!" he exclaimed, with disgust, and was about to replace it when, on second thought: "it may do for a bluff." another hasty look and he picked up a hunting knife, which he also appropriated. a slight noise at that moment startled him and caused him to look around alarmed. he slipped behind a door for concealment. after a moment of tense suspense, and the quietness continuing unbroken, he stole out of the room. so far everything was in his favor. further along two doors, a few feet apart, were open. he had passed one on his way to the attic stair, when, of a sudden, he heard a slight sound, as of a person moving lightly in the room. he instantly turned aside and passed through the second open doorway. virginia stood before him. she was at that moment hastening from the room, absorbed in thoughts of constance. with a stifled, painful cry of "oh!" she shrank from him in a vague terror. her face paled and her eyes expanded in manifest fright. speech deserted her. the power of motion fled and the shawl intended for constance fell from her arm. she appeared paralyzed. rutley softly closed the door behind him and locked it and put the key in his pocket. the dressing room door received the same attention. then he turned to her. he was surprised to meet her, but observing the terror his presence inspired, he at once determined to force her to aid him to escape. he misjudged her character. for one moment he stood silently watching her. all the sharp intensity of his gaze concentrated on her frightened eyes; then he laughed low and gloatingly--"ha, ha, ha. the girl that took on cold feet and betrayed her pal! i meant to say 'colleague,'" he corrected, with a sneer of apology. the smirk of his offensive stare and more offensive words irritated. she began to recover from her sudden fright and became immediately aware that her present situation required not only coolness but the most adroit handling. she accordingly nerved herself for the encounter. again he leered at her, and continued in the same soft, guarded, but suave voice: "to be caught alone and in a trap with her intended victim is one of the dispensations of an inscrutable and just providence." virginia was regaining her self-possession every moment now. courage was surging through her nerves in increasing power. her eyes commenced to blaze. "your effrontery is offensive. your meaning an enigma!" she indignantly replied. "indeed! then i'll make it plain," he hissed. "i want you to cover my flight for liberty. "you see i have escaped," he went on rapidly. "the officers are baffled--my trail so far is undiscovered." "you mistake!" she corrected, with surprising coolness and decision. "by the dispensation of an inscrutable, but just providence, the blackguard's trail is blazed--the trap is sprung and you cannot escape!" rutley's eyes snapped fire. he saw that a policy of sneering and bullying persuasion to aid him would fail ignominiously. he must use force. his aspect became black and threatening. "damn you!" he hissed. "see here, moments are precious. the game too desperate. beware! you must find a place of concealment for me. the loft has storerooms. come, and in the darkness of tonight you must aid me to clear from the premises." "never!" she resolutely exclaimed, her eyes ablaze with indignation. "soft! not so loud, my fair partner," rutley cautioned. "you led me into this scrape. you must help me out of it." "let me pass!" and she motioned for him to stand aside. he did not move. "do you deny me?" she said, sternly. "not so fast, my dear. i intend to keep you near me, as a hostage for my escape. no harm shall befall you if you are tractable," he went on. "and i again warn you that you must speak guardedly and softly or i shall be compelled to gag you and bind you and carry you to a place of concealment. oh, i'll see to it that you shall not have the satisfaction of betraying my hiding place." "incarnate monster; dare you imprison me?" "only for a few hours, until the dead of night blackens all objects alike--then i shall go forth, leaving a note to announce your hiding place. do you prefer to be hidden in a trunk, or shall it be among the old rummage in the loft?" though his manner of address was faultlessly polite, his face was as colorless and impassive as marble, and his voice low, calculating and cold. virginia paled as she took in the meaning of this purpose, and her voice quivered with a note of fear, as drawing her slender form erect in semblance of defiance she said: "would you strike down a defenseless girl?" "i am troubled with no qualms of conscience when dealing with an enemy, be that enemy man, woman or a scorpion. come! we have wasted too much time already." he stepped lightly toward her. virginia anticipated his move and placed the table between them. many small articles incident to a lady's toilet were on the table. rutley perceived that should the table be upset in a scuffle, he could not hope for time to gather up and rearrange the toilet articles, and then the spilt powders and perfumes on the carpet would surely indicate a struggle having occurred in the room. virginia was also alert to the importance of the table in the situation. her fine instinct of the purport of his thoughts quickened her measure of defense. she grasped the edge of the table with both her hands. rutley saw her purpose, drew back and side-stepped. virginia also side-stepped, but kept close to the table and directly opposite him. she realized that the danger of her position was very great. in the cabin she had been armed and prepared for an extreme emergency. now she was without defensive weapons of any kind save her native wit, her courage and the table to which she clung. never taking his eyes from her, rutley stood for a moment, indecisive and silent. yet his mind was working furiously. "a woman stands in my way," he inaudibly muttered with clinched teeth. "time is pressing. i will force her into submission!" the intense strain on his nerves drew a cold dew of perspiration that glistened on his brow. slowly he drew the revolver from his pocket. slowly he raised it and pointed it at her, then hissed, as he glared at her: "remove your hands from the table and assist me to escape." virginia again drew herself erect, her eyes sparkling with defiance and her face aglow with courage. "i know my death would only add one more crime to your record," she said, with a faint quiver in her soft voice, and after a slight pause, she went on more steadily: "but you dare not shoot and your threats are vain." as he gazed on her slight form drawn erect; those pure, brave, steadfast, blue eyes; those features, delicate and tense with a sense of the danger of her position, she affected him strongly; thrilled him with an admiration which, with all his virile power and hardened senses, he could not mask. "you are daring a desperate man," he resumed. "one who means to halt at no crime to secure his flight to liberty." the softened expression of his features, softened in spite of himself, led virginia to think that his words were not meant to be taken too seriously, and so hope and fear alternated with amazing swiftness on her expressive face, which at last settled into a look of credulity and prompted her to hazard a smile at his threat. "beware!" he hissed, struggling to appear fierce. "do not mistake me!" "oh, no; i do not mistake you," she replied, again smiling faintly, "for i know you are too much of a man to redden your hands with the life of a puny, defenseless girl." the artless play of her features to entice him from his desperate purpose was exquisite, and not without temporary success. "her witchery is unnerving me," he silently muttered, as he felt his will-power was dominant no longer. as their eyes remained fastened on each other he felt an awe seize him, and he for the moment forgot his design. he drew back and said, almost submissively: "god, you are brave, and beautiful as brave. i can't harm you." and he slowly lowered the revolver. even then a sudden recovery from his weakness developed a new plan of attack. virginia's unerring instinct, however, warned her to mistrust his flattering declaration. "it's a subterfuge," she thought, "cunningly devised to draw me away from the table." she remained silent, but more watchful, if possible, than before. on abandoning a bullying policy, rutley had moved step by step toward the table opposite to virginia, and finally placed his left hand on it. his assumed admiration was well sustained and his changed line of persuasion, though its sincerity she doubted, promised in the end success. "the wrongs i have done," he continued, "had better not have been done, i acknowledge, but they are mended. worse might have been. our meeting in this room was accidental. my presence in this house is known only to you. will you aid me to escape?" "aid you to escape!" she repeated, in tones that had lost their agitation, and which now seemed natural and only to carry a note of indignation. "you, the man who nearly wrecked my brother's home, betrayed his trust and would have robbed him of his life. you, the man who kidnapped his child, caused his wife to lose her reason, and whose death may yet add murder to your other crimes--dare ask me to help you escape?" "yes," he slowly replied. and feeling that his hand rested firmly on the table, he began cautiously to lean forward, meanwhile saying in a soft, insinuating voice: "i dare ask you to help me escape, for i mistake if in a nature where such courage and gentleness exist there beats a heart irresponsive to the cry of distress. "i am down, and standing on the threshold of a long term of imprisonment. again i appeal to you and offer this weapon as a pledge of good faith," and he laid the revolver on the table. the tension on virginia's nerves relaxed, her voice became steadier, calmer and more natural. "why did you vilify the character of constance, a frail, innocent woman, whose piety and goodness made her incapable of doing you harm by thought, word or deed?" "revenge on thorpe," he replied, "for closing my office." as the words slowly issued from between his lips, his weight on the table increased--he felt his control of it was now sure. virginia's eyes searched him thoroughly, and aside from the fact that flattery was distasteful to her, his cold, calculating, unemotional eyes glittering with a sinister purpose, startled her and confirmed her impression of his insincerity. to maintain a safe distance, but still clinging to the table, she instinctively drew backward, suspicious of some sudden movement, but she made no effort to secure the revolver. rutley noticed the change and coolly pressed forward. virginia drew further backward. she saw through his artifice and once more began to fear him. the strain on her nerves was becoming severe and her countenance warmed with contending emotions. he had pleaded for aid to escape and expressed himself as sorry for his misdeeds. yet she believed his protestations were not sincere. nevertheless, considering how much she was in his power, the great scandal his testimony in court would create, the complete undoing of all his wicked schemes, and the possibility of him leading a better life, was fast weighing in his favor, besides only brute revenge would be gratified by his long imprisonment, and his punishment, therefore, only an empty satisfaction. rutley read her thoughts and a cunning smile played about his mouth. he never really intended to trust his liberty in her keeping, and since she was the only person with actual knowledge of his whereabouts, he did not propose to jeopardize his chance of escape by allowing her freedom. for his own safety, he was bound to conceal her as well as himself, at least until darkness set in. his humble appeal was but a ruse to gain her sympathy, and his simulated penitence for his wickedness was an artifice, but it succeeded in touching the tender cords of the girl's heart. her vigilance abated. her hand slipped from the table. she straightened up and cast her eyes to the floor, as one often does when mentally absorbed in weighing the potency of some great question. the moment he had maneuvered for, and waited for, and watched for, had arrived. the spring of a cat upon an unsuspecting mouse could not have been swifter, more sudden or unerring. the cloven hoof was revealed. before she had time to even guess at his purpose, his hand was upon her mouth, while his other arm was thrown around her form, binding her arms to her sides. he forced her into a wicker chair that stood conveniently near and held her down sideways with the aid of his knee. this method permitted him to withdraw his arm from around her form and to snatch a doily from the table which he quickly wadded and forced into her mouth, gagging her effectively. then his eyes swept the room for something that would serve as a cord to bind her. [illustration: rutley--"i could even kiss those red, ripe, cherry lips."] on the floor, distant a couple of yards, lay the shawl that virginia had let fall from her nerveless arm when rutley entered the room. he wriggled the chair toward it, and by extending his foot drew the shawl to his grasp. it was a summer shawl, of generous proportions. the fabric was silk-wool mixture, of fine network weave, and consequently light and strong. twisting it into a rope he bound her arms and limbs, meantime saying in a low, guarded voice, and with the utmost sauvity and coolness: "i'll not be ruder or rougher than is necessary, my beauty. there! now you are secure. i could even kiss those red, ripe cherry lips without fear of protest, but i'll not contaminate them by contact with those of a blackguard. no, no! don't thank me for that, honey dear, for i'm content to witness your mute appreciation of my motive." after he had bound her, he drew back a pace or two and critically surveyed his work. "you must pardon me, dear heart, for deeming it prudent to make that gag a little more secure," and taking a handkerchief from his pocket he bound it over her mouth, knotting the ends at the back of her head. "rest assured, brave little girl," he resumed, in that same low, hissing voice, "i'm not a sneak thief, a burglar or a rake, though i do aspire to membership in that proud and great american order 'the honorable grafter'." having completed gagging her, he stood off a pace and chuckled. "there, i think that will do!" in the silence that followed rutley was startled to hear a low, cautious voice on the lawn below say: "he is either in the house or up there in the timber." "they've tracked me here," rutley viciously hissed, his manner changed to intense alertness. he grasped the revolver and went on, "while i have been dallying with you, precious time was lost, damn you! i'll see that you don't stand between me and liberty again!" virginia was again terrified and helpless at a moment when aid of the most determined and daring character was within call. then a second voice said: "the officers do be kapin' a lookout down be the river, and if he's in the water, sure they'll nab him. d'yees think he'd likely be up on the hill top in the brush?" "i cannot say," replied the first voice, "but it looks to me as though he could not have crossed that open space unseen." both of the men had spoken in low and serious tones and were recognized by the intent listeners in the room above as sam and smith. they were evidently baffled and in a quandary as to the direction rutley had taken after escape from the officer, and approached the house to warn the servants of rutley's escape. "maybees," resumed smith in the same low, cautious voice, "he whint up the hill be way ave the ravine, over beyant there." sam made no reply. he had caught sight of the profile of virginia's face. her eyes, terrified and tensely drawn, were askance and looking in his direction. the handkerchief over her mouth he first mistook as an evidence of physical suffering. he stepped back a pace, thinking to obtain a better view. he was disappointed. what he had seen was a reflection of her face in the "dresser mirror," that by some strange chance had been adjusted at an angle which deflected objects downward. he had aimlessly halted at a point directly in line of the reflection cast by the mirror over the casement, and upon looking up saw through the screened window the reflection. those terrified eyes he had seen, suddenly set him in a ferment. "probably--by god!" he muttered under his breath. "phwat be yees lookin' at? sure, i can say nothin'," exclaimed smith. "i'll just step in the house and 'phone for a sheriff's posse to search the timber, and prevent his escape from the hill. you wait near-by for me." sam had spoken loud as a ruse to deceive rutley, for he felt morally certain that the cause of that frightened look in virginia's eyes was the presence of the man he was after. "sure, i will that, and kape me eyes on the ravine, too." as sam started for the front door, smith stalked about, with a stick in his hand, warily glancing from side to side and ready to fight on the instant. rutley prepared for a struggle, for he believed that sam would ramble through the house. "virginia must be concealed, but where?" he could not carry her to the attic, for sam might meet him with her in his arms. "ah, the closet!" thrusting the revolver in his pocket, he swiftly opened the door. then he placed a chair within for her comfort, and without further hesitation gathered her in his arms and carried her to the closet. after seating her on the chair, and while drawing some of mrs. harris' skirts about her, he said to her in a low voice: "after i dispose of that meddlesome fool, i'll carry you to the loft and doubtless we'll find room in one of the large trunks stored there to conceal you; and i warn you, on peril of your life, to sit still!" he then cautiously closed the door. his next step was to remove the revolver from his pocket and carefully examine it. "it's a desperate bluff, but i'll try it." there were two doors to the room other than the door of the closet; one opened into the hall, the other into a large bathroom and through to the bedroom beyond. he took the keys from his pocket and unlocked both doors, which he had fastened on meeting virginia, and then placed the large cane arm chair, which he piled with cushions, to the right side of the table and a few feet from the hall door. his movements were swift, silent and deliberate. down behind the back of the chair he crouched and watched both doors with tigerish steadiness. he had barely taken his position when footsteps were heard in the hall. they passed the door, then returned, halted, and the next instant low taps sounded on the door. simultaneously the closet door back of rutley cautiously opened and virginia stepped forth gagless and free. she had been more frightened than hurt or helpless, and had not discovered it until imprisoned in the closet. left to herself, she immediately struggled to free her limbs from bondage. one foot was unexpectedly loosed and then the other. her hands quickly followed, and the twisted shawl fell to the floor. rutley had depended partly on her fear of him to remain passive, for the shawl was not long enough to permit her limbs being bound together and securely tied with a knot. having freed her hands, it was the work of a moment to remove the gag from her mouth. she stood motionless and silent save for the palpitation of her heart, which seemed thunderous in its beat. rutley had not heard her, his attention being wholly absorbed by the sounds in the hall, and being back of him, she had time to quiet her agitation and analyze the situation. again low raps sounded on the door. "what shall i do?" she inaudibly muttered, "for to aid me sam will walk in to his death. oh, heaven inspire me!" as the hall door slowly opened, she tried in her agony to shriek a warning, but not a sound escaped her lips. terror and apprehension had for the moment bereft her of voice. suddenly, like a divine flash, she remembered jack shore's blanket device in the cabin at ross island. she turned half around, silently stooped and picked up the shawl from the closet floor. she was very nervous and her agitation caused a trifling delay, which to her appeared hours, in untwisting the wrap and spreading it out, suspended on her two hands before her. sam cautiously appeared around the door. he was keenly alert, for he fully expected an encounter with rutley, being quite satisfied that no other person would dare to gag virginia, but when in that swift glance he saw her only in the room, and she with the gag removed and fingering a shawl, his surprise was so great that he forgot his caution. he pushed the door open wider and entered the room. his lips parted to speak. that instant rutley said sharply, "hands up!" sam's hands went up, and he looked into the muzzle of a revolver, pointed at him from behind the chair. rutley stood up. at almost the same moment virginia swiftly approached from behind and threw the net over his head, and shrieked, "help! help!" in the furiousness of his rage to throw off the shawl, rutley's hands became entangled in the net, and he shouted, "oh, hell!" sam sprang upon him and wrenched the revolver from his hand. then, as he leaped back a couple of paces, said to rutley: "hands up! it's my turn now, old chappie!" rutley paid no heed to the command and at last cleared from the net with a snarl. "he, he, he--a devil is toothless when hell is without fire!" then with a fiendish leer, drew the knife from his breast pocket. "damn you!" said he, crouching for a spring on sam, "you've crossed my path once too often!" swiftly sam looked at the revolver and exclaimed with deep chagrin, "empty!" he, however, gripped it by the muzzle and prepared for the encounter. the men slowly circled each other for an opening. suddenly they clinched, and in the struggle sam was fortunate to seize rutley's knife hand. it was then that virginia again proved her great courage and resourcefulness. watching her chance, she hooked her left forearm under rutley's chin about his throat, and simultaneously pressing her little right clenched fist against the small of his back, pulled his head backward, and screamed, "help! help!" [the act is a form of garrotte used in asylums and when resolutely applied quickly reduces the most powerful and refractory subject to submission.] the suddenness of the attack and from such an unexpected quarter, accompanied by the choking pressure on his throat, caused rutley to loosen his grip on the knife, which fell to the floor, and he exclaimed with a gurgling sound, "oh, god!" sam instantly locked his arms around his body. rutley was powerless. his arms were firmly bound to his sides in a grip of iron. meantime smith stalked back and forth looking for trouble. he had arrived in front of the main entrance when the cry of "help, help!" broke upon the still air. it proceeded from the second story of the house, and he at once recognized it as the voice of virginia. "by hivvins, the girl do be in throuble!" he muttered anxiously. "ave it do be the blackguard we be lookin' for--sure!" and without further hesitation, smith rushed up the steps and into the house. again the cry of "help!" rang out. "i'll help ye, darlint, be me soul, i will that. hould him for wan minnit, and i'll attind to him. oh, the skulkin' blackguard! 'e do be a bad divil, so 'e do. just lave him to me, darlint; lave him to me, and i'll settle his nerves wid this bit of fir." by this time smith had mounted the stairs, when he was again startled to hear her cry: "help! oh, hasten, or blood will be shed!" "i'm comin', darlint. hould him wan minnit and i'll attind to him." upon entering the room, he at once seized rutley's hands and twisted them behind his back. "a bit of stout cord, miss, is what we want to bind the divil." "hold him!" and she flew to the linen closet. "hould him, is it!" exclaimed smith, with a laugh. "sure, miss, yees nadn't hint that to me at all, at all. indade, miss, it's a nate bit ave wurruk well done, and i do be proud of yees, too, so i do." virginia soon entered the room with a stout piece of cord, which she handed to sam, saying, "oh, i'm so thankful for your opportune arrival!" on seeing rutley thoroughly secured, and her excitement subsiding, virginia expressed her gratefulness to sam and smith for rescuing her from what she believed to be a terrible fate, then snatching up the shawl from the floor, flew down the stairs with a cry of pain on her lips for constance. having at last securely bound rutley's hands, sam signalized the event with a broad grin. "there, old chappie! i don't think you will break away a second time." "sure, ave 'e do, 'twill be after this bit of arigin fir's been splintered on his hid," answered smith. rutley made no reply. he seemed absorbed in thought, and though chagrin and disgust on his face betrayed a sense of his plight, no expression of bitterness escaped him. his dauntless, debonair spirit was still unbroken. "i had her bound and shut up in the closet," he muttered to himself. it was an involuntary exclamation in an undertone, and at the moment he seemed quite oblivious to his position. "yees did!" explosively exclaimed smith. "the likes of yees, a dirty, thavin' blackguard, to bind the young lady and shut her up in a closet! sure, if i had seen yees do it, there'd be somethin' doin'." and smith flourished his stick in a threatening manner. "the sissy is no match for a fool-killer," grinned sam, as he wound the cord several additional turns around rutley's arms and body. "outclassed by a slip of a girl," rutley muttered abstractedly, and enslaved by her witchery; "surely hell hath no cunning to match her genius for strategems!" "indade, the divil's imp is azey mark for the wit ave an arigin girl, an' be the token ave it, yees'l go back and jine yees mate with the bracelets," said smith ironically. "aunty is coming!" exclaimed sam in a listening attitude. "we must get him out of the house at once!" "march, yees blackguard, march!" promptly ordered smith, laying his hand roughly on rutley's arm to urge him along. "hands off!" sharply exclaimed the latter, shaking smith's hand off and regarding him with a haughty stare; then, in a cutting high-pitched voice, he went on: "no liberties, flannel-mouthed cur--scat!" "he is game," muttered sam. the stigma uttered in tones of withering contempt fairly lashed smith into a foaming passion. he instantly dropped his stick, tore off his coat, spat on his hands, and while squaring off to rutley, pranced about, beside himself with rage, and when he at last found speech, he said explosively: "flannel-mouthed cur, is it yees be callin' me? sure, oi'll attind to yees blackguard. och, sure oi wouldn't strike yees wid yees hands tied, ye murtherin' villain! oi mane to be fair wid yees, too, so oi do, though ye little desarve it, and be the token ave it, oi'll sit ye free to recave the batin' that will make yees respect my nation!" and in the heat of his rage and quite forgetful of place and environment, furiously untied the knot sam had made to fasten the cord which he wound several times around rutley's body, and then giving it a vigorous pull, sent rutley spinning around like a top. the thing was done so quick that sam in his surprise was unable to check smith, and had difficulty in restraining him from untying rutley's hands also. "hold, smith! have it out with him some other time, not now or here," he said, laying his hand on smith's arm, and then observing smith with an angry stare, directed at him, sam grinned and went on mockingly: "his lordship wants you to keep your hands off." "'e do, do 'e?" replied smith, his anger abating, and breaking into a hoarse laugh; "sure, oi would not touch yees at all, at all except wid a pair ave steel nippers." then he put on his coat, picked up the stick and commenced to poke rutley toward the door, saying meanwhile, much to rutley's frowning mortification, but helpless resistance: "march, yees blue-blooded gintleman, with the appetite for a pinitintiary risidence. march, yees thavin' ruffian, march!" scowling and turning, yet maintaining his always haughty bearing, rutley passed "off the stage" by the back stairs, accompanied by his guards, but as sam had declared, "game to the last." in order to avoid creating excitement by appearing within view of the little sorrowful group, now near the front of the house, they placed him in a vine-covered arbor, which was convenient and, leaving smith to guard him, sam hurried off to inform the officers of their capture. chapter xxiii. down on the beach they found her--the woman upon whom the blow had fallen so cruelly, and from whom the "grim sickle" had so recently turned aside. she was sitting on a low grassy knoll, gentle and pensive, a vacant stare in her sweet brown eyes as they wistfully scanned the surface of the water. "oh, heavens! we must get her to the house at once! go, sam, bring the carriage down. haste, haste!" urged mr. harris. and then john thorpe saw her. absorbed in deep meditation of his wrong to his innocent wife, ashamed and sorrowful, he was proceeding to the little depot, when, observing the frantic rush down the slope, and desiring to ascertain its cause, yet with an indefinable panicky feeling that seemed to freeze the very blood in his veins, he followed on. without an instant of delay, in a moment, he had leaped to her side, tenderly clasped her to his heart, and with a voice trembling with emotion, said: "oh, my darling wife, my pure, sweet, injured constance! forgive me! it was all a terrible mistake!" "i must go now. the storm is nearly over. i know that she is in the water, and the lilies are hiding her from me. but i shall find her. give me the paddles. save dorothy." constance had spoken in a soft, quiet voice. it had no touch of bitterness, no plaint of sadness; yet the yearning note of a heart dry with most intense grief was there--sounded on the chord of dethroned reason. when she began to speak, he looked into her eyes with an eager, appealing tenderness, expecting a responsive, forgiving tear, but instead he met a gentle, strange, vacant stare. as she proceeded he held her from him at arms' length, bewildered and confused for the moment in his interpretation of her meaning, and then the truth burst upon him. shocked and horrified, he cried out in the anguish of his heart, "merciful heaven, she is mad!" and then his eyes fell on her wet garments. "god forgive me, darling! i know you never can!" he said in a voice made husky with a great sob that rose up in his throat. without further delay, he gathered her unresisting form in his arms and tenderly bore her up to the house. the grave little procession followed. he had arrived with his precious burden close to the great steps of the piazza, when she struggled from his arms, and stood half turned about, her wistful brown eyes looking blankly at him. it was then that virginia appeared on the piazza, her face deathly white and her eyes still bearing traces of the terrifying ordeal she had so recently gone through with rutley. on seeing constance, down the steps she flew and folding the shawl about her stricken friend's shoulders, clasped her arms about her and said chokingly: "oh, why have you followed me, poor suffering heart?" "i'm so cold," was all constance said, and she shook as with an ague. "oh, this is too appalling to be true! speak, dear! throw off that meaningless stare, and assume intellect's rightful light," beseeched thorpe, and as he paused and gazed upon her sweet pensive face, awaiting recognition, great tears welled up in his eyes and silently rolled down his cheeks. again he spoke to her: "constance, do you not know me?" and then he turned his head away with an indescribable sickness at heart. "yes! oh, yes! i know you! you want ransom money for my dorothy. very well, you shall have it!" and she thrust her hand into her corsage, and took therefrom some scraps of paper, a few of them falling on the grass. "there are ten thousand"--and she handed the papers to him, in a manner so gentle yet so full of unaffected artfulness, that he took them, while his heart seemed to still its beat and sink leaden and numb with the torture of his own accusing conscience. "you shall have more," she continued with plaintive assurance, "all i can get." then her eyes fell on the scraps of paper on the grass. she picked them up and pushed them with the others into his hand. "there are more thousands. take it all for my dorothy--my darling! now give me the paddles, the paddles! where are the paddles? hasten, save dorothy!" there were no dry eyes in the little gathering of friends--all friends now--who heard her, and even sam, who had halted on his way to the officers, was forced to turn aside and wipe his eyes and remark in an unsteady voice: "i don't know what makes my eyes water so." "god help me!" exclaimed virginia. "henceforth my life is consecrated to watch over and care for her." "i am equally guilty," solemnly continued mr. thorpe. "i should not have acted with such anger. this is the blackening left by jealousy's burning passion, the essence of which will cling to my soul long after my heart becomes insensible clay." "it is not insanity of an incurable kind," gravely remarked mr. harris. "i have closely watched her facial expression and it appears to me the trace of reason is not entirely gone. i think she is delirious, and i have read that when persons are delirious some slight token, perchance a flower, a chord of melody, a face, a name, brought forcibly to bear on the mind may recall it to moments of reason. if it is so, then her intellect will recover from the shock. we will bring this to proof, mrs. thorpe," he proceeded, "look at these friends about you; do you not remember any of us?" "i must not rest longer," constance said suddenly; "i thought i had her once, but the water was so deep i could not reach her." "we must get her into the house and into bed at once," said virginia, clasping her tenderly about the waist. "dear me! yes, i am sure her wet garments will jeopardize her health," said mrs. harris in support of virginia. but constance resisted, and in doing so sat down on the bench. hazel addressed her: "constance, do you not know me? do you not remember hazel? try to think, dear constance, you surely cannot forget me!" she slowly shook her head and said plaintively: "the storm is over. make the boat go faster. we must be quick. there, she is calling--'mama! papa! mama! help!' listen, virginia, dear, do you not hear her?" and sure, enough, the voice of dorothy was heard, saying: "oh, sam! where is mama? tell me." and around from the conservatory, with a snow white aster in her hand, ran the child, followed by sam, who, fearing the child in her rambles was likely to discover the presence of rutley, induced her to appear on the front lawn by telling her that her mother was not far away. the child did not stop, but continued right up to her mother and clasped her arms about her neck. "oh, mama! dear mama! i'm so glad you have come! aren't you going to kiss me?" receiving no immediate response, the child unclasped her arms and drew back a pace offended. "that voice!" said constance, startled. she drew the tips of her fingers across her forehead, very much like one clutching at the filmy shreds of a vanishing dream. "oh, the boat rocks!" "mama, aren't you going to speak to me?" and tears began to gather in the child's eyes. again constance started, and her frame trembled, as her eyes rested on dorothy. she raised her hands slowly and covered her face. again she removed her hands and muttered: "it's a spectre--a thing unreal which haunts me. leave me. pity me, oh, pity me, shade of my darling! you pain me! you make my heart ache! go, go!" dorothy wept, and turning to virginia, said: "mama won't kiss me, nor speak to me," and the heartbroken child buried her head sobbing in the folds of virginia's dress. constance pressed her hand over her heart and muttered: "oh, john, i have been faithful to you, yet you doubted me--spurned me on that dreadful night i found dorothy! she is gone from me now--gone, gone, gone!" and she bent forward, covering her face with her hands, and sobbed bitterly. "thank heaven!" exclaimed virginia, "reason's floodgates have opened at last." sam again turned away to wipe his eyes, saying, "i cannot think what makes my eyes so sore." and john thorpe exclaimed, with trembling lips, "my god, have mercy! i cannot bear this!" and he, too, turned as though to walk away. mr. harris held up a warning finger for him to stay. "my poor mama!" and dorothy again went close to her, comprehending in her childish way that her mother was sorely distressed. the sound of the child's voice caught constance's attention. she lifted her head and fixed her eyes on dorothy. then she fell forward on her knees, stretched out her hands and murmured: "not gone, still here!" she touched the child's hands and uttered a low cry, continuing in quavering accents of fear, of hope, of joy: "solid flesh; warm, pulsating life!" and she gently clasped the child's face between her two hands. "you cannot be a phantom! in the name of heaven, speak!" "indeed, mama, i am your own dorothy. aren't you going to kiss me?" and the child again entwined her arms about her mother's neck and looked into her eyes with a wistful appeal. "dorothy, my darling dorothy, alive!" it was a moment of absorbing interest. for an instant she held the child at arms' length, with eyes devouring her lineaments. then in a rapture of joy and thanksgiving she folded dorothy to her heart and kissed her again and again. "oh, heaven, i thank thee!" were the only words she could utter, as she strained the little form tighter to her heart. and as she looked upward, and the mist cleared from her eyes, she saw john bending toward her--saw him lift his arms and outstretch them to her--saw his lips part, and heard him say, as though his heart were in his mouth, "constance, forgive me!" oh, such sweet relief! her gaze was steadfast for an instant, then arising to her feet, she fell on his breast and clasped her arms about his neck and sobbed, "john! my own dear john! i've had such a horrid dream!" he folded his arms about her and pressed her very close to his breast, and as his lips tremulously touched her forehead, said with heartfelt fervor: "god grant that we may never part again. no, nevermore, my darling constance." "thank heaven, she was only delirious!" fervently exclaimed mr. harris. "i guess so, eh, aunty?" and sam, with a look of immense satisfaction, suddenly threw his arms about virginia and gave her a tremendous hug, and to his inexpressible joy and amazement she reciprocated his caress. "noble sam, my hero, you have won my heart at last!" her words were of tremendous meaning to sam. his joy knew no bounds. he looked over to his aunt, amazement, intense satisfaction and admiration sparkling in his eyes. "at last, eh, aunty!" and then his lips touched virginia's in a kiss of undying fidelity. chapter xxiv. the exposure and wet garments, which constance had worn during the most critical period of her delirium, had the customary effect. she had been quickly ushered into the house, the wet clothes removed, her limbs and feet chafed by tender hands, and under the influence of a stimulant, and warmly wrapped and in bed, the poor, worn, exhausted soul soon fell asleep. she awoke six hours later in a raging fever. the doctor had anticipated that something of the kind would happen, and was in the house at the time of her awakening. in so fragile a constitution, weakened by grief and trouble, it was not strange that the fever made prodigious headway, and swiftly reached its height. the crisis arrived several hours after the attack. she lay very still, apparently on the confines of death. the most profound stillness pervaded the room. the doctor, watch in hand, held her wrist and noted her pulse. its beat was so feeble that only his experienced fingers could detect it at all. john thorpe stood at the side of the bed opposite the doctor, bending over and watching her half open lips with an intensity of anxiety impossible to describe. beside him stood dorothy, with tears trickling down her face, for the child, though too young to comprehend its meaning, was affected by the solemnity of the scene, and by her aunt's quiet grief. virginia was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her face buried in her hands, in an endeavor to stifle her sobs, while mrs. harris looked ruefully out of the window. several times the doctor moved only to place his ear close to constance's heart, and again he would place his hand there and press gently. now and again he moistened her lips with a piece of ice and cooled the damp cloth on her hot brow. at a moment when least expected, she moaned and then her chest heaved with a light breath. quietly she opened her eyes and looked slowly around. there, before her, stood john and dorothy. her eyes rested on them. she recognized them and smiled faintly and said feebly, scarcely above a whisper, "dorothy, darling, and john!" "safe," announced the doctor, and his face, beaming with confidence, carried joy to the little group of anxious watchers. chapter xxv. one day, shortly after constance had started on the road to recovery, and before she had been removed from "rosemont" to her home, virginia, hazel and sam were grouped on the piazza discussing in low tones the probable sentence of rutley and jack shore. sam held the morning paper in his hand, which he casually perused. virginia was particularly happy and vivacious, and indeed, had she not reason in the reconciliation of john thorpe and constance; the rescue of dorothy; the recovery by constance of her reason, so threatening and dire in its flight, and the passing of that awful consuming fever that had seized upon the frail mind and body of constance--was productive of such devout and fervent gladness that she felt at peace with the world. even that old bitterness, so virulent and overpowering toward corway, had gone out from her heart completely, and as she pondered on his sudden disappearance, the thought that he may have come to a violent death caused tears to spring into her beautiful eyes. it was a mute but an inexpressibly sad testimony to the final closing of love's first dream. at that moment sam exclaimed, "well, what do you think of this?" and then he looked over the paper and grinned at hazel knowingly. the girl stood his stare for a moment, then impatiently said, "why don't you read it?" and sam read: "the item is headed, 'a bottle picked up at sea. as the bar tug hercules was cruising beyond the bar, farther out than usual, last tuesday, captain patterson espied a bottle bobbing about in the wash of a swell and picked it up. on being opened, it was found to contain a sealed message to a young portland woman, with instructions for the finder please to deliver at once. "'the bottle had been cast overboard september th, from the british bark lochlobin, two days out, bound for sydney.'" expressions of wonder and speculation from the young ladies were scarcely ended when a messenger boy was seen approaching. at the foot of the piazza steps he produced two letters and, tipping his cap to the group above, enquired for miss hazel brooke. yes--a message from the deep. he delivered one of the letters which he held in his hand to hazel, and then said: "the other letter is for miss virginia thorpe," which the housekeeper at mr. thorpe's home, where he had first enquired for miss brooke, had asked him to deliver at rosemont, too. the boy touched his cap respectfully and left. sam accompanied him a short distance, and slipped a gold piece into his hand. the boy thanked him, and took his departure whistling. meanwhile hazel opened the letter, and her eyes raced over the contents; then she fairly danced with joy. "oh, such good news, virginia!" she exclaimed, without taking her eyes from the letter. "it's from joe. poor joe! he was sandbagged or shanghaied, whatever that is, but he is well now, on a ship bound for australia, and will be home in about three months." but the glad message to one fell on the unreceptive ears of the other. virginia had also opened the letter addressed to her. she had noted the bold letters and familiar writing, glanced at the postmark, and noted its date; dated at portland over two weeks past; but, undeterred save by a slight fluttering at her heart, she read: "dear virginia: for some time past; in fact, since our hasty engagement, i have been searching the depths of my heart, to see if my love for you is genuine, and i am sorry to say that i have found the love i had rashly expressed is not deeply felt, and in spite of all my determination to think only of you, my heart would stray to another. "dear virginia, i implore you to consider me a trifler, quite unworthy of the exalted love that is in your noble nature to bestow; and i beg of you to release me from our engagement, which, if insisted on being maintained, must result in a life of unhappiness for us both. let us be to each other as brother and sister, and i shall ever bless you and pray for you. "joseph corway." she did not tear the letter to shreds, nor stamp it under her feet. she stood with it in her hand, which slowly fell down by her side, while a look of sadness and of reminiscence stole into her eyes. and she commenced to experience, too, the greatest difficulty in restraining a dewy profuseness that would arise and cloud her sight. she had thought that her heart was steeled against any expression of tenderness for him that might assail it, but she discovered that she was still a young girl with a girl's emotions, impossible of subjection. an overpowering desire to be alone until she could master her emotion and clear away the mist from her eyes caused her to descend the steps. the sense of motion steadied her, and it enabled her to think and to say unconsciously, half aloud to herself, "if father had burst his cerements and arisen from his grave to tell me this, i should have refused to believe him," and with the thought of what constance had suffered, a moan unconsciously escaped her. here, then, was the key to virginia's transformation. this delayed letter--cruel, it was true--was addressed to her at the farm three days before her sudden return home, and had as slowly followed her, for rural postal facilities were at that time dependent on the farmer going to town for his mail. hazel heard the moan, and looked up from the note which she had read and re-read, and kissed time and again. she saw virginia in apparent pain, and at once flew down the steps, crying, "oh, virginia, dear! what has caused you so much grief?" and she sought to caress her. but virginia, with an effort subduing her emotions, drew away, answering, "nothing, dear, nothing; it's all past, all gone now!" sam came up just then. he cast a swift glance at her distressed face, and then to the letter which she held in her hand, and surmised that it had to do with her trouble. his first thought was, "damn that messenger boy!" he, however, made no attempt to break in on her mood. virginia returned his look almost defiantly at first, as though his questioning glance was rude, but the little cloud quickly vanished, when hazel said, "something serious, dear? won't you let me share your trouble?" "oh, no! it's all past, all gone," she answered firmly. "i'm quite strong now, and to prove it, we will have a little bonfire. sam, have you a light?" quietly sam produced a match-box from his pocket, took a match, lighted it and handed it over. virginia applied the fire to the letter. as it burned down to the last bit, which she dropped from her hand, and disappeared in smoke, she looked up and as her eyes fell on the transcendently beautiful autumn vista, and then rested on sam's strong and at that moment deeply apprehensive face, there gradually came into them a steadfast look of admiration and loyalty. sam caught the wondrous expression. he stepped forward, his arms opened, and she fell on his shoulder, her arms about his neck. "will it ever return, darling?" he said soothingly. "never again, sam," and as she turned her face up to him their lips met in a seal of absolute trust and affection. chapter xxvi. philip rutley and jack shore were duly arraigned for abduction and felony, tried and convicted on both counts, and each was sentenced to a maximum penalty of twenty years in the state penitentiary at salem. even then rutley's penchant for conspiracy asserted itself. one afternoon, just four months after the prison doors closed on them, the inner corridor guard was killed, a second overpowered and knocked unconscious. so swiftly and silently was the work done that before discovery six convicts had escaped to the outer court. there, however, on a general alarm being sounded, three of them were shot down from the walls. the others surrendered. one of the convicts who was shot and died almost instantly was philip rutley. when last heard of, jack shore was still serving his time in an industrial department, devoting his talents to the manufacture of stoves, and reducing his sentence by good behavior. the first act of mr. thorpe after his happiness had been restored was to recognize substantially smith's invaluable service to the family. sufficient to say that smith was presented with a ticket good for one first-class passage to the "emerald isle" and return, and in addition to his four months' vacation on full pay, a goodly sum in cash for incidental expenses. that smith appreciated mr. thorpe's generosity, is begging the question. on arrival in the old country, he found conditions had changed since he left there thirty years ago. the old haunts of his boyhood days had been transformed. the old folks had long since departed this life--"god rest their souls!" his friends and acquaintances had disappeared from the county or were no more--strange faces everywhere--all had changed save the old parish church; that alone remained undefined by the ravages of time. "and now, my duty done, oi'll go back to america." on taking his farewell, sad and impressive thoughts occupied his mind. "shall i niver see the ould sod again, the dear ould land that gave me birth, the grain ave its hills, and the dear little shamrock--long life to it." and as a mist gathered in his eyes, he reverently knelt, lower he bent, till his lips touched the grassy ground, which he lovingly kissed. "farewell, an' may it plaise god to bring yees from the gloom ave tribulation into the sunshine ave happiness and prosperity. farewell, dear ould erin, my heart'll be wid ye always." the end. about the book: title: an oregon girl subtitle: a tale of american life in the new west author: alfred ernest rice illustrator: colista m. dowling original publisher: glass & prudhomme co., portland, oregon, original copyright: , by alfred ernest rice transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies have been retained. _the_ shirley letters _other_ reprints _issued_ california. _a_ history _of_ upper & lower california _from their_ first discovery _to the_ present time [ ]. comprising an account of the climate, soil, natural productions, agriculture, commerce, &c. a full view of the missionary establishments, and condition of the free and domesticated indians. with an appendix relating to steam-navigation in the pacific. illustrated with a new map, plans of the harbors, and numerous engravings. by alexander forbes, esq. reprinted, page for page, and approximately line for line, from the original edition published by smith, elder, & co., london, , and to which is added a new index. _price_ $ , _net_. voyage _of the_ sonora _in the_ second bucareli expedition _to_ explore _the_ northwest coast, survey _the_ port _of_ san francisco, _and_ found franciscan missions _and a_ presidio _and_ pueblo _at that_ port. the journal kept in on the sonora by don francisco mourelle, the second pilot of the fleet constituting the sea division of the expedition. translated by the hon. daines barrington from the original spanish manuscript. reprinted line for line and page for page from barrington's miscellanies, published in london in . with concise notes showing the voyages of the earliest explorers on the coast, the sea and land expeditions of gÁlvez and of bucareli for the settlement of california and for founding missions, and many other interesting notes, as well as an entirely new index to both the journal and the notes, by thomas c. russell. together with a reproduction of the de la bodega spanish carta general (map), showing the spanish discoveries on the coast up to , and also a portrait of barrington. _price_ $ , _net_. narrative of edward mcgowan. _including a full account of the author's_ adventures _and_ perils _while persecuted by the_ san francisco vigilance committee _of_ . together with a report of his trial, which resulted in his acquittal. reprinted, line for line and page for page, from the original edition published by the author in , complete, with reproductions, in facsimile, of the original illustrations, cover-page title, and title-page. _price_ $ , _net_. _these works are printed in limited editions. copies are numbered and signed. the typesetting is all done by hand, and the type distributed immediately upon completion of presswork. the printing, in all its details, is the personal work of_ thomas c. russell, _at nineteenth avenue, san francisco, california. descriptive circulars sent free, upon request_. _this book_ _is one of an edition of four hundred and fifty ( ) numbered and signed copies, the impressions being taken upon hand-set type, which was distributed upon completion of the presswork. in two hundred ( ) copies exeter book-paper is used, leaf-size being - / x - / inches; in two hundred ( ) copies, buff california bond-paper, - / x - / ; in fifty ( ) copies, thin buff california bond-paper, x ._ this copy _is no._ _california bond-paper_. (_signed_) thomas c. russell _the_ shirley letters _from_ california _mines_ _in_ - _being a_ series _of_ twenty-three letters _from_ dame shirley (mrs. louise amelia knapp smith clappe) _to her_ sister _in_ massachusetts _and now_ reprinted _from the_ pioneer magazine _of_ - with synopses _of the_ letters, _a_ foreword, _and_ many typographical _and other_ corrections _and_ emendations, _by_ thomas c. russell _together with_ "_an_ appreciation" _by_ mrs. m. v. t. lawrence illustrated san francisco printed _by_ thomas c. russell, _at his_ private press nineteenth avenue copyright, by thomas c. russell all rights reserved printed in the united states of america _the_ printer's foreword _to this_ edition i speak to the reader; let the writer listen oriental proverb (_adapted_) california, by dr. josiah royce, in the handsome as well as handy american commonwealths series, is commonly regarded as the best short history of california ever written, and particularly so as to the early mining era. dr. royce knew his state, and a more competent writer could hardly have been selected. reviewing, in his history, almost everything accessible, worthy of consideration, in connection with mining-camps, it is noteworthy that the doctor has much to say concerning the shirley letters. thus (p. ),-- fortune has preserved to us from the pen of a very intelligent woman, who writes under an assumed name, a marvelously skillful and undoubtedly truthful history of a mining community during a brief period, first of cheerful prosperity, and then of decay and disorder. the wife of a physician, and herself a well-educated new england woman, "dame shirley," as she chooses to call herself, was the right kind of witness to describe for us the social life of a mining camp from actual experience. this she did in the form of letters written on the spot to her own sister, and collected for publication some two or three years later. once for all, allowing for the artistic defects inevitable in a disconnected series of private letters, these "shirley" letters form the best account of an early mining camp that is known to me. for our real insight into the mining life as it was, they are, of course, infinitely more helpful to us than the perverse romanticism of a thousand such tales as mr. bret harte's, tales that, as the world knows, were not the result of any personal experience of really primitive conditions. and in a foot-note on page the doctor says, in part,-- she is quite unconscious of the far-reaching moral and social significance of much that she describes. many of the incidents introduced are such as imagination could of itself never suggest, in such an order and connection. there is no mark of any conscious seeking for dramatic effect. the moods that the writer expresses indicate no remote purpose, but are the simple embodiment of the thoughts of a sensitive mind, interested deeply in the wealth of new experiences. the letters are charmingly unsentimental; the style is sometimes a little stiff and provincial, but is on the whole very readable. no typographical or other changes are made in printing these extracts from dr. royce's history, and as typographical style is involved in noticing further the doctor's review of the shirley letters, it is proper to say here that his volume was printed at the riverside press, cambridge, massachusetts,--a press that, in the words of a writer on matters of typographical style, "maintained the reputation of being one of the three or four most painstaking establishments in the world." such places are few and far between, unlike the "book and job printing establishments" that, like the poor, are always with us, and where no _book_ was ever printed. after having so fittingly introduced shirley to his readers, it is unfortunate that the doctor is not always accurate in his citation of the facts as printed in the letters. thus on page of his history, he says that the wife of the landlord of the empire hotel at rich bar was "yellow-complexioned and care-worn." she does not appear to have been a care-worn person. shirley says of her (post, p. ),-- mrs. b. is a gentle and amiable looking woman, about twenty-five years of age. she is an example of the terrible wear and tear to the complexion in crossing the plains, hers having become, through exposure at that time, of a dark and permanent yellow, anything but becoming. i will give you a key to her character, which will exhibit it better than weeks of description. she took a nursing babe, eight months old, from her bosom, and left it with two other children, almost infants, to cross the plains in search of gold! the doctor says, "the woman cooked for all the boarders herself," and in the preceding sentence states, "the baby, six months old, kicked and cried in a champagne-basket cradle." shirley does not use the word "boarders." the baby was only two weeks old. with the details of the birth of this baby omitted, shirley's account of these matters is (p. , post),-- when i arrived she was cooking supper for some half a dozen people, while her really pretty boy, who lay kicking furiously in his champagne-basket cradle, and screaming with a six-months-old-baby power, had, that day, completed just two weeks of his earthly pilgrimage.... he is an astonishingly large and strong child, holds his head up like a six-monther, and has but one failing,--a too evident and officious desire to inform everybody, far and near, at all hours of the night and day, that his lungs are in a perfectly sound and healthy condition. dr. royce (p. ) tells of the funeral of one of the four women residing at rich bar at the time of shirley's arrival, which was only a few days prior to the death, and they had not met. the funeral service was held at the log-cabin residence, which had "one large opening in the wall to admit light." the "large opening" was not, in the first intention, to admit light. shirley says (post, p. ),-- it has no window, all the light admitted entering through an aperture where there _will_ be a door when it becomes cold enough for such a luxury. describing the service, the doctor says, in part,-- after a long and wandering impromptu prayer by somebody, a prayer which "shirley" found disagreeable (since she herself was a churchwoman, and missed the burial service), the procession, containing twenty men and three women, set out. shirley was not, at that time, a churchwoman, and her account of the prayer, etc., is,-- about twenty men, with the three women of the place, had assembled at the funeral. an extempore prayer was made, filled with all the peculiarities usual to that style of petition. ah, how different from the soothing verses of the glorious burial service of the church! it may not be inappropriate here to note that the baby referred to in the two immediately preceding pages is none other than the original of the luck in bret harte's luck of roaring camp. how the funeral scene as described by shirley was adapted by this master of short-story writing, and how skillfully he combined it with the birth of the luck, may be perceived in the two paragraphs following. [shirley, post, p. .] on a board, supported by two butter-tubs, was extended the body of the dead woman, covered with a sheet. by its side stood the coffin, of unstained pine, lined with white cambric. [the luck of roaring camp, overland, vol. i, p. .] beside the low bunk or shelf, on which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined below the blankets, stood a pine table. on this a candle-box was placed, and within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last arrival at roaring camp. bancroft (history of california, vol. vii, p. ), speaking of early california literature, says,-- mining life in california furnished inexhaustible material;... and almost every book produced in the golden era gave specimens more or less entertaining of the wit and humor developed by the struggle with homelessness, physical suffering, and mental gloom. and when, perchance, a writer had never heard original tales of the kind he felt himself expected to relate, he took them at second-hand.... even the most powerful of bret harte's stories borrowed their incidents from the letters of mrs. laura a. k. clapp, who under the nom de plume of 'shirley,' wrote a series of letters published in the _pioneer magazine_, - . the 'luck of roaring camp' was suggested by incidents related in letter ii., p. - of vol. i. of the _pioneer_. in letter xix., p. - of vol. iv., is the suggestion of the 'outcasts of poker flat.' mrs. clapp's simple epistolary style narrates the facts, and harte's exquisite style imparts to them the glamour of imagination. the temptation cannot be resisted, at this point, to pursue the history of the luck of roaring camp a little further. the reader will kindly remember that no changes are made in printing extracts. mr. t. edgar pemberton, in his bret harte: a treatise and a tribute (london, ), says, in referring to criticism of the story when it was first in type,-- mr. noah brooks has recorded this strange incident as follows:-- 'perhaps i may be pardoned,' he says, 'for a brief reference to an odd complication that arose while _the luck of roaring camp_ was being put into type in the printing office where _the overland monthly_ was prepared for publication. a young lady who served as proof-reader in the establishment had been somewhat shocked by the scant morals of the mother of luck, and when she came to the scene where kentuck, after reverently fondling the infant, said, "he wrastled with my finger, the d----d little cuss," the indignant proof-reader was ready to throw up her engagement rather than go any further with a story so wicked and immoral. there was consternation throughout the establishment, and the head of the concern went to the office of the publisher with the virginal proof-reader's protest. unluckily, mr. roman was absent from the city. harte, when notified of the obstacle raised in the way of _the luck of roaring camp_, manfully insisted that the story must be printed as he wrote it, or not at all. mr. roman's _locum tenens_ in despair brought the objectionable manuscript around to my office and asked my advice. when i had read the sentence that had caused all this turmoil, having first listened to the tale of the much-bothered temporary publisher, i surprised him by a burst of laughter. it seemed to me incredible that such a tempest in a tea-cup could have been raised by harte's bit of character sketching. but, recovering my gravity, i advised that the whole question should await mr. roman's return. i was sure that he would never consent to any "editing" of harte's story. this was agreed to, and when the publisher came back, a few days later, the embargo was removed. _the luck of roaring camp_ was printed as it was written, and printing office and vestal proof-reader survived the shock.' it is amazing to think that, but for the determination and self-confidence of quite a young author, a story that has gladdened and softened the hearts of thousands,--a story that has drawn welcome smiles and purifying tears from all who can appreciate its deftly-mingled humour and pathos,--a story that has been a boon to humanity--might have been sacrificed to the shallow ruling of a prudish 'young-lady' proof-reader, and a narrow-minded, pharisaical deacon-printer! it is appalling to think what might have happened if through nervousness or modesty the writer had been frightened by the premature criticisms of this precious pair. the "deacon-printer" mentioned by pemberton was jacob bacon, a fine specimen of the printer of the latter half of the last century. he was the junior partner of the firm of towne and bacon, the printers of harte's _first_ volume, the lost galleon. mr. towne (not _tane_, as spelled in merwin's life of bret harte) obtained judgment in boston for the printing of that volume. (see further, mrs. t. b. aldrich's crowding memories, as to satisfaction of judgment.) a half-tone portrait of the "prudish 'young-lady' proof-reader" (what a lacerating taunt!) is printed in the bret harte memorial number of the overland (september, ). the proof-readers have not dealt kindly with the luck of roaring camp; but the first of that ilk to mutilate the story was also the worst, to wit, the aforesaid "prudish 'young-lady' proof-reader." good usage in typography was utterly unknown to this young lady,--punctuation, capitalization, the use of the hyphen in dividing and compounding words. in practice she did not--perhaps could not--recognize any distinction between a cipher and a lower-case _o_. as to spelling, one may find "etherial," "azalias," "tessallated." noah brooks, in the overland memorial number, says (p. ),-- he [bret harte] collected some half-dozen stories and poems and they were printed in a volume entitled "the luck of roaring camp and other sketches," ( .) there were no poems printed in that volume. it was published in boston by fields, osgood, & co. printed at the university press at cambridge, then unquestionably the best book-printing house in the united states, of course many of the typographical errors were weeded out. this volume was reprinted in london by john camden hotten. it is to be regretted that the university press was not more painstaking in the proof-reading, for the overland typographical perversions persist in some instances to the present day. the reader is not misled by the lubbering punctuation of the sentence, "she was a coarse, and, it is to be feared, a very sinful woman." the usage in such a construction is, "she was a coarse, and it is to be feared a very sinful, woman." but note where the sense is affected:-- cherokee sal was sinking fast. within an hour she had climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stars, and so passed out of roaring camp, its sin and shame forever. cherokee sal could not possibly be the sin and shame of roaring camp forever; hence the sense calls for a comma after "shame," in the extract. it is gratifying to note that the comma is used in the hotten reprint. another egregious blunder which has persisted is the printing of the word "past" for "passed," in the extract below. then he [kentuck] walked up the gulch, past the cabin, still whistling with demonstrative unconcern. at a large redwood tree he paused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. it remained for a proof-reader at the riverside press to reconstruct the sentence by deleting the comma after the word "gulch"; thus, "the gulch past the cabin." that kentuck "again passed the cabin" seems not to have been considered. hence, in the houghton mifflin company's printings of the luck of roaring camp, the last error is worse than the first. these errors are not venial. those that are such have not been mentioned, as they occur in almost every book, and appear to be unavoidable. other errors, evincing a lack of knowledge of good usage in book-typography, must also pass unnoticed. the luck of roaring camp having been disposed of, consideration of dr. royce's review of the shirley letters will be resumed. the doctor, on page of his work, says, "in her little library she had a bible, a prayer-book, shakespeare, and lowell's 'fable for the critics,' with two or three other books." shirley (p. , post) says she had a-- bible and prayer-book, shakespeare, spenser, coleridge, shelley, keats, lowell's fable for critics, walton's complete angler, and some spanish books. the poet spenser's name was spelled with a _c_ in the pioneer, but the article "the" was not used before "critics," as in the extract from royce,--an unpardonable error in a book printed in cambridge, and at the riverside press too. the spanish books mentioned by shirley were evidently not neglected by her, and her acquaintance with and friendship for the spanish-speaking population scattered along the banks of the río de las plumas must have made her very familiar with their tongue. in reading these letters one cannot fail to perceive how fittingly spanish words and phrases are interwoven with her own english. at the time these letters were written, many spanish words were a part of the california vernacular, but to shirley belongs the honor of introducing them into the literature of california; hence, in printing the letters, such words are not italicized, as they usually are, by printers who should know better. dr. royce also says on page , "prominent in the society of the bar was a trapper, of the old frémont party, who told blood-curdling tales of indian fights." (see post, p. .) it is singular that the doctor has failed to identify this trapper with the well-known james p. beckwourth, whose life and adventures (harpers, new york, ) was written from his own dictation by thomas d. bonner, a justice of the peace in butte county in . his name is preserved in "beckwourth pass." he first entered this pass probably in the spring of the year , although is the year given in his life. the western pacific railroad utilizes the pass for its tracks entering california, and through it came the pioneers of whom shirley has much to say in letter the twenty-second. among punishments for thefts, the doctor, on page , speaks of a "decidedly barbarous case of hanging" for that offense. it is referred to here for the reason that in the sequel of the hanging bret harte found more than a suggestion for his finale of the outcasts of poker flat. both are reprinted here for the purpose of comparison. shirley says (post, p. ),-- the body of the criminal was allowed to hang for some hours after the execution. it had commenced storming in the earlier part of the evening, and when those whose business it was to inter the remains arrived at the spot, they found them enwrapped in a soft white shroud of feathery snowflakes, as if pitying nature had tried to hide from the offended face of heaven the cruel deed which her mountain-children had committed. the finale of the outcasts of poker flat follows, in part, with no other changes than those of punctuation and capitalization. they slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken when voices and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. and when pitying fingers brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told, from the equal peace that dwelt upon them, which was she that had sinned. even the law of poker flat recognized this, and turned away, leaving them still locked in each other's arms. but at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine-trees, they found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with a bowie-knife.... and pulseless and cold, with a derringer by his side and a bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay he who was at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of poker flat. the phrase, "though still calm as in life," in the last sentence of the extract immediately preceding, is one that would seem to invite the challenge of a proof-reader. it is passed without further notice. dr. royce is not at his best in reviewing letter the nineteenth. the suggestion for the outcasts of poker flat was found therein by bret harte, as previously noted. on page the doctor says,-- a "majestic-looking spaniard" had quarreled with an irishman about a mexican girl ("shirley" for the first time, i think, thus showing a knowledge of the presence at indian bar of those women who seem, in the bright and orderly days of her first arrival, to have been actually unknown in the camp). the mexican, having at last stabbed and killed the other, fled to the hills. it does not appear from the letter that a girl of any kind was involved in this stabbing and death. shirley distinguishes between the spaniard and the mexican; the doctor does not. as to the presence of "those women," shirley, without commenting, sheds much light upon that subject, as will be perceived from the following extracts. dr. royce's review does not coincide with the facts. seven miners from old spain, enraged at the cruel treatment which their countrymen had received on the fourth,... had united for the purpose of taking revenge on seven americans. all well armed,... intending to challenge each one his man,... on arriving at indian bar ... they drank a most enormous quantity of champagne and claret. afterwards they proceeded to [a vile resort kept by an englishman], when one of them commenced a playful conversation with one of his countrywomen. this enraged the englishman, who instantly struck the spaniard a violent blow.... thereupon ensued a spirited fight, which ... ended without bloodshed.... soon after,... tom somers, who is said always to have been a dangerous person when in liquor, without any apparent provocation struck domingo (one of the original seven) a violent blow.... the latter,... mad with wine, rage, and revenge, without an instant's pause drew his knife and inflicted a fatal wound upon his insulter. [post, p. .] in the bakeshop, which stands next door to our cabin, young tom somers lay straightened for the grave (he lived but fifteen minutes after he was wounded), while over his dead body a spanish woman was weeping and moaning in the most piteous and heartrending manner. [post, p. .] domingo, with a mexicana hanging upon his arm, and brandishing threateningly the long, bloody knife,... was parading up and down the street unmolested.... the [americans] rallied and made a rush at the murderer, who immediately plunged into the river and swam across,... and without doubt is now safe in mexico. [post, p. .] a disregard of exactness is not peculiar to dr. royce. secondary authorities are generally open to criticism. of the authenticity of shirley's facts there can be no question. dr. royce recognized this, while subjecting the work of other writers to severe scrutiny. but shirley's printer did her much evil. it is not necessary here to say much concerning trade usages in making an author's manuscript presentable in type,--the essentially different ways of and differences between the job, the newspaper, and the book printer. shirley's letters, not having been written for publication, required exceptional care while being put in type, and especially so since the manuscript was not prepared for the press. it is amusing to read what the printers of the pioneer have to say of themselves. our facilities for doing fine book work, are very great, possessing as we do, large founts of new type, and an adams power press. we refer to the pioneer magazine, as a specimen. we have in use a mammoth press, which gives us a great advantage in the execution of the largest size mammoth posters, in colors or plain. in the estimation of the printers, the matériel was the principal thing; the personnel, not worthy of mention,--and it so happened that it wasn't, for, judging from the typographical inaccuracies of the pioneer, the compositors were of a very low order of intelligence, and if a proof-reader was employed, he assuredly stood high in their estimation, as he evidently caused them but little trouble. much has been said by writers on matters typographical as to what is meet and necessary in the reprinting of a book, and much more on literary blunders and mistakes. some printers are rash, and perpetrate a worse blunder than that attempted to be corrected in reprinting. worse than such people are the amateur proof-readers, who generally run to extremes, that is, they either cannot see a blunder, and hence pass it unchallenged, or else they manifest a disposition to challenge and "improve" everything they do not comprehend, and, knowing nothing of typographical usages or style, they are a decidedly malignant quantity. every old printer knows, what is often said, that english is a grammarless tongue, and that no grammarian ever wrote a sentence worth reading. no proof-reader, with the experience of a printer behind him, will change a logically expressed idea so as to make it conform to grammatical rules, nor will he harass the author thereof with suggestions looking to that end. critical readers of these letters must ever bear in mind the fact that shirley was not writing for publication, and that the printer of this edition had no desire to and did not alter shirley's text to suit his ideas of what was fitting and proper, further than to smooth or round out in many instances rugged or careless construction. punctuation, hyphenization, capitalization, italicizing, spelling, required much, and of course received much, attention. in some instances where shirley does not express her meaning clearly, and reconstruction seemed necessary, no change was made. singularly, this was the case in the first sentence of the first letter. i can easily imagine, dear m., the look of large wonder which gleams from your astonished eyes when they fall upon the date of this letter. m. could be astonished but once, but the language used conveys the idea of wonder arising each time the letter is read; then, again, it is the place-name, and not the date, that is to cause wonder to gleam from astonished eyes, as the context shows. where reconstruction was not needed to make the meaning clear, and this could be done by the insertion of a word or phrase, or by some other simple emendation, changes were generally made. the extract (post, p. ) following is printed just as it appeared in the pioneer. as a frame to the graceful picture, on one side rose the buttes, that group of hills so piquant and saucy; and on the other tossing to heaven the everlasting whiteness of their snow wreathed foreheads, stood, sublime in their very monotony, the glorious sierra nevada. besides changes in capitalization and punctuation, the words, "the summits of," are inserted before "the glorious sierra." compare bret harte's lines,-- above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, the river sang below; the dim sierras, far beyond, uplifting their minarets of snow. by the word "sierras" the mountain-range called the sierra nevada is not meant, but merely teeth-like summits thereof, which uplift their snow-clad peaks, or "minarets." the spanish word "sierra" means, in english, a saw, and also a ridge of mountains and craggy rocks. "nevada" means here, in connection with "sierra," snowy. thus, "the snowy ridge of mountains and craggy rocks," or, to express the meaning more clearly in english, the snowy serrated mountain-range. bret harte's capitalization of "sierras" may be safely challenged. the lines are from his poem, dickens in camp. the buttes mentioned by shirley are the marysville buttes. "butte" is french, and descriptive, and french trappers bestowed the name. shirley sometimes uses an adverb instead of an adjective. thus on page , speaking of a tame frog on the bar at a rancho, she says,-- you cannot think how comically [comic] it looked hopping about the bar, quite as much at home as a tame squirrel would have been. an old san francisco printer once heard a newspaperman say that this little incident furnished the suggestion to mark twain for his jumping frog of calaveras, but, unfortunately, regarded the remark as of no more importance than much other gossip current among printers and newspapermen. shirley, like many another writer, used marks of quotation improperly, when the language of the author cited was altered or adapted. worse than this are many instances of gross misquotation. in the former case, the quotation-marks were deleted; in the latter, accuracy was the aim. on page quotation-marks are deleted, the language used being adapted, thus, "clothe themselves with curses as with a garment." compare psalms cix, , "he clothed himself with cursing like as with his garment." on page a correction is made; thus, "as thy day is, so shall thy strength be" (deut. xxxiii, ). in the letters this read, "as thy days, so," etc. on page quotation-marks are deleted, as the language used is adapted, and in a strict sense is also inaccurate; thus, "the _woman_ tempted me, and i did eat." compare genesis iii, , . . and the man said, the woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and _i_ did eat. . and the lord god said unto the woman, what is this that thou hast done? and the woman said, the serpent beguiled me, and i did eat. blunders and mistakes of all sorts might be set out, but it is not deemed advisable to pursue this matter any further. it is, however, necessary to say something further of the pioneer itself, and the paper-cover title of the may, , number is reprinted here, with an outline drawing of the crude woodcut vignette printed in the original. it was impossible to secure a satisfactory facsimile of the title. the names of some of the agents of the magazine are of historical interest. _the_ pioneer _or_ california monthly magazine [illustration] _may, _ san francisco published _by_ le count & strong nos. & montgomery street _for_ sale _at all the_ bookstores _in the_ city agents j. w. jones, benicia; chas. binney, sacramento; r. a. eddy & co., marysville; geo. vincent & co., coloma; langton & bro., downieville; a. roman, shasta; roman & parker, yreka; nash & davis, placerville; adams & co., jackson; adams & co., georgetown; adams & co., mud springs; c. o. burton, stockton; cannaday & cook, sonora; a. a. hunnewell, columbia; j. coffin, mokelumne hill; miller & co., chinese camp; elliott reed, san josé; alexander s. taylor, monterey; r. k. sweetland, volcano; langton & bro., sierra county; dr. steinberger, agent adams & co., oregon; henry m. whitney, honolulu, s.i. monson & valentine, printers, sacramento street but few copies of the pioneer are known to be in existence. odd numbers are sometimes found, but these are generally in a mutilated condition, while the bound volumes lack the advertisements. the first number was issued in january, , and the last in december, . the first letter of the shirley series appeared in the initial number, and the last one in the final issue. the magazine seems to have been well received in the east, and the eastern magazines reviewed it very favorably. of shirley herself it is not necessary to say much in this foreword. she was a typical massachusetts girl, although born in new jersey, the residence of the family in the latter state being merely temporary, as is clearly shown by her correspondence. a letter from miss katherine powell, librarian of the amherst town library, sheds some light on the early associations of shirley. in part, she says,-- in spite of widespread inquiries, i have been able to get ... [but little] concerning louise amelia knapp smith. there are no people now living here who knew her even by hearsay. the records of amherst academy show that she attended that institution in and .... miss smith's name adds another to the long list of writers who have lived here at one time or another, and amherst academy has added many names to that list. two of them--emily dickinson the poet, and emily fowler ford--were schoolmates of miss smith. mrs. ford was the granddaughter of noah webster (an amherst man [one of the founders of amherst college]) and daughter of professor fowler [the phrenologist], who wrote several books. eugene field was, some years later, a student of the old academy, and in his poem, my playmates, he mentioned by their real names a number of his old schoolmates. helen hunt jackson was a contemporary of miss smith here, and, although she did not attend the academy, must have been well known to her. amherst, it should be said, was the home-town of shirley's family, and to it she often fondly refers in the letters. it is not cause for wonder that she is not now remembered in amherst. her correspondence shows that the members of the family, although devotedly attached to one another, were inclined to disperse. mrs. mary viola tingley lawrence has kindly permitted the printing in this volume of a paper prepared by her to be read before a literary society, containing much that is interesting of shirley's life. mrs. lawrence is well known among the _literati_ of san francisco. she was a contributor to the old overland. what is of more interest here is the fact that she was a favorite pupil of shirley, and later her most intimate friend in california. it was from a selection of poetry gathered by mrs. lawrence that bret harte obtained the larger portion of his selection entitled "outcroppings" (san francisco, ), a title, by the way, claimed by mrs. lawrence as her own. rich bar and indian bar, in butte county at the time the shirley letters were written, are now in plumas county, consequent upon a change of the county boundary lines. there are two rich bars on the feather river, the minor one being on the middle fork, and oftentimes mistaken for the one made famous by shirley. james graham fair, one of the earliest multimillionaires of california, and united states senator from nevada, panned out his first sackful of gold at rich bar, and probably at the time shirley was writing her letters. many other men, whose names are familiar to californians, also delved into the earth at this historic spot, which is now, in railroad "literature," called "rich." like many another california clipped place-name, the new name has not the glamour of the old, which, in the words of shirley, was "a most taking name." in closing this foreword, the printer desires to emphasize the fact that the typesetting and presswork of this book are entirely his own work. no one acquainted with the methods employed in a legitimate book-printing house will fail to recognize the fact that it is well nigh impossible to print a _book_ without possession of the minute technical knowledge essential in each department. hence the most skillful book-printer is distrustful of himself, unless supported by experienced craftsmen, and more especially by time-tried proof-readers. for many favors extended while the letters were in press, thanks are due, and are now acknowledged, to milton j. ferguson, the librarian of the state library at sacramento, california, who was never-failing in either service or patience. dame shirley, _the_ writer _of these_ letters an appreciation being _a_ paper _prepared by_ mrs. mary viola tingley lawrence _to be read before a_ san francisco _literary society on_ mrs. louise amelia knapp smith clappe (dame shirley) the shirley letters, written in the pioneer days of and , were hailed throughout the country as the first-born of california literature. mrs. clappe, their author, was the one woman who depicted that era of romantic life, dipping her pen into a rich personal experience, and writing with a clarity and beauty born of an alert comprehensive mind and a rare sense of refinement and character. the letters had been written to a loved sister in the east, but ferdinand c. ewer, a _littérateur_ of san francisco, a close friend, fell upon them by chance, and, realizing their historic value, urged that they be published in the pioneer, of which he was editor. these shirley letters, thus published, brought the new west to the wondering east, and showed to those who had not made the venture, the courage, the fervor, the beauty, the great-heartedness, that made up life in the new el dorado. shirley's sympathetic interpretation of their tumultuous experience cheered the argonauts by throwing before their eyes the drama in which they were unconsciously the swash-buckling, the tragic, or the romantic actors, and helped to crystallize the growing love for the new land, which love turned fortune and adventure seekers into home-makers and empire-builders. this quickly recognized author became the leader of the first _salon_ the golden west ever knew, and one of the foremost influences in california's social and intellectual life, by force of a high intelligence and a heart and soul that were a noble woman's. louise amelia knapp smith clappe came to light in elizabeth, new jersey, in . her father, moses smith, was a man of high scholarly attainment, and by her mother, lois lee, she could claim an equally gifted ancestry, and a close kinship with julia ward howe. as a young girl, together with several brothers and sisters, she was left parentless, but there was a comfortable estate, and a faithful guardian, the hon. osman baker, a member of congress i believe, who saw to it that they received the very best mental and physical training. shirley was educated at amherst and charlestown, massachusetts, and at amherst was the family home. at that day the epistolary art was a finished accomplishment, and in childhood she evidenced a ready use of the quill pen. later on, she maintained correspondence with brilliant minds, who challenged her to her best. at the same time she was pursuing her english studies, to which were added french, german, and italian. she had but little time for the trivial social amenities, but her frequent missives from her relatives, the lees and wards of new york city and boston, and her enjoyable visits to their gay homes, broke the strain of mental grind, and kept her in touch with the fashionable world. her communications in the forties disclose a relation to men and women of culture, whose letters are colorful of people, places, and events, and through them we reach an intimate inside of her own self. those faded, musty-smelling epistles, with pressed flowers, from an old attic, reveal a rich kind of distinct and charming personalities. shirley, small, fair, and golden-haired, was not physically strong, and her careful guardian often ordered a change of climate. sometimes she sojourned in the south. in her migrations she might employ a carriage, or venture on a canal-boat, but usually the stage-coach carried her. it was on one of those bits of travel that she met mr. a. h. everett of massachusetts, a brother of edward everett, a noted author, and popular throughout the country as a lecturer. he had been chargé d'affaires in the netherlands, and minister to spain. an intimate relationship, chiefly by correspondence, was established between this gifted girl and this brilliant gentleman. his long letters from louisiana sometimes were written wholly in french. from washington, d.c., he writes that the mission of united states minister to a foreign court has been offered him, but it fails to tempt him away from his life of letters. however, later on, it comes about that he accepts the mission of united states commissioner to the more alluring china, and his long letters to her from there, as they had been from other foreign lands, were most entertaining. this rare man grows to be very fond of his young and brilliant correspondent, and signs himself, "yours faithfully and affectionately." but he was well on in years, and she looks upon him more as a father than as a suitor, and he so understands it. he commits himself enough to say how much it would be to him to have her near him as an attachée, and when she hints of her engagement to a young physician, he jealously begs to know every detail concerning the happy man. shirley married dr. fayette clappe, and in , with the spirit of romance and the fire of enthusiasm, the joyful young argonauts set sail for california in the good ship manilla. they found the primitive san francisco enthralling, but a fire swept away the new city, and tent-life was accepted as one of many picturesque experiences. soon, however, the doctor's shingle was again hung out. quickly buildings went up, and the little lady with golden curls to her waist went about, jostling the motley crowd of people, and finding concern in the active city front, in the gaudy shops, and in the open faro-banks with their exposed piles of nuggets and bags of gold-dust freshly dug from the earth. there was the ever-beckoning to the hills of treasure, with their extravagant stories of adventure, but the professional man was anchored in the more prosy city, and buckled down to a commonplace existence. the exhilarating ozone from the ocean, the wind blowing over the vast area of sand, the red-flannel-shirted miner recklessly dumping out sacks of gold-dust with which to pay his board-bill or to buy a pair of boots, with maybe a nugget for dr. clappe when he eased a trivial pain,--all these thrills were calls to the gold-filled mother earth. finally, dr. clappe's ill-health drove him to the feather river,--a high altitude, fifty miles from the summit of the sierra nevada, and the highest point of gold-diggings. there he soon recovered, and to her joy he wrote his wife to join him. and she had varying experiences in transit to the prospective home, which was at rich bar,--rich indeed, where a miner unearthed thirty-three pounds of gold in eight days, and others panned out fifteen hundred dollars in one wash of dirt. the sojourn at the gold-camp in the summers and winters of and , with its tremendous and varied incidents and experiences, was a compelling call to shirley's facile pen. here was her mine. out of her brain, out of her soul, out of her heart of gold, out of her wealth of understanding of and love for her fellow-men, gratefully sprang those shirley letters that have enriched the field of letters, and, reaching beyond the grasp of worldly gain, have set her enduringly in the hearts of mankind. who can tell how far-reaching and inspiring were those illuminating pages, those vividly depicted scenes enacted on the crowded stages of the golden-lined bars of the famous feather river! bret harte reads her graphic and pathetic account of the fallen woman and the desperate men being driven out of camp, and lo! we have the gripping tale of the outcasts of poker flat; and from another of her recitals came the inspiration that set him to work on that entertaining story, the luck of roaring camp. and her incidental mention of the pet frog hopping on the bar of the hotel, in the midst of a group of onlooking miners,--was it the setting for mark twain's jumping frog of calaveras? during their sojourn at rich and indian bars, shirley and her husband became rich in experience. they folded their tent and left with depleted purse, but they had righteously invested their god-bestowed talents. there they had freely given the best of themselves; they were leaving the imperishable impress of high ideals. upon their return to san francisco the couple rejoined delightful friends, and established a home. but reverses of fortune came, and shirley found it necessary to put her accomplishments to the practical purpose of gaining a livelihood. by the advice of her friend ferdinand c. ewer she entered the san francisco public school department, where for long years she taught, notably in the high schools. shirley was small in build, with a thin face and a finely shaped head. her limbs were perfect in symmetry. as a girl, doubtless she had claim to a delicate beauty. she now showed the wear and tear of her mountain experience, coupled with an accumulation of heart-breaking trouble. she gave prodigally of all her gifts. she interpreted life and its arts to all discerning pupils, and by the magic of her friendly intercourse won their confidence. quick to discover any unusual promise in a pupil, she indefatigably and masterfully stirred up such a one to his or her best, sometimes with remarks of approval, or by censuring recreancy with stinging sarcasm, or with expressions of despair over infirmity of purpose. some of such scholars, notably among them charles warren stoddard, panned out gold in the field of letters. many of her pupils, including myself, absorbed much of her wonderful help, and it grew into our subconsciousness and became a part of us. she was the long-time friend of bret harte, and from her he gathered a wealth of knowledge that served him well. when mr. ewer was ordained in grace episcopal church, san francisco, shirley became a member of his parish, and together with his wife she assisted him in the ministrations of good. then this dependable friend, dr. ewer, was discovered, with the result that he was called to a church in new york at a salary of ten thousand dollars a year. in addition to her daily teaching, shirley, by request, established evening classes in art and literature, for men and women, and once a week she held her _salon_, drawing the best minds about her. she appreciated the privilege of having a home in mr. john swett's family, because of its intellectual atmosphere. here scholarly notabilities from near and far were entertained, among them emerson, agassiz, and julia ward howe. childless, shirley took her niece, genevieve stebbins, and reared her from babyhood to a splendid womanhood. she contributed freely to entertainments for charity, by her shakespearean readings and other recitations, and happily prepared whole parties for private theatricals. with such mental strain, she kept herself fit by saturday outings, in which were graciously included some of her pupils. at times we went across the bay, in various directions, but oftenest we strove through the sand to the ocean beach, stopping here and there to botanize, and gather the sweet yellow and purple lupin, and to rest on the limbs of the scrub-oaks. on the beach we roasted potatoes and made coffee, and then ate ravenously. a happy gipsying it was, and she, the queen, forgot her cares. not a pebble at our feet, nor a floating seaweed, nor a shell, nor a seal on the rock, but opened up an instructive talk from our teacher, or started charley stoddard reciting a poem, or set a girl singing. before starting homeward, the whole party, including shirley, shoes and stockings off, waded into the surf, and afterwards rested on the warm beds of sand. a fine comradeship, that, and one that never died. shirley, i should also mention, wrote some respectable poetry. i have fondly preserved, treasured, and cherished the original manuscript of a poem written by her at the time margaret fuller ossoli was lost by shipwreck in . this poem was included in my collection of california poetry, but was not printed in outcroppings. i append it to this paper, of which it can hardly be considered an essential part. i married and went to the mines, and our home was on the mariposa grant. we lived on a bed of gold. once, upon a visit to the city, i found shirley nervous and worn. her vacation was about to begin. she went home with me, and stayed in bed the first three days. then she was daily swung in a hammock under an oak. soon we had horseback-rides, and up the creek she again panned out gold. later we set out in the stage-coach for the hotel at the big mariposa grove. mr. lawrence put us in charge of mr. galen clark, a rare scholar, and the guardian of the big tree grove and of the yosemite valley. this charming man was much interested in shirley. from the hotel we took daily rides with him through the great forest, and then made the twenty-five-mile horseback-ride and found mr. james m. hutchings, of the illustrated california magazine, awaiting us at the entrance to the valley. he escorted us to his picturesque hotel, where he and his interesting wife made our three weeks' stay most delightful. down in the meadows we came upon john muir sawing logs. he dropped his work, and we three went botanizing, and soon were learning all about the valley's formation as he entrancingly talked. we met many tourists of distinction, and shirley forgot that she ever had a care, and on our way back she galloped along recklessly. at our home in mariposa we invited friends to come and enjoy shirley's shakespearean readings, chiefly comedy. in these mr. lawrence had a happy part. in time shirley went to new york, to her niece, genevieve stebbins, who was successful in a delightful line of art-work. before leaving san francisco, her faithful pupils and other friends gave a musicale and realized about two thousand dollars, which was presented her as a loving gift. in the great metropolis her genius was recognized soon after her arrival, and she was importuned to give lectures on art and literature. the field family, who delightedly discovered her, took her to europe, where she visited all the art-galleries, a treat that had been a lifelong heart's desire. in new york she had at once made her home with dr. ewer's widow and children, but, in the end, she went to morristown, new jersey, where, it was said, she again happily met and renewed her friendship with bret harte's accomplished and delightful wife and her attractive children, while bret harte himself was sojourning in europe, a successful author. mrs. john f. swift, her long-time appreciative friend, charley stoddard, myself, and others, contributed to her pleasure by letters till the close of her perfect life at morristown, new jersey, on february , . no other woman has left a more lasting impress on the california community. but back to rich bar! back to the gold-fields! dame shirley is abroad, and again she is weaving her wizard spell! "alone" a reminiscence of margaret fuller ossoli _by_ shirley lee beneath thy spirit-eyes i stand alone, nor deem thee of the dead as mournfully i gaze, sad-hearted one, on that calm brow and head. the starry crown of genius could not save from woman's gift of grief; the moaning billows o'er thy breast that have emblem thy life too brief. o margaret! my weak heart-pulses shiver in wordless woe for thee, thy wasted tenderness, thy love that never might its fruition see. thou hadst no youth, o wondrous child! no youth haloed thy later life; sternly thy girl heart sought its solemn truth in battle and in strife. in thine own northern home didst thou not live "alone," always "alone"? what heart to thine uplifted heart could give ever an answering tone? in suffering, labor, strife, we saw thee stand with lips that would not moan, while shone thy regal brow and eyes with grand aspirings all thine own. at last among thy romans thou didst find a shrine for that large heart; it understood thee not, the northern mind, but coldly shrunk apart, when those pale lips--from whence, an hour agone, flew out, like rifted light, winged words of wit--murmured their wailed "alone" to the pitying midnight. and i have read thy life, its mournful story of loneliness and blight; but o'er its close there shines a solemn glory, a setting star's trailed light. margaret! white-robed, thy hair unbound, thy veil, most like a bride wert thou when ocean clasped thee, and, with lips all pale and icy, kissed thy brow. and lovely as a white unfolded blossom lay the child angelo, hushed to his dreamless flower-sleep on that bosom which would not let him go. husband, and wife, and child together flutter up to the great white throne, where nevermore may margaret fuller utter that piteous "alone!" _the_ contents _the_ printer's foreword _to this_ edition page v dame shirley page xxvii being _a_ paper _prepared by_ mrs. mary viola tingley lawrence _to be read before a_ san francisco _literary society_. letter _the_ first part one page the journey to rich bar a thousand people and but one physician. the author's husband seeks health and business. journey through deep snow, in midsummer, to reach rich bar. the revivifying effect of mountain atmosphere. arrival of twenty-nine physicians in less than three weeks. the author's purpose to leave san francisco and join her husband at the mines. direful predictions and disapprobation of friends. indelicacy of her position among an almost exclusively male population. indians, ennui, cold. leaves for marysville. scanty fare on way. meets husband. falls from mule. an exhausting ride. a midnight _petit souper_ at marysville. dr. c. leaves on muleback for bidwell's bar. the author follows in springless wagon. beautiful scenery. marysville buttes. sierra nevada. indian women, their near-nudity, beautiful limbs and lithe forms, picturesqueness. flower-seed gathering. indian bread. marvelous handiwork of basketry. a dangerous precipice. a disclaimer of bravery. table mountain. arrival at bidwell's bar. rejoins husband. uninviting quarters. proceed to berry creek. letter _the_ first part two page the journey to rich bar a moonlit midsummer-night's ride on muleback. joyous beginning. the indian trail lost. camping out for the night. attempts in morning to find the trail. a trying ride in the fierce heat of midday. the trail found. a digression of thirty miles. lack of food, and seven more miles to ride. to rest impossible. mad joy when within sight of berry creek rancho. congratulations upon escape from indians on the trail. frenchman and wife murdered. the journey resumed. arrival at the "wild yankee's". a breakfast with fresh butter and cream. indian bucks, squaws, and papooses. their curiosity. pride of an indian on his ability to repeat one line of a song. indian women. extreme beauty of their limbs; slender ankles and statuesque feet; haggardness of expression and ugliness of features. girl of sixteen, a "wildwood cleopatra," an exception to the general hideousness. the california indian not the indian of the leatherstocking tales. a stop at the buckeye rancho. start for pleasant valley rancho. the trail again lost. camping out for the night. growling bears. arrive at pleasant valley rancho. flea-haunted shanty. beauty of the wilderness. quail and deer. the chaparrals, and their difficulty of penetration by the mules. escape from a rattlesnake. descending precipitous hill on muleback. saddle-girth breaks. harmless fall from the saddle. triumphant entry into rich bar. tribute to mulekind. the empire hotel. "a huge shingle palace." letter _the_ second page rich bar--its hotels and pioneer families the empire hotel, _the_ hotel of rich bar. the author safely ensconced therein. california might be called the "hotel state," from the plenitude of its taverns, etc. the empire the only two-story building in rich bar, and the only one there having glass windows. built by gamblers for immoral purposes. the speculation a failure, its occupants being treated with contempt or pity. building sold for a few hundred dollars. the new landlord of the empire. the landlady, an example of the wear and tear of crossing the plains. left behind her two children and an eight-months-old baby. cooking for six people, her two-weeks-old baby kicking and screaming in champagne-basket cradle. "the sublime martyrdom of maternity". left alone immediately after infant's birth. husband dangerously ill, and cannot help. a kindly miner. three other women at the bar. the "indiana girl". "girl" a misnomer. "a gigantic piece of humanity". "dainty" habits and herculean feats. a log-cabin family. pretty and interesting children. "the miners' home". its petite landlady tends bar. "splendid material for social parties this winter." letter _the_ third page life and fortune at the bar-diggings flashy shops and showy houses of san francisco. rich bar charmingly fresh and original. a diminutive valley. río de las plumas, or feather river. rich bar, the barra rica of the spaniards. an acknowledgment of "a most humiliating consciousness of geological deficiencies". palatial splendor of the empire hotel. round tents, square tents, plank hovels, log cabins, etc. "local habitations" formed of pine boughs, and covered with old calico shirts. the "office" of dr. c. excites the risibilities of the author. one of the "finders" of rich bar. had not spoken to a woman for two years. honors the occasion by an "investment" in champagne. the author assists in drinking to the honor of her arrival at the bar. nothing done in california without the sanctifying influence of the "spirit". history of the discovery of gold at rich bar. thirty-three pounds of gold in eight hours. fifteen hundred dollars from a panful of "dirt". five hundred miners arrive at rich bar in about a week. smith bar, indian bar, missouri bar, and other bars. miners extremely fortunate. absolute wealth in a few weeks. drunken gamblers in less than a year. suffering for necessaries of life. a mild winter. a stormy spring. impassable trails. no pack-mule trains arrive. miners pack flour on their backs for over forty miles. flour sells at over three dollars a pound. subsistence on feed-barley. a voracious miner. an abundance placed in storage. letter _the_ fourth page accidents--surgery--death--festivity frightful accidents to which the gold-seeker is constantly liable. futile attempts of physician to save crushed leg of young miner. universal outcry against amputation. dr. c, however, uses the knife. professional reputation at stake. success attends the operation. death of another young miner, who fell into mining-shaft. his funeral. picturesque appearance of the miners thereat. of what the miner's costume consists. horror of the author aroused in contemplation of the lonely mountain-top graveyard. jostling of life and death. celebration of the anniversary of chilian independence. participation of a certain class of yankees therein. the procession. a falstaffian leader. the feast. a twenty-gallon keg of brandy on the table, gracefully encircled by quart dippers. the chileños reel with a better grace, the americans more naturally. letter _the_ fifth page death of a mother--life of pioneer women death of one of the four pioneer women of rich bar. the funeral from the log-cabin residence. sickly ten-months-old baby moans piteously for its mother. a handsome girl of six years, unconscious of her bereavement, shocks the author by her actions. a monte-table cover as a funeral pall. painful feelings when nails are driven into coffin. the extempore prayer. every observance possible surrounded the funeral. visit to a canvas house of three "apartments". barroom, dining-room, kitchen with bed-closet. a sixty-eight-pound woman. "a magnificent woman, a wife of the right sort". "earnt her 'old man' nine hundred dollars in nine weeks, by washing". the "manglers" and the "mangled". fortitude of refined california women pioneers. the orphaned girl a "cold-blooded little wretch". remorse of the author. "baby decanters". the gayety and fearlessness of the orphaned girl. letter _the_ sixth page use of profanity--uncertainty of mining prevalence of profanity in california. excuses for its use. a mere slip of the tongue, etc. grotesqueness of some blasphemous expressions. sleep-killing mining machinery. what a flume is. project to flume the river for many miles. the california mining system a gambling or lottery transaction. miner who works his own claim the more successful. dr. c. a loser in his mining ventures. another sleep-killer. bowling-alleys. bizarre cant phrases and slang used by the miners. "honest indian?" "talk enough when horses fight". "talk enough between gentlemen". "i've got the dead-wood on him". "i'm going nary cent" (on person mistrusted). all carry the freshness of originality to the ear of the author. letter _the_ seventh page the new log-cabin home at indian bar change of residence to indian bar. whether to go to the new camp on muleback over the hill, or on foot by crossing the river. the water-passage decided upon. an escort of indian barians. magnificence of scenery on the way. gold-miners at work. their implements. "the color". the stars and stripes on a lofty treetop. a camp of tents and cabins. some of calico shirts and pine boughs. indian bar described. mountains shut out the sun. the "humbolt" (spelled without the _d_ on the sign) the only hotel in the camp. a barroom with a dancing-floor. a cook who plays the violin. a popular place. clinking glasses and swaggering drinkers. "no place for a lady". the log-cabin residence. its primitive, makeshift furnishings. the library. no churches, society, etc. "no vegetables but potatoes and onions, no milk, no eggs, no _nothing_." letter _the_ eighth page life and characters at indian bar ned, the mulatto cook and the paganini of the humboldt hotel. a naval character. his ecstasy upon hearing of the coming of the author to the bar. suggestion of a strait-jacket for him. "the only petticoated astonishment on this bar". first dinner at the log cabin. ned's pretentious setting of the pine dining-table. the bar ransacked for viands. the bill of fare. ned an accomplished violinist. "chock," his white accompanist. the author serenaded. an unappreciated "artistic" gift. a guide of the frémont expedition camps at indian bar. a linguist, and former chief of the crow indians. cold-blooded recitals of indian fights. the indians near the bar expected to make a murderous attack upon the miners. the guide's council with them. flowery reply of the indians. a studious quaker. his merciless frankness and regard for truth. "the squire," and how he was elected justice of the peace. the miners prefer to rule themselves. letter _the_ ninth page theft of gold-dust--trial and punishment the "squire's" first opportunity to exercise his judicial power. holding court in a barroom. the jury "treated" by the squire. theft of gold-dust, and arrest of suspect. a miners' meeting. fears that they would hang the prisoner. a regular trial decided upon, at the empire, rich bar, where the gold-dust was stolen. suggestion of thrift. landlords to profit by trial, wherever held. mock respect of the miners for the squire. elect a president at the trial. the squire allowed to play at judge. lay counsel for prosecution and defense. ingenious defense of the accused. verdict of guilty. light sentence, on account of previous popularity and inoffensive conduct. thirty-nine lashes, and to leave the river. owner of gold-dust indemnified by transfer of thief's interest in a mine. a visit to smith's bar. crossing the river on log bridges missouri bar. smith's a sunny camp, unlike indian. frenchman's bar, another sunny spot. "yank," the owner of a log-cabin store. shrewdness and simplicity. hopeless ambition to be "cute and smart". the "indiana girl" impossible to yank. "a superior and splendid woman, but no polish". yank's "olla podrida of heterogeneous merchandise". the author meets the banished gold-dust thief. subscription by the miners on his banishment. a fool's errand to establish his innocence. an oyster-supper bet. the thief's statements totally incompatible with innocence. letter _the_ tenth page amateur mining--hairbreadth 'scapes, &c. three dollars and twenty-five cents in gold-dust. sorry she learned the trade. the resulting losses and suffering. secret of the brilliant successes of former gold-washeresses. salting the ground by miners in order to deceive their fair visitors. erroneous ideas of the richness of auriferous dirt resulting therefrom. rarity of lucky strikes. claim yielding ten dollars a day considered valuable. consternation and near-disaster in the author's cabin. trunk of forest giant rolls down hill. force broken by rock near cabin. terror of careless woodman. another narrow escape at smith's bar. pursuit and escape of woodman. two sudden deaths at indian bar. inquest in the open. cosmopolitan gathering thereat. wife of one of the deceased an advanced bloomer. animadversions on strong-minded bloomers seeking their rights. california pheasant, the gallina del campo of the spaniards. pines and dies in captivity. smart, harmless earthquake-shocks. letter _the_ eleventh page robbery, trial, execution--more tragedy theft of gold-dust. arrest of two suspected miners. trial and acquittal at miners' meeting. robbed persons still believe the accused guilty. suspects leave mountains. one returns, and plan for his detection proves successful. confronted with evidence of guilt, discloses, on promise of immunity from prosecution, hiding-place of gold-dust. miners, however, try him, and on conviction he is sentenced to be hanged one hour thereafter. miners' mode of trial. respite of three hours. bungling execution. drunken miner's proposal for sign of guilt or innocence. corpse "enwrapped in white shroud of feathery snowflakes". execution the work of the more reckless. not generally approved. the squire, disregarded, protested. miners' procedure compared with the moderation of the first vigilance committee of san francisco. singular disappearance of body of miner. returning to the states with his savings, his two companions report their leaving him in dying condition. arrest and fruitless investigation. an unlikely bequest of money. trial and acquittal of the miner's companions. their story improbable, their actions like actual murder. letter _the_ twelfth page a stormy winter--holiday saturnalias saturnalia in camp. temptations of riches. tribute to the miners. dreariness of camp-life during stormy winter weather. christmas and change of proprietors at the humboldt. preparations for a double celebration. muleback loads of brandy-casks and champagne-baskets. noisy procession of revelers. oyster-and-champagne supper. three days of revelry. trial by mock vigilance committee. judgment to "treat the crowd". revels resumed on larger scale at new year's. boat-loads of drunken miners fall into river. saved by being drunk. boat-load of bread falls into river and floats down-stream. pulley-and-rope device for hauling boat across river. fiddlers "nearly fiddled themselves into the grave". liquors "beginning to look scarce". subdued and sheepish-looking bacchanals. nothing extenuated, nor aught set down in malice. boating on river. aquatic plants. bridge swept away in torrent. loss of canoe. branch from moss-grown fir-tree "a cornice wreathed with purple-starred tapestry". a new year's present from the river. a two-inch spotted trout. no fresh meat for a month. "dark and ominous rumors". dark hams, rusty pork, etc., stored. letter _the_ thirteenth page sociability and excitements of mining-life departure from indian bar of the mulatto ned. his birthday-celebration dinner, at which the new year's piscatory phenomenon figures in the bill of fare. a total disregard of dry laws at the dinner. excitement over reported discovery of quartz-mines. a complete humbug. charges of salting. excitement renewed upon report of other new quartz-mines. even if rich, lack of proper machinery would render the working thereof impossible. prediction that quartz-mining eventually will be the most profitable. miners leave the river without paying their debts. pursued and captured. miners' court orders settlement in full. celebration, by french miners on the river, of the revolution of . invitation to dine at best-built log cabin on the river. the habitation of five or six young miners. a perfect marvel of a fireplace. huge unsplit logs as firewood. window of glass jars. possibilities in the use of empty glass containers. unthrift of some miners. the cabin, its furniture, store of staple provisions, chinaware, cutlery. the dinner in the cabin. a cow kept. wonderful variety of makeshift candlesticks in use among the miners. dearth of butter, potatoes, onions, fresh meat, in camp. indian-summer weather at indian bar. a cozy retreat in the hills. a present of feathered denizens of the mountains. roasted for dinner. letter _the_ fourteenth page springtide--linguistics--storms--accidents the splendor of a march morning in the mountains of california. the first bird of the season. blue and red shirted miners a feature of the landscape. "wanderers from the whole broad earth". the languages of many nations heard. how the americans attempt to converse with the spanish-speaking population. "sabe," "vamos," "poco tiempo," "si," and "bueno," a complete lexicon of la lengua castellana, in the minds of the americans. an "ugly disposition" manifested when the speaker is not understood. the spaniards "ain't kinder like our folks," nor "folksy". mistakes not all on one side. spanish proverb regarding certain languages. not complimentary to english. stormy weather. storm king a perfect proteus. river on a rampage. sawmill carried away. pastimes of the miners during the storm. ms. account of storm sent in keg via river to marysville newspaper. silversmith makes gold rings during storm. raffling and reraffling of same as pastime. some natural gold rings. nugget in shape of eagle's head presented to author. miners buried up to neck in cave-in. escape with but slight injury. miner stabbed without provocation in drunken frolic. life despaired of at first. no notice taken of affair. letter _the_ fifteenth page mining methods--miners, gamblers, &c. difficulty experienced in writing amid the charms of california mountain scenery. science the blindest guide on a gold-hunting expedition. irreverent contempt of the beautiful mineral to the dictates of science. nothing better to be expected from the root of all evil. foreigners more successful than americans in its pursuit. americans always longing for big strikes. success lies in staying and persevering. how a camp springs into existence. prospecting, panning out, and discovery that it pays. the claim. building the shanty. spreading of news of the new diggings. arrival of the monte-dealers. industrious begin digging for gold. the claiming system. how claims worked. working difficult amidst huge mountain rocks. partnerships then compulsory. naming the mine or company. the long-tom. panning out the gold. sinking shaft to reach bed-rock. drifting coyote-holes in search of crevices. water-ditches and water companies. washing out in long-tom. waste-ditches. tailings. fluming companies. rockers. gold-mining is nature's great lottery scheme. thousands taken out in a few hours. six ounces in six months. "almost all seem to have lost". jumped claims. caving in of excavations. abandonment of expensive paying shafts. miner making "big strike" almost sure prey of professional gamblers. as spring opens, gamblers flock in like birds of prey. after stay of only four days, gambler leaves bar with over a thousand dollars of miners' gold. as many foreigners as americans on the river. foreigners generally extremely ignorant and degraded. some spaniards of the highest education and accomplishment. majority of americans mechanics of better class. sailors and farmers next in number. a few merchants and steamboat-clerks. a few physicians. one lawyer. ranchero of distinguished appearance an accomplished monte-dealer and horse-jockey. is said to have been a preacher in the states. such not uncommon for california. letter _the_ sixteenth page birth--stabbing--foreigners ousted--revels california mountain flora. a youthful kanaka mother. her feat of pedestrianism. stabbing of a spaniard by an american. the result of a request to pay a debt. nothing done and but little said about the atrocity. foreigners barred from working at rich bar. spaniards thereupon move to indian bar. they erect places for the sale of intoxicants. many new houses for public entertainment at indian bar. sunday "swearing, drinking, gambling, and fighting". salubrity of the climate. no death for months, except by accidental drowning in flood-water. capture of two grizzly cubs. "the oddest possible pets". "an echo from the outside world once a month." letter _the_ seventeenth page supplies by pack-mules--kanakas and indians belated arrival of pack-mule train with much-needed supplies. picturesque appearance of the dainty-footed mules descending the steep hills. of every possible color. gay trappings. tinkling bells. peculiar urging cry of the spanish muleteers. lavish expenditure of gold-dust for vegetables and butter. potatoes forty cents a pound. incense of the pungent member of the lily family. arrival of other storm-bound trains, and sudden collapse in prices. a horseback-ride on dangerous mule-trail. fall of oxen over precipice. the mountain flowers, oaks, and rivulets. visit to kanaka mother. a beauty from the isles. hawaiian superstition. an unfortunate request for the baby as a present. consolatory promise to give the next one. indian visitors. head-dresses. "very tight and very short shirts". indian mode of life. their huts, food, cooking, utensils, manner of eating. sabine-like invasion leaves to tribe but a few old squaws. "startlingly unsophisticated state of almost entire nudity". their filthy habits. papooses fastened in framework of light wood. indian modes of fishing. a handsome but shy young buck. classic gracefulness of folds of white-sheet robe of indian. light and airy step of the indians something superhuman. miserably brutish and degraded. their vocabulary of about twenty words. their love of gambling, and its frightful consequences. arrival of hundreds of people at indian bar. saloons springing up in every direction. fluming operations rapidly progressing. a busy, prosperous summer looked for. letter _the_ eighteenth page fourth of july festival--spanish attacked fourth of july celebration at rich bar. the author makes the flag. its materials. how california was represented therein. floated from the top of a lofty pine-tree. the decorations at the empire hotel. an "officious goth" mars the floral piece designed for the orator of the day. only two ladies in the audience. two others are expected, but do not arrive. no copy of the declaration of independence. some preliminary speeches by political aspirants. orator of the day reads anonymous poem. oration "exceedingly fresh and new". belated arrival of the expected ladies, new-comers from the east. with new fashions, they extinguish the author and her companion. dinner at the empire. mexican war captain as president. "toasts quite spicy and original". fight in the barroom. eastern lady "chose to go faint" at sight of blood. cabin full of "infant phenomena". a rarity in the mountains. miners, on way home from celebration, give nine cheers for mother and children. outcry at indian bar against spaniards. several severely wounded. whisky and patriotism. prejudices and arrogant assurance accounted for. misinterpretation by the foreigner. injustices by the lower classes against spaniards pass unnoticed. innumerable drunken fights. broken heads and collarbones, stabbings. "sabbaths almost always enlivened by such merry events". body of frenchman found in river. murder evident. suspicion falls on nobody. letter _the_ nineteenth page murder, theft, riot, hanging, whipping, &c. three weeks of excitement at indian bar. murders, fearful accidents, bloody deaths, whippings, hanging, an attempted suicide, etc. sabbath-morning walk in the hills. miners' ditch rivaling in beauty the work of nature. fatal stabbing by a spaniard. he afterwards parades street with a mexicana, brandishing along bloody knife. his pursuit by and escape from the infuriated americans. unfounded rumor of conspiracy of the spaniards to murder the americans. spaniards barricade themselves. grief of spanish woman over corpse of murdered man. miners arrive from rich bar. wild cry for vengeance, and for expulsion of spaniards. the author prevailed upon to retire to place of safety. accidental discharge of gun when drunken owner of vile resort attempts to force way through armed guard. two seriously wounded. sobering effect of the accident. vigilance committee organized. suspected spaniards arrested. trial of the mexicana. always wore male attire, was foremost in fray, and, armed with brace of pistols, fought like a fury. sentenced to leave by daylight. indirect cause of fight. woman always to blame. trial of ringleaders. sentences of whipping, and to leave. confiscation of property for benefit of wounded. anguish of the author when spaniards were whipped. young spaniard movingly but vainly pleads for death instead of whipping. his oath to murder every american he should afterwards meet alone. doubtless will keep his word. murder of mr. bacon, a ranchero, for his money, by his negro cook. murderer caught at sacramento with part of money. his trial at rich bar by the vigilantes. sentence of death by hanging. another negro attempts suicide. accuses the mulatto ned of attempt to murder him. dr. c. in trouble for binding up negro's self-inflicted wounds. formation of "moguls," who make night hideous. vigilantes do not interfere. duel at missouri bar. fatal results. a large crowd present. vigilance committee also present. "but you must remember that this is california." letter _the_ twentieth page murder--mining scenes--spanish breakfast ramada, unoccupied, wrecked by log rolling down hill. was place of residence of wounded spaniard, who had died but a few days previously. murder near indian bar. innocent and harmless person arrested, said to answer description of murderer. a humorous situation. a "guard of honor" from the vigilantes while in custody. upon release his expenses all paid. enjoyed a holiday from hard work. tendered a present and a handsome apology. public opinion in the mines a cruel but fortunately a fickle thing. invitation to author to breakfast at spanish garden. the journey thereto, along river, with its busy mining scenes. the wing-dam, and how it differs from the ordinary dam. an involuntary bath. drifts, shafts, coyote-holes. how claims are worked. flumes. unskilled workmen. their former professions or occupations. the best water in california, but the author is unappreciative. flavorless, but, since the flood, always tastes of sinners. don juan's country-seat. the spanish breakfast. the eatables and the drinkables. stronger spirits for the stronger spirits. ice, through oversight, the only thing lacking. yank's tame cub. parodic doggerel by the author on her loss of pets. a miners' dinner-party with but one teaspoon, and that one borrowed. an unlearned and wearisome blacksmith. letter _the_ twenty-first page discomforts of trip to political convention visit to the american valley. journey thither. scenes by the way. political convention. delegates from indian bar. arrival at greenwood's rancho, headquarters of democrats. overcrowded. party proceed to the american rancho, headquarters of whigs. also overcrowded. tiresome ride of ladies on horseback. proceed to house of friend of lady in party. an inhospitable reception. the author entertains herself. men of party return to the american rancho. fearful inroad upon the eatables. landlord aghast, but pacified by generous orders for drinkables. california houses not proof against eavesdroppers. misunderstandings and explanations overheard by the author. illness of hostess. uncomfortable and miserable night, and worse quarters. handsome riding-habit, etc., of the hostess. table-service, carpeting, chests of tea, casks of sugar, bags of coffee, etc., "the good people possessed everything but a house". "the most beautiful spot i ever saw in california". owner building house of huge hewn logs. the author returns to the american rancho. its primitive furniture, etc. political visitors. the convention. horse-racing and gambling. the author goes to greenwood's rancho. more primitive furniture and lack of accommodations. misplaced benevolence of bostonians. should transfer their activities to california. letter _the_ twenty-second page the overland tide of immigration exoneration of landlords for conditions at greenwood's rancho. the american valley. prospective summer resort. prodigious vegetables. new england scenery compared with that of california. greenwood's rancho. place of origin of quartz hoax. beautiful stones. recruiting-place of overland immigrants. haggard immigrant women. death and speedy burial on the plains. handsome young widow immigrant. aspirants to matrimony candidates for her hand. interesting stories of adventures on the plains. four women, sisters or sisters-in-law, and their thirty-six children. accomplished men. infant prodigies. a widow with eight sons and one daughter. primitive laundering, but generous patrons. the bloomer costume appropriate for overland journey. dances in barroom. unwilling female partners. some illiterate immigrants. many intelligent and well-bred women. the journey back to indian bar. the tame frog in the rancho barroom. the dining-table a bed at night. elation of the author on arriving at her own log cabin. letter _the_ twenty-third page mining failures--departure from indian bar dread of spending another winter at indian bar. failure of nearly all the fluming companies. official report of one company. incidental failure of business people. the author's preparations to depart. prediction of early rains. high prices cause of dealers' failure to lay in supply of provisions. probable fatal results to families unable to leave bar. rain and snow alternately. the squire a poor weather prophet. pack-mule trains with provisions fail to arrive. amusement found in petty litigation. legal acumen of the squire. he wins golden opinions. the judgment all the prevailing party gets. what the constable got in effort to collect judgment. why dr. c.'s fee was not paid. a prescription of "calumny and other pizen doctor's stuff". a wonderful gold specimen in the form of a basket. "weighs about two dollars and a half". how little it takes to make people comfortable. a log-cabin meal and its table-service. the author departs on horseback from indian bar. her regrets upon leaving the mountains. "feeble, half-dying invalid not recognizable in your now perfectly healthy sister." _the_ illustrations . gold-washing in wicker baskets--americans and hispano-californians with indians _frontispiece_ this is a composite engraving, a very interesting feature of which is the indians and their wicker baskets, the latter going out of use when metal pans were obtainable, which also displaced wooden bowls and homely makeshifts. this feature is resketched from a rare old print in the possession of the van ness family of san francisco. the huts are specimens of ramadas, popular with the spanish-speaking miners, and frequently mentioned by shirley. . sutter's mill, coloma, where gold was accidentally discovered in january, faces page this fine engraving follows closely, in all essential details, that in the voyages en californie et dans l'orégon, par m. de saint-amant, envoyé du gouvernement français, en - (paris, ). the engravings in that volume, although poorly printed on a cheap grade of book-paper, are noted for their accuracy, and are interesting as showing the methods etc. of the miners while shirley was writing her letters. the tail-race, in the foreground, is where james wilson marshall and peter l. wimmer first saw the nuggets, but marshall was the first to pick up a specimen. much has been written of marshall; the wimmers were of the western pioneer type. . ground-sluicing faces page this spirited engraving is resketched, in essentials, from a woodcut in henry de groot's recollections of california mining life ( ), also in his gold mines and mining in california ( ). ground-sluicing is done in winter, when water is abundant and the ground soft, the pay-dirt being thrown into a channel made for the purpose, and down which the water rushes. the gold settles on the bed-rock, and is collected later, when the water-run has subsided. . pan, cradle or rocker, long-tom, sluice-washing--drifting, windlass and shaft faces page the varied and animated scene depicted in this plate is resketched from de groot's gold mines and mining in california. (see note to plate .) in the foreground, on the left, a miner washes dirt in a pan. above, and to the left, a miner washes in a rocker or cradle, the pay-dirt coming in a tram-car from the tunnel, in which are drift-diggings. the men at the windlass are sinking a shaft, prospecting for drift-deposits. to the right, in the foreground, three men are working a long-tom, which, in point of time, followed the rocker. one of the miners is keeping the dirt stirred up in the tom, under which is set a riffle-box with quicksilver to catch the gold. in the background miners are hand or shovel sluicing, in which the riffle-box of the long-tom is dispensed with. . interior of miners' log cabin--one partner cooking for night-faring visitors faces page this interesting engraving also follows, in all essentials, that in de saint-amant's voyages. (see note to plate , supra.) the owners of the cabin had evidently retired for the night, and were awakened by their visitors. the upper bunk, or berth, has been vacated by the miner cooking. we will say two of the visitors have been prospecting, and are reasoning with the third, who appears to have come from that state of the union "where one must demonstrate." the rifle close to the bunk of the sleeping miner, the mining implements littered over the floor, the bottles etc. on the shelf-table, are features that require no explanation. . saloon in a mining-camp--monte-dealer, miners, espaÑola and mexicana faces page this is a composite engraving, the artist having combined several old prints. the spanish woman is shown in a national costume, and her air and attitude indicate her ability to take care of herself. the mexican girl at the bar, and armed, is a type of the mexicana mentioned by shirley. . washing in rockers on river's brink--miners packing pay-gravel in buckets faces page this realistic plate follows closely, in essentials, that in de saint-amant's voyages. (see note to plate , ante.) the bare declivity has evidently been worked, and the auriferous gravel must now be packed from the heights. a barrow with shafts at only one end may be seen beside one of the rockers, and it is conjectured that not all the gravel is picked in buckets. the miner seen in the background of brushwood digs the pay-gravel. . washing in long-tom with water from flume--cheaper than pumping from river faces page this beautiful engraving follows closely that in de saint-amant's voyages. (see note to plate , ante.) here the miners found it more economical to purchase water from a fluming company than to pump it from the river. the belt and pulley is used to drive a chinese pump which keeps dry the pit now being worked. _the_ shirley letters letter _the_ first part one _the_ journey _to_ rich bar rich bar, east branch _of the_ north fork _of_ feather river, _september_ , . i can easily imagine, dear m., the look of large wonder which gleams from your astonished eyes when they fall upon the date of this letter. i can figure to myself your whole surprised attitude as you exclaim, "what, in the name of all that is restless, has sent 'dame shirley' to rich bar? how did such a shivering, frail, home-loving little thistle ever float safely to that far-away spot, and take root so kindly, as it evidently has, in that barbarous soil? where, in this living, breathing world of ours, lieth that same rich bar, which, sooth to say, hath a most taking name? and, for pity's sake, how does the poor little fool expect to amuse herself there?" patience, sister of mine. your curiosity is truly laudable, and i trust that before you read the postscript of this epistle it will be fully and completely relieved. and, first, i will merely observe, _en passant_, reserving a full description of its discovery for a future letter, that said bar forms a part of a mining settlement situated on the east branch of the north fork of feather river, "away off up in the mountains," as our "little faresoul" would say, at almost the highest point where, as yet, gold has been discovered, and indeed within fifty miles of the summit of the sierra nevada itself. so much, at present, for our _local_, while i proceed to tell you of the propitious--or unpropitious, as the result will prove--winds which blew us hitherward. you already know that f., after suffering for an entire year with fever and ague, and bilious, remittent, and intermittent fevers,--this delightful list varied by an occasional attack of jaundice,--was advised, as a _dernier ressort_, to go into the mountains. a friend, who had just returned from the place, suggested rich bar as the terminus of his health-seeking journey, not only on account of the extreme purity of the atmosphere, but because there were more than a thousand people there already, and but one physician, and as his strength increased, he might find in that vicinity a favorable opening for the practice of his profession, which, as the health of his purse was almost as feeble as that of his body, was not a bad idea. f. was just recovering from a brain-fever when he concluded to go to the mines; but, in spite of his excessive debility, which rendered him liable to chills at any hour of the day or night, he started on the seventh day of june--mounted on a mule, and accompanied by a jackass to carry his baggage, and a friend who kindly volunteered to assist him in spending his money--for this wildly beautiful spot. f. was compelled by sickness to stop several days on the road. he suffered intensely, the trail for many miles being covered to the depth of twelve feet with snow, although it was almost midsummer when he passed over it. he arrived at rich bar the latter part of june, and found the revivifying effect of its bracing atmosphere far surpassing his most sanguine hopes. he soon built himself an office, which was a perfect marvel to the miners, from its superior elegance. it is the only one on the bar, and i intend to visit it in a day or two, when i will give you a description of its architectural splendors. it will perhaps enlighten you as to one peculiarity of a newly discovered mining district, when i inform you that although there were but two or three physicians at rich bar when my husband arrived, in less than three weeks there were _twenty-nine_ who had chosen this place for the express purpose of practicing their profession. finding his health so almost miraculously improved, f. concluded, should i approve the plan, to spend the winter in the mountains. i had teased him to let me accompany him when he left in june, but he had at that time refused, not daring to subject me to inconveniences, of the extent of which he was himself ignorant. when the letter disclosing his plans for the winter reached me at san francisco, i was perfectly enchanted. you know that i am a regular nomad in my passion for wandering. of course my numerous acquaintances in san francisco raised one universal shout of disapprobation. some said that i ought to be put into a straitjacket, for i was undoubtedly mad to think of such a thing. some said that i should never get there alive, and if i _did_, would not stay a month; that it was ever my lot to be victimized in, and commenced my journey in earnest. i was the only passenger. for thirty miles the road passed through as beautiful a country as i had ever seen. dotted here and there with the california oak, it reminded me of the peaceful apple-orchards and smiling river-meadows of dear old new england. as a frame to the graceful picture, on one side rose the buttes, that group of hills so piquant and saucy, and on the other, tossing to heaven the everlasting whiteness of their snow-wreathed foreheads, stood, sublime in their very monotony, the summits of the glorious sierra nevada. we passed one place where a number of indian women were gathering flower-seeds, which, mixed with pounded acorns and grasshoppers, form the bread of these miserable people. the idea, and the really ingenious mode of carrying it out, struck me as so singular, that i cannot forbear attempting a description. these poor creatures were entirely naked, with the exception of a quantity of grass bound round the waist, and covering the thighs midway to the knees, perhaps. each one carried two brown baskets, which, i have since been told, are made of a species of osier, woven with a neatness which is absolutely marvelous, when one considers that they are the handiwork of such degraded wretches. shaped like a cone, they are about six feet in circumference at the opening, and i should judge them to be nearly three feet in depth. it is evident, by the grace and care with which they handle them, that they are exceedingly light. it is possible that my description may be inaccurate, for i have never read any account of them, and merely give my own impressions as they were received while the wagon rolled rapidly by the spot at which the women were at work. one of these queer baskets is suspended from the back, and is kept in place by a thong of leather passing across the forehead. the other they carry in the right hand and wave over the flower-seeds, first to the right, and back again to the left, alternately, as they walk slowly along, with a motion as regular and monotonous as that of a mower. when they have collected a handful of the seeds, they pour them into the basket behind, and continue this work until they have filled the latter with their strange harvest. the seeds thus gathered are carried to their rancherías, and stowed away with great care for winter use. it was, to me, very interesting to watch their regular motion, they seemed so exactly to keep time with one another; and with their dark shining skins, beautiful limbs, and lithe forms, they were by no means the least picturesque feature of the landscape. ten miles this side of bidwell's bar, the road, hitherto so smooth and level, became stony and hilly. for more than a mile we drove along the edge of a precipice, and so near, that it seemed to me, should the horses deviate a hairbreadth from their usual track, we must be dashed into eternity. wonderful to relate, i did not "oh!" nor "ah!" nor shriek _once_, but remained crouched in the back of the wagon, as silent as death. when we were again in safety, the driver exclaimed, in the classic patois of new england, "wall, i guess yer the fust woman that ever rode over that are hill without hollering." he evidently did not know that it was the intensity of my _fear_ that kept me so still. soon table mountain became visible, extended like an immense dining-board for the giants, its summit a perfectly straight line penciled for more than a league against the glowing sky. and now we found ourselves among the red hills, which look like an ascending sea of crimson waves, each crest foaming higher and higher as we creep among them, until we drop down suddenly into the pretty little valley called bidwell's bar. i arrived there at three o'clock in the evening, when i found f. in much better health than when he left marysville. as there was nothing to sleep _in_ but a tent, and nothing to sleep _on_ but the ground, and the air was black with the fleas hopping about in every direction, we concluded to ride forward to the berry creek house, a ranch ten miles farther on our way, where we proposed to pass the night. letter _the_ first part two [_the_ pioneer, _february_, ] _the_ journey _to_ rich bar synopsis a moonlit midsummer-night's ride on muleback. joyous beginning. the indian trail lost. camping out for the night-attempts in the morning to find the trail. a trying ride in the fierce heat of midday. the trail found. a digression of thirty miles. lack of food, and seven miles more to ride. to rest is impossible. mad joy when within sight of berry creek rancho. congratulations on escape from indians on trail. frenchman and wife murdered. the journey resumed. arrival at the "wild yankee's". breakfast with fresh butter and cream. indian bucks, squaws, and papooses. their curiosity. pride of an indian in ability to repeat one line of a song. indian women: extreme beauty of their limbs; slender ankles and statuesque feet; haggardness of expression and ugliness of features. girl of sixteen, a "wildwood cleopatra," an exception to the general hideousness. the california indian not the indian of the leatherstocking tales. a stop at the buckeye rancho. start for pleasant valley rancho. the trail again lost. camping out for the night. growling bears. arrive at pleasant valley rancho. a flea-haunted shanty. the beauty of the wilderness. quail and deer. the chaparrals, and their difficulty of penetration by the mules. escape from a rattlesnake. descending precipitous hill on muleback. saddle-girth breaks. harmless fall from the saddle. triumphant entry into rich bar. a tribute to mulekind. the empire hotel. "a huge shingle palace." letter _the_ first part two _the_ journey _to_ rich bar rich bar, east branch _of the_ north fork _of_ feather river, _september_ , . the moon was just rising as we started. the air made one think of fairy-festivals, of living in the woods _always_, with the green-coated people for playmates, it was so wonderfully soft and cool, without the least particle of dampness. a midsummer's night in the leafy month of june, amid the dreamiest haunts of "old crownest," could not be more enchantingly lovely. we sped merrily onward until nine o'clock, making the old woods echo with song and story and laughter, for f. was unusually gay, and i was in tip-top spirits. it seemed to me so _funny_ that we two people should be riding on mules, all by ourselves, in these glorious latitudes, night smiling down so kindly upon us, and, funniest of _all_, that we were going to live in the mines! in spite of my gayety, however, i now began to wonder why we did not arrive at our intended lodgings. f. reassured me by saying that when we had _de_scended this hill or _as_cended that, we should certainly be there. but ten o'clock came; eleven, twelve, one, _two_! but no berry creek house! i began to be frightened, and besides that, was very sick with a nervous headache. at every step we were getting higher and higher into the mountains, and even f. was at last compelled to acknowledge that we were _lost!_ we were on an indian trail, and the bushes grew so low that at almost every step i was obliged to bend my forehead to my mule's neck. this increased the pain in my head to an almost insupportable degree. at last i told f. that i could not remain in the saddle a moment longer. of course there was nothing to do but to camp. totally unprepared for such a catastrophe, we had nothing but the blankets of our mules, and a thin quilt in which i had rolled some articles necessary for the journey, because it was easier to pack than a traveling-bag. f. told me to sit on the mule while he prepared my woodland couch, but i was too nervous for that, and so jumped off and dropped onto the ground, worn out with fatigue and pain. the night was still dreamily beautiful, and i should have been enchanted with the adventure (for i had fretted and complained a good deal, because we had no _excuse_ for camping out) had it not been for that impertinent headache, which, you remember, always _would_ visit me at the most inconvenient seasons. about daylight, somewhat refreshed, we again mounted our mules, confidently believing that an hour's ride would bring us to the berry creek house, as we supposed, of course, that we had camped in its immediate vicinity. we tried more than a dozen paths, which, as they led _nowhere_, we would retrace to the principal trail. at last f. determined to keep upon one, as it _must_, he thought, in _time_, lead us out of the mountains, even if we landed on the other side of california. well, we rode on, and on, and on, up hill and down hill, down hill and up, through fir-groves and oak-clumps, and along the edge of dark ravines, until i thought that i should go _mad_, for all this time the sun was pouring down its hottest rays most pitilessly, and i had an excruciating pain in my head and in all my limbs. about two o'clock we struck the main trail, and, meeting a man,--the first human being that we had seen since we left bidwell's,--were told that we were seven miles from the berry creek house, and that we had been down to the north fork of the american river, more than thirty miles out of our way! this joyful news gave us fresh strength, and we rode on as fast as our worn-out mules could go. although we had eaten nothing since noon the day before, i bore up bravely until we arrived within two miles of the rancho, when courage and strength both gave way, and i _implored_ f. to let me lie down under a tree and rest for a few hours. he very wisely refused, knowing that if i dismounted it would be impossible to get me onto my mule again, and we should be obliged to spend another night under the stars, which, in this enchanting climate, would have been delightful, had we possessed any food; but, knowing that i needed refreshment even more than i did rest, he was compelled to insist upon my proceeding. my poor husband! he must have had a trying time with me, for i sobbed and cried like the veriest child, and repeatedly declared that i should never live to get to the rancho. f. said afterwards that he began to think i intended to keep my word, for i certainly _looked_ like a dying person. o mary! it makes me _shudder_ when i think of the mad joy with which i saw that rancho! remember that, with the exception of three or four hours the night before, we had been in the saddle for nearly twenty-four hours without refreshment. when we stopped, f. carried me into the house and laid me onto a bunk, though i have no remembrance of it, and he said that when he offered me some food, i turned from it with disgust, exclaiming, "oh, take it away! give me some cold water and let me _sleep_, and be sure you don't wake me for the next three weeks." and i _did_ sleep, with a forty slumber-power; and when f. came to me late in the evening with some tea and toast, i awoke, oh! _so_ refreshed, and perfectly well, for, after all the great fuss which i had made, there was nothing the matter with me but a little fatigue. every one that we met congratulated us upon not having encountered any indians, for the paths which we followed were indian trails, and it is said they would have killed us for our mules and clothes. a few weeks ago a frenchman and his wife were murdered by them. i had thought of the circumstances when we camped, but was too sick to care what happened. they generally take women captive, however; and who knows how narrowly i escaped becoming an indian chieftainess, and feeding for the rest of my life upon roasted grasshoppers, acorns, and flower-seeds? by the way, the last-mentioned article of food strikes me as rather poetical than otherwise. after a good night's rest we are perfectly well, and as happy as the day itself,--which was one of heaven's own choosing,--and rode to the "wild yankee's," where we breakfasted, and had, among other dainties, fresh butter and cream. soon after we alighted, a _herd_ of indians, consisting of about a dozen men and squaws, with an unknown quantity of papooses,--the last naked as the day they were born,--crowded into the room to stare at us. it was the most amusing thing in the world to see them finger my gloves, whip, and hat, in their intense curiosity. one of them had caught the following line of a song, "o, carry me back to old martinez," with which he continued to stun our ears all the time we remained, repeating it over and over with as much pride and joy as a mocking-bird exhibits when he has learned a new sound. on this occasion i was more than ever struck with what i have often remarked before,--the extreme beauty of the _limbs_ of the indian women of california. though for haggardness of expression and ugliness of feature they might have been taken for a band of macbethian witches, a bronze statue of cleopatra herself never folded more beautifully rounded arms above its dusky bosom, or poised upon its pedestal a slenderer ankle or a more statuesque foot, than those which gleamed from beneath the dirty blankets of these wretched creatures. there was one exception, however, to the general hideousness of their faces. a girl of sixteen, perhaps, with those large, magnificently lustrous, yet at the same time soft, eyes, so common in novels, so rare in real life, had shyly glided like a dark, beautiful spirit into the corner of the room. a fringe of silken jet swept heavily upward from her dusky cheek, athwart which the richest color came and went like flashes of lightning. her flexible lips curved slightly away from teeth like strips of cocoanut meat, with a mocking grace infinitely bewitching. she wore a cotton chemise,--disgustingly dirty, i must confess,--girt about her slender waist with a crimson handkerchief, while over her night-black hair, carelessly knotted beneath the rounded chin, was a purple scarf of knotted silk. her whole appearance was picturesque in the extreme. she sat upon the ground with her pretty brown fingers languidly interlaced above her knee, "round as a _period_," (as a certain american poet has so funnily said of a similar limb in his diana,) and smiled up into my face as if we were the dearest friends. i was perfectly enraptured with this wildwood cleopatra, and bored f. almost beyond endurance with exclamations about her starry eyes, her chiseled limbs, and her beautiful nut-brown cheeks. i happened to take out of my pocket a paper of pins, when all the women begged for some of them. this lovely child still remained silent in the posture of exquisite grace which she had so unconsciously assumed, but, nevertheless, she looked as pleased as any of them when i gave her, also, a row of the much-coveted treasures. but i found i had got myself into business, for all the men wanted pins too, and i distributed the entire contents of the papers which i happened to have in my pocket, before they were satisfied, much to the amusement of f., who only laughs at what he is pleased to call my absurd interest in these poor creatures; but you know, m., i always _did_ "take" to indians, though it must be said that those who bear that name here have little resemblance to the glorious forest heroes that live in the leatherstocking tales, and in spite of my desire to find in them something poetical and interesting, a stern regard for truth compels me to acknowledge that the dusky beauty above described is the only even moderately _pretty_ squaw that i have ever seen. at noon we stopped at the buckeye rancho for about an hour, and then pushed merrily on for the pleasant valley rancho, which we expected to reach about sundown. will you, _can_ you, believe that we got lost again? should you travel over this road, you would not be at all surprised at the repetition of this misfortune. two miles this side of pleasant valley, which is very large, there is a wide, bare plain of red stones which one is compelled to cross in order to reach it, and i should not think that even in the daytime any one but an indian could keep the trail in this place. it was here that, just at dark, we probably missed the path, and entered, about the center of the valley, at the opposite side of an extensive grove from that on which the rancho is situated. when i first began to suspect that we might possibly have to camp out another night, i caudleized at a great rate, but when it became a fixed fact that such was our fate, i was instantly as mute and patient as the widow prettyman when she succeeded to the throne of the venerated woman referred to above. indeed, feeling perfectly well, and not being much fatigued, i should rather have enjoyed it, had not f., poor fellow, been so grieved at the idea of my going supperless to a moss-stuffed couch. it was a long time before i could coax him to give up searching for the rancho, and, in truth, i should think that we rode round that part of the valley in which we found ourselves, for more than two hours, trying to find it. about eleven o'clock we went back into the woods and camped for the night. our bed was quite comfortable, and my saddle made an excellent pillow. being so much higher in the mountains, we were a little chilly, and i was disturbed two or three times by a distant noise, which i have since been told was the growling of grizzly bears, that abounded in that vicinity. on the whole, we passed a comfortable night, and rose at sunrise feeling perfectly refreshed and well. in less than an hour we were eating breakfast at the pleasant valley rancho, which we easily discovered by daylight. here they informed us that "we had escaped a great marcy," as old jim used to say in relating his successful run from a wolf, inasmuch as the grizzlies had not devoured us during the night! but, seriously, dear m., my heart thrills with gratitude to the father for his tender care of us during that journey, which, view it as lightly as we may, was certainly attended with _some_ danger. notwithstanding we had endured so much fatigue, i felt as well as ever i did, and after breakfast insisted upon pursuing our journey, although f. anxiously advised me to defer it until next day. but imagine the horror, the _crème de la crème_ of borosity, of remaining for twelve mortal hours of wakefulness in a filthy, uncomfortable, flea-haunted shanty, without books or papers, when rich bar--easily attainable before night, through the loveliest scenery, shining in the yellow splendor of an autumnal morn--lay before us! _i_ had no idea of any such absurd self-immolation. so we again started on our strange, eventful journey. i wish i could give you some faint idea of the majestic solitudes through which we passed,--where the pine-trees rise so grandly in their awful height, that they seem to look into heaven itself. hardly a living thing disturbed this solemnly beautiful wilderness. now and then a tiny lizard glanced in and out among the mossy roots of the old trees, or a golden butterfly flitted languidly from blossom to blossom. sometimes a saucy little squirrel would gleam along the somber trunk of some ancient oak, or a bevy of quail, with their pretty tufted heads and short, quick tread, would trip athwart our path. two or three times, in the radiant distance, we descried a stately deer, which, framed in by embowering leaves, and motionless as a tableau, gazed at us for a moment with its large, limpid eyes, and then bounded away with the speed of light into the evergreen depths of those glorious old woods. sometimes we were compelled to cross broad plains, acres in extent, called chaparrals, covered with low shrubs, which, leafless and barkless, stand like vegetable skeletons along the dreary waste. you cannot imagine what a weird effect these eldrich bushes had upon my mind. of a ghastly whiteness, they at first reminded me of a plantation of antlers, and i amused myself by fancying them a herd of crouching deer; but they grew so wan and ghastly, that i began to look forward to the creeping across a chaparral (it is no easy task for the mules to wind through them) with almost a feeling of dread. but what a lovely sight greeted our enchanted eyes as we stopped for a few moments on the summit of the hill leading into rich bar! deep in the shadowy nooks of the far-down valleys, like wasted jewels dropped from the radiant sky above, lay half a dozen blue-bosomed lagoons, glittering and gleaming and sparkling in the sunlight as though each tiny wavelet were formed of rifted diamonds. it was worth the whole wearisome journey--danger from indians, grizzly bears, sleeping under the stars, and all--to behold this beautiful vision. while i stood breathless with admiration, a singular sound, and an exclamation of "a rattlesnake!" from f., startled me into common sense again. i gave one look at the reptile, horribly beautiful, like a chain of living opals, as it corkscrewed itself into that peculiar spiral which it is compelled to assume in order to make an attack, and then, fear overcoming curiosity, although i had never seen one of them before, i galloped out of its vicinity as fast as my little mule could carry me. the hill leading into rich bar is five miles long, and as steep as you can imagine. fancy yourself riding for this distance along the edge of a frightful precipice, where, should your mule make a misstep, you would be dashed hundreds of feet into the awful ravine below. every one we met tried to discourage us, and said that it would be impossible for me to ride down it. they would take f. aside, much to my amusement, and tell him that he was assuming a great responsibility in allowing me to undertake such a journey. i, however, insisted upon going on. about halfway down we came to a level spot, a few feet in extent, covered with sharp slate-stones. here the girth of my saddle, which we afterwards found to be fastened only by four _tacks_, gave way, and i fell over the right side, striking on my left elbow. strange to say, i was not in the least hurt, and again my heart wept tearful thanks to god, for, had the accident happened at any other part of the hill, i must have been dashed, a piece of shapeless nothingness, into the dim valleys beneath. f. soon mended the saddle-girth. i mounted my darling little mule, and rode triumphantly into rich bar at five o'clock in the evening. the rich barians are astonished at my courage in daring to ride down the hill. many of the miners have told me that they dismounted several times while descending it. i, of course, feel very vain of my exploit, and glorify myself accordingly, being particularly careful, all the time, not to inform my admirers that my courage was the result of the know-nothing, fear-nothing principle; for i was certainly ignorant, until i had passed them, of the dangers of the passage. another thing that prevented my dismounting was the apparently utter impossibility, on such a steep and narrow path, of mounting again. then, i had much more confidence in my mule's power of picking the way and keeping his footing, than in my own. it is the prettiest sight in the world to see these cunning creatures stepping so daintily and cautiously among the rocks. their pretty little feet, which absolutely do not look larger than a silver dollar, seem made on purpose for the task. they are often perfect little vixens with their masters, but an old mountaineer, who has ridden them for twenty years, told me that he never knew one to be skittish with a woman. the intelligent darlings seem to know what a bundle of helplessness they are carrying, and scorn to take advantage of it. we are boarding, at present, at the "empire," a huge shingle palace in the center of rich bar, which i will describe in my next letter. pardon, dear m., the excessive egotism of this letter; but you have often flattered me by saying that my epistles were only interesting when profusely illuminated by that manuscriptal decoration represented by a great _i_. a most intense love of the ornament myself makes it easy for me to believe you, and doubt not that my future communications will be as profusely stained with it as even you could desire. letter _the_ second [_the_ pioneer, _march_, ] rich bar--its hotels _and_ pioneer families synopsis the empire hotel, _the_ hotel of rich bar. the author safely ensconced therein. california might be called the "hotel state," from the plenitude of its taverns, etc. the empire the only two-story building in rich bar, and the only one there having glass windows. built by gamblers for immoral purposes. the speculation a failure, its occupants being treated with contempt or pity. building sold for a few hundred dollars. the new landlord of the empire. the landlady, an example of the terrible wear and tear to the complexion in crossing the plains. a resolute woman. left behind her two children and an eight-months-old baby. cooking for six people, her two-weeks-old baby kicking and screaming in champagne-basket cradle. "the sublime martyrdom of maternity". left alone immediately after infant's birth. husband dangerously ill, and cannot help. a kindly miner. three other women at the bar. the "indiana girl". "girl" a misnomer. "a gigantic piece of humanity". "dainty" habits and herculean feats. a log-cabin family. pretty and interesting children. "the miners' home". its petite landlady tends bar. "splendid material for social parties this winter." letter _the_ second rich bar--its hotels _and_ pioneer families rich bar, east branch _of the_ north fork _of_ feather river, _september_ , . i believe that i closed my last letter by informing you that i was safely ensconced--after all the hair-breadth escapes of my wearisome, though at the same time delightful, journey--under the magnificent roof of the "empire," which, by the way, is _the_ hotel of the place, not but that nearly ever other shanty on the bar claims the same grandiloquent title. indeed, for that matter, california herself might be called the hotel state, so completely is she inundated with taverns, boarding-houses, etc. the empire is the only two-story building in town, and absolutely has a live "upstairs." here you will find two or three glass windows, an unknown luxury in all the other dwellings. it is built of planks of the roughest possible description. the roof, of course, is covered with canvas, which also forms the entire front of the house, on which is painted, in immense capitals, the following imposing letters: "the empire!" i will describe, as exactly as possible, this grand establishment. you first enter a large apartment, level with the street, part of which is fitted up as a barroom, with that eternal crimson calico which flushes the whole social life of the golden state with its everlasting red, in the center of a fluted mass of which gleams a really elegant mirror, set off by a background of decanters, cigar-vases, and jars of brandied fruit; the whole forming a _tout ensemble_ of dazzling splendor. a table covered with a green cloth,--upon which lies a pack of monte-cards, a back-gammon-board, and a sickening pile of "yallow-kivered" literature,--with several uncomfortable-looking benches, complete the furniture of this most important portion of such a place as "the empire." the remainder of the room does duty as a shop, where velveteen and leather, flannel shirts and calico ditto,--the latter starched to an appalling state of stiffness,--lie cheek by jowl with hams, preserved meats, oysters, and other groceries, in hopeless confusion. from the barroom you ascend by four steps into the parlor, the floor of which is covered by a straw carpet. this room contains quite a decent looking-glass, a sofa fourteen feet long and a foot and a half wide, painfully suggestive of an aching back,--of course covered with red calico (the sofa, _not_ the back),--a round table with a green cloth, six cane-bottom chars, red-calico curtains, a cooking-stove, a rocking-chair, _and_ a woman and a baby, (of whom more anon,) the latter wearing a scarlet frock, to match the sofa and curtains. a flight of four steps leads from the parlor to the upper story, where, on each side of a narrow entry, are four eight-feet-by-ten bedrooms, the floors of which are covered by straw matting. here your eyes are again refreshed with a glittering vision of red-calico curtains gracefully festooned above wooden windows picturesquely lattice-like. these tiny chambers are furnished with little tables covered with oilcloth, and bedsteads so heavy that nothing short of a giant's strength could move them. indeed, i am convinced that they were built, piece by piece, on the spot where they now stand. the entire building is lined with purple calico, alternating with a delicate blue, and the effect is really quite pretty. the floors are so very uneven that you are always ascending a hill or descending into a valley. the doors consist of a slight frame covered with dark-blue drilling, and are hung on hinges of leather. as to the kitchen and dining-room, i leave to your vivid imagination to picture their primitiveness, merely observing that nothing was ever more awkward and unworkmanlike than the whole tenement. it is just such a piece of carpentering as a child two years old, gifted with the strength of a man, would produce, if it wanted to play at making grown-up houses. and yet this impertinent apology for a house cost its original owners more than eight thousand dollars. this will not be quite so surprising when i inform you that, at the time it was built, everything had to be packed from marysville at a cost of forty cents a pound. compare this with the price of freight on the railroads at home, and you will easily make an estimate of the immense outlay of money necessary to collect the materials for such an undertaking at rich bar. it was built by a company of gamblers as a residence for two of those unfortunates who make a trade--a thing of barter--of the holiest passion, when sanctified by _love_, that ever thrills the wayward heart of poor humanity. to the lasting honor of _miners_ be it written, the _speculation_ proved a decided failure. yes! these thousand men, many of whom had been for years absent from the softening amenities of female society, and the sweet restraining influences of pure womanhood,--these husbands of fair young wives kneeling daily at the altars of their holy homes to pray for their far-off ones,--these sons of gray-haired mothers, majestic in their sanctified old age,--these brothers of virginal sisters, white and saintlike as the lilies of their own gardens,--looked only with contempt or pity on these, oh! so earnestly to be compassionated creatures. these unhappy members of a class, to one of which the tenderest words that jesus ever spake were uttered, left in a few weeks, absolutely driven away by public opinion. the disappointed gamblers sold the house to its present proprietor for a few hundred dollars. mr. b., the landlord of the empire, was a western farmer who with his wife crossed the plains about two years ago. immediately on his arrival he settled at a mining station, where he remained until last spring, when he removed to rich bar. mrs. b. is a gentle and amiable looking woman, about twenty-five years of age. she is an example of the terrible wear and tear to the complexion in crossing the plains, hers having become, through exposure at that time, of a dark and permanent yellow, anything but becoming. i will give you a key to her character, which will exhibit it better than weeks of description. she took a nursing babe, eight months old, from her bosom, and left it with two other children, almost infants, to cross the plains in search of gold! when i arrived she was cooking supper for some half a dozen people, while her really pretty boy, who lay kicking furiously in his champagne-basket cradle, and screaming with a six-months-old-baby power, had, that day, completed just two weeks of his earthly pilgrimage. the inconvenience which she suffered during what george sand calls "the sublime martyrdom of maternity" would appal the wife of the humblest pauper of a new england village. another woman, also from the west, was with her at the time of her infant's birth, but scarcely had the "latest-found" given the first characteristic shriek of its debut upon the stage of life, when this person herself was taken seriously ill, and was obliged to return to her own cabin, leaving the poor exhausted mother entirely alone! her husband lay seriously sick himself at the time, and of course could offer her no assistance. a miner, who lived in the house, and hoarded himself, carried her some bread and tea in the morning and evening, and that was all the care she had. two days after its birth, she made a desperate effort, and, by easy stages of ten minutes at a time, contrived to get poor baby washed and dressed, after a fashion. he is an astonishingly large and strong child, holds his head up like a six-monther, and has but one failing,--a too evident and officious desire to inform everybody, far and near, at all hours of the night and day, that his lungs are in a perfectly sound and healthy condition,--a piece of intelligence which, though very gratifying, is rather inconvenient if one happens to be particularly sleepy. besides mrs. b., there are three other women on the bar. one is called "the indiana girl," from the name of her pa's hotel, though it must be confessed that the sweet name of _girl_ seems sadly incongruous when applied to such a gigantic piece of humanity. i have a great desire to see her, which will probably not be gratified, as she leaves in a few days for the valley. but, at any rate, i can say that i have _heard_ her. the far-off roll of her mighty voice, booming through two closed doors and a long entry, added greatly to the severe attack of nervous headache under which i was suffering when she called. this gentle creature wears the thickest kind of miner's boots, and has the dainty habit of wiping the dishes on her apron! last spring she _walked_ to this place, and packed fifty pounds of flour on her back down that awful hill, the snow being five feet deep at the time. mr. and mrs. b., who have three pretty children, reside in a log cabin at the entrance of the village. one of the little girls was in the barroom to-day, and her sweet and birdlike voice brought tearfully, and yet joyfully, to my memory "tearsoul," "leilie," and "lile katie." mrs. b., who is as small as "the indiana girl" is large (indeed, i have been confidently informed that she weighs but sixty-eight pounds), keeps, with her husband, the "miners' home." (mem.--the lady tends bar.) _voilà_, my dear, the female population of my new home. splendid material for social parties this winter, are they not? letter _the_ third [_the_ pioneer, _april_, ] life _and_ fortune _at the_ bar-diggings synopsis flashy shops and showy houses of san francisco. rich bar charmingly fresh and original. a diminutive valley. río de las plumas, or feather river. rich bar, the barra rica of the spaniards. an acknowledgment of "a most humiliating consciousness of geological deficiencies". palatial splendor of the empire hotel. round tents, square tents, plank hovels, log cabins, etc. "local habitations" formed of pine boughs, and covered with old calico shirts. the "office" of dr. c. excites the risibilities of the author. one of the "finders" of rich bar. had not spoken to a woman for two years. honors the occasion by an "investment" in champagne. the author assists in drinking to the honor of her arrival at the bar. nothing done in california without the sanctifying influence of the "spirit". history of the discovery of gold at rich bar. thirty-three pounds of gold in eight hours. fifteen hundred dollars from a panful of "dirt". five hundred miners arrive at rich bar in about a week. smith bar, indian bar, missouri bar, and other bars. miners extremely fortunate. absolute wealth in a few weeks. drunken gamblers in less than a year. suffering for necessaries of life. a mild winter. a stormy spring. impassable trails. no pack-mule trains arrive. miners pack flour on their backs for over forty miles. flour at over three dollars a pound. subsistence on feed-barley. a voracious miner. an abundance stored. letter _the_ third life _and_ fortune _at the_ bar-diggings rich bar, east branch _of the_ north fork _of_ feather river, _september_ , . i intend, to-day, dear m., to be as disagreeably statistical and as praiseworthily matter-of-factish as the most dogged utilitarian could desire. i shall give you a full, true, and particular account of the discovery, rise, and progress of this place, with a religious adherence to _dates_ which will rather astonish your unmathematical mind. but let me first describe the spot as it looked to my wondering and unaccustomed eyes. remember, i had never seen a mining district before, and had just left san francisco, amid whose flashy-looking shops and showy houses the most of my time had been spent since my arrival in the golden state. of course, to me, the _coup d'oeil_ of rich bar was charmingly fresh and original. imagine a tiny valley about eight hundred yards in length, and perhaps thirty in width, (it was measured for my especial information,) apparently hemmed in by lofty hills, almost perpendicular, draperied to their very summits with beautiful fir-trees, the blue-bosomed plumas (or feather river, i suppose i must call it) undulating along their base,--and you have as good an idea as i can give you of the _local_ of barra rica, as the spaniards so prettily term it. in almost any of the numerous books written upon california, no doubt you will be able to find a most scientific description of the origin of these bars. i must acknowledge with shame that my ideas on the subject are distressingly vague. i could never appreciate the poetry or the humor of making one's wrists ache by knocking to pieces gloomy-looking stones, or in dirtying one's fingers by analyzing soils, in a vain attempt to fathom the osteology or anatomy of our beloved earth, though my heart is thrillingly alive to the faintest shade of color and the infinite variety of styles in which she delights to robe her ever-changeful and ever-beautiful _surface_. in my unscientific mind, the _formations_ are without form, and void; and you might as well talk chinese to me, as to embroider your conversation with the terms "hornblende," "mica," "limestone," "slate," "granite," and "quartz" in a hopeless attempt to enlighten me as to their merits. the dutiful diligence with which i attended course after course of lectures on geology, by america's greatest illustrator of that subject, arose rather from my affectionate reverence for our beloved dr. h., and the fascinating charm which his glorious mind throws round every subject which it condescends to illuminate, than to any interest in the dry science itself. it is therefore with a most humiliating consciousness of my geological deficiencies that i offer you the only explanation which i have been able to obtain from those most learned in such matters here. i gather from their remarks, that these bars are formed by deposits of earth rolling down from the mountains, crowding the river aside and occupying a portion of its deserted bed. if my definition is unsatisfactory, i can but refer you to some of the aforesaid works upon california. through the middle of rich bar runs the street, thickly planted with about forty tenements, among which figure round tents, square tents, plank hovels, log cabins, etc., the residences varying in elegance and convenience from the palatial splendor of "the empire" down to a "local habitation" formed of pine boughs and covered with old calico shirts. to-day i visited the "office," the only one on the river. i had heard so much about it from others, as well as from f., that i really _did_ expect something extra. when i entered this imposing place the shock to my optic nerves was so great that i sank helplessly upon one of the benches, which ran, divan-like, the whole length (ten feet!) of the building, and laughed till i cried. there was, of course, no floor. a rude nondescript, in one corner, on which was ranged the medical library, consisting of half a dozen volumes, did duty as a table. the shelves, which looked like sticks snatched hastily from the woodpile, and nailed up without the least alteration, contained quite a respectable array of medicines. the white-canvas window stared everybody in the face, with the interesting information painted on it, in perfect grenadiers of capitals, that this was dr. ----'s office. at my loud laugh (which, it must be confessed, was noisy enough to give the whole street assurance of the presence of a woman) f. looked shocked, and his partner looked prussic acid. to him (the partner, i mean; he hadn't been out of the mines for years) the "office" was a thing sacred, and set apart for an almost admiring worship. it was a beautiful architectural ideal embodied in pine shingles and cotton cloth. here he literally "lived, and moved, and had his being," his bed and his board. with an admiration of the fine arts truly praiseworthy, he had fondly decorated the walls thereof with sundry pictures from godey's, graham's, and sartain's magazines, among which, fashion-plates with imaginary monsters sporting miraculous waists, impossible wrists, and fabulous feet, largely predominated. during my call at the office i was introduced to one of the _finders_ of rich bar,--a young georgian,--who afterwards gave me a full description of all the facts connected with its discovery. this unfortunate had not spoken to a woman for two years, and, in the elation of his heart at the joyful event, he rushed out and invested capital in some excellent champagne, which i, on willie's principle of "doing in turkey as the turkeys do," assisted the company in drinking, to the honor of my own arrival. i mention this as an instance that nothing can be done in california without the sanctifying influence of the _spirit_, and it generally appears in a much more "questionable shape" than that of sparkling wine. mr. h. informed me that on the th of july, , it was rumored at nelson's creek--a mining station situated at the middle fork of the feather river, about eighty miles from marysville--that one of those vague "somebodies," a near relation of the "they-says," had discovered mines of a remarkable richness in a northeasterly direction, and about forty miles from the first-mentioned place. anxious and immediate search was made for "somebody," but, as our western brethren say, he "wasn't thar'." but his absence could not deter the miners when once the golden rumor had been set afloat. a large company packed up their goods and chattels, generally consisting of a pair of blankets, a frying-pan, some flour, salt pork, brandy, pickax and shovel, and started for the new dorado. they "traveled, and traveled, and traveled," as we used to say in the fairy-stories, for nearly a week, in every possible direction, when, one evening, weary and discouraged, about one hundred of the party found themselves at the top of that famous hill which figures so largely in my letters, whence the river can be distinctly seen. half of the number concluded to descend the mountain that night, the remainder stopping on the summit until the next morning. on arriving at rich bar, part of the adventurers camped there, but many went a few miles farther down the river. the next morning, two men turned over a large stone, beneath which they found quite a sizable piece of gold. they washed a small panful of the dirt, and obtained from it two hundred and fifty-six dollars. encouraged by this success, they commenced staking off the legal amount of ground allowed to each person for mining purposes, and, the remainder of the party having descended the hill, before night the entire bar was "claimed." in a fortnight from that time, the two men who found the first bit of gold had each taken out six thousand dollars. two others took out thirty-three pounds of gold in eight hours, which is the best day's work that has been done on this branch of the river. the largest amount ever taken from one panful of dirt was fifteen hundred dollars. in a little more than a week after its discovery, five hundred men had settled upon the bar for the summer. such is the wonderful alacrity with which a mining town is built. soon after was discovered, on the same side of the river, about half a mile apart, and at nearly the same distance from this place, the two bars, smith and indian, both very rich, also another, lying across the river, just opposite indian, called missouri bar. there are several more, all within a few miles of here, called frenchman's, taylor's, brown's, the junction, wyandott, and muggin's; but they are, at present, of little importance as mining stations. those who worked in these mines during the fall of were extremely fortunate, but, alas! the monte fiend ruined hundreds. shall i tell you the fate of two of the most successful of these gold-hunters? from poor men, they found themselves, at the end of a few weeks, absolutely rich. elated with their good fortune, seized with a mania for monte, in less than a year these unfortunates, so lately respectable and intelligent, became a pair of drunken gamblers. one of them, at this present writing, works for five dollars a day, and boards himself out of that; the other actually suffers for the necessaries of life,--a too common result of scenes in the mines. there were but few that dared to remain in the mountains during the winter, for fear of being buried in the snow, of which, at that time, they had a most vague idea. i have been told that in these sheltered valleys it seldom falls to the depth of more than a foot, and disappears almost invariably within a day or two. perhaps there were three hundred that concluded to stay, of which number two thirds stopped on smith's bar, as the labor of mining there is much easier than it is here. contrary to the general expectation, the weather was delightful until about the middle of march. it then commenced storming, and continued to snow and rain incessantly for nearly three weeks. supposing that the rainy season had passed, hundreds had arrived on the river during the previous month. the snow, which fell several feet in depth on the mountains, rendered the trail impassable, and entirely stopped the pack trains. provisions soon became scarce, and the sufferings of these unhappy men were indeed extreme. some adventurous spirits, with true yankee hardihood, forced their way through the snow to the frenchman's rancho, and packed flour _on their backs_ for more than forty miles! the first meal that arrived sold for three dollars a pound. many subsisted for days on nothing but barley, which is kept here to feed the pack-mules on. one unhappy individual, who could not obtain even a little barley for love or money, and had eaten nothing for three days, forced his way out to the spanish rancho, fourteen miles distant, and in less than an hour after his arrival had devoured _twenty-seven_ biscuit and a corresponding: quantity of other eatables, and, of course, drinkables to match. don't let this account alarm you. there is no danger of another famine here. they tell me that there is hardly a building in the place that has not food enough in it to last its occupants for the next two years; besides, there are two or three well-filled groceries in town. letter _the_ fourth [_the_ pioneer, _may_, ] accidents--surgery--death--festivity synopsis frightful accidents to which the gold-seeker is constantly liable. futile attempts of physician to save crushed leg of young miner. universal outcry against amputation. dr. c., however, uses the knife. professional reputation at stake. success attends the operation. death of another young miner, who fell into mining-shaft. his funeral. picturesque appearance of the miners thereat. of what the miner's costume consists. horror of the author aroused in contemplation of the lonely mountain-top graveyard. jostling of life and death. celebration of the anniversary of chilian independence. participation of a certain class of yankees therein. the procession. a falstaffian leader. the feast. a twenty-gallon keg of brandy on the table, gracefully encircled by quart dippers. the chileños reel with a better grace, the americans more naturally. letter _the_ fourth accidents--surgery--death--festivity rich bar, east branch _of the_ north fork _of_ feather river, _september_ , . there has been quite an excitement here for the last week, on account of a successful amputation having been performed upon the person of a young man by the name of w. as i happen to know all the circumstances of the case, i will relate them to you as illustrative of the frightful accidents to which the gold-seekers are constantly liable, and i can assure you that similar ones happen very often. w. was one of the first who settled on this river, and suffered extremely from the scarcity of provisions during the last winter. by steady industry in his laborious vocation, he had accumulated about four thousand dollars. he was thinking seriously of returning to massachusetts with what he had already gained, when, in the early part of last may, a stone, unexpectedly rolling from the top of smith's hill, on the side of which he was mining, crushed his leg in the most shocking manner. naturally enough, the poor fellow shrank with horror from the idea of an amputation here in the mountains. it seemed absolutely worse than death. his physician, appreciating his feelings on the subject, made every effort to save his shattered limb, but, truly, the fates seemed against him. an attack of typhoid fever reduced him to a state of great weakness, which was still further increased by erysipelas--a common complaint in the mountains--in its most virulent form. the latter disease, settling in the fractured leg, rendered a cure utterly hopeless. his sufferings have been of the most intense description. through all the blossoming spring, and a summer as golden as its own golden self, of our beautiful california he has languished away existence in a miserable cabin, his only nurses men, some of them, it is true, kind and good, others neglectful and careless. a few weeks since, f. was called in to see him. he decided immediately that nothing but an amputation would save him. a universal outcry against it was raised by nearly all the other physicians on the bar. they agreed, _en masse_, that he could live but a few weeks unless the leg--now a mere lump of disease--was taken off. at the same time, they declared that he would certainly expire under the knife, and that it was cruel to subject him to any further suffering. you can perhaps imagine f.'s anxiety. it was a great responsibility for a young physician to take. should the patient die during the operation, f.'s professional reputation would, of course, die with him; but he felt it his duty to waive all selfish considerations, and give w. that one chance, feeble as it seemed, for his life. thank god, the result was most triumphant. for several days existence hung upon a mere thread. he was not allowed to speak or move, and was fed from a teaspoon, his only diet being milk, which we obtained from the spanish rancho, sending twice a week for it. i should have mentioned that f. decidedly refused to risk an operation in the small and miserable tent in which w. had languished away nearly half a year, and he was removed to the empire the day previous to the amputation. it is almost needless to tell you that the little fortune, to accumulate which he suffered so much, is now nearly exhausted. poor fellow! the philosophy and cheerful resignation with which he has endured his terrible martyrdom is beautiful to behold. my heart aches as i look upon his young face and think of "his gentle dark-eyed mother weeping lonely at the north" for her far-away and suffering son. as i sat by the bedside of our poor invalid, yielding myself up to a world of dreamy visionings suggested by the musical sweep of the pine branch which i waved above his head, and the rosy sunset flushing the western casement with its soft glory, he suddenly opened his languid eyes and whispered, "the chileño procession is returning. do you not hear it?" i did not tell him-- that the weary sound, and the heavy breath, and the silent motions of passing death, and the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank, sent through the pores of the coffin-plank, had already informed me that a far other band than that of the noisy south americans was solemnly marching by. it was the funeral train of a young man who was instantly killed, the evening before, by falling into one of those deep pits, sunk for mining purposes, which are scattered over the bar in almost every direction. i rose quietly and looked from the window. about a dozen persons were carrying an unpainted coffin, without pall or bier (the place of the latter being supplied by ropes), up the steep hill which rises behind the empire, on the top of which is situated the burial-ground of rich bar. the bearers were all neatly and cleanly dressed in their miner's costume, which, consisting of a flannel shirt (almost always of a dark-blue color), pantaloons with the boots drawn up over them, and a low-crowned broad-brimmed black felt hat (though the fashion of the latter is not invariable), is not, simple as it seems, so unpicturesque as you might perhaps imagine. a strange horror of that lonely mountain graveyard came over me as i watched the little company wending wearily up to the solitary spot. the "sweet habitude of being"--not that i fear _death_, but that i love _life_ as, for instance, charles lamb loved it--makes me particularly affect a cheerful burial-place. i know that it is dreadfully unsentimental, but i should like to make my last home in the heart of a crowded city, or, better still, in one of those social homes of the dead, which the turks, with a philosophy so beautiful and so poetical, make their most cheerful resort. singularly enough, christians seem to delight in rendering death particularly hideous, and graveyards decidedly disagreeable. i, on the contrary, would "plant the latter with laurels, and sprinkle it with lilies." i would wreathe "sleep's pale brother" so thickly with roses that even those rabid moralists who think that it makes us better to paint him as a dreadful fiend, instead of a loving friend, could see nothing but their blushing radiance. i would alter the whole paraphernalia of the coffin, the shroud, and the bier, particularly the first, which, as dickens says, "looks like a high-shouldered ghost with its hands in its breeches-pockets." why should we endeavor to make our entrance into a glorious immortality so unutterably ghastly? let us glide into the "fair shadowland" through a "gate of flowers," if we may no longer, as in the majestic olden time, aspire heavenward on the wings of perfumed flame. how oddly do life and death jostle each other in this strange world of ours! how nearly allied are smiles and tears! my eyes were yet moist from the egotistical _pitié de moi-même_ in which i had been indulging at the thought of sleeping forever amid these lonely hills, which in a few years must return to their primeval solitude, perchance never again to be awakened by the voice of humanity, when the chileño procession, every member of it most intensely drunk, really _did_ appear. i never saw anything more diverting than the whole affair. of course, _selon les règles_, i ought to have been shocked and horrified, to have shed salt tears, and have uttered melancholy jeremiads over their miserable degradation; but the world is so full of platitudes, my dear, that i think you will easily forgive me for not boring you with a temperance lecture, and will good-naturedly let me have my laugh, and not think me _very_ wicked, after all. you must know that to-day is the anniversary of the independence of chile. the procession got up in honor of it consisted, perhaps, of twenty men, nearly a third of whom were of that class of yankees who are particularly noisy and particularly conspicuous in all celebrations where it is each man's most onerous duty to get what is technically called "tight." the man who headed the procession was a complete comic poem in his own individual self. he was a person of falstaffian proportions and coloring, and if a brandy-barrel ever _does_ "come alive," and, donning a red shirt and buckskin trousers, betake itself to pedestrianism, it will look more like my hero than anything else that i can at present think of. with that affectionateness so peculiar to people when they arrive at the sentimental stage of intoxication, although it was with the greatest difficulty that he could sustain his own corporosity, he was tenderly trying to direct the zigzag footsteps of his companion, a little withered-up, weird-looking chileño. alas for the wickedness of human nature! the latter, whose drunkenness had taken a byronic and misanthropical turn, rejected with the basest ingratitude these delicate attentions. do not think that my incarnated brandy-cask was the only one of the party who did unto others as he would they should do unto him, for the entire band were officiously tendering to one another the same good-samaritan-like assistance. i was not astonished at the virginia-fence-like style of their marching when i heard a description of the feast of which they had partaken a few hours before. a friend of mine, who stepped into the tent where they were dining, said that the board--really, _board_--was arranged with a bottle of claret at each plate, and, after the cloth (metaphorically speaking, i mean, for table-linen is a mere myth in the mines) was removed, a twenty-gallon keg of brandy was placed in the center, with quart dippers gracefully encircling it, that each one might help himself as he pleased. can you wonder, after that, that every man vied with his neighbor in illustrating hogarth's line of beauty? it was impossible to tell which nation was the more gloriously drunk; but this i _will_ say, even at the risk of being thought partial to my own beloved countrymen, that, though the chileños reeled with a better grace, the americans did it more _naturally_! letter _the_ fifth [_the_ pioneer, _june_, ] death _of a_ mother--life _of_ pioneer women synopsis death of one of the four pioneer women of rich bar. the funeral from the log-cabin residence. sickly ten-months-old baby moans piteously for its mother. a handsome girl of sick years, unconscious of her bereavement, shocks the author by her actions. a monte-table cover as a funeral pall. painful feelings when nails are driven into coffin. the extempore prayer. every observance possible surrounded the funeral. visit to a canvas house of three "apartments". barroom, dining-room, kitchen with bed-closet. a sixty-eight-pound woman. "a magnificent woman, a wife of the right sort". "earnt her 'old man' nine hundred dollars in nine weeks, by washing". the "manglers" and the "mangled". fortitude of refined california women pioneers. the orphaned girl a "cold-blooded little wretch". remorse of the author. "baby decanters". the gayety and fearlessness of the orphaned girl. letter _the_ fifth death _of a_ mother--life _of_ pioneer women rich bar, east branch _of the_ north fork _of_ feather river, _september_ , . it seems indeed awful, dear m., to be compelled to announce to you the death of one of the four women forming the female population of this bar. i have just returned from the funeral of poor mrs. b., who died of peritonitis (a common disease in this place), after an illness of four days only. our hostess herself heard of her sickness but two days since. on her return from a visit which she had paid to the invalid, she told me that although mrs. b.'s family did not seem alarmed about her, in her opinion she would survive but a few hours. last night we were startled by the frightful news of her decease. i confess that, without being very egotistical, the death of one, out of a community of four women, might well alarm the remainder. her funeral took place at ten this morning. the family reside in a log cabin at the head of the bar, and although it has no window, all the light admitted entering through an aperture where there _will_ be a door when it becomes cold enough for such a luxury, yet i am told, and can easily believe, that it is one of the most _comfortable_ residences in the place. i observed it particularly, for it was the first log cabin that i had ever seen. everything in the room, though of the humblest description, was exceedingly clean and neat. on a board, supported by two butter-tubs, was extended the body of the dead woman, covered with a sheet. by its side stood the coffin, of unstained pine, lined with white cambric. you, who have alternately laughed and scolded at my provoking and inconvenient deficiency in the power of observing, will perhaps wonder at the minuteness of my descriptions; but i know how deeply you are interested in everything relating to california, and therefore i take pains to describe things exactly as i _see_ them, hoping that thus you will obtain an idea of life in the mines _as it is_. the bereaved husband held in his arms a sickly babe ten months old, which was moaning piteously for its mother. the other child, a handsome, bold-looking little girl six years of age, was running gayly around the room, perfectly unconscious of her great bereavement. a sickening horror came over me, to see her, every few moments, run up to her dead mother and peep laughingly under the handkerchief that covered her moveless face. poor little thing! it was evident that her baby-toilet had been made by men. she had on a new calico dress, which, having no tucks in it, trailed to the floor, and gave her a most singular and dwarf-womanly appearance. about twenty men, with the three women of the place, had assembled at the funeral. an extempore prayer was made, filled with all the peculiarities usual to that style of petition. ah, how different from the soothing verses of the glorious burial service of the church! as the procession started for the hillside graveyard, a dark cloth cover, borrowed from a neighboring monte-table, was flung over the coffin. do not think that i mention any of these circumstances in a spirit of mockery. far from it. every observance usual on such occasions, that was _procurable_, surrounded this funeral. all the gold on rich bar could do no more; and should i die to-morrow, i should be marshaled to my mountain-grave beneath the same monte-table-cover pall which shrouded the coffin of poor mrs. b. i almost forgot to tell you how painfully the feelings of the assembly were shocked by the sound of the nails (there being no screws at any of the shops) driven with a hammer into the coffin while closing it. it seemed as if it _must_ disturb the pale sleeper within. to-day i called at the residence of mrs. r. it is a canvas house containing a suite of three "apartments," as dick swiveller would say, which, considering that they were all on the ground-floor, are kept surprisingly neat. there is a barroom blushing all over with red calico, a dining-room, kitchen, and a small bed-closet. the little sixty-eight-pounder woman is queen of the establishment. by the way, a man who walked home with us was enthusiastic in her praise. "magnificent woman, that, sir," he said, addressing my husband; "a wife of the right sort, _she_ is. why," he added, absolutely rising into eloquence as he spoke, "she earnt her _old man_" (said individual twenty-one years of age, perhaps) "nine hundred dollars in nine weeks, clear of all expenses, by washing! such women ain't common, i tell _you_. if they were, a man might marry, and make money by the operation." i looked at this person with somewhat the same kind of _inverted_ admiration wherewith leigh hunt was wont to gaze upon that friend of his "who used to elevate the commonplace to a pitch of the sublime," and he looked at _me_ as if to say, that, though by no means gloriously arrayed, i was a mere cumberer of the ground, inasmuch as i toiled not, neither did i wash. alas! i hung my diminished head, particularly when i remembered the eight dollars a dozen which i had been in the habit of paying for the washing of linen-cambric pocket-handkerchiefs while in san francisco. but a lucky thought came into my mind. as all men cannot be napoleon bonapartes, so all women cannot be _manglers_. the majority of the sex must be satisfied with simply being _mangled_. reassured by this idea, i determined to meekly and humbly pay the amount per dozen required to enable this really worthy and agreeable little woman "to lay up her hundred dollars a week, clear of expenses." but is it not wonderful what femininity is capable of? to look at the tiny hands of mrs. r., you would not think it possible that they could wring out anything larger than a doll's nightcap; but, as is often said, nothing is strange in california. i have known of sacrifices requiring, it would seem, superhuman efforts, made by women in this country, who, at home, were nurtured in the extreme of elegance and delicacy. mr. b. called on us to-day with little mary. i tried to make her, at least, look sad as i talked about her mother; but although she had seen the grave closed over her coffin (for a friend of her father's had carried her in his arms to the burial), she seemed laughingly indifferent to her loss. being myself an orphan, my heart contracted painfully at her careless gayety when speaking of her dead parent, and i said to our hostess, "what a cold-blooded little wretch it is!" but immediately my conscience struck me with remorse. poor orphaned one! poor bereaved darling! why should i so cruelly wish to darken her young life with that knowledge which a few years' experience will so painfully teach her? "all _my_ mother came into my eyes" as i bent down and kissed the white lids which shrouded her beautiful dark orbs, and, taking her fat little hand in mine, i led her to my room, where, in the penitence of my heart, i gave her everything that she desired. the little chatterer was enchanted, not having had any new playthings for a long while. it was beautiful to hear her pretty exclamations of ecstasy at the sight of some tiny scent-bottles, about an inch in length, which she called baby decanters. mr. b. intends, in a day or two, to take his children to their grandmother, who resides somewhere near marysville, i believe. this is an awful place for children, and nervous mothers would "die daily" if they could see little mary running fearlessly to the very edge of, and looking down into, these holes (many of them sixty feet in depth), which have been excavated in the hope of finding gold, and of course left open. letter _the_ sixth [_the_ pioneer, _july_, ] use _of_ profanity--uncertainty _of_ mining synopsis prevalence of profanity in california. excuses for its use. a mere slip of the tongue, etc. grotesqueness of some blasphemous expressions. sleep-killing mining machinery. what a flume is. project to flume the river for many miles. the california mining system a gambling or lottery transaction. miner who works his own claim the more successful. dr. c. a loser in his mining ventures. another sleep-killer. bowling-alleys. bizarre cant phrases and slang used by the miners "honest indian?" "talk enough when horses fight". "talk enough between gentlemen". "i've got the dead-wood on him". "i'm going nary cent" (on person mistrusted). all carry the freshness of originality to the author's ear. letter _the_ sixth use _of_ profanity--uncertainty _of_ mining rich bar, east branch _of the_ north fork _of_ feather river, _september_ , . i think that i have never spoken to you of the mournful extent to which profanity prevails in california. you know that at home it is considered _vulgar_ for a gentleman to swear; but i am told that here it is absolutely the fashion, and that people who never uttered an oath in their lives while in the "states," now clothe themselves with curses as with a garment. some try to excuse themselves by saying that it is a careless habit, into which they have glided imperceptibly from having been compelled to associate so long with the vulgar and the profane; that it is a mere slip of the tongue, which means absolutely nothing; etc. i am willing to believe this, and to think as charitably as possible of many persons here, who have unconsciously adopted a custom which i know they abhor. whether there is more profanity in the mines than elsewhere, i know not; but, during the short time that i have been at rich bar, i have _heard_ more of it than in all my life before. of course the most vulgar blackguard will abstain from swearing in the _presence_ of a lady, but in this rag-and-cardboard house one is _compelled_ to hear the most sacred of names constantly profaned by the drinkers and gamblers, who haunt the barroom at all hours. and this is a custom which the gentlemanly and quiet proprietor, much as he evidently dislikes it, cannot possibly prevent. some of these expressions, were they not so fearfully blasphemous, would be grotesquely sublime. for instance, not five minutes ago i heard two men quarreling in the street, and one said to the other, "only let me get hold of your beggarly carcass once, and i will use you up so small that god almighty himself cannot see your _ghost!_" to live thus, in constant danger of being hushed to one's rosy rest by a ghastly lullaby of oaths, is revolting in the extreme. for that reason, and because it is infinitely more comfortable during the winter season than a plank house, f. has concluded to build a log cabin, where, at least, i shall not be _obliged_ to hear the solemn names of the father and the dear master so mockingly profaned. but it is not the swearing alone which disturbs my slumber. there is a dreadful flume, the machinery of which keeps up the most dismal moaning and shrieking all the livelong night, painfully suggestive of a suffering child. but, o dear! you don't know what that is, do you? now, if i were scientific, i should give you such a vivid description of it that you would see a pen-and-ink flume staring at you from this very letter. but, alas! my own ideas on the subject are in a state of melancholy vagueness. i will do the best possible, however, in the way of explanation. a flume, then, is an immense trough which takes up a portion of the river, and with the aid of a dam compels it to run in another channel, leaving the vacated bed of the stream ready for mining purposes. there is a gigantic project now on the tapis, of fluming the entire river for many miles, commencing a little above rich bar. sometimes these fluming companies are eminently successful; at others, their operations are a dead failure. but, in truth, the whole mining system in california is one great gambling or, better perhaps, lottery transaction. it is impossible to tell whether a claim will prove valuable or not. f. has invariably sunk money in every one that he has bought. of course a man who works a claim himself is more likely, even should it turn out poor, to get his money back, as they say, than one who, like f., hires it done. a few weeks since, f. paid a thousand dollars for a claim which has proved utterly worthless. he might better have thrown his money into the river than to have bought it, and yet some of the most experienced miners on the bar thought that it would pay. but i began to tell you about the different noises which disturb my peace of mind by day and my repose of body by night, and have gone, instead, into a financial disquisition upon mining prospects. pray forgive me, even though i confess that i intend, some day, when i feel statistically inclined, to bore you with some profound remarks upon the claiming, drifting, sluicing, ditching, fluming, and coyoting politics of the "diggins." but to return to my sleep-murderers. the rolling on the bowling-alley never leaves off for ten consecutive minutes at any time during the entire twenty-four hours. it is a favorite amusement at the mines, and the only difference that sunday makes is, that then it never leaves off for _one_ minute. besides the flume and the bowling-alley, there is an inconsiderate dog which _will_ bark from starry eve till dewy morn. i fancy that he has a wager on the subject, as all the other _puppies_ seem bitten by the betting mania. apropos of dogs, i found dear old dake, the noble newfoundland which h. gave us, look as intensely black and as grandly aristocratical as ever. he is the only high-bred dog on the river. there is another animal, by the plebeian name of john (what a name for a _dog!_), really a handsome creature, which looks as if he might have a faint sprinkling of good blood in his veins. indeed, i have thought it possible that his great-grandfather was a bulldog. but he always barks at _me_, which i consider as proof positive that he is nothing but a low-born mongrel. to be sure, his master says, to excuse him, that he never saw a woman before; but a dog of any chivalry would have recognized the gentler sex, even if it _was_ the first time that he had been blessed with the sight. in the first part of my letter i alluded to the swearing propensities of the rich barians. those, of course, would shock you; but, though you hate slang, i know that you could not help smiling at some of their bizarre cant phrases. for instance, if you tell a rich barian anything which he doubts, instead of simply asking you if it is true, he will _invariably_ cock his head interrogatively, and almost pathetically address you with the solemn adjuration, "honest indian?" whether this phrase is a slur or a compliment to the aborigines of this country, i do not know. again, they will agree to a proposal with the appropriate words, "talk enough when horses fight!" which sentence they will sometimes slightly vary to "talk enough between gentlemen." if they wish to borrow anything of you, they will mildly inquire if you have it "about your clothes." as an illustration: a man asked f., the other day, if he had a spare pickax about his clothes. and f. himself gravely inquired of me this evening, at the dinner-table, if i had a _pickle_ about my clothes. if they ask a man an embarrassing question, or in any way have placed him in an equivocal position, they will triumphantly declare that they have "got the dead-wood on him." and they are everlastingly "going nary cent" on those of whose credit they are doubtful. there are many others, which may be common enough everywhere, but as i never happened to hear them before, they have for me all the freshness of originality. you know that it has always been one of my pet rages to trace cant phrases to their origin; but most of those in vogue here would, i verily believe, puzzle horne tooke himself. letter _the_ seventh [_the_ pioneer, _august_, ] _the_ new log-cabin home _at_ indian bar synopsis change of residence to indian bar. whether to go to the new camp on muleback over the hill, or on foot by crossing the river. the water-passage decided upon. an escort of indian barians. magnificence of scenery on the way. gold-miners at work. their implements. "the color". the stars and stripes on a lofty treetop. a camp of tents and cabins. some of calico shirts and pine boughs. indian bar described. mountains shut out the sun. the "humbolt" (spelled without the _d_ on the sign) the only hotel in the camp. a barroom with a dancing-floor. a cook who plays the violin. a popular place. clinking glasses and swaggering drinkers. "no place for a lady". the log-cabin residence. its primitive and makeshift furnishings-the library. no churches, society, etc. "no vegetables but potatoes and onions, no milk, no eggs, no _nothing_." letter _the_ seventh _the_ new log-cabin home _at_ indian bar _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _october_ , . you will perchance be surprised, dear m., to receive a letter from me dated indian instead of rich bar, but, as many of f.'s most intimate friends reside at this settlement, he concluded to build his log cabin here. solemn council was held upon the ways and means of getting "dame shirley" to her new home. the general opinion was, that she had better mount her fat mule and ride over the hill, as all agreed that it was very doubtful whether she would be able to cross the logs and jump the rocks which would bar her way by the water-passage. but that obstinate little personage, who has always been haunted with a passionate desire to do everything which people said she could _not_ do, made up her willful mind immediately to go by the river. behold, then, the "dame" on her winding way, escorted by a deputation of indian barians, which had come up for that important purpose. it is impossible, my sister, for any power of language, over which _i_ have command, to convey to you an idea of the wild grandeur and the awful magnificence of the scenery in this vicinity. this fork of the feather river comes down very much as the water does at lodore, now gliding along with a liquid measure like a river in a dream, and anon bursting into a thousand glittering foam-beads over the huge rocks, which rise dark, solemn, and weird-like in its midst. the crossings are formed of logs, often moss-grown. only think how charmingly picturesque to eyes wearied with the costly masonry or carpentry of the bridges at home! at every step gold-diggers, or their operations, greet your vision, sometimes in the form of a dam, sometimes in that of a river turned slightly from its channel to aid the indefatigable gold-hunters in their mining projects. now, on the side of a hill, you will see a long-tom, a huge machine invented to facilitate the separation of the ore from its native element; or a man busily engaged in working a rocker, a much smaller and simpler machine used for the same object; or, more primitive still, some solitary prospector with a pan of dirt in his hands, which he is carefully washing at the water's edge to see if he can "get the color," as it is technically phrased, which means, literally, the smallest particle of gold. as we approached indian bar the path led several times fearfully near deep holes, from which the laborers were gathering their yellow harvest, and dame shirley's small head swam dizzily as she crept shudderingly by. the first thing which attracted my attention as my new home came in view, was the blended blue, red, and white of the american banner undulating like a many-colored snake amid the lofty verdure of the cedars which garland the brown brow of the hill behind our cabin. this flag was suspended on the fourth of july last by a patriotic sailor, who climbed to the top of the tree to which he attached it, cutting away the branches as he descended, until it stood among its stately brethren a beautiful moss-wreathed liberty-pole, flinging to the face of heaven the glad colors of the free. when i attempt, dear m., to describe one of these spots to you, i regret more than ever the ill health of my childhood, which prevented my attaining any degree of excellence in sketching from nature. had it not been for that interruption to my artistic education, i might, with a few touches of the pencil or the brush, give you the place and its surroundings. but, alas! my feeble pen will convey to you a very faint idea of its savage beauty. this bar is so small that it seems impossible that the tents and cabins scattered over it can amount to a dozen. there are, however, twenty in all, including those formed of calico shirts and pine boughs. with the exception of the paths leading to the different tenements, the entire level is covered with mining-holes, on the edges of which lie the immense piles of dirt and stones which have been removed from the excavations. there is a deep pit in front of our cabin, and another at the side of it, though they are not worked, as, when "prospected," they did not "yield the color." not a spot of verdure is to be seen on this place, but the glorious hills rising on every side, vested in foliage of living green, make ample amends for the sterility of the tiny level upon which we camp. the surrounding scenery is infinitely more charming than that of rich bar. the river, in hue of a vivid emerald, as if it reflected the hue of the fir-trees above, bordered with a band of dark red, caused by the streams flowing into it from the different sluices, ditches, long-toms, etc., which meander from the hill just back of the bar, wanders musically along. across the river, and in front of us, rises nearly perpendicularly a group of mountains, the summits of which are broken into many beautifully cut conical and pyramidal peaks. at the foot and left of these eminences, and a little below our bar, lies missouri bar, which is reached from this spot by a log bridge. around the latter the river curves in the shape of a crescent, and, singularly enough, the mountain rising behind this bend in the stream outlines itself against the lustrous heaven in a shape as exact and perfect as the moon herself in her first quarter. within one horn of this crescent the water is a mass of foam-sparkles, and it plays upon the rocks which line its bed an everlasting dirge suggestive of the "grand forever" of the ocean. at present the sun does not condescend to shine upon indian bar at all, and the old settlers tell me that he will not smile upon us for the next three months, but he nestles lovingly in patches of golden glory all along the brows of the different hills around us, and now and then stoops to kiss the topmost wave on the opposite shore of the río de las plumas. the first artificial elegance which attracts your vision is a large rag shanty, roofed, however, with a rude kind of shingles, over the entrance of which is painted, in red capitals, ("to what base uses do we come at last,") the name of the great humboldt spelt without the _d_. this is the only hotel in this vicinity, and as there is a really excellent bowling-alley attached to it, and the barroom has a floor upon which the miners can dance, and, above all, a cook who can play the violin, it is very popular. but the clinking of glasses, and the swaggering air of some of the drinkers, remind us that it is no place for a lady, so we will pass through the dining-room, and, emerging at the kitchen, in a step or two reach our log cabin. enter, my dear; you are perfectly welcome. besides, we could not keep you out if we would, as there is not even a latch on the canvas door, though we really intend, in a day or two, to have a hook put onto it. the room into which we have just entered is about twenty feet square. it is lined over the top with white cotton cloth, the breadths of which, being sewed together only in spots, stretch gracefully apart in many places, giving one a bird's-eye view of the shingles above. the sides are hung with a gaudy chintz, which i consider a perfect marvel of calico-printing. the artist seems to have exhausted himself on _roses_. from the largest cabbage down to the tiniest burgundy, he has arranged them in every possible variety of wreath, garland, bouquet, and single flower. they are of all stages of growth, from earliest budhood up to the ravishing beauty of the "last rose of summer." nor has he confined himself to the colors usually worn by this lovely plant, but, with the daring of a great genius soaring above nature, worshiping the ideal rather than the real, he has painted them brown, purple, green, black, and blue. it would need a floral catalogue to give you the names of _all_ the varieties which bloom upon the calico, but, judging by the shapes, which really are much like the originals, i can swear to moss-roses, burgundies, york and lancaster, tea-roses, and multifloras. a curtain of the above-described chintz (i shall hem it at the first opportunity) divides off a portion of the room, behind which stands a bedstead that in ponderosity leaves the empire couches far behind. but before i attempt the furniture let me finish describing the cabin itself. the fireplace is built of stones and mud, the chimney finished off with alternate layers of rough sticks and this same rude mortar. contrary to the usual custom, it is built inside, as it was thought that arrangement would make the room more comfortable, and you may imagine the queer appearance of this unfinished pile of stones, mud, and sticks. the mantelpiece (remember that on this portion of a great building some artists, by their exquisite workmanship, have become world-renowned) is formed of a beam of wood covered with strips of tin procured from cans, upon which still remain, in black hieroglyphics, the names of the different eatables which they formerly contained. two smooth stones (how delightfully primitive!) do duty as fire-dogs. i suppose that it would be no more than civil to call a hole two feet square, in one side of the room, a window, although it is as yet guiltless of glass. f. tried to coax the proprietor of the empire to let him have a window from that pine-and-canvas palace, but he, of course, declined, as to part with it would really inconvenience himself. so f. has sent to marysville for some glass, though it is the general opinion that the snow will render the trail impassible for mules before we can get it. in this case we shall tack up a piece of cotton cloth, and should it chance at any time to be very cold, hang a blanket before the opening. at present the weather is so mild that it is pleasanter as it is, though we have a fire in the mornings and evenings, more, however, for luxury than because we really need it. for my part, i almost hope that we shall not be able to get any glass, for you will perhaps remember that it was a pet habit of mine, in my own room, to sit by a great fire, in the depth of winter, with my window open. one of our friends had nailed up an immense quantity of unhemmed cotton cloth--very coarse--in front of this opening, and as he evidently prided himself upon the elegant style in which he had arranged the drapery, it went to my heart to take it down and suspend in its place some pretty blue linen curtains which i had brought from the valley. my toilet-table is formed of a trunk elevated upon two claret-cases, and by draping it with some more of the blue linen neatly fringed, it really will look quite handsome, and when i have placed upon it my rosewood workbox, a large cushion of crimson brocade, some chinese ornaments of exquisitely carved ivory, and two or three bohemian-glass cologne-stands, it would not disgrace a lady's chamber at home. the looking-glass is one of those which come in paper cases for dolls' houses. how different from the full-length psyches so almost indispensable to a dressing-room in the states! the wash-stand is another trunk, covered with a towel, upon which you will see, for bowl, a large vegetable-dish, for ewer, a common-sized dining-pitcher. near this, upon a small cask, is placed a pail, which is daily filled with water from the river. i brought with me from marysville a handsome carpet, a hair mattress, pillows, a profusion of bed-linen, quilts, blankets, towels, etc., so that, in spite of the oddity of most of my furniture, i am, in reality, as thoroughly comfortable here as i could be in the most elegant palace. we have four chairs, which were brought from the empire. i seriously proposed having three-legged stools. with my usual desire for symmetry, i thought that they would be more in keeping; but as i was told that it would be a great deal of trouble to get them made, i was fain to put up with mere chairs. so you see that even in the land of gold itself one cannot have everything that she desires. an ingenious individual in the neighborhood, blessed with a large bump for mechanics, and good nature, made me a sort of wide bench, which, covered with a neat plaid, looks quite sofa-like. a little pine table, with oilcloth tacked over the top of it, stands in one corner of the room, upon which are arranged the chess and cribbage boards. there is a larger one for dining purposes, and as unpainted pine has always a most dreary look, f. went everywhere in search of oilcloth for it, but there was none at any of the bars. at last, "ned," the humboldt paganini, remembered two old monte-table covers which had been thrown aside as useless. i received them thankfully, and, with my planning and ned's mechanical genius, we patched up quite a respectable covering. to be sure, the ragged condition of the primitive material compelled us to have at one end an extra border, but that only agreeably relieved the monotony. i must mention that the floor is so uneven that no article of furniture gifted with four legs pretends to stand upon but three at once, so that the chairs, tables, etc., remind you constantly of a dog with a sore foot. at each end of the mantelpiece is arranged a candlestick, not, much to my regret, a block of wood with a hole in the center of it, but a real britanniaware candlestick. the space between is gayly ornamented with f.'s meerschaum, several styles of clay pipes, cigars, cigarritos, and every procurable variety of tobacco, for, you know, the aforesaid individual is a perfect devotee of the indian weed. if i should give you a month of sundays, you would never guess what we use in lieu of a bookcase, so i will put you out of your misery by informing you instantly that it is nothing more nor less than a candle-box which contains the library, consisting of a bible and prayer-book, shakespeare, spenser, coleridge, shelley, keats, lowell's fable for critics, walton's complete angler, and some spanish books,--spiritual instead of material lights, you see. there, my dainty lady molly, i have given you, i fear, a wearisomely minute description of my new home. how would you like to winter in such an abode? in a place where there are no newspapers, no churches, lectures, concerts, or theaters; no fresh books; no shopping, calling, nor gossiping little tea-drinkings; no parties, no balls, no picnics, no tableaus, no charades, no latest fashions, no daily mail (we have an express once a month), no promenades, no rides or drives; no vegetables but potatoes and onions, no milk, no eggs, no _nothing_? now, i expect to be very happy here. this strange, odd life fascinates me. as for churches, "the groves were god's first temples," "and for the strength of the hills, the swiss mountains bless him"; and as to books, i read shakespeare, david, spenser, paul, coleridge, burns, and shelley, which are never old. in good sooth, i fancy that nature intended me for an arab or some other nomadic barbarian, and by mistake my soul got packed up in a christianized set of bones and muscles. how i shall ever be able to content myself to live in a decent, proper, well-behaved house, where toilet-tables are toilet-tables, and not an ingenious combination of trunk and claret-cases, where lanterns are not broken bottles, bookcases not candle-boxes, and trunks not wash-stands, but every article of furniture, instead of being a makeshift, is its own useful and elegantly finished self, i am sure i do not know. however, when too much appalled at the humdrummish prospect, i console myself with the beautiful promises, that "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," and "as thy days, so shall thy strength be," and trust that when it is again my lot to live amid the refinements and luxuries of civilization, i shall endure them with becoming philosophy and fortitude. letter _the_ eighth [_the_ pioneer, _september_, ] life _and_ characters _at_ indian bar synopsis ned, the mulatto cook and the paganini of the humboldt hotel. a naval character. his ecstasy upon hearing of the coming of the author to the bar. suggestion of a strait-jacket for him. "the only petticoated astonishment on this bar". first dinner at the log cabin. ned's pretentious setting of the pine dining-table. the bar ransacked for viands. the bill of fare. ned an accomplished violinist. "chock," his white accompanist. the author serenaded. an unappreciated "artistic" gift. a guide of the frémont expedition camps at indian bar. a linguist, and former chief of the crow indians. cold-blooded recitals of indian fights. indians near the bar expected to make a murderous attack upon the miners. the guide's council with them. flowery reply of the indians. a studious quaker. his merciless frankness and regard for truth. "the squire," and how he was elected justice of the peace. miners prefer to rule themselves. letter _the_ eighth life _and_ characters _at_ indian bar _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _october_ , . having seen me, dear m., safely enthroned in my beautiful log palace with its outer walls all tapestried with moss, perhaps you would like a description of the coronation-dinner! you must know that "ned," the paganini of the humboldt, (who, by the way, is almost an historic, or, better perhaps, naval, character, inasmuch as he was _cook_ on board of the somers when her captain performed his little tragedy, to the horror of an entire nation,) had been in such a state of ecstasy ever since he had heard of the promised advent of mrs. ----, that his _proprietors_, as ned grandly calls them, had serious fears of being compelled to strait-jacket him. "you see, sir," said ned, "when the queen" (with ned, as with the rest of the world, "a substitute shines brightly as a queen until a queen be by,"--and i am the only petticoated astonishment on this bar) "arrives, _she_ will appreciate my culinary efforts. it is really discouraging, sir, after i have exhausted my skill in preparing a dish, to see the gentlemen devour it with as much unconcern as though it had been cooked by a mere bungler in our art"! when we entered our new home, we found the cloth--it was a piece left of that which lined the room overhead--already laid. as it was unhemmed and somewhat tattered at the ends, an imaginative mind might fancy it fringed on purpose, though, like the poor little marchioness with her orange-peel and water, one would have to _make believe_ very hard. unfortunately, it was not wide enough for the table, and a dashing border of white pine banded each side of it. ned had invested an unknown quantity of gold-dust in a yard of diaper,--awfully coarse,--which, divided into four pieces, and fringed to match the tablecloth, he had placed napkin-wise in the tumblers. he had evidently ransacked the whole bar to get viands wherewith to decorate the various dishes, which were as follows. _first course_ oyster soup _second course_ fried salmon caught from the river _third course_ roast beef & boiled ham _fourth course_ fried oysters _vegetables_ potatoes & onions _pastry_ mince pie, & pudding made without eggs or milk _dessert_ madeira nuts & raisins _wines_ claret & champagne _coffee_ i found that ned had not overrated his powers. the dinner, when one considers the materials of which it was composed, was really excellent. the soup was truly a great work of art; the fried oysters dreamily delicious; and as to the coffee, ned must have got the receipt for making it from the very angel who gave the beverage to mahomet to restore that individual's decayed moisture. ned himself waited, dressed in a brand-new flannel shirt and calico ditto, his hair--he is a light mulatto--frizzled to the most intense degree of corkscrewity, and a benign and self-satisfied smile irradiating his face, such as _should_ illumine the features of a great artist when he knows that he has achieved something, the memory of which the world will not willingly let die. in truth, he needed but white kid gloves to have been worthy of standing behind the chair of count d'orsay himself. so grand was his air, so ceremonious his every motion, that we forgot we were living in the heart of the sierra nevada; forgot that our home was a log cabin of mere primitive rudeness; forgot that we were sitting at a rough pine table covered with a ragged piece of four-cent cotton cloth, eating soup with iron spoons! i wish, my funny little molly, that you could have been here clairvoyantly. it was one of those scenes, just touched with that fine and almost imperceptible _perfume_ of the ludicrous, in which you especially delight. there are a thousand minute shreds of the absurd which my duller sense overlooks, but which never can hope to escape your mirth-loving vision. ned really plays beautifully on the violin. there is a white man, by the name of "chock," who generally accompanies him. of course, true daughter of eve that you are, you will wish to know "right off" what chock's _other_ name is. young woman, i am ashamed of you! who ever asks for the _other_ name of alexander, of hannibal, of homer? suffice it that he is chock by himself,--chock, and assistant violinist to paganini vattal ned. ned and one of his musical cronies--a white man--gave me a serenade the other evening. as it was quite cold, f. made them come inside the cabin. it was the richest thing possible, to see the patronizing and yet serene manner with which ned directed his companion what marches, preludes, etc., to play for the amusement of that profound culinary and musical critic, dame shirley. it must be confessed that ned's love of the beautiful is not quite so correct as his taste in cooking and violin-playing. this morning a gentle knock at my door was followed by that polite person, bearing in triumph a small waiter, purloined from the humboldt, on which stood in state, festooned with tumblers, a gaudy pitcher, which would have thrown tearsoul and lelie into ecstasies of delight. it was almost as wonderful a specimen of art as my chintz hanging. the groundwork is pure white, upon which, in bas-relief, are _executed_ two diabolical-looking bandits, appallingly bewhiskered and mustached, dressed in red coats, yellow pantaloons, green boots, orange-colored caps with brown feathers in them, and sky-blue bows and arrows. each of the fascinating vagabonds is attended by a bird-of-paradise-colored dog, with a crimson tail waggingly depicted. they are embowered beneath a morning-glory vine, evidently a species of the convolvulus unknown in america, as each one of its pink leaves, springing from purple stems, is three times the size of the bandit's head. ned could not have admired it more if it had been a jar of richest porcelain or a rare etruscan vase, and when i gently suggested that it was a pity to rob the barroom of so elegant an ornament, he answered, "miners can't appreciate a handsome pitcher, any more than they can good cooking, and mrs. ---- will please to keep it." alas! i would infinitely have preferred the humblest brown jug, for that really _has_ a certain beauty of its own, and, besides, it would have been in keeping with my cabin. however, that good creature looked upon the miraculous vegetable, the fabulous quadrupeds, and the impossible bipeds, with so much pride that i had not the heart to tell him that the pitcher was a fright, but, graciously accepting it, i hid it out of sight as quickly as possible, on the trunk wash-stand behind the curtain. we breakfast at nine and dine at six, with a dish of soup at noon for luncheon. do not think we fare as sumptuously _every_ day as we did at the coronation-dinner. by no means; and it is said that there will probably be many weeks, during the season, when we shall have neither onions, potatoes, nor fresh meat. it is feared that the former will not keep through the whole winter, and the rancheros cannot at all times drive in cattle for butchering, on account of the expected snow. ned is not the only distinguished person residing on this bar. there is a man camping here who was one of colonel frémont's guides during his travels through california. he is fifty years of age perhaps, and speaks several languages to perfection. as he has been a wanderer for many years, and for a long time was the principal chief of the crow indians, his adventures are extremely interesting. he chills the blood of the green young miners, who, unacquainted with the arts of war and subjugation, congregate around him by the cold-blooded manner in which he relates the indian fights that he has been engaged in. there is quite a band of this wild people herding a few miles below us, and soon after my arrival it was confidently affirmed and believed by many that they were about to make a murderous attack upon the miners. this man, who can make himself understood in almost any language, and has a great deal of influence over all indians, went to see them, and told them that such an attempt would result in their own certain destruction. they said that they had never thought of such a thing; that the americans were like the grass in the valleys, and the indians fewer than the flowers of the sierra nevada. among other oddities, there is a person here who is a rabid admirer of lippard. i have heard him gravely affirm that lippard was the greatest author the world ever saw, and that if one of his novels and the most fascinating work of ancient or modern times lay side by side, he would choose the former, even though he had already repeatedly perused it. he _studies_ lippard just as other folks do shakespeare, and yet the man has read and _admires_ the majestic prose of chilton, and is quite familiar with the best english classics! he is a quaker, and his merciless and unmitigated regard for truth is comically grand, and nothing amuses me more than to draw out that peculiar characteristic. for instance, after talking _at_ him the most beautiful and eloquent things that i can think of, i will pitilessly nail him in this wise:-- "now, i know that _you_ agree with me, mr. ----?" it is the richest and broadest farce in this flattering and deceitful world to see him look right into my eyes while he answers smilingly, without the least evasion or reserve, the astounding _truth_,-- "i have not heard a word that you have been saying for the last half-hour; i have been thinking of something else!" his dreamland reveries on these occasions are supposed to be a profound meditation upon the character and writings of his pet author. i am always glad to have him visit us, as some one of us is sure to be most unflatteringly electrified by his uncompromising veracity. i am, myself, generally the victim, as i make it a point to give him every opportunity for the display of this unusual peculiarity. not but that i have had disagreeable truth told me often enough, but heretofore people have done it out of spitefulness; but mr. ----, who is the kindest-hearted of mortals, never dreams that his merciless frankness can possibly wound one's self-love. but _the_ great man--officially considered--of the entire river is the "squire," as he is jestingly called. it had been rumored for some time that we were about to become a law-and-order-loving community, and when i requested an explanation, i was informed that a man had gone all the way to hamilton, the county seat, to get himself made into a justice of the peace. many shook their wise heads, and doubted, even if suited to the situation, which they say he is not, whether he would _take_ here; and certain rebel spirits affirmed that he would be invited to _walk over the hill_ before he had been in the community twenty-four hours, which is a polite way these free-and-easy young people have of turning out of town an obnoxious individual. not that the squire is particularly objectionable _per se_, but in virtue of his office, and his supposed ineligibility to fill the same. besides, the people here wish to have the fun of ruling themselves. miners are as fond of playing at law making and dispensing as french novelists are of "playing at providence." they say, also, that he was not elected by the voice of the people, but that his personal friends nominated and voted for him unknown to the rest of the community. this is perhaps true. at least, i have heard some of the most respectable men here observe that had they been aware of the squire's name being up as candidate for an office which, though insignificant elsewhere, is one of great responsibility in a mining community, they should certainly have gone against his election. last night i had the honor of an introduction to "_his_ honor." imagine a middle-sized man, quite stout, with a head disproportionately large, crowned with one of those immense foreheads eked out with a slight baldness (wonder if, according to the flattering popular superstition, he has _thought_ his hair off) which enchant phrenologists, but which one _never_ sees brooding above the soulful orbs of the great ones of the earth; a smooth, fat face, gray eyes, and prominent chin, the _tout ensemble_ characterized by an expression of the utmost meekness and gentleness, which expression contrasts rather funnily with a satanic goatee,--and you have our good squire. you know, m., that it takes the same _kind_ of power--differing, of course, in degree--to govern twenty men that it does to rule a million; and although the squire is sufficiently intelligent, and the kindest-hearted creature in the world, he evidently does _not_ possess that peculiar tact, talent, gift, or whatever it is called, which makes napoleons, mahomets, and cromwells, and which is absolutely necessary to keep in order such a strangely amalgamated community, representing as it does the four quarters of the globe, as congregates upon this river. however, i suppose that we must take the goods the gods provide, satisfied that if our king log does no good, he is too sincerely desirous of fulfilling his duty to do any harm. but i really feel sorry for this mere young daniel come to judgment when i think of the gauntlet which the wicked wits will make him run when he tries his first cause. however, the squire may, after all, succeed. as yet he has had no opportunity of making use of his credentials in putting down miners' law, which is, of course, the famous code of judge lynch. in the mean time we all sincerely pray that he may be successful in his laudable undertaking, for justice in the hands of a mob, however respectable, is, at best, a fearful thing. letter _the_ ninth [_the_ pioneer, _october_, ] theft _of_ gold-dust--trial _and_ punishment synopsis the "squire's" first opportunity to exercise his judicial power. holding court in a barroom. the jury "treated" by the squire. theft of gold-dust, and arrest of suspect. a miners' meeting. fear that they would hang the prisoner. regular trial decided upon, at the empire, rich bar, where the gold-dust was stolen. a suggestion of thrift. landlords to profit by trial, wherever held. mock respect of the miners for the squire. elect a president at the trial. the squire allowed to play at judge. lay counsel for prosecution and defense. ingenious defense of the accused. verdict of guilty. light sentence, on account of previous popularity and inoffensive conduct. thirty-nine lashes, and to leave the river. owner of gold-dust indemnified by transfer of thief's interest in a mine. a visit to smith's bar. crossing the river on log bridges. missouri bar. smith's a sunny camp, unlike indian. frenchman's bar, another sunny spot. "yank," the owner of a log-cabin store. shrewdness and simplicity. hopeless ambition to be "cute and smart". the "indiana girl" impossible to yank. "a superior and splendid woman, but no polish". yank's "olla podrida of heterogeneous merchandise". the author meets the banished gold-dust thief. subscription by the miners on his banishment. a fool's errand to establish his innocence. an oyster-supper bet. the thief's statements totally incompatible with innocence. letter _the_ ninth theft _of_ gold-dust--trial _and_ punishment _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _october_ , . well, my dear m., our grand squire, whom i sketched for you in my last letter, has at length had an opportunity to exercise (or rather to _try_ to do so) his judicial power upon a criminal case. his first appearance as justice of the peace took place a week ago, and was caused, i think, by a prosecution for debt. on that momentous occasion, the proceeding having been carried on in the barroom of the empire, it is said that our young daniel stopped the court twice in order to treat the jury! but let me tell you about the trial which has just taken place. on sunday evening last, ned paganini, rushing wildly up to our cabin, and with eyes so enormously dilated that they absolutely looked _all_ white, exclaimed that "little john" had been arrested for stealing four hundred dollars from the proprietor of the empire, and that he was at that very moment undergoing an examination before the squire in the barroom of the humboldt, where he was apprehended while betting at monte. "and," added ned, with a most awe-inspiring shake of his corkscrews, "there is no doubt but that he will be hung!" of course i was inexpressibly shocked at ned's news, for little john, as he is always called (who, by the way, is about the last person, as every one remarked, that would have been suspected), seemed quite like an acquaintance, as he was waiter at the empire when i boarded there. i hurried f. off as quickly as possible to inquire into the truth of the report. he soon returned with the following particulars. it seems that mr. b., who on sunday morning wished to pay a bill, on taking his purse from between the two mattresses of the bed whereon he was accustomed to sleep, which stood in the common sitting-room of the family, found that four hundred dollars in gold-dust was missing. he did not for one moment suspect little john, in whom himself and wife had always placed the utmost confidence, until a man, who happened to be in the barroom towards evening, mentioned casually that little john was then at the humboldt betting, or, to speak technically, "bucking" away large sums at monte. mr. b., who knew that he had no money of his own, immediately came over to indian bar and had him arrested on suspicion. although he had lost several ounces, he had still about a hundred dollars remaining. but as it is impossible to identify gold-dust, mr. b. could not swear that the money was his. of course the prisoner loudly protested his innocence, and as he was very drunk, the squire adjourned all further proceedings until the next day, placing him under keepers for the night. on the following morning i was awakened very early by a tremendous "aye," so deep and mighty that it almost seemed to shake the cabin with its thrilling emphasis. i sprang up and ran to the window, but could _see_ nothing, of course, as our house stands behind the humboldt, but i could easily understand, from the confused murmur of many voices and the rapidly succeeding "ayes" and "noes," that a large crowd had collected in front of the latter. my first apprehension was expressed by my bursting into tears and exclaiming,-- "oh! f., for god's sake, rise; the mob are going to hang little john!" and my fear was not so absurd as you might at first imagine, for men have often been executed in the mines for stealing a much smaller sum than four hundred dollars. f. went to the humboldt, and returned in a few minutes to tell me that i might stop weeping, for john was going to have a regular trial. the crowd was merely a miners' meeting, called by mr. b. for the purpose of having the trial held at the empire for the convenience of his wife, who could not walk over to indian bar to give her evidence in the case. however, as her deposition could easily have been taken, malicious people _will_ say that it was for the convenience of her husband's _pockets_, as it was well known that at whichever house the trial took place the owner thereof would make a handsome profit from the sale of dinners, drinks, etc., to the large number of people who would congregate to witness the proceedings. miners are proverbial for their reverence for the sex. of course everything ought to yield where a lady is concerned, and they all very properly agreed, _nem. con._, to mr. b.'s request. the squire consented to hold the court at rich bar, although many think that thereby he compromised his judicial dignity, as his office is on indian bar. i must confess i see not how he could have done otherwise. the miners were only too ready, so much do they object to a justice of the peace, to take the case _entirely_ out of his hands if their wishes were not complied with, which, to confess the truth, they _did_, even after all his concessions, though they _pretended_ to keep up a sort of mock respect for his office. everybody went to rich bar. no one remained to protect the calico shanties, the rag huts, and the log cabins, from the much talked of indian attack--but your humble servant and paganini ned. when the people, the mighty people, had assembled at the empire, they commenced proceedings by voting in a president and jury of their own, though they kindly consented (how _very_ condescending!) that the squire might _play at judge_ by sitting at the side of _their_ elected magistrate! this honor the squire seemed to take as a sort of salve to his wounded dignity, and with unprecedented meekness _accepted_ it. a young irishman from st. louis was appointed counsel for john, and a dr. c. acted for the prosecution. neither of them, however, was a lawyer. the evidence against the prisoner was, that he had no money previously, that he had slept at the empire a night or two before, and that he knew where mr. b. was in the habit of keeping his gold-dust, with a few other circumstances equally unimportant. his only defense was, of course, to account for the money, which he tried to do by the following ingenious story. he said that his father, who resides at stockholm,--he is a swede,--had sent him, two months previously, five hundred dollars through the express, which had been brought to him from san francisco by a young man whose name is miller; that he told no one of the circumstance, but buried the money (a common habit with the miner) on the summit of a hill about half a mile from indian bar; that, being intoxicated on sunday morning, he had dug it up for the purpose of gambling with it; and that mr. m., who had gone to marysville a week before, and would return in a fortnight, could confirm his story. when asked if he had received a letter with the money, he replied that he did, but, having placed it between the lining and the top of his cap, he had unfortunately lost it. he earnestly affirmed his innocence, and, through his counsel, entreated the court, should he be condemned, to defer the execution of his sentence until the arrival of miller, by whom he could prove all that he had stated. notwithstanding the florid eloquence of w., the jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and condemned him to receive thirty-nine lashes at nine o'clock the following morning, and to leave the river, never to return to it, within twenty-four hours; a claim, of which he owned a part, to be made over to mr. b. to indemnify him for his loss. his punishment was very light, on account of his previous popularity and inoffensive conduct. in spite of his really ingenious defense, no one has the least doubt of his guilt but his lawyer and the squire. they as firmly believe him an innocent and much-injured man. yesterday morning i made my visit to smith's bar. in order to reach it, it was necessary to cross the river, on a bridge formed of two logs, to missouri bar. this flat, which has been worked but very little, has a path leading across it, a quarter of a mile in length. it contains but two or three huts, no very extensive diggings having as yet been discovered upon it. about in the middle of it, and close to the side of the trail, is situated a burial-spot, where not only its dead repose, but those who die on indian bar are also brought for interment. on arriving at the termination of the level, another log bridge leads to smith's bar, which, although it lies upon the same side of the river as our settlement, is seldom approached, as i before observed, except by crossing to missouri bar and back again from that to smith's. the hills rise so perpendicularly between this latter and indian bar that it is utterly impossible for a woman to follow on the trail along their side, and it is no child's-play for even the most hardy mountaineer to do it. this level (smith's bar) is large and quite thickly settled. more gold has been taken from it than from any other settlement on the river. although the scenery here is not so strikingly picturesque as that surrounding my new home, it is perhaps infinitely more lovely, and certainly more desirable as a place of residence, than the latter, because the sun shines upon it all winter, and we can take long walks about it in many directions. now, indian bar is so completely covered with excavations and tenements that it is utterly impossible to promenade upon it at all. whenever i wish for exercise, i am _compelled_ to cross the river, which, of course, i cannot do without company, and as the latter is not always procurable (f.'s profession calling him much from home), i am obliged to stay indoors more than i like, or is conducive to my health. a short but steep ascent from smith's bar leads you to another bench, as miners call it, almost as large as itself, which is covered with trees and grass, and is a most lovely place. from here one has a charming view of a tiny bar called frenchman's. it is a most sunny little spot, covered with the freshest greensward, and nestling lovingly, like a petted darling, in the embracing curve of a crescent-shaped hill opposite. it looks more like some sheltered nook amid the blue mountains of new england than anything i have ever yet seen in california. formerly there was a deer-lick upon it, and i am told that on every dewy morning or starlit evening you might see a herd of pretty creatures gathering in antlered beauty about its margin. now, however, they are seldom met with, the advent of gold-hunting humanity having driven them far up into the hills. the man who keeps the store at which we stopped (a log cabin without any floor) goes by the sobriquet of "yank," and is quite a character in his way. he used to be a peddler in the states, and is remarkable for an intense ambition to be thought what the yankees call "cute and smart,"--an ambition which his true and good heart will never permit him to achieve. he is a great friend of mine (i am always interested in that bizarre mixture of shrewdness and simplicity of which he is a distinguished specimen), and takes me largely into his confidence as to the various ways he has of _doing_ green miners,--all the merest delusion on his part, you understand, for he is the most honest of god's creatures, and would not, i verily believe, cheat a man out of a grain of golden sand to save his own harmless and inoffensive life. he is popularly supposed to be smitten with the charms of the "indiana girl," but i confess i doubt it, for yank himself informed me, confidentially, that, "though a very superior and splendid woman, she had no _polish_"! he is an indefatigable "snapper-up of unconsidered trifles," and his store is the most comical olla podrida of heterogeneous merchandise that i ever saw. there is nothing you can ask for but what he has,--from crowbars down to cambric-needles; from velveteen trousers up to broadcloth coats of the jauntiest description. the _quality_ of his goods, it must be confessed, is sometimes rather equivocal. his collection of novels is by far the largest, the greasiest, and the "yellowest-kivered" of any to be found on the river. i will give you an instance of the variety of his possessions. i wanted some sealing-wax to mend a broken chess-piece, having by some strange carelessness left the box containing mine in marysville. i inquired everywhere for it, but always got laughed at for supposing that any one would be so absurd as to bring such an article into the mountains. as a forlorn hope, i applied to yank. of course he had plenty! the best of it is, that, whenever he produces any of these out-of-the-way things, he always says that he brought them from the states, which proves that he had a remarkable degree of foresight when he left his home three years ago. while i sat chatting with yank i heard some one singing loudly, and apparently very gayly, a negro melody, and, the next moment, who should enter but little john, who had been whipped, according to sentence, three hours previously. as soon as he saw me he burst into tears, and exclaimed,-- "oh! mrs. ----, a heartless mob has beaten me cruelly, has taken all my money from me, and has decreed that i, who am an innocent man, should leave the mountains without a cent of money to assist me on my way!" the latter part of his speech, as i afterwards discovered, was _certainly_ a lie, for he knew that a sum amply sufficient to pay his expenses to marysville had been subscribed by the very people who believed him guilty. of course his complaints were extremely painful to me. you know how weakly pitiful i always am towards wicked people; for it seems to me that they are so much more to be compassionated than the good. but what _could_ i say to poor john? i did not for one moment doubt his entire guilt, and so, as people often do on such occasions, i took refuge in a platitude. "well, john," i sagely remarked, "i hope that you did not take the money. and only think how much happier you are in that case, than if you had been beaten and abused as you say you have, and at the same time were a criminal!" i must confess, much as it tells against my eloquence, that john did not receive my well-meant attempt at consolation with that pious gratitude which such an injured innocent ought to have exhibited, but, f. luckily calling me at that moment, i was spared any more of his tearful complaints. soon after our return to the cabin, john's lawyer and the squire called upon us. they declared their perfect conviction of his innocence, and the latter remarked that if any one would accompany him he would walk up to the spot and examine the hole from whence the culprit affirmed that he had taken his money only three days ago, as he very naturally supposed that it would still exhibit signs of having been recently opened. it was finally agreed that the victim, who had never described the place to the squire, should give a minute description of it, unheard by his honor, to f., and afterwards should lead the former, accompanied by his counsel, (no one else could be persuaded to make such martyrs of themselves,) to the much-talked-of spot. and, will you believe it, m.? those two obstinate men actually persevered, although it was nearly dark, and a very cold, raw, windy night, in walking half a mile up one of the steepest hills on what the rest thought a perfect fool's errand! to be sure, they have triumphed for the moment, for the squire's description, on their return, tallied exactly with that previously given to f. but, alas! the infidels remained infidels still. then w. bet an oyster-supper for the whole party, which f. took up, that miller, on his return, would confirm his client's statement. for fear of accidents, we had the oysters that night, and very nice they were, i assure you. this morning the hero of the last three days vanished to parts unknown. and thus endeth the squire's first attempt to sit in judgment in a criminal case. i regret his failure very much, as do many others. whether any one else could have succeeded better, i cannot say. but i am sure that no person could more sincerely _desire_ and _try_ to act for the best good of the community than the squire. i suppose that i should be as firm a believer in john's innocence as any one, had he not said to f. and others that if he had taken the money they could not _prove_ it against him, and many other similar things, which seem to me totally incompatible with innocence. letter _the_ tenth [_the_ pioneer, _november_, ] amateur mining--hairbreadth 'scapes, &c. synopsis three dollars and twenty-five cents in gold-dust. sorry she learned the trade. the resulting losses and suffering. secret of the brilliant successes of former gold-washeresses. salting the ground by miners in order to deceive their fair visitors. erroneous ideas of richness of auriferous dirt resulting therefrom. rarity of lucky strikes. claim yielding ten dollars a day considered valuable. consternation and near-disaster in the author's cabin. trunk of forest giant rolls down hill. force broken by rock near cabin. terror of careless woodman. another narrow escape at smith's bar. pursuit and escape of woodman. two sudden deaths at indian bar. inquest in the open. cosmopolitan gathering thereat. wife of one of the deceased an advanced bloomer. animadversions on strong-minded bloomers seeking their rights. california pheasant, gallina del campo of the spaniards. pines and dies in captivity. smart, harmless earthquake-shocks. letter _the_ tenth amateur mining-hairbreadth 'scapes, &c. _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _november_ , . nothing of importance has happened since i last wrote you, except that i have become a _mineress_, that is, if the having washed a pan of dirt with my own hands, and procured therefrom three dollars and twenty-five cents in gold-dust, which i shall inclose in this letter, will entitle me to the name. i can truly say, with the blacksmith's apprentice at the close of his first day's work at the anvil, that i am sorry i learned the trade, for i wet my feet, tore my dress, spoilt a pair of new gloves, nearly froze my fingers, got an awful headache, took cold, and lost a valuable breastpin, in this my labor of love. after such melancholy self-sacrifice on my part, i trust you will duly prize my gift. i can assure you that it is the last golden handiwork you will ever receive from dame shirley. apropos of lady gold-washers in general, it is a common habit with people residing in towns in the vicinity of the diggings to make up pleasure-parties to those places. each woman of the company will exhibit, on her return, at least twenty dollars of the oro, which she will gravely inform you she has just panned out from a single basinful of the soil. this, of course, gives strangers a very erroneous idea of the average richness of auriferous dirt. i myself thought (now, don't laugh) that one had but to saunter gracefully along romantic streamlets on sunny afternoons, with a parasol and white kid gloves perhaps, and to stop now and then to admire the scenery, and carelessly rinse out a small panful of yellow sand (without detriment to the white kids, however, so easy did i fancy the whole process to be), in order to fill one's work-bag with the most beautiful and rare specimens of the precious mineral. since i have been here i have discovered my mistake, and also the secret of the brilliant success of former gold-washeresses. the miners are in the habit of flattering the vanity of their fair visitors by scattering a handful of "salt" (which, strange to say, is _exactly_ the color of gold-dust, and has the remarkable property of often bringing to light very curious lumps of the ore) through the dirt before the dainty fingers touch it, and the dear creatures go home with their treasures, firmly believing that mining is the prettiest pastime in the world. i had no idea of permitting such a costly joke to be played upon me; so i said but little of my desire to "go through the motions" of gold-washing, until one day, when, as i passed a deep hole in which several men were at work, my companion requested the owner to fill a small pan, which i had in my hand, with dirt from the bed-rock. this request was, of course, granted, and the treasure having been conveyed to the edge of the river, i succeeded, after much awkward maneuvering on my own part, and considerable assistance from friend h., an experienced miner, in gathering together the above-specified sum. all the diggers of our acquaintance say that it is an excellent "prospect," even to come from the bed-rock, where, naturally, the richest dirt is found. to be sure, there are, now and then, "lucky strikes," such, for instance, as that mentioned in a former letter, where a person took out of a single basinful of soil two hundred and fifty-six dollars. but such luck is as rare as the winning of a hundred-thousand-dollar prize in a lottery. we are acquainted with many here whose gains have _never_ amounted to much more than wages, that is, from six to eight dollars a day. and a claim which yields a man a steady income of ten dollars _per diem_ is considered as very valuable. i received an immense fright the other morning. i was sitting by the fire, quietly reading "lewis arundel," which had just fallen into my hands, when a great shout and trampling of feet outside attracted my attention. naturally enough, my first impulse was to run to the door, but scarcely had i risen to my feet for that purpose, when a mighty crash against the side of the cabin, shaking it to the foundation, threw me suddenly upon my knees. so violent was the shock that for a moment i thought the staunch old logs, mossed with the pale verdure of ages, were falling in confusion around me. as soon as i could collect my scattered senses, i looked about to see what had happened. several stones had fallen from the back of the chimney, mortar from the latter covered the hearth, the cloth over­head was twisted into the funniest possible wrinkles, the couch had jumped two feet from the side of the house, the little table lay on its back, holding up _four_ legs instead of _one_, the chessmen were rolling merrily about in every direction, the dishes had all left their usual places, the door, which, ever since, has obstinately refused to let itself be shut, was thrown violently open, while an odd-looking pile of articles lay in the middle of the room, which, upon investigation, was found to consist of a pail, a broom, a bell, some candlesticks, a pack of cards, a loaf of bread, a pair of boots, a bunch of cigars, and some clay pipes (the only things, by the way, rendered utterly _hors de combat_ in the assault). but one piece of furniture retained its attitude, and that was the elephantine bedstead, which nothing short of an earthquake could move. almost at the same moment several acquaintances rushed in, begging me not to be alarmed, as the danger was past. "but what has happened?" i eagerly inquired. "o, a large tree, which was felled this morning, has rolled down from the brow of the hill." and its having struck a rock a few feet from the house, losing thereby the most of its force, had alone saved us from utter destruction. i grew sick with terror when i understood the awful fate from which providence had preserved me, and even now my heart leaps painfully with mingled fear and gratitude when i think how closely that pale death-shadow glided by me, and of the loving care which forbade it to linger upon our threshold. every one who saw the forest giant descending the hill with the force of a mighty torrent expected to see the cabin instantly prostrated to the earth. as it was, they all say that it swayed from the perpendicular more than six inches. poor w., whom you may remember my having mentioned in a former letter as having had a leg amputated a few weeks ago, and who was visiting us at the time, (he had been brought from the empire in a rocking-chair,) looked like a marble statue of resignation. he possesses a face of uncommon beauty, and his large, dark eyes have always, i fancy, a sorrowful expression. although he knew from the first shout what was about to happen, and was sitting on the couch which stood at that side of the cabin where the log must necessarily strike, and in his mutilated condition had, as he has since said, not the faintest hope of escape, yet the rich color for which he is remarkable paled not a shade during the whole affair. the woodman who came so near causing a catastrophe was, i believe, infinitely more frightened than his might-have-been victims. he is a good-natured, stupid creature, and did not dare to descend the hill until some time after the excitement had subsided. the ludicrous expression of terror which his countenance wore when he came in to see what damage had been done, and to ask pardon for his carelessness, made us all laugh heartily. w. related the almost miraculous escape of two persons from a similar danger last winter. the cabin, which was on smith's bar, was crushed into a mass of ruins almost in an instant, while an old man and his daughter, who were at dinner within its walls, remained sitting in the midst of the fallen logs, entirely unhurt. the father immediately seized a gun and ran after the careless woodman, swearing that he would shoot him. fortunately for the latter (for there is no doubt that in the first moments of his rage the old man would have slain him), his younger legs enabled him to make his escape, and he did not dare to return to the settlement for some days. it has heretofore been a source of great interest to me to listen to the ringing sound of the ax, and the solemn crash of those majestic sentinels of the hills as they bow their green foreheads to the dust, but now i fear that i shall always hear them with a feeling of apprehension mingling with my former awe, although every one tells us that there is no danger of a repetition of the accident. last week there was a post-mortem examination of two men who died very suddenly in the neighborhood. perhaps it will sound rather barbarous when i tell you that as there was no building upon the bar which admitted light enough for the purpose, it was found necessary to conduct the examination in the open air, to the intense interest of the kanakas, indians, french, spanish, english, irish, and yankees, who had gathered eagerly about the spot. paganini ned, with an anxious desire that mrs. ---- should be _amused_ as much as possible in her mountain-home, rushed up from the kitchen, his dusky face radiant with excitement, to inform me that i could see both the bodies by just looking out of the window! i really frightened the poor fellow by the abrupt and vehement manner in which i declined taking advantage of his kindly hint. one of the deceased was the husband of an american lady lecturess of the most intense description; and a strong-minded bloomer on the broadest principles. apropos, how _can_ women, many of whom, i am told, are _really_ interesting and intelligent,--how _can_ they spoil their pretty mouths and ruin their beautiful complexions by demanding with xanthippian _fervor_, in the presence, often, of a vulgar, irreverent mob, what the gentle creatures are pleased to call their "rights"? how _can_ they wish to soil the delicate texture of their airy fancies by pondering over the wearying stupidities of presidential elections, or the bewildering mystifications of rabid metaphysicians? and, above all, how _can_ they so far forget the sweet, shy coquetries of shrinking womanhood as to don those horrid bloomers? as for me, although a _wife_, i never wear the--well, you know what they call them when they wish to quiz henpecked husbands--even in the strictest privacy of life. i confess to an almost religious veneration for trailing drapery, and i pin my vestural faith with unflinching obstinacy to sweeping petticoats. i knew a strong-minded bloomer at home, of some talent, and who was possessed, in a certain sense, of an excellent education. one day, after having flatteringly informed me that i really _had_ a "soul above buttons" and the nursery, she gravely proposed that i should improve my _mind_ by poring six hours a day over the metaphysical subtleties of kant, cousin, etc., and i remember that she called me a "piece of fashionable insipidity," and taunted me with not daring to go out of the beaten track, because i _truly_ thought (for in those days i was an humble little thing enough, and sincerely desirous of walking in the right path as straitly as my feeble judgment would permit) that there were other authors more congenial to the flowerlike delicacy of the feminine intellect than her pet writers. when will our sex appreciate the exquisite philosophy and truth of lowell's remark upon the habits of lady redbreast and her esposo robin, as illustrating the beautifully varied spheres of man and woman?-- he sings to the wide world, she to her nest; in the nice ear of nature, which song is the best? speaking of birds reminds me of a misfortune that i have lately experienced, which, in a life where there is so little to amuse and interest one, has been to me a subject of real grief. about three weeks ago, f. saw on the hill a california pheasant, which he chased into a coyote-hole and captured. knowing how fond i am of pets, he brought it home and proposed that i should try to tame it. now, from earliest childhood i have resolutely refused to keep _wild_ birds, and when i have had them given to me (which has happened several times in this country,--young bluebirds, etc.), i have invariably set them free, and i proposed doing the same with the pretty pheasant, but as they are the most delicately exquisite in flavor of all game, f. said that if i did not wish to keep it he would wring its neck and have it served up for dinner. with the cruelty of kindness--often more disastrous than that of real malice--i shrank from having it killed, and consented to let it run about the cabin. it was a beautiful bird, a little larger than the domestic hen. its slender neck, which it curved with haughty elegance, was tinted with various shades of a shining steel color. the large, bright eye glanced with the prettiest shyness at its captors, and the cluster of feathers forming its tail drooped with the rare grace of an ostrich-plume. the colors of the body were of a subdued brilliancy, reminding one of a rich but somber mosaic. as it seemed very quiet, i really believed that in time we should be able to tame it. still, it _would_ remain constantly under the sofa or bedstead. so f. concluded to place it in a cage for a few hours of each day, in order that it might become gradually accustomed to our presence. this was done, the bird appearing as well as ever, and after closing the door of its temporary prison one day i left it and returned to my seat by the fire. in less than two minutes afterwards, a slight struggle in the cage attracted my attention. i ran hastily back, and you may imagine my distress when i found the beautiful pheasant lying lifeless upon the ground. it never breathed or showed the faintest sign of life afterwards. you may laugh at me if you please, but i firmly believe that it died of homesickness. what wonder that the free, beautiful, happy creature of god, torn from the sight of the broad blue sky, the smiling river, and the fresh, fragrant fir-trees of its mountain-home, and shut up in a dark, gloomy cabin, should have broken in twain its haughty little heart? yes, you may laugh, call me sentimental, etc., but i shall never forgive myself for having killed, by inches, in my selfish and cruel kindness, that pretty creature. many people here call this bird a grouse, and those who have crossed the plains say that it is very much like the prairie-hen. the spanish name is gallina del campo, literally, hen of the field. since the death of my poor little victim, i have been told that it is utterly impossible to tame one of these birds, and it is said that if you put their eggs under a domestic fowl, the young, almost as soon as hatched, will instinctively run away to the beloved solitudes of their congenial homes, so passionately beats for liberty each pulse of their free and wild natures. among the noteworthy events which have occurred since my last, i don't know how i came to forget until the close of my letter two smart shocks of an earthquake to which we were treated a week ago. they were awe-inspiring, but, after all, were nothing in comparison to the timber-quake, an account of which i have given you above. but as f. is about to leave for the top of the butte mountains with a party of rich barians, and as i have much to do to prepare him for the journey, i must close. letter _the_ eleventh [_the_ pioneer, _december_, ] robbery, trial, execution--more tragedy synopsis theft of gold-dust. arrest of two suspected miners. trial and acquittal at miners' meeting. robbed persons still believe accused guilty. suspects leave mountains. one returns, and plan for his detection is successful. confronted with evidence of guilt, discloses, on promise of immunity from prosecution, hiding-place of gold-dust. miners, however, try him, and on conviction he is sentenced to be hanged one hour thereafter. miners' mode of trial. respite of three hours. bungling execution. drunken miner's proposal for sign of guilt or innocence. corpse "enwrapped in white shroud of feathery snowflakes". execution the work of the more reckless. not generally approved. the squire, disregarded, protested. miners' procedure compared with the moderation of the first vigilance committee of san francisco. singular disappearance of body of miner. returning to the states with his savings, his two companions report their leaving him in dying condition. arrest and fruitless investigation. an unlikely bequest of money. trial and acquittal of the miner's companions. their story improbable, their actions like actual murder. letter _the_ eleventh robbery, trial, execution--more tragedy _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _december_ , . i little thought, dear m., that here, with the "green watching hills" as witnesses, amid a solitude so grand and lofty that it seems as if the faintest whisper of passion must be hushed by its holy stillness, i should have to relate the perpetration of one of those fearful deeds which, were it for no other peculiarity than its startling suddenness, so utterly at variance with all _civilized_ law, must make our beautiful california appear to strangers rather as a hideous phantom than the flower-wreathed reality which she is. whether the life which a few men, in the impertinent intoxication of power, have dared to crush out was worth that of a fly, i do not know,--perhaps not,--though god alone, methinks, can judge of the value of the soul upon which he has breathed. but certainly the effect upon the hearts of those who played the principal parts in the revolting scene referred to--a tragedy, in my simple judgment, so utterly useless--must be demoralizing in the extreme. the facts in this sad case are as follows. last fall, two men were arrested by their partners on suspicion of having stolen from them eighteen hundred dollars in gold-dust. the evidence was not sufficient to convict them, and they were acquitted. they were tried before a meeting of the miners, as at that time the law did not even _pretend_ to wave its scepter over this place. the prosecutors still believed them guilty, and fancied that the gold was hidden in a coyote-hole near the camp from which it had been taken. they therefore watched the place narrowly while the suspected men remained on the bar. they made no discoveries, however, and soon after the trial the acquitted persons left the mountains for marysville. a few weeks ago, one of these men returned, and has spent most of the time since his arrival in loafing about the different barrooms upon the river. he is said to have been constantly intoxicated. as soon as the losers of the gold heard of his return, they bethought themselves of the coyote-hole, and placed about its entrance some brushwood and stones in such a manner that no one could go into it without disturbing the arrangement of them. in the mean while the thief settled at rich bar, and pretended that he was in search of some gravel-ground for mining purposes. a few mornings ago he returned to his boarding-place, which he had left some hour earlier, with a spade in his hand, and, as he laid it down, carelessly observed that he had been out prospecting. the losers of the gold went, immediately after breakfast, as they had been in the habit of doing, to see if all was right at the coyote-hole. on this fatal day they saw that the entrance had been disturbed, and going in, they found upon the ground a money-belt which had apparently just been cut open. armed with this evidence of guilt, they confronted the suspected person and sternly accused him of having the gold in his possession. singularly enough, he did not attempt a denial, but said that if they would not bring him to a trial (which of course they promised) he would give it up immediately. he then informed them that they would find it beneath the blankets of his bunk, as those queer shelves on which miners sleep, ranged one above another somewhat like the berths of a ship, are generally called. there, sure enough, were six hundred dollars of the missing money, and the unfortunate wretch declared that his partner had taken the remainder to the states. by this time the exciting news had spread all over the bar. a meeting of the miners was immediately convened, the unhappy man taken into custody, a jury chosen, and a judge, lawyer, etc., appointed. whether the men who had just regained a portion of their missing property made any objections to the proceedings which followed, i know not. if they had done so, however, it would have made no difference, as the _people_ had taken the matter entirely out of their hands. at one o'clock, so rapidly was the trial conducted, the judge charged the jury, and gently insinuated that they could do no less than to bring in with their verdict of guilty a sentence of _death!_ perhaps you know that when a trial is conducted without the majesty of the law, the jury are compelled to decide not only upon the guilt of the prisoner, but the mode of his punishment also. after a few minutes' absence, the twelve men, who had consented to burden their souls with a responsibility so fearful, returned, and the foreman handed to the judge a paper, from which he read the will of the _people_, as follows: that william brown, convicted of stealing, etc., should, in _one hour_ from that time, be hung by the neck until he was dead. by the persuasions of some men more mildly disposed, they granted him a respite of _three hours_ to prepare for his sudden entrance into eternity. he employed the time in writing, in his native language (he is a swede), to some friends in stockholm. god help them when that fatal post shall arrive, for, no doubt, _he_ also, although a criminal, was fondly garnered in many a loving heart. he had exhibited, during the trial, the utmost recklessness and nonchalance, had drank many times in the course of the day, and when the rope was placed about his neck, was evidently much intoxicated. all at once, however, he seemed startled into a consciousness of the awful reality of his position, and requested a few moments for prayer. the execution was conducted by the jury, and was performed by throwing the cord, one end of which was attached to the neck of the prisoner, across the limb of a tree standing outside of the rich bar graveyard, when all who felt disposed to engage in so revolting a task lifted the poor wretch from the ground in the most awkward manner possible. the whole affair, indeed, was a piece of cruel butchery, though _that_ was not intentional, but arose from the ignorance of those who made the preparations. in truth, life was only crushed out of him by hauling the writhing body up and down, several times in succession, by the rope, which was wound round a large bough of his green-leaved gallows. almost everybody was surprised at the severity of the sentence, and many, with their hands on the cord, did not believe even _then_ that it would be carried into effect, but thought that at the last moment the jury would release the prisoner and substitute a milder punishment. it is said that the crowd generally seemed to feel the solemnity of the occasion, but many of the drunkards, who form a large part of the community on these bars, laughed and shouted as if it were a spectacle got up for their particular amusement. a disgusting specimen of intoxicated humanity, struck with one of those luminous ideas peculiar to his class, staggered up to the victim, who was praying at the moment, and, crowding a dirty rag into his almost unconscious hand, in a voice broken by a drunken hiccough, tearfully implored him to take his "hankercher," and if he were _innocent_ (the man had not denied his guilt since first accused), to drop it as soon as he was drawn up into the air, but if _guilty_, not to let it fall on any account. the body of the criminal was allowed to hang for some hours after the execution. it had commenced storming in the earlier part of the evening, and when those whose business it was to inter the remains arrived at the spot, they found them enwrapped in a soft white shroud of feathery snowflakes, as if pitying nature had tried to hide from the offended face of heaven the cruel deed which her mountain-children had committed. i have heard no one approve of this affair. it seems to have been carried on entirely by the more reckless part of the community. there is no doubt, however, that they seriously _thought_ they were doing right, for many of them are kind and sensible men. they firmly believed that such an example was absolutely necessary for the protection of this community. probably the recent case of little john rendered this last sentence more severe than it otherwise would have been. the squire, of course, could do nothing (as in criminal cases the _people_ utterly refuse to acknowledge his authority) but protest against the whole of the proceedings, which he did in the usual legal manner. if william brown had committed a murder, or had even attacked a man for his money; if he had been a quarrelsome, fighting character, endangering lives in his excitement,--it would have been a very different affair. but, with the exception of the crime for which he perished (he _said_ it was his first, and there is no reason to doubt the truth of his assertion), he was a harmless, quiet, inoffensive person. you must not confound this miners' judgment with the doings of the noble vigilance committee of san francisco. they are almost totally different in their organization and manner of proceeding. the vigilance committee had become absolutely necessary for the protection of society. it was composed of the best and wisest men in the city. they used their power with a moderation unexampled in history, and they laid it down with a calm and quiet readiness which was absolutely sublime, when they found that legal justice had again resumed that course of stern, unflinching duty which should always be its characteristic. they took ample time for a thorough investigation of all the circumstances relating to the criminals who fell into their hands, and in _no_ case have they hung a man who had not been proved beyond the shadow of a doubt to have committed at least _one_ robbery in which life had been endangered, if not absolutely taken. but by this time, dear m., you must be tired of the melancholy subject, and yet if i keep my promise of relating to you all that interests _us_ in our new and strange life, i shall have to finish my letter with a catastrophe in many respects more sad than that which i have just recounted. at the commencement of our first storm, a hard-working, industrious laborer, who had accumulated about eight hundred dollars, concluded to return to the states. as the snow had been falling but a few hours when he, with two acquaintances, started from rich bar, no one doubted that they would not reach marysville in perfect safety. they went on foot themselves, taking with them one mule to carry their blankets. for some unexplained reason, they took an unfrequented route. when the expressman came in, he said that he met the two companions of r. eight miles beyond buck's rancho, which is the first house one finds after leaving rich bar, and is only fourteen miles distant from here. these men had camped at an uninhabited cabin called the "frenchman's," where they had built a fire and were making themselves both merry and comfortable. they informed the expressman that they had left their _friend_ (?) three miles back, in a dying state; that the cold had been too much for him, and that no doubt he was already dead. they had brought away the money, and even the _blankets_, of the expiring wretch! they said that if they had stopped with him they would have been frozen themselves. but even if their story is true, they must be the most brutal of creatures not to have made him as comfortable as possible, with _all_ the blankets, and, after they had built their fire and got warm, to have returned and ascertained if he were really dead. on hearing the expressman's report, several men who had been acquainted with the deceased started out to try and discover his remains. they found his violin, broken into several pieces, but all traces of the poor fellow himself had disappeared, probably forever. in the mean while some travelers had carried the same news to burke's rancho, when several of the residents of that place followed the two men, and overtook them, to bidwell's bar, where they had them arrested on suspicion of murder. they protested their innocence, of course, and one of them said that he would lead a party to the spot where they had left the dying man. on arriving in the vicinity of the place, he at first stated that it was under one tree, then another, and another, and at last ended by declaring that it was utterly impossible for him to remember where they were camped at the time of r.'s death. in this state of things, nothing was to be done but to return to b.'s, when, the excitement having somewhat subsided, they were allowed to proceed on their journey, the money, which they both swore r. had willed in his dying moments to a near relation of one of these very men, having been taken from them, in order to be sent by express to the friends of the deceased in the states. although they have been acquitted, many shake their heads doubtfully at the whole transaction. it seems very improbable that a man, accustomed all his life to hard labor and exposure, even although slightly unwell, as it is said he was, at the time, should have sunk under the cold during a walk of less than twenty miles, amid a gentle fall of snow and rain, when, as it is well known, the air is comparatively mild. it is to be hoped, however, that the companions of r. were brutal rather than criminal, though the desertion of a dying friend under such circumstances, even to the last unfeeling and selfish act of removing from the expiring creature his blankets, is, in truth, almost as bad as actual murder. i hope, in my next, that i shall have something more cheerful than the above chapter of horrors to relate. in the mean while, adios, and think as kindly as you can of the dear california, even though her lustrous skies gaze upon such barbarous deeds. letter _the_ twelfth [_the_ pioneer, _february_, ] a stormy winter--holiday saturnalias synopsis saturnalia in camp. temptations of riches. tribute to the miners. dreariness of camp-life during stormy winter weather. christmas and change of proprietors at the humboldt. preparations for a double celebration. mule-back loads of brandy-casks and champagne-baskets. noisy procession of revelers. oyster-and-champagne supper. three days of revelry. trial by mock vigilance committee. judgment to "treat the crowd". revels resumed on larger scale at new year's. boat-loads of drunken miners fall into river. saved by being drunk. boat-load of bread falls into river and floats down-stream. pulley-and-rope device for hauling boat across river. fiddlers "nearly fiddled themselves into the grave". liquors "beginning to look scarce". subdued and sheepish-looking bacchanals. nothing extenuated, nor aught set down in malice. boating on the river. aquatic plants. bridge swept away in torrent. loss of canoe. branch from moss-grown fir-tree "a cornice wreathed with purple-starred tapestry". a new year's present from the river. a two-inch spotted trout. no fresh meat for a month. "dark and ominous rumors". dark hams, rusty pork, etc., stored. letter _the_ twelfth a stormy winter--holiday saturnalias _from our log cabin,_ indian bar, _january_ , . i wish that it were possible, dear m., to give you an idea of the perfect saturnalia which has been held upon the river for the last three weeks, without at the same time causing you to think _too_ severely of our good mountains. in truth, it requires not only a large intellect, but a large heart, to judge with becoming charity of the peculiar temptations of riches. a more generous, hospitable, intelligent, and industrious people than the inhabitants of the half-dozen bars, of which rich bar is the nucleus, never existed; for you know how proverbially wearing it is to the nerves of manhood to be entirely without either occupation or amusement, and that has been preeminently the case during the present month. imagine a company of enterprising and excitable young men, settled upon a sandy level about as large as a poor widow's potato-patch, walled in by sky-kissing hills, absolutely _compelled_ to remain on account of the weather, which has vetoed indefinitely their exodus, with no place to ride or drive even if they had the necessary vehicles and quadrupeds; with no newspapers nor politics to interest them; deprived of all books but a few dog-eared novels of the poorest class,--churches, lectures, lyceums, theaters, and (most unkindest cut of all!) pretty girls, having become to these unhappy men mere myths; without _one_ of the thousand ways of passing time peculiar to civilization, most of them living in damp, gloomy cabins, where heaven's dear light can enter only by the door; and when you add to all these disagreeables the fact that, during the never-to-be-forgotten month, the most remorseless, persevering rain which ever set itself to work to drive humanity mad has been pouring doggedly down, sweeping away bridges, lying in uncomfortable puddles about nearly all of the habitations, wickedly insinuating itself beneath un-umbrella-protected shirt-collars, generously treating to a shower-bath _and_ the rheumatism sleeping bipeds who did not happen to have an india-rubber blanket, and, to crown all, rendering mining utterly impossible,--you cannot wonder that even the most moral should have become somewhat reckless. the saturnalia commenced on christmas evening, at the humboldt, which, on that very day, had passed into the hands of new proprietors. the most gorgeous preparations were made for celebrating the _two_ events. the bar was retrimmed with red calico, the bowling-alley had a new lining of the coarsest and whitest cotton cloth, and the broken lamp-shades were replaced by whole ones. all day long, patient mules could be seen descending the hill, bending beneath casks of brandy and baskets of champagne, and, for the first time in the history of that celebrated building, the floor (wonderful to relate, it _has_ a floor) was _washed_, at a lavish expenditure of some fifty pails of water, the using up of one entire broom, and the melting away of sundry bars of the best yellow soap, after which i am told that the enterprising and benevolent individuals who had undertaken the herculean task succeeded in washing the boards through the hopeless load of dirt which had accumulated upon them during the summer and autumn. all these interesting particulars were communicated to me by ned when he brought up dinner. that distinguished individual himself was in his element, and in a most intense state of perspiration and excitement at the same time. about dark we were startled by the loudest hurrahs, which arose at the sight of an army of india-rubber coats (the rain was falling in riverfuls), each one enshrouding a rich barian, which was rapidly descending the hill. this troop was headed by the "general," who, lucky man that he is, waved on high, instead of a banner, a _live_ lantern, actually composed of tin and window-glass, and evidently intended by its maker to act in no capacity but that _of_ a lantern. the general is the largest and tallest, and with one exception i think the oldest, man upon the river. he is about fifty, i should fancy, and wears a snow-white beard of such immense dimensions, in both length and thickness, that any elderly turk would expire with envy at the mere sight of it. don't imagine that _he_ is a reveler. by no means. the gay crowd followed _him_, for the same reason that the king followed madam blaize,--because she went before. at nine o'clock in the evening they had an oyster-and-champagne supper in the humboldt, which was very gay with toasts, songs, speeches, etc. i believe that the company danced all night. at any rate, they were dancing when i went to sleep, and they were dancing when i woke the next morning. the revel was kept up in this mad way for three days, growing wilder every hour. some never slept at all during that time. on the fourth day they got past dancing, and, lying in drunken heaps about the barroom, commenced a most unearthly howling. some barked like dogs, some roared like bulls, and others hissed like serpents and geese. many were too far gone to imitate anything but their own animalized selves. the scene, from the description i have had of it, must have been a complete illustration of the fable of circe and her fearful transformations. some of these bacchanals were among the most respectable and respected men upon the river. many of them had resided here for more than a year, and had never been seen intoxicated before. it seemed as if they were seized with a reckless mania for pouring down liquor, which, as i said above, everything conspired to foster and increase. of course there were some who kept themselves aloof from these excesses, but they were few, and were not allowed to enjoy their sobriety in peace. the revelers formed themselves into a mock vigilance committee, and when one of these unfortunates appeared outside, a constable, followed by those who were able to keep their legs, brought him before the court, where he was tried on some amusing charge, and _invariably_ sentenced to "treat the crowd." the prisoners had generally the good sense to submit cheerfully to their fate. towards the latter part of the week, people were compelled to be a little more quiet, from sheer exhaustion, but on new year's day, when there was a grand dinner at rich bar, the excitement broke out, if possible, worse than ever. the same scenes, in a more or less aggravated form, in proportion as the strength of the actors held out, were repeated at smith's bar and the junction. nearly every day i was dreadfully frightened by seeing a boat-load of intoxicated men fall into the river, where nothing but the fact of their _being_ intoxicated saved many of them from drowning. one morning about thirty dollars' worth of bread (it must have been tipsy-cake), which the baker was conveying to smith's bar, fell overboard, and sailed merrily away towards marysville. people passed the river in a boat, which was managed by a pulley and a rope that was strained across it from indian bar to the opposite shore. of the many acquaintances who had been in the habit of calling nearly evening, three, only, appeared in the cabin during as many weeks. now, however, the saturnalia is about over. ned and chock have nearly fiddled themselves into their respective graves, the claret (a favorite wine with miners) and oysters are exhausted, brandied fruits are rarely seen, and even port-wine is beginning to look scarce. old callers occasionally drop in, looking dreadfully sheepish and subdued, and _so sorry_, and people are evidently arousing themselves from the bacchanal madness into which they were so suddenly and so strangely drawn. with the exception of my last, this is the most unpleasant letter which i have ever felt it my duty to write to you. perhaps you will wonder that i should touch upon such a disagreeable subject at all. but i am bound, molly, by my promise to give you a _true_ picture (as much as in me lies) of mining-life and its peculiar temptations, nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice. but, with all their failings, believe me, the miners, as a class, possess many truly admirable characteristics. i have had rather a stupid time during the storm. we have been in the habit of taking frequent rows upon the river, in a funny little toppling canoe carved out of a log. the bridge at one end of our boating-ground, and the rapids at the other, made quite a pretty lake. to be sure, it was so small that we generally passed and repassed its beautiful surface at least thirty times in an hour. but we did not mind _that_, i can assure you. we were only _too_ glad to be able to go onto the water at all. i used to return loaded down with the magnificent large leaves of some aquatic plant which the gentle frosts had painted with the most gorgeous colors, lots of fragrant mint, and a few wan white flowers which had lingered past their autumnal glory. the richest hothouse bouquet could never give me half the pleasure which i took in arranging, in a pretty vase of purple and white, those gorgeous leaves. they made me think of moorish arabesques, so quaint and bizarre, and at the same time dazzlingly brilliant, were the varied tints. they were in their glory at evening, for, like an oriental beauty, they lighted up splendidly. alas! where, one little month ago, my little lake lay laughing up at the stars, a turbid torrent rushes noisily by. the poor little canoe was swept away with the bridge, and splendid leaves hide their bright heads forever beneath the dark waters. but i am not entirely bereft of the beautiful. from my last walk i brought home a tiny bit of outdoors, which, through all the long, rainy months that are to come, will sing to me silently, yet eloquently, of the blue and gold of the vanished summer, and the crimson and purple of its autumn. it is a branch, gathered from that prettiest feature of mountain scenery,--a moss-grown fir-tree. you will see them at every step, standing all-lovely in this graceful robe. it is, in color, a vivid pea-green, with little hard flowers which look more like dots than anything else, and contrast beautifully with the deeper verdure of the fir. the branch which i brought home i have placed above my window. it is three feet in length, and as large round as a person's arm; and there it remains, a cornice wreathed with purple-starred tapestry, whose wondrous beauty no upholsterer can ever match. i have got the prettiest new year's present. you will never guess what it is, so i shall have to tell you. on the eve of the year, as the "general" was lifting a glass of water, which had just been brought from the river, to his lips, he was startled at the sight of a tiny fish. he immediately put it into a glass jar and gave it to me. it is that most lovely of all the creatures of thetis, a spotted trout, a little more than two inches in length. its back, of mingled green and gold, is splashed with dots of the richest sable. a mark of a dark-ruby color, in shape like an anchor, crowns its elegant little head. nothing can be prettier than the delicate wings of pale purple with which its snowy belly is faintly penciled. its jet-black eyes, rimmed with silver within a circlet of rare sea-blue, gleam like diamonds, and its whole graceful shape is gilded with a shimmering sheen infinitely lovely. when i watch it from across the room as it glides slowly round its crystal palace, it reminds me of a beam of many-colored light, but when it glides up and down in its gay playfulness, it gleams through the liquid atmosphere like a box of shining silver. "a thing of beauty is a joy forever," and truly i never weary watching the perfected loveliness of my graceful little captive. in the list of my deprivations above written, i forgot to mention a fact which i know will gain me the sympathy of all carnivorously disposed people. it is, that we have had no fresh meat for nearly a month! dark and ominous rumors are also floating through the moist air, to the effect that the potatoes and onions are about to give out! but don't be alarmed, dear molly. there is no danger of a famine. for have we not got wagon-loads of hard, dark hams, whose indurated hearts nothing but the sharpest knife and the stoutest arm can penetrate? have we not got quintals of dreadful mackerel, fearfully crystallized in black salt? have we not barrels upon barrels of rusty pork, and flour enough to victual a large army for the next two years? yea, verily, have we, and more also. for we have oysters in cans, preserved meats, and sardines (apropos, i _detest_ them), by the hundred-boxful. so, hush the trembling of that tender little heart, and shut those tearful and alarmed eyes while i press a good-night kiss on their drooping lids. letter _the_ thirteenth [_the_ pioneer, _march_, ] sociability _and_ excitements _of_ mining-life synopsis departure indian bar of the mulatto ned. his birthday-celebration dinner, at which the new year's piscatory phenomenon figures in the bill of fare. a total disregard of dry laws at the dinner. excitement over reported discovery of quartz-mines. a complete humbug. charges of salting. excitement renewed upon report of other new quartz-mines. even if rich, lack of proper machinery would render working thereof impossible. prediction that quartz-mines eventually will be the most profitable. miners decamp without paying their debts. pursuit and capture. miners' court orders settlement in full. celebration, by french miners, of the revolution of . invitation to dine at best-built log cabin on the river. the habitation of five or six young miners. a perfect marvel of a fireplace. huge unsplit logs as firewood. window of glass jars. possibilities in the use of empty glass containers. unthrift of some miners. the cabin, its furniture, store of staple provisions, chinaware, cutlery. the dinner in the cabin. a cow kept. wonderful variety of makeshift candlesticks in use among the miners. dearth of butter, potatoes, onions, fresh meat, in camp. indian-summer weather at indian bar. a cozy retreat in the hills. a present of feathered denizens of the mountains. roasted for dinner. letter _the_ thirteenth sociability _and_ excitements _of_ mining-life _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _february_ , . you will find this missive, dear m., a journal, rather than a letter; for the few insignificant events which have taken place since i last wrote to you will require but three lines apiece for their recital. but stop; when i say "insignificant" i forget one all-important misfortune which, for our sins i suppose, has befallen us, in the sudden departure of our sable paganini. yes; vattal ned to the valley hath gone, in a marysville kitchen you'll find him; two rusty pistols he girded on, and his violin hung behind him. his fiddle is heard no more on all the bar, and silence reigns through the calico halls of the humboldt. his bland smile and his dainty plats, his inimitably choice language and his pet tambourine, his woolly corkscrew and his really beautiful music, have, i fear, vanished forever from the mountains. just before he left he found a birthday which belonged to himself, and was observed all the morning thereof standing about in spots, a perfect picture of perplexity painted in burnt umber. inquiry being made by sympathizing friends as to the cause of his distress, he answered, that, having no fresh meat, he could not prepare a dinner for the log cabin, worthy of the occasion! but no circumstance can put a man of genius entirely _hors de combat_. confine him in a dungeon, banish him to an uninhabited island, place him, solitary and alone, in a boundless desert, deprive him of all but life, and he will still achieve wonders. with the iron hams, the piscatory phenomenon referred to in my last, and a can of really excellent oysters, ned's birthday dinner was a _chef-d'oeuvre_. he accompanied it with a present of a bottle of very good champagne, requesting us to drink it (which we _did_, not having the fear of temperance societies or maine-law liquor bills before our eyes) in honor of his having dropped another year into the returnless past. there has been a great excitement here on account of the fancied discovery of valuable quartz-mines in the vicinity of the american rancho, which is situated about twenty miles from this place. half the people upon the river went out there for the purpose of prospecting and staking claims. the quartz apparently paid admirably. several companies were speedily formed, and men sent to hamilton, the county seat, to record the various claims. f. himself went out there, and remained several days. now, however, the whole excitement has turned out to be a complete humbug. the quicksilver which was procured at the rancho for the testing of the quartz, the victims declare, was salted, and they accuse the rancheros of conniving at the fraud for the purpose of making money out of those who were compelled to lodge and board with them while prospecting. the accused affirm that if there was any deception (which, however, is beyond the shadow of a doubt), they also were deceived; and as they appear like honest men enough, i am inclined to believe them. just now there is a new quartz-mine excitement. a man has engaged to lead a company to the golden and crystallized spot. probably this also will prove, like the other, a mere yellow bubble. but, even if as rich as he says, it will be of little value at present, on account of the want of suitable machinery, that now in use being so expensive and wasting so much of the precious metal that it leaves the miner but little profit. it is thought, however, by men of judgment that in a few years, when the proper way of working them to advantage has been discovered, the quartz-mines will be more profitable than any others in california. a few days ago we had another specimen of illegal, but in this case at least extremely equitable, justice. five men left the river without paying their debts. a meeting of the miners was convened, and "yank," who possesses an iron frame, the perseverance of a bulldog, and a constitution which never knew fatigue, was appointed, with another person, to go in search of the culprits and bring them back to indian bar. he found them a few miles from this place, and returned with them in triumph, and alone, his friend having been compelled to remain behind on account of excessive fatigue. the self-constituted court, after a fair trial, obliged the five men to settle all liabilities before they again left the river. last week the frenchmen on the river celebrated the revolution of february, . what kind of a time they had during the day, i know not, but in the evening (apropos, part of them reside at missouri bar) they formed a torchlight procession and marched to rich bar, which, by the way, takes airs upon itself, and considers itself a _town_. they made quite a picturesque appearance as they wound up the hill, each one carrying a tiny pine-tree, the top of which was encircled with a diadem of flame, beautifully lighting up the darker verdure beneath, and gleaming like a spectral crown through the moonless, misty evening. we could not help laughing at their watchwords. they ran in this wise: shorge washingtone, james k. polk, napoleon bonaparte! liberté, égalité, fraternité! andrew jacksone, president fillmore, and lafayette! i give them to you word for word, as i took them down at the time. since the bridges have been swept away, i have been to rich bar but once. it is necessary to go over the hill now, and the walk is a very wearisome one. it is much more pleasant to live on the hills than on the bar, and during our walk we passed two or three cozy little cabins, nestling in broad patches of sunlight, and surrounded with ample space for a promenade, which made me quite envious. unfortunately, f.'s profession renders it desirable that he should reside where the largest number of people congregate, and then the ascent to the habitable portion of the hill is as steep as any part of that leading into rich bar, and it would be impossible for him to walk up and down it several times a day,--a task which he would be compelled to perform if we resided there. for that reason i make myself as happy as possible where i am. i have been invited to dine at the best-built log cabin on the river. it is situated on the hill of which i have just been writing, and is owned by five or six intelligent, hard-working, sturdy young men. of course it has no floor, but it boasts a perfect marvel of a fireplace. they never pretend to split the wood for it, but merely fall a giant fir-tree, strip it of its branches, and cut it into pieces the length of the aforesaid wonder. this cabin is lighted in a manner truly ingenious. three feet in length of a log on one side of the room is removed and glass jars inserted in its place, the space around the necks of said jars being filled in with clay. this novel idea is really an excellent substitute for window-glass. you will perhaps wonder where they procure enough of the material for such a purpose. they are brought here in enormous quantities, containing brandied fruits, for there is no possible luxury connected with drinking, which is procurable in california, that cannot be found in the mines, and the very men who fancy it a piece of wicked extravagance to _buy_ bread, because they can save a few dimes by _making_ it themselves, are often those who think nothing of spending from fifteen to twenty dollars a night in the bar-rooms. there is at this moment a perfect pelion-upon-ossa-like pile of beautiful glass jars, porter, ale, champagne, and claret bottles, lying in front of my window. the latter are a very convenient article for the manufacture of the most enchantingly primitive lanterns. any one in want of a utensil of this kind has but to step to his cabin-door, take up a claret or champagne bottle, knock off the bottom, and dropping into the neck thereof, through the opening thus made, a candle, to have a most excellent lantern. and the beauty of it is, that, every time you wish to use such a thing, you can have a _new_ one. but to return to my description of the cabin. it consists of one very large room, in the back part of which are neatly stored several hundred sacks of flour, a large quantity of potatoes, sundry kegs of butter, and plenty of hams and mackerel. the furniture consists of substantial wooden stools, and in these i observed that our friends followed the fashion, no two of them being made alike. some stood proudly forth in all the grandeur of four legs, others affected the classic grace of the ancient tripod, while a few shrank bashfully into corners on one stubbed stump. some round, some square, and some triangular in form. several were so high that, when enthroned upon them, the ends of my toes just touched the ground, and others were so low that, on rising, i carried away a large portion of the soil upon my unfortunate skirts. their bunks, as they call them, were arranged in two rows along one side of the cabin, each neatly covered with a dark-blue or red blanket. a handsome oilcloth was spread upon the table, and the service consisted of tin plates, a pretty set of stone-china cups and saucers, and some good knives and forks, which looked almost as bright as if they had just come from the cutler's. for dinner we had boiled beef and ham, broiled mackerel, potatoes, splendid new bread made by one of the gentlemen of the house, coffee, milk (mr. b. has bought a cow, and now and then we get a wee drop of milk), and the most delicious indian meal, parched, that i ever tasted. i have been very particular in describing this cabin, for it is the best-built and by far the best-appointed one upon the river. i have said nothing about candlesticks as yet. i must confess that in _them_ the spice of life is carried almost too far. one gets satiated with their wonderful variety. i will mention but two or three of these makeshifts. bottles, _without_ the bottoms knocked off, are general favorites. many, however, exhibit an insane admiration for match-boxes, which, considering that they _will_ keep falling _all_ the time, and leaving the entire house in darkness, and scattering spermaceti in every direction, is rather an inconvenient taste. some fancy blocks of wood with an ornamental balustrade of three nails, and i _have_ seen praiseworthy candles making desperate efforts to stand straight in tumblers! many of our friends, with a beautiful and sublime faith in spermaceti and good luck, eschew everything of the kind, and you will often find their tables picturesquely covered with splashes of the former article, elegantly ornamented with little strips of black wick. the sad forebodings mentioned in a former letter have come to pass. for some weeks, with the exception of two or three families, every one upon the river has been out of butter, onions, and potatoes. our kind friends upon the hill, who have a little remaining, sent me a few pounds of the former the other day. ham, mackerel, and bread, with occasionally a treat of the precious butter, have been literally our only food for a long time. the rancheros have not driven in any beef for several weeks, and although it is so pleasant on the bars, the cold on the mountains still continues so intense that the trail remained impassable to mules. the weather here for the past five weeks has been like the indian summer at home. nearly every day i take a walk up onto the hill back of our cabin. nobody lives there, it is so very steep. i have a cozy little seat in the fragrant bosom of some evergreen shrubs, where often i remain for hours. it is almost like death to mount to my favorite spot, the path is so steep and stony; but it is new life, when i arrive there, to sit in the shadow of the pines and listen to the plaintive wail of the wind as it surges through their musical leaves, and to gaze down upon the tented bar lying in somber gloom (for as yet the sun does not shine upon it) and the foam-flaked river, and around at the awful mountain splashed here and there with broad patches of snow, or reverently upward into the stainless blue of our unmatchable sky. this letter is much longer than i thought it would be when i commenced it, and i believe that i have been as minutely particular as even you can desire. i have mentioned everything that has happened since i last wrote. oh! i was very near forgetting a present of two ring-doves (alas! they had been shot) and a blue jay which i received yesterday. we had them roasted for dinner last evening. the former were very beautiful, approaching in hue more nearly to a french gray than what is generally called a dun color, with a perfect ring of ivory encircling each pretty neck. the blue jay was exactly like its namesake in the states. good by, my dear m., and remember that the _same_ sky, though not quite so beautiful a portion of it, which smiles upon _me_ in sunny california bends lovingly over _you_ in cold, dreary, but, in spite of its harsh airs, beloved new england. letter _the_ fourteenth [_the_ pioneer, _april_, ] springtide--linguistics--storms--accidents synopsis the splendor of a march morning in the mountains of california. first bird of the season. blue and red shirted miners a feature of the landscape. "wanderers from the whole broad earth". the languages of many nations heard. how the americans attempt to converse with the spanish-speaking population. "sabe," "vamos," "poco tiempo," "si," and "bueno," a complete lexicon of la lengua castellana, in mind of americans. an "ugly disposition" manifested when the speaker is not understood. spaniards "ain't kinder like our folks," nor "folksy". mistakes not all on one side. spanish proverb regarding certain languages. not complimentary to english. stormy weather. storm king a perfect proteus. river on a rampage. sawmill carried away. pastimes of the miners during the storm. ms. account of storm sent in keg via river to marysville newspaper. silversmith makes gold rings during storm. raffling and reraffling of same as pastime. some natural gold rings. nugget in shape of eagle's head presented to author. miners buried up to neck in cave-in. escape with but slight injury. miner stabbed without provocation in drunken frolic. life despaired of at first. no notice taken of affair. letter _the_ fourteenth springtide--linguistics--storms--accidents _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _march_ , . this fifteenth day of march has risen upon us with all the primeval splendor of the birth-morn of creation. the lovely river, having resumed its crimson border (the so long idle miners being again busily at work), glides by, laughing gayly, leaping and clapping its glad waves joyfully in the golden sunlight. the feathery fringe of the fir-trees glitters like emerald in the luster-bathing air. a hundred tiny rivulets flash down from the brow of the mountains, as if some mighty titan, standing on the other side, had flung athwart their greenness a chaplet of radiant pearls. of the large quantities of snow which have fallen within the past fortnight, a few patches of shining whiteness, high up among the hills, alone remain, while, to finish the picture, the lustrous heaven of california, looking farther off than ever through the wonderfully transparent atmosphere, and for that very reason infinitely more beautiful, bends over all the matchless blue of its resplendent arch. ah, the heaven of the golden land! to you, living beneath the murky skies of new england, how unimaginably lovely it is. a small poetess has said that _she_ could not love a scene where the blue sky was _always_ blue. i think it is not so with me. i am sure i never weary of the succession of rainless months, nor of the azure dome, day after day so mistless, which bends above this favored country. between each stroke of the pen i stop to glance at that splendor, whose sameness never fails, but now a flock of ring-doves break for a moment with dots of purple its monotonous beauty, and the carol of a tiny bird (the first of the season), though i cannot see the darling, fills the joyful air with its matin song. all along the side of the hill behind the bar, and on the latter also, glance spots of azure and crimson, in the forms of blue and red shirted miners bending steadily over pickax and shovel, reminding one involuntarily of the muck-gatherer in the pilgrim's progress. but no; that is an unjust association of ideas, for many of these men are toiling thus wearily for laughing-lipped children, calm-browed wives, or saintly mothers, gathering around the household hearth in some far-away country. even among the few now remaining on the river there are wanderers from the whole broad earth, and, oh, what a world of poetic recollection is suggested by their living presence! from happiest homes and such luxuriant lands has the golden magnet drawn its victims. from those palm-girdled isles of the pacific, which melville's gifted pen has consecrated to such beautiful romance; from indies, blazing through the dim past with funeral pyres, upon whose perfumed flame ascended to god the chaste souls of her devoted wives; from the grand old woods of classic greece, haunted by nymph and satyr, naiad and grace, grape-crowned bacchus and beauty-zoned venus; from the polished heart of artificial europe; from the breezy backwoods of young america; from the tropical languor of asian savannah; from _every_ spot shining through the rosy light of beloved old fables, or consecrated by lofty deeds of heroism or devotion, or shrined in our heart of hearts as the sacred home of some great or gifted one,--they gather to the golden harvest. you will hear in the same day, almost at the same time, the lofty melody of the spanish language, the piquant polish of the french (which, though not a _musical_ tongue, is the most _useful_ of them all), the silver, changing clearness of the italian, the harsh gangle of the german, the hissing precision of the english, the liquid sweetness of the kanaka, and the sleep-inspiring languor of the east indian. to complete the catalogue, there is the _native_ indian, with his guttural vocabulary of twenty words! when i hear these sounds, so strangely different, and look at the speakers, i fancy them a living polyglot of the languages, a perambulating picture-gallery illustrative of national variety in form and feature. by the way, speaking of languages, nothing is more amusing than to observe the different styles in which the generality of americans talk _at_ the unfortunate spaniard. in the first place, many of them really believe that when they have learned _sabe_ and _vamos_ (two words which they seldom use in the right place), _poco tiempo_, _si_, and _bueno_ (the last they _will_ persist in pronouncing _whayno_), they have the whole of the glorious castilian at their tongue's end. some, however, eschew the above words entirely, and innocently fancy that by splitting the tympanum of an unhappy foreigner in screaming forth their sentences in good solid english they can be surely understood; others, at the imminent risk of dislocating their own limbs, and the jaws of their listeners by the laughs which their efforts elicit, make the most excruciatingly grotesque gestures, and think that _that_ is speaking spanish. the majority, however, place a most beautiful and touching faith in _broken english_, and when they murder it with the few words of castilian quoted above, are firmly convinced that it is nothing but their "ugly dispositions" which make the spaniards pretend not to understand them. one of those dear, stupid yankees who _will_ now and then venture out of sight of the smoke of their own chimneys as far as california, was relating _his_ experience in this particular the other day. it seems he had lost a horse somewhere among the hills, and during his search for it met a gentlemanly chileño, who with national suavity made the most desperate efforts to understand the questions put to him. of course chileño was so stupid that he did not succeed, for it is not possible one of the great american people could fail to express himself clearly even in hebrew if he takes it into his cute head to speak that ancient but highly respectable language. our yankee friend, however, would not allow the poor fellow even the excuse of stupidity, but declared that he only "played possum from sheer _ugliness_." "why," he added, in relating the circumstance, "the cross old rascal pretended not to understand his own language, though i said as plainly as possible, 'señor, sabe mi horso vamos poco tiempo?' which, perhaps you don't know," he proceeded to say, in a benevolent desire to enlighten our ignorance and teach us a little castilian, "means, 'sir, i have lost my horse; have you seen it?'" i am ashamed to acknowledge that we did _not_ know the above-written anglo-spanish meant _that_! the honest fellow concluded his story by declaring (and it is a common remark with uneducated americans) with a most self-glorifying air of _pity_ for the poor spaniards, "they ain't kinder like _eour_ folks," or, as that universal aunt somebody used so expressively to observe, "somehow, they ain't _folksy_!" the mistakes made on the other side are often quite as amusing. dr. cañas related to us a laughable anecdote of a countryman of his, with whom he happened to camp on his first arrival in san francisco. none of the party could speak a word of english, and the person referred to, as ignorant as the rest, went out to purchase bread, which he procured by laying down some money and pointing to a loaf of that necessary edible. he probably heard a person use the words "some bread," for he rushed home, cañas said, in a perfect burst of newly acquired wisdom, and informed his friends that he had found out the english for "pan," and that when they wished any of that article they need but enter a bakeshop and utter the word "sombrero" in order to obtain it! his hearers were delighted to know _that_ much of the _infernal lengua_, greatly marveling, however, that the same word which meant "hat" in castilian should mean "bread" in english. the spaniards have a saying to the following effect: "children speak in italian, ladies speak in french, god speaks in spanish, and the devil speaks in english." i commenced this letter with the intention of telling you about the weary, weary storm, which has not only thrown a damp over our spirits, but has saturated them, as it has everything else, with a deluge of moisture. the storm king commenced his reign (or rain) on the th of february, and proved himself a perfect proteus during his residence with us. for one entire week he descended daily and nightly, without an hour's cessation, in a forty niagara-power of water, and just as we were getting reconciled to this wet state of affairs, and were thinking seriously of learning to swim, one gloomy evening, when we least expected such a change, he stole softly down and garlanded us in a wreath of shiny snowflakes, and lo! the next morning you would have thought that some great white bird had shed its glittering feathers all over rock, tree, hill, and bar. he finished his vagaries by loosening, rattling, and crashing upon this devoted spot a small skyful of hailstones, which, aided by a terrific wind, waged terrible warfare against the frail tents and the calico-shirt huts, and made even the shingles on the roofs of the log cabins tremble amid their nails. the river, usually so bland and smiling, looked really terrific. it rose to an unexampled height, and tore along its way, a perfect mass of dark-foamed turbid waves. at one time we had serious fears that the water would cover the whole bar, for it approached within two or three feet of the humboldt. a sawmill, which had been built at a great expense by two gentlemen of rich bar in order to be ready for the sawing of lumber for the extensive fluming operations which are in contemplation this season, was entirely swept away, nearly ruining, it is said, the owners. i heard a great shout early one morning, and, running to the window, had the sorrow to see wheels, planks, etc., sailing merrily down the river. all along the banks of the stream, men were trying to save the more valuable portions of the mill, but the torrent was so furious that it was utterly impossible to rescue a plank. how the haughty river seemed to laugh to scorn the feeble efforts of man! how its mad waves tossed in wild derision the costly workmanship of his skillful hands! but know, proud río de las plumas, that these very men whose futile efforts you fancy that you have for once so gloriously defeated will gather from beneath your lowest depths the beautiful ore which you thought you had hidden forever and forever beneath your azure beauty! it is certainly most amusing to hear of the different plans which the poor miners invented to pass the time during the trying season of rains. of course, poker and euchre, whist and ninepins, to say nothing of monte and faro, are now in constant requisition. but as a person would starve to death on _toujours des perdrix_, so a man cannot _always_ be playing cards. some _literary_ bipeds, i have been told, reduced to the last degree of intellectual destitution, in a beautiful spirit of self-martyrdom betook themselves to blue blankets, bunks, and ned buntline's novels. and one day an unhappy youth went pen-mad, and in a melancholy fit of authorship wrote a thrilling account of our dreadful situation, which, directed to the editor of a marysville paper, was sealed up in a keg and set adrift, and is at this moment, no doubt, stranded, high and dry, in the streets of sacramento, for it is generally believed that the cities of the plain have been under water during the storm. the chief amusement, however, has been the raffling of gold rings. there is a silversmith here, who, like the rest of the miserable inhabitants, having nothing to do, discovered that he could make gold rings. of course every person must have a specimen of his workmanship, and the next thing was to raffle it off, the winner generally repeating the operation. nothing was done or talked of for some days but this important business. i have one of these rings, which is really very beautifully finished, and although perhaps at home it would look vulgar, there is a sort of massive and barbaric grandeur about it which seems well suited to our wild life of the hills. i shall send you one of these, which will be to you a curiosity, and will doubtless look strangely enough amid the graceful and airy politeness of french jewelry. but i think that it will be interesting to you, as having been manufactured in the mines by an inexperienced workman, and without the necessary tools. if it is too hideous to be worn upon your slender little finger, you can have it engraved for a seal, and attach it as a charm to your watch-chain. last evening mr. c. showed us a specimen ring which he had just finished. it is the handsomest _natural_ specimen that i ever saw. pure gold is generally dull in hue, but this is of a most beautiful shade of yellow, and extremely brilliant. it is, in shape and size, exactly like the flower of the jonquil. in the center is inserted, with all the nice finish of art (or rather of nature, for it is her work), a polished piece of quartz, of the purest shade of pink, and between each radiant petal is set a tiny crystal of colorless quartz, every one of which flashes like a real diamond. it is known beyond doubt to be a real live specimen, as many saw it when it was first taken from the earth, and the owner has carried it carelessly in his pocket for months. we would gladly have given fifty dollars for it, though its nominal value is only about an ounce, but it is already promised as a present to a gentleman in marysville. although rather a clumsy ring, it would make a most unique brooch, and indeed is almost the _only_ piece of unmanufactured ore which i have ever seen that i would be willing to wear. i have a piece of gold which, without any alteration, except, of course, engraving, will make a beautiful seal. it is in the shape of an eagle's head, and is wonderfully perfect. it was picked up from the surface of the ground by a gentleman on his first arrival here, and he said that he would give it to the next lady to whom he should be introduced. he carried it in his purse for more than a year, when, in obedience to the promise made when he found it, it became the property of your humble servant, shirley. the other day a hole caved in, burying up to the neck two unfortunates who were in it at the time. luckily, they were but slightly injured. f. is at present attending a man at the junction, who was stabbed very severely in the back during a drunken frolic. the people have not taken the slightest notice of this affair, although for some days the life of the wounded man was despaired of. the perpetrator of the deed had not the slightest provocation from his unfortunate victim. letter _the_ fifteenth [_the_ pioneer, _may_, ] mining methods--miners, gamblers, etc. synopsis difficulty experienced in writing amid the charms of california mountain scenery. science the blindest guide on a gold-hunting expedition. irreverent contempt of the beautiful mineral to the dictates of science. nothing better to be expected from the root of all evil. foreigners more successful than americans in its pursuit. americans always longing for big strikes. success lies in staying and persevering. how a camp springs into existence. prospecting, panning out, and discovery that it pays. the claim. building the shanty. spreading of news of new diggings. arrival of the monte-dealers. industrious begin digging for gold. the claiming system. how claims worked. working difficult amidst huge mountain rocks. partnerships then compulsory. naming the mine or company. the long-tom. panning out the gold. sinking shaft to reach bed-rock. drifting coyote-holes in search of crevices. water-ditches and water companies. washing out in long-tom. waste-ditches. tailings. fluming companies. rockers. gold-mining is nature's great lottery scheme. thousands taken out in a few hours. six ounces in six months. "almost all seem to have lost". jumped claims. caving in of excavations. abandonment of expensive paying shafts. miner making "big strike" almost sure prey of professional gamblers. as spring opens, gamblers flock in like birds of prey. after stay of only four days, gambler leaves bar with over a thousand dollars of miners' gold. as many foreigners as americans on the river. foreigners generally extremely ignorant and degraded. some spaniards of the highest eduction and accomplishment. majority of americans mechanics of better class. sailors and farmers next in number. a few merchants and steamboat-clerks. a few physicians. one lawyer. ranchero of distinguished appearance an accomplished monte-dealer and horse-jockey. said to have been a preacher in the states. such not uncommon for california. letter _the_ fifteenth mining methods--miners, gamblers, etc. _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _april_ , . i have been haunted all day, my dear m., with an intense ambition to write you a letter which shall be dreadfully commonplace and severely utilitarian in its style and contents. not but that my epistles are _always_ commonplace enough (spirits of montague and sévigné, forgive me!), but hitherto i have not really _tried_ to make them so. now, however, i _intend_ to be stupidly prosy, with malice aforethought, and without one mitigating circumstance, except, perchance, it be the temptations of that above-mentioned ambitious little devil to palliate my crime. you would certainly wonder, were you seated where i now am, how any one with a quarter of a soul _could_ manufacture herself into a bore amid such surroundings as these. the air is as balmy as that of a midsummer's day in the sunniest valleys of new england. it is four o'clock in the evening, and i am sitting on a cigar-box outside of our cabin. from this spot not a person is to be seen, except a man who is building a new wing to the humboldt. not a human sound, but a slight noise made by the aforesaid individual in tacking on a roof of blue drilling to the room which he is finishing, disturbs the stillness which fills this purest air. i confess that it is difficult to fix my eyes upon the dull paper, and my fingers upon the duller pen with which i am soiling it. almost every other minute i find myself stopping to listen to the ceaseless river-psalm, or to gaze up into the wondrous depths of the california heaven; to watch the graceful movements of the pretty brown lizards jerking up their impudent little heads above a moss-wrought log which lies before me, or to mark the dancing water-shadow on the canvas door of the bakeshop opposite; to follow with childish eyes the flight of a golden butterfly, curious to know if it will crown with a capital of winged beauty that column of nature's carving, the pine stump rising at my feet, or whether it will flutter down (for it is dallying coquettishly around them both) upon that slate-rock beyond, shining so darkly lustrous through a flood of yellow sunlight; or i lazily turn my head, wondering if i know the blue or red shirted miner who is descending the precipitous hill behind me. in sooth, molly, it is easy to be commonplace at all times, but i confess that, just at present, i find it difficult to be utilitarian; the saucy lizards, the great orange-dotted butterflies, the still, solemn cedars, the sailing smoke-wreath, and the vaulted splendor above, are wooing me so winningly to higher things. but, as i said before, i have an ambition that way, and i _will_ succeed. you are such a good-natured little thing, dear, that i know you will meekly allow yourself to be victimized into reading the profound and prosy remarks which i shall make in my efforts to initiate you into the mining polity of this place. now, you may rest assured that i shall assert nothing upon the subject which is not perfectly correct; for have i not earned a character for inquisitiveness (and you know that does _not_ happen to be one of my failings) which i fear will cling to me through life, by my persevering questions to all the unhappy miners from whom i thought i could gain any information? did i not martyrize myself into a human mule by descending to the bottom of a dreadful pit (suffering mortal terror all the time, lest it should cave in upon me), actuated by a virtuous desire to see with my own two eyes the process of underground mining, thus enabling myself to be stupidly correct in all my statements thereupon? did i not ruin a pair of silk-velvet slippers, lame my ankles for a week, and draw a "browner horror" over my already sunburnt face, in a wearisome walk, miles away, to the head of the ditch, as they call the prettiest little rivulet (though the work of men) that i ever saw? yea, verily, this have i done for the express edification of yourself and the rest of your curious tribe, to be rewarded, probably, by the impertinent remark, "what! _does_ that little goose dame shirley think that _i_ care about such things?" but, madam, in spite of your sneer, i shall proceed in my allotted task. in the first place, then, as to the discovery of gold. in california, at least, it must be confessed that, in this particular, science appears to be completely at fault, or as an intelligent and well-educated miner remarked to us the other day, "i maintain that science is the blindest guide that one could have on a gold-finding expedition. those men who judge by the appearance of the soil, and depend upon geological calculations, are invariably disappointed, while the ignorant adventurer, who digs just for the sake of digging, is almost sure to be successful." i suppose that the above observation is quite correct, as all whom we have questioned upon the subject repeat, in substance, the same thing. wherever geology has said that gold _must_ be, there, perversely enough, it lies not; and wherever her ladyship has declared that it could _not_ be, there has it oftenest garnered up in miraculous profusion the yellow splendor of its virgin beauty. it is certainly very painful to a well-regulated mind to see the irreverent contempt shown by this beautiful mineral to the dictates of science. but what better can one expect from the root of all evil? as well as can be ascertained, the most lucky of the mining columbuses have been ignorant sailors, and foreigners, i fancy, are more successful than americans. our countrymen are the most discontented of mortals. they are always longing for big strikes. if a claim is paying them a steady income, by which, if they pleased, they could lay up more in a month than they could in a year at home, still they are dissatisfied, and in most cases will wander off in search of better diggings. there are hundreds now pursuing this foolish course, who, if they had stopped where they first camped, would now have been rich men. sometimes a company of these wanderers will find itself upon a bar where a few pieces of the precious metal lie scattered upon the surface of the ground. of course they immediately prospect it, which is accomplished by panning out a few basinfuls of the soil. if it pays, they claim the spot and build their shanties. the news spreads that wonderful diggings have been discovered at such a place. the monte-dealers--those worse than fiends--rush, vulture-like, upon the scene and erect a round tent, where, in gambling, drinking, swearing, and fighting, the _many_ reproduce pandemonium in more than its original horror, while a _few_ honestly and industriously commence digging for gold, and lo! as if a fairy's wand had been waved above the bar, a full-grown mining town hath sprung into existence. but, first, let me explain to you the claiming system. as there are no state laws upon the subject, each mining community is permitted to make its own. here they have decided that no man may claim an area of more than forty feet square. this he stakes off, and puts a notice upon it, to the effect that he holds it for mining purposes. if he does not choose to work it immediately, he is obliged to renew the notice every ten days, for, without this precaution, any other person has a right to "jump" it, that is, to take it from him. there are many ways of evading the above law. for instance, an individual can hold as many claims as he pleases if he keeps a man at work in each, for this workman represents the original owner. i am told, however, that the laborer himself can jump the claim of the very man who employs him, if he pleases so to do. this is seldom, if ever, done. the person who is willing to be hired generally prefers to receive the six dollars per diem, of which he is _sure_ in any case, to running the risk of a claim not proving valuable. after all, the holding of claims by proxy is considered rather as a carrying out of the spirit of the law than as an evasion of it. but there are many ways of _really_ outwitting this rule, though i cannot stop now to relate them, which give rise to innumerable arbitrations, and nearly every sunday there is a miners' meeting connected with this subject. having got our gold-mines discovered and claimed, i will try to give you a faint idea of how they work them. here, in the mountains, the labor of excavation is extremely difficult, on account of the immense rocks which form a large portion of the soil. of course no man can work out a claim alone. for that reason, and also for the same that makes partnerships desirable, they congregate in companies of four or six, generally designating themselves by the name of the place from whence the majority of the members have emigrated; as, for example, the illinois, bunker hill, bay state, etc., companies. in many places the surface soil, or in mining phrase, the top dirt, pays when worked in a long-tom. this machine (i have never been able to discover the derivation of its name) is a trough, generally about twenty feet in length and eight inches in depth, formed of wood, with the exception of six feet at one end, called the "riddle" (query, why "riddle"?), which is made of sheet-iron perforated with holes about the size of a large marble. underneath this colander-like portion of the long-tom is placed another trough, about ten feet long, the sides six inches, perhaps, in height, which, divided through the middle by a slender slat, is called the riffle-box. it takes several persons to manage properly a long-tom. three or four men station themselves with spades at the head of the machine, while at the foot of it stands an individual armed "wid de shovel an' de hoe." the spadesmen throw in large quantities of the precious dirt, which is washed down to the riddle by a stream of water leading into the long-tom through wooden gutters or sluices. when the soil reaches the riddle, it is kept constantly in motion by the man with the hoe. of course, by this means, all the dirt and gold escapes through the perforations into the riffle-box below, one compartment of which is placed just beyond the riddle. most of the dirt washes over the sides of the riffle-box, but the gold, being so astonishingly heavy, remains safely at the bottom of it. when the machine gets too full of stones to be worked easily, the man whose business it is to attend to them throws them out with his shovel, looking carefully among them as he does so for any pieces of gold which may have been too large to pass through the holes of the riddle. i am sorry to say that he generally loses his labor. at night they pan out the gold which has been collected in the riffle-box during the day. many of the miners decline washing the top dirt at all, but try to reach as quickly as possible the bed-rock, where are found the richest deposits of gold. the river is supposed to have formerly flowed over this bed-rock, in the crevices of which it left, as it passed away, the largest portions of the so eagerly sought for ore. the group of mountains amidst which we are living is a spur of the sierra nevada, and the bed-rock, which in this vicinity is of slate, is said to run through the entire range, lying, in distance varying from a few feet to eighty or ninety, beneath the surface of the soil. on indian bar the bed-rock falls in almost perpendicular benches, while at rich bar the friction of the river has formed it into large, deep basins, in which the gold, instead of being found, as you would naturally suppose, in the bottom of it, lies, for the most part, just below the rim. a good-natured individual bored _me_, and tired _himself_, in a hopeless attempt to make me comprehend that this was only a necessary consequence of the undercurrent of the water, but with my usual stupidity upon such matters i got but a vague idea from his scientific explanation, and certainly shall not mystify _you_ with my confused notions thereupon. when a company wish to reach the bed-rock as quickly as possible, they sink a shaft (which is nothing more nor less than digging a well) until they "strike it." they then commence drifting coyote-holes, as they call them, in search of crevices, which, as i told you before, often pay immensely. these coyote-holes sometimes extend hundreds of feet into the side of the hill. of course they are obliged to use lights in working them. they generally proceed until the air is so impure as to extinguish the lights, when they return to the entrance of the excavation and commence another, perhaps close to it. when they think that a coyote-hole has been faithfully worked, they clean it up, which is done by scraping the surface of the bed-rock with a knife, lest by chance they have overlooked a crevice, and they are often richly rewarded for this precaution. now i must tell you how those having claims on the hills procure the water for washing them. the expense of raising it in any way from the river is too enormous to be thought of for a moment. in most cases it is brought from ravines in the mountains. a company, to which a friend of ours belongs, has dug a ditch about a foot in width and depth, and more than three miles in length, which is fed in this way. i wish that you could see this ditch. i never beheld a _natural_ streamlet more exquisitely beautiful. it undulates over the mossy roots and the gray old rocks like a capricious snake, singing all the time a low song with the "liquidest murmur," and one might almost fancy it the airy and coquettish undine herself. when it reaches the top of the hill, the sparkling thing is divided into five or six branches, each one of which supplies one, two, or three long-toms. there is an extra one, called the waste-ditch, leading to the river, into which the water is shut off at night and on sundays. this race (another and peculiar name for it) has already cost the company more than five thousand dollars. they sell the water to others at the following rates. those that have the first use of it pay ten per cent upon all the gold that they take out. as the water runs off from their machine (it now goes by the elegant name of "tailings"), it is taken by a company lower down, and as it is not worth so much as when it was clear, the latter pay but seven per cent. if any others wish the tailings, now still less valuable than at first, they pay four per cent on all the gold which they take out, be it much or little. the water companies are constantly in trouble, and the arbitrations on that subject are very frequent. i think that i gave you a vague idea of fluming in a former letter. i will not, therefore, repeat it here, but will merely mention that the numerous fluming companies have already commenced their extensive operations upon the river. as to the rockers, so often mentioned in story and in song, i have not spoken of them since i commenced this letter. the truth is, that i have seldom seen them used, though hundreds are lying ownerless along the banks of the river. i suppose that other machines are better adapted to mining operations in the mountains. gold-mining is nature's great lottery scheme. a man may work in a claim for many months, and be poorer at the end of the time than when he commenced, or he may take out thousands in a few hours. it is a mere matter of chance. a friend of ours, a young spanish surgeon from guatemala, a person of intelligence and education, told us that after working a claim for six months he had taken out but six ounces. it must be acknowledged, however, that if a person work his claim himself, is economical and industrious, keeps his health, and is satisfied with small gains, he is bound to make money. and yet i cannot help remarking that almost all with whom we are acquainted seem to have _lost_. some have had their claims jumped. many holes, which had been excavated and prepared for working at a great expense, caved in during the heavy rains of the fall and winter. often, after a company has spent an immense deal of time and money in sinking a shaft, the water from the springs (the greatest obstacle which the miner has to contend with in this vicinity) rushes in so fast that it is impossible to work in them, or to contrive any machinery to keep it out, and for that reason, only, men have been compelled to abandon places where they were at the very time taking out hundreds of dollars a day. if a fortunate or an unfortunate (which shall i call him?) _does_ happen to make a big strike, he is almost sure to fall into the hands of the professed gamblers, who soon relieve him of all care of it. they have not troubled the bar much during the winter, but as the spring opens they flock in like ominous birds of prey. last week one left here, after a stay of four days, with over a thousand dollars of the hard-earned gold of the miners. but enough of these best-beloved of beelzebub, so infinitely worse than the robber or murderer; for surely, it would be kinder to take a man's life than to poison him with the fatal passion for gambling. perhaps you would like to know what class of men is most numerous in the mines. as well as i can judge, there are upon this river as many foreigners as americans. the former, with a few exceptions, are extremely ignorant and degraded, though we have the pleasure of being acquainted with three or four spaniards of the highest education and accomplishments. of the americans, the majority are of the better class of mechanics. next to these, in number, are the sailors and the farmers. there are a few merchants and steamboat-clerks, three or four physicians, and one lawyer. we have no ministers, though fourteen miles from here there is a rancho kept by a man of distinguished appearance, an accomplished monte-dealer and horse-jockey, who is _said_ to have been, in the states, a preacher of the gospel. i know not if this be true, but, at any rate, such things are not uncommon in california. i have spun this letter out until my head aches dreadfully. how tiresome it is to write _sensible_(?) things! but i have one comfort: though my epistle may not be interesting, you will not deny, my dear m., that i have achieved my ambition of making it both commonplace and utilitarian. letter _the_ sixteenth [_the_ pioneer, _june_, ] birth--stabbing--foreigners ousted--revels synopsis california mountain flora. a youthful kanaka mother. her feat of pedestrianism. stabbing of a spaniard by an american. the result of a request to pay a debt. nothing done and but little said about the atrocity. foreigners barred from working at rich bar. spaniards thereupon move to indian bar. they erect places for the sale of intoxicants. many new houses for public entertainment at indian bar. sunday "swearing, drinking, gambling, and fighting". salubrity of the climate. no death for months, except by accidental drowning in floodwater. capture of grizzly cubs. "the oddest possible pets". "an echo from the outside world once a month." letter _the_ sixteenth birth--stabbing--foreigners ousted--revels _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _may_ , . you have no idea, my good little m., how reluctantly i have seated myself to write to you. the truth is, that my last tedious letter about mining and other tiresome things has completely exhausted my scribbling powers, and from that hour to this the epistolary spirit has never moved me forward. whether on that important occasion my small brain received a shock from which it will never recover, or whether it is pure physical laziness which influenced me, i know not; but this is certain, that no whipped schoolboy ever crept to his hated task more unwillingly than i to my writing-desk on this beautiful morning. perhaps my indisposition to soil paper in your behalf is caused by the bewildering scent of that great, glorious bouquet of flowers which, gathered in the crisp mountain air, is throwing off cloud after cloud ("each cloud _faint_ with the fragrance it bears") of languid sweetness, filling the dark old room with incense and making of it a temple of beauty, like those pure angelic souls which, irradiating a plain countenance, often render it more lovely than the chiseled finish of the most perfect features. o molly! how i wish that i could send you this jar of flowers, containing, as it does, many which, in new england, are rare exotics. here you will find in richest profusion the fine-lady elegance of the syringa; there, glorious white lilies, so pure and stately; the delicate yet robust beauty of the exquisite privet; irises of every hue and size; and, prettiest of all, a sweet snow-tinted flower, looking like immense clusters of seed-pearl, which the spaniards call "libla." but the marvel of the group is an orange-colored blossom, of a most rare and singular fragrance, growing somewhat in the style of the flox. this, with some branches of pink bloom of incomparable sweetness, is entirely new to me. since i have commenced writing, one of the doctor's patients has brought me a bunch of wild roses. oh, how vividly, at the sight of them, started up before me those wooded valleys of the connecticut, with their wondrous depths of foliage, which, for a few weeks in midsummer, are perhaps unsurpassed in beauty by any in the world. i have arranged the dear _home_ blossoms with a handful of flowers which were given to me this morning by an unknown spaniard. they are shaped like an anemone, of the opaque whiteness of the magnolia, with a large spot of glittering blackness at the bottom of each petal. but enough of our mountain earth-stars. it would take me all day to describe their infinite variety. nothing of importance has happened since i last wrote, except that the kanaka wife of a man living at the junction has made him the happy father of a son and heir. they say that she is quite a pretty little woman, only fifteen years old, and walked all the way from sacramento to this place. a few evenings ago a spaniard was stabbed by an american. it seems that the presumptuous foreigner had the impertinence to ask very humbly and meekly that most noble representative of the stars and stripes if the latter would pay him a few dollars which he had owed him for some time. his high mightiness the yankee was not going to put up with any such impertinence, and the poor spaniard received for answer several inches of cold steel in his breast, which inflicted a very dangerous wound. nothing was done and very little was said about this atrocious affair. at rich bar they have passed a set of resolutions for the guidance of the inhabitants during the summer, one of which is to the effect that no foreigner shall work in the mines on that bar. this has caused nearly all the spaniards to immigrate upon indian bar, and several new houses for the sale of liquor, etc., are building by these people. it seems to me that the above law is selfish, cruel, and narrow-minded in the extreme. when i came here the humboldt was the only public house on the bar. now there are the oriental, golden gate, don juan, and four or five others, the names of which i do not know. on sundays the swearing, drinking, gambling, and fighting which are carried on in some of these houses are truly horrible. it is extremely healthy here. with the exception of two or three men who were drowned when the river was so high, i have not heard of a death for months. nothing worth wasting ink upon has occurred for some time, except the capture of two grizzly-bear cubs by the immortal yank. he shot the mother, but she fell over the side of a steep hill and he lost her. yank intends to tame one of the cubs. the other he sold, i believe for fifty dollars. they are certainly the funniest-looking things that i ever saw, and the oddest possible pets. by the way, we receive an echo from the outer world once a month, and the expressman never fails to bring three letters from my dear m. wherewith to gladden the heart of her sister, dame shirley. letter _the_ seventeenth [_the_ pioneer, _june_, ] supplies _by_ pack-mules--kanakas _and_ indians synopsis belated arrival of pack-mule train with much-needed supplies. picturesque appearance of the dainty-footed mules descending the hills. of every possible color. gay trappings. tinkling bells. peculiar urging cry of the spanish muleteers. lavish expenditure of gold-dust for vegetables and butter. potatoes forty cents a pound. incense of the pungent member of the lily family. arrival of other storm-bound trains, and sudden collapse in prices. horseback ride on dangerous trail. fall of oxen over precipice. mountain flowers, oaks, and rivulets. visit to kanaka mother. a beauty from the isles. hawaiian superstition. an unfortunate request for the baby as a present. consolatory promise to give the next one. indian visitors. head-dresses. "very tight and very short shirts". indian mode of life. their huts, food, cooking, utensils, manner of eating. sabine-like invasion leaves to tribe but a few old squaws. "startlingly unsophisticated state of almost entire nudity". their filthy habits. papooses fastened in framework of light wood. indian modes of fishing. a handsome but shy young buck. classic gracefulness of folds of white-sheet robe of indian. light and airy step of the indians something superhuman. miserably brutish and degraded. their vocabulary of about twenty words. their love of gambling, and its frightful consequences. arrival of hundreds of people at indian bar. saloons springing up in every direction. fluming operations rapidly progressing. a busy, prosperous summer looked for. letter _the_ seventeenth supplies _by_ pack-mules--kanakas _and_ indians _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _may_ , . the very day after i last wrote you, dear m., a troop of mules came onto the bar, bringing us almost-forgotten luxuries, in the form of potatoes, onions, and butter. a band of these animals is always a pretty sight, and you can imagine that the solemn fact of our having been destitute of the above-mentioned edibles since the middle of february did not detract from the pleasure with which we saw them winding cautiously down the hill, stepping daintily here and there with those absurd little feet of theirs, and appearing so extremely anxious for the safe conveyance of their loads. they belonged to a spanish packer, were in excellent condition, sleek and fat as so many kittens, and of every possible color,--black, white, gray, sorrel, cream, brown, etc. almost all of them had some bit of red or blue or yellow about their trappings, which added not a little to the brilliancy of their appearance; while the gay tinkle of the leader's bell, mingling with those shrill and peculiar exclamations with which spanish muleteers are in the habit of urging on their animals, made a not unpleasing medley of sounds. but the creamiest part of the whole affair was--i must confess it, unromantic as it may seem--when the twenty-five or thirty pretty creatures were collected into the small space between our cabin and the humboldt. such a gathering together of ham-and-mackerel-fed bipeds, such a lavish display of gold-dust, such troops of happy-looking men bending beneath the delicious weight of butter and potatoes, and, above all, _such_ a smell of fried onions as instantaneously rose upon the fragrant california air and ascended gratefully into the blue california heaven was, i think, never experienced before. on the st of may a train had arrived at rich bar, and on the morning of the day which i have been describing to you one of our friends arose some three hours earlier than usual, went over to the aforesaid bar, bought twenty-five pounds of potatoes at forty cents a pound, and packed them home on his back. in less than two days afterwards half a dozen cargoes had arrived, and the same vegetable was selling at a shilling a pound. the trains had been on the road several weeks, but the heavy showers, which had continued almost daily through the month of april, had retarded their arrival. last week i rode on horseback to a beautiful bar called the junction, so named from the fact that at that point the east branch of the north fork of feather river unites itself with the main north fork. the mule-trail, which lies along the verge of a dreadful precipice, is three or four miles long, while the footpath leading by the river is not more than two miles in length. the latter is impassable, on account of the log bridges having been swept away by the recent freshets. the other day two oxen lost their footing and fell over the precipice, and it is the general opinion that they were killed long before they reached the golden palace of the plumerian thetis. i was a little alarmed at first, for fear my horse would stumble, in which case i should have shared the fate of the unhappy beeves, but soon forgot all fear in the enchanting display of flowers which each opening in the shrubs displayed to me. earth's firmament was starred with daphnes, irises, and violets of every hue and size; pale wood-anemones, with but one faint sigh of fragrance as they expired, died by hundreds beneath my horse's tread; and spotted tiger-lilies, with their stately heads all bedizened in orange and black, marshaled along the path like an army of gayly clad warriors. but the flowers are not all of an oriental character. do you remember, molly dear, how you and i once quarreled when we were, oh, such mites of children, about a sprig of syringa? the dear mother was obliged to interfere, and to make all right she gave you a small brown bud, of most penetrating fragrance, which she told you was much more valuable than the contested flower. i remember perfectly that she failed entirely in convincing _me_ that the dark, somber flower was half as beautiful as my pretty cream-tinted blossom, and, if i mistake not, you were but poutingly satisfied with the substitute. here, even if we retained, which i do not, our childish fascination for syringas, we should not need to quarrel about them, for they are as common as dandelions in a new england meadow, and dispense their peculiar perfume--which, by the way, always reminds me of lubin's choicest scents--in almost sickening profusion. besides the above-mentioned flowers, we saw wild roses and buttercups and flox and privet, and whole acres of the wand-like lily. i have often heard it said, though i cannot vouch for the truth of the assertion, that it is only during the month of january that you cannot gather a bouquet in the mountains. just before one reaches the junction there is a beautiful grove of oaks, through which there leaps a gay little rivulet celebrated for the grateful coolness of its waters. of course one is expected to propitiate this pretty undine by drinking a draft of her glittering waters from a dirty tin cup which some benevolent cold-water man has suspended from a tree near the spring. the bank leading down into the stream is so steep that people generally dismount and lead their animals across it, but f. declared that i was so light that the horse could easily carry me, and insisted upon my keeping the saddle. of course, like a dutiful wife, i had nothing to do but to obey. so i grasped firmly the reins, shut my eyes, and committed myself to the fates that take care of thistle-seeds, and lo! the next moment i found myself safely on the other side of the brook, my pretty steed--six weeks ago he was an indian pony running wild on the prairie--curveting about and arching his elegant neck, evidently immensely proud of the grace and ease with which he had conveyed his burden across the brook. in a few moments we alighted at the store, which is owned by some friends of f., whom we found looking like so many great daisies in their new shirts of pink calico, which had been donned in honor of our expected arrival. the junction is the most beautiful of all the bars. from the store one can walk nearly a mile down the river quite easily. the path is bordered by a row of mingled oaks and firs, the former garlanded with mistletoe, and the latter embroidered with that exquisitely beautiful moss which i tried to describe in one of my first letters. the little kanaka woman lives here. i went to see her. she is quite pretty, with large lustrous eyes, and two great braids of hair which made me think of black satin cables, they were so heavy and massive. she has good teeth, a sweet smile, and a skin not much darker than that of a french brunette. i never saw any creature so proud as she, almost a child herself, was of her baby. in jest, i asked her to give it to me, and really was almost alarmed at the vehement burst of tears with which she responded to my request. her husband explained the cause of her distress. it is a superstition among her people that he who refuses to give another anything, no matter what,--there are no exceptions which that other may ask for,--will be overwhelmed with the most dreadful misfortunes. her own parents had parted with her for the same reason. her pretty girlish face soon resumed its smiles when i told her that i was in jest, and, to console me for the disappointment which she thought i must feel at not obtaining her little brown treasure, she promised to give me the _next_ one! it is a kanaka custom to make a present to the person calling upon them for the first time, in accordance with which habit i received a pair of dove-colored boots three sizes too large for me. i should have liked to visit the indian encampment which lies a few miles from the junction, but was too much fatigued to attempt it. the indians often visit us, and as they seldom wear anything but a _very_ tight and _very_ short shirt, they have an appearance of being, as charles dickens would say, all legs. they usually sport some kind of a head-dress, if it is nothing more than a leather string, which they bind across their dusky brows in the style of the wreaths in norma, or the gay ribbons garlanding the hair of the roman youth in the play of brutus. a friend of ours, who has visited their camp several times, has just given me a description of their mode of life. their huts, ten or twelve in number, are formed of the bark of the pine, conically shaped, plastered with mud, and with a hole in the top, whence emerges the smoke, which rises from a fire built in the center of the apartment. these places are so low that it is quite impossible to stand upright in them, and are entered from a small hole in one side, on all fours. a large stone, sunk to its surface in the ground, which contains three or four pan-like hollows for the purpose of grinding acorns and nuts, is the only furniture which these huts contain. the women, with another stone, about a foot and a half in length and a little larger than a man's wrist, pulverize the acorns to the finest possible powder, which they prepare for the table(?) in the following manner. their cooking utensils consist of a kind of basket, woven of some particular species of reed, i should fancy, from the descriptions which i have had of them, and are so plaited as to be impervious to fluids. these they fill half full of water, which is made to boil by placing in it hot stones. the latter they drag from the fire with two sticks. when the water boils, they stir into it, until it is about as thick as hasty-pudding, the powdered acorns, delicately flavored with dried grasshoppers, and lo! dinner is ready. would you like to know how they eat? they place the thumb and little finger together across the palm of the hand, and make of the other three fingers a spoon, with which they shovel into their capacious mouths this delicious compound. there are about eighty indians in all at this encampment, a very small portion of which number are women. a hostile tribe in the valley made a sabine-like invasion upon the settlement a few months since, and stole away all the young and fair muchachas, leaving them but a few old squaws. these poor withered creatures, who are seldom seen far from the encampment, do all the drudgery. their entire wardrobe consists of a fringe about two feet in length, which is formed of the branch or root--i cannot ascertain exactly which--of a peculiar species of shrub shredded into threads. this scanty costume they festoon several times about the person, fastening it just above the hips, and they generally appear in a startlingly unsophisticated state of almost entire nudity. they are very filthy in their habits, and my informant said that if one of them should venture out into the rain, grass would grow on her neck and arms. the men, unhappy martyrs! are compelled to be a little more cleanly, from their custom of hunting and fishing, for the wind _will_ blow off _some_ of the dirt, and the water washes off more. their infants are fastened to a framework of light wood, in the same manner as those of the north american indians. when a squaw has anything to do, she very composedly sets this frame up against the side of the house as a civilized housewife would an umbrella or broom. some of their modes of fishing are very curious. one is as follows. these primitive anglers will seek a quiet deep spot in the river, where they know fish most do congregate, and throw therein a large quantity of stones. this, of course, frightens the fish, which dive to the bottom of the stream, and mr. indian, plunging head foremost into the water, beneath which he sometimes remains several minutes, will presently reappear, holding triumphantly in each hand one of the finny tribe, which he kills by giving it a single bite in the head or neck with his sharp, knife-like teeth. hardly a day passes during which there are not three or four of them on this bar. they often come into the cabin, and i never order them away, as most others do, for their childish curiosity amuses me, and as yet they have not been troublesome. there is one beautiful little boy, about eight years old, who generally accompanies them. we call him wild bird, for he is as shy as a partridge, and we have never yet been able to coax him into the cabin. he always wears a large red shirt, which, trailing to his little bronzed feet, and the sleeves every other minute dropping down over his dusky models of hands, gives him a very odd appearance. one day mrs. b., whom i was visiting at the time, coaxed wild bird into the house to see charley, the hero of the champagne-basket cradle. the little fellow gazed at us with his large, startled eyes without showing the least shadow of fear in his countenance, but his heart beat so violently that we could actually see the rise and fall of the old red shirt which covered its tremblings. mrs. b. made our copper-colored cupidon a pretty suit of crimson calico. his protectors--half a dozen grim old indians (it was impossible to tell which was his father, they all made such a petted darling of him)--were compelled to array him in his new suit by main strength, he screaming dreadfully all the time. indeed, so exhausted was he by his shrieks that by the time he was fairly buttoned up in his crimson trappings he sank on the ground in a deep sleep. the next day the barbarous little villain appeared trailing, as usual, his pet shirt after him at every step, while the dandy jacket and the trim baby-trousers had vanished we never knew whither. the other morning an indian appeared on the bar robed from neck to heels in a large white sheet, and you have no idea of the classic grace with which he had arranged the folds about his fine person. we at first thought him a woman, and he himself was in an ecstasy of glee at our mistake. it is impossible to conceive of anything more light and airy than the step of these people. i shall never forget with what enchanted eyes i gazed upon one of them gliding along the side of the hill opposite missouri bar. one would fancy that nothing but a fly or a spirit could keep its footing on the rocks along which he stepped so stately, for they looked as perpendicular as a wall. my friend observed that no white man could have done it. this wild creature seemed to move as a cloud moves on a quiet day in summer, and as still and silently. it really made me solemn to gaze upon him, and the sight almost impressed me as something superhuman. viewed in the most favorable manner, these poor creatures are miserably brutish and degraded, having very little in common with the lofty and eloquent aborigines of the united states. it is said that their entire language contains but about twenty words. like all indians, they are passionately fond of gambling, and will exhibit as much anxiety at the losing or winning of a handful of beans as do their paler brothers when thousands are at stake. methinks, from what i have seen of that most hateful vice, the _amount_ lost or won has very little to do with the matter. but let me not speak of this most detestable of crimes. i have known such frightful consequences to ensue from its indulgence, that i dare not speak of it, lest i use language, as perhaps i have already done, unbecoming a woman's lips. hundreds of people have arrived upon our bar within the last few days; drinking-saloons are springing up in every direction; the fluming operations are rapidly progressing; and all looks favorably for a busy and prosperous summer to our industrious miners. letter _the_ eighteenth [_the_ pioneer, _july_, ] fourth _of_ july festival--spanish attacked synopsis fourth of july celebration at rich bar. the author makes the flag. its materials. how california was represented therein. floated from the top of a lofty pine. the decorations at the empire hotel. an "officious goth" mars the floral piece designed for the orator of the day. only two ladies in the audience. two others expected, but do not arrive. no copy of the declaration of independence. preliminary speeches by political aspirants. orator of the day reads anonymous poem. oration "exceedingly fresh and new". belated arrival of the expected ladies, new-comers from the east. with new fashions, they extinguish the author and her companion. dinner at the empire. mexican war captain as president. "toasts quite spicy and original". fight in the barroom. eastern lady "chose to go faint" at sight of blood. cabin full of "infant phenomena". a rarity in the mountains. miners, on way home from celebration, give nine cheers for mother and children. outcry at indian bar against spaniards. several severely wounded. whisky and patriotism. prejudices and arrogant assurance accounted for. misinterpretation by the foreigner. injustices by the lower classes against spaniards pass unnoticed. innumerable drunken fights. broken heads and collarbones, stabbings. "sabbaths almost always enlivened by such merry events". body of frenchman found in river. murder evident. suspicion falls on nobody. letter _the_ eighteenth fourth _of_ july festival--spanish attacked _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _july_ , . our fourth of july celebration, dear m., which came off at rich bar, was quite a respectable affair. i had the honor of making a flag for the occasion. the stripes were formed of cotton cloth and red calico, of which last gorgeous material no possible place in california is ever destitute. a piece of drilling, taken from the roof of the humboldt, which the rain and the sun had faded from its original somber hue to just that particular shade of blue which you and i admire so much, served for a union. a large star in the center, covered with gold-leaf, represented california. humble as were the materials of which it was composed, this banner made quite a gay appearance floating from the top of a lofty pine in front of the empire, to which it was suspended. i went over to rich bar at six in the morning, not wishing to take so fatiguing a walk in the heat of the day. after breakfast i assisted mrs. b. and one of the gentlemen in decorating the dining-room, the walls of which we completely covered with grape-vines, relieved here and there with bunches of elder-blow. we made several handsome bouquets, and arranged one of syringas, white lilies, and the feathery green of the cedar, to be presented, in the name of the ladies, to the orator of the day. you can imagine my disgust, when the ceremony was performed, to observe that some officious goth had marred the perfect keeping of the gift by thrusting into the vase several ugly purple blossoms. the exercises were appointed to commence at ten o'clock, but they were deferred for half an hour, in expectation of the arrival of two ladies who had taken up their abode in the place within the last six weeks, and were living on indian bar hill. as they did not come, however, it was thought necessary to proceed without them. so mrs. b. and myself were obliged to sit upon the piazza of the empire, comprising, in our two persons, the entire female audience. the scene was indeed striking. the green-garlanded hills girdling rich bar looked wonderfully beautiful, rising with their grand abrupt outlines into the radiant summer sky. a platform reared in front of the empire, beneath the banner-tasseled pine, and arched with fragrant fir boughs, made the prettiest possible rustic rostrum. the audience, grouped beneath the awnings of the different shops, dressed in their colored shirts,--though here and there one might observe a dandy miner who had relieved the usual vestment by placing beneath it one of calico or white muslin,--added much to the picturesqueness of the scene. unfortunately, the committee of arrangements had not been able to procure a copy of the declaration of independence. its place was supplied by an apologetic speech from a mr. j., who will, without doubt, be the democratic candidate for state representative at the coming election. this gentleman finished his performance by introducing mr. b., the orator of the day, who is the whig nominee for the above-mentioned office. before pronouncing his address, mr. b. read some verses which he said had been handed to him anonymously the evening before. i have copied them for your amusement. they are as follows, and are entitled-- _a_ fourth _of_ july welcome _to the_ miners ye are welcome, merry miners, in your blue and red shirts all; ye are welcome, 'mid these golden hills, to your nation's festival; though ye've not shaved your savage lips nor cut your barb'rous hair, ye are welcome, merry miners, all bearded as ye are. what though your brows are blushing at the kisses of the sun, and your once white and well-kept hands are stained a sober dun; what though your backs are bent with toil, and ye have lost the air with which ye bowed your stately heads amid the young and fair, i fain would in my slender palm your horny fingers clasp, for i love the hand of honest toil, its firm and heartfelt grasp; and i know, o miners brave and true, that not alone for self have ye heaped, through many wearying months, your glittering pile of pelf. ye of the dark and thoughtful eyes beneath the bronzèd brow, ye on whose smooth and rounded cheeks still gleams youth's purple glow, ye of the reckless, daring life, ye of the timid glance; ho! young and old; ho! grave and gay,--to our nation's fête advance. ho! sun-kissed brother from the south, where radiant skies are glowing; ho! toiler from the stormy north, where snowy winds are blowing; ho! buckeye, hoosier, from the west, sons of the river great,-- come, shout columbia's birthday song in the new golden state. ho! children of imperial france; ho! erin's brave and true; ho! england's golden-bearded race,--we fain would welcome you, and dark-eyed friends from those glad climes where spain's proud blood is seen; to join in freedom's holy psalm ye'll not refuse, i ween. for now the banner of the free's in _very deed_ our own, and, 'mid the brotherhood of states, not ours the feeblest one. then proudly shout, ye bushy men with throats all brown and bare, for, lo! from 'midst our flag's brave blue, leaps out a _golden_ star. after reading the above lines, mr. b. pronounced beautifully a very splendid oration. unlike such efforts in general, it was exceedingly fresh and new, so that, instead of its being that infliction that fourth of july orations commonly are, it was a high pleasure to listen to him. perhaps, where nature herself is so original, it is impossible for even thought to be hackneyed. it is too long for a letter, but as the miners have requested a copy for publication, i will send it to you in print. about half an hour after the close of the oration the ladies from the hill arrived. they made a pretty picture descending the steep,--the one with her wealth of floating curls turbaned in a snowy nubia, and her white dress set off by a crimson scarf; the other with a little pamela hat placed coquettishly upon her brown braided tresses, and a magnificent chinese shawl enveloping her slender figure. so lately arrived from the states, with everything fresh and new, they quite extinguished poor mrs. b. and myself, trying our best to look fashionable in our antique mode of four years ago. the dinner was excellent. we had a real live captain, a very gentlemanly person, who had actually been in action during the mexican war, for president. many of the toasts were quite spicy and original; one of the new ladies sang three or four beautiful songs; and everything passed off at rich bar quite respectably. to be sure, there was a small fight in the barroom, which is situated just below the dining-room, during which much speech and a little blood were spouted. whether the latter catastrophe was caused by a blow received, or the large talking of the victim, is not known. two peacefully inclined citizens, who at the first battle-shout had rushed manfully to the rescue, returned at the subsiding of hostilities with blood-bespattered shirt-bosoms, at which fearful sight the pretty wearer of the pamela hat--one of the delinquents being her husband--chose to go faint, and would not finish her dinner, which, as we saw that her distress was real, somewhat marred our enjoyment. on our way home, half a dozen gentlemen who preceded us stepped in front of a cabin full of infant phenomena and gave nine cheers for the mother and her children; which will show what a rarity those embodiments of noise and disquiet are in the mountains. this group of pretty darlings consists of three sweet little girls, slender, straight, and white as ivory wands, moving with an incessant and staccato (do you remember our old music lessons?) activity which always makes me think of my hummingbirds. about five o'clock we arrived at home, just in time to hear some noisy shouts of "down with the spaniards," "the great american people forever," and other similar cries, evident signs of quite a spirited fight between the two parties, which was, in reality, taking place at the moment. seven or eight of the élite of rich bar, drunk with whisky and patriotism, were the principal actors in this unhappy affair, which resulted in serious injury to two or three spaniards. for some time past there has been a gradually increasing state of bad feeling exhibited by our countrymen (increased, we fancy, by the ill-treatment which our consul received the other day at acapulco) towards foreigners. in this affair our own countrymen were principally to blame, or, rather, i should say, sir barleycorn was to blame, for many of the ringleaders are fine young men who, when sober, are decidedly friendly to the spaniards. it is feared that this will not be the end of the fracas, though the more intelligent foreigners, as well as the judicious americans, are making every effort to promote kindly feeling between the two nations. this will be very difficult, on account of the ignorant prejudices of the low-bred, which class are a large proportion of both parties. it is very common to hear vulgar yankees say of the spaniards, "o, they are half-civilized black men!" these unjust expressions naturally irritate the latter, many of whom are highly educated gentlemen of the most refined and cultivated manners. we labor under great disadvantages, in the judgment of foreigners. our peculiar political institutions, and the prevalence of common schools, give to _all_ our people an arrogant assurance which is mistaken for the american beau-ideal of a gentleman. they are unable to distinguish those nice _shades_ of manner which as effectually separate the gentleman from the clown with _us_ as do these broader lines which mark these two classes among all other nations. they think that it is the grand characteristic of columbia's children to be prejudiced, opinionated, selfish, avaricious, and unjust. it is vain to tell them that such are not specimens of american gentlemen. they will answer, "they call themselves gentlemen, and you receive them in your houses as such." it is utterly impossible for foreigners to thoroughly comprehend and make due allowance for that want of delicacy, and that vulgar "i'm as good as you are" spirit, which is, it must be confessed, peculiar to the lower classes of our people, and which would lead the majority of them to-- enter a palace with their old felt hat on; to address the king with the title of mister, and ask him the price of the throne he sat on. the class of men who rule society(?) in the mines are the gamblers, who, for the most part, are reckless, bad men, although, no doubt, there are many among them whose only vice is that fatal love of play. the rest of the people are afraid of these daring, unprincipled persons, and when they commit the most glaring injustice against the spaniards, it is generally passed unnoticed. we have had innumerable drunken fights during the summer, with the usual amount of broken heads, collar-bones, stabs, etc. indeed, the sabbaths are almost always enlivened by some such merry event. were it not for these affairs, i might sometimes forget that the sweet day of rest was shining down upon us. last week the dead body of a frenchman was found in the river, near missouri bar. on examination of the body it was the general opinion that he had been murdered. suspicion has, as yet, fallen upon no person. letter _the_ nineteenth [_the_ pioneer, _august_, ] murder, theft, riot, hanging, whipping, etc. synopsis three weeks of excitement at indian bar. murders, fearful accidents, bloody deaths, whippings, hanging, attempted suicide, etc. a sabbath-morning walk in the hills. miners' ditch rivaling in beauty the work of nature. fatal stabbing by a spaniard. afterwards parades street with a mexicana, brandishing a long bloody knife. his pursuit by and escape from the infuriated americans. unfounded rumor of conspiracy of spaniards to murder americans. spaniards barricade themselves. grief of spanish woman over corpse of murdered man. miners arrive from rich bar. wild cry for vengeance, and for expulsion of spaniards. the author prevailed upon to retire to place of safety. accidental discharge of gun when drunken owner of vile resort attempts to force way through armed guard. two seriously wounded. sobering effect of the accident. vigilance committee organized. suspected spaniards arrested. trial of the mexicana. always wore male attire, was foremost in fray, and, armed with brace of pistols, fought like a fury. sentenced to leave by daylight. indirect cause of fight. woman always to blame. trial of ringleaders. sentences of whipping, and to leave. confiscation of property for benefit of wounded. anguish of the author when spaniards were whipped. young spaniard movingly but vainly pleads for death instead of whipping. his oath to murder every american he should afterwards meet alone. doubtless will keep his word. murder of mr. bacon, a ranchero, for his money, by his negro cook. murderer caught at sacramento with part of money. his trial at rich bar by the vigilantes. sentence of death by hanging. another negro attempts suicide. accuses mulatto ned of attempt to murder him. dr. c. in trouble for binding up negro's self-inflicted wounds. formation of "moguls," who make night hideous. vigilantes do not interfere. duel at missouri bar. fatal results. a large crowd present. vigilance committee also present. "but you must remember that this is california." letter _the_ nineteenth murder, theft, riot, hanging, whipping, &c. _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _august_ , . we have lived through so much of excitement for the last three weeks, dear m., that i almost shrink from relating the gloomy events that have marked their flight. but if i leave out the darker shades of our mountain life, the picture will be very incomplete. in the short space of twenty-four days we have had murders, fearful accidents, bloody deaths, a mob, whippings, a hanging, an attempt at suicide, and a fatal duel. but to begin at the beginning, as, according to rule, one ought to do. i think that, even among these beautiful hills, i never saw a more perfect bridal of the earth and sky than that of sunday, the th of july. on that morning i went with a party of friends to the head of the ditch, a walk of about three miles in length. i do not believe that nature herself ever made anything so lovely as this artificial brooklet. it glides like a living thing through the very heart of the forest, sometimes creeping softly on, as though with muffled feet, through a wilderness of aquatic plants, sometimes dancing gayly over a white-pebbled bottom, now making a sunshine in a shady place, across the mossy roots of the majestic old trees, and anon leaping with a grand anthem adown the great solemn rocks which lie along its beautiful pathway. a sunny opening at the head of the ditch is a garden of perfumed shrubbery and many-tinted flowers, all garlanded with the prettiest vines imaginable, and peopled with an infinite variety of magnificent butterflies. these last were of every possible color, pink, blue and yellow, shining black splashed with orange, purple flashed with gold, white, and even green. we returned about three in the evening, loaded with fragrant bundles, which, arranged in jars, tumblers, pitchers, bottles, and pails, (we are not particular as to the quality of our vases in the mountains, and love our flowers as well in their humble chalices as if their beautiful heads lay against a background of marble or porcelain,) made the dark old cabin a bower of beauty for us. shortly after our arrival, a perfectly deafening volley of shouts and yells elicited from my companion the careless remark that the customary sabbath-day's fight was apparently more serious than usual. almost as he spoke there succeeded a deathlike silence, broken in a minute after by a deep groan at the corner of the cabin, followed by the words, "why, tom, poor fellow, are you really wounded?" before we could reach the door, it was burst violently open by a person who inquired hurriedly for the doctor, who, luckily, happened at that very moment to be approaching. the man who called him then gave us the following excited account of what had happened. he said that in a mêlée between the americans and the foreigners, domingo, a tall, majestic-looking spaniard, a perfect type of the novelistic bandit of old spain, had stabbed tom somers, a young irishman, but a naturalized citizen of the united states, and that, at the very moment, said domingo, with a mexicana hanging upon his arm, and brandishing threateningly the long, bloody knife with which he had inflicted the wound upon his victim, was parading up and down the street unmolested. it seems that when tom somers fell the americans, being unarmed, were seized with a sudden panic and fled. there was a rumor (unfounded, as it afterwards proved) to the effect that the spaniards had on this day conspired to kill all the americans on the river. in a few moments, however, the latter rallied and made a rush at the murderer, who immediately plunged into the river and swam across to missouri bar. eight or ten shots were fired at him while in the water, not one of which hit him. he ran like an antelope across the flat, swam thence to smith's bar, and escaped by the road leading out of the mountains from the junction. several men went in pursuit of him, but he was not taken, and without doubt is now safe in mexico. in the mean while the consternation was terrific. the spaniards, who, with the exception of six or eight, knew no more of the affair than i did, thought that the americans had arisen against them, and our own countrymen, equally ignorant, fancied the same of the foreigners. about twenty of the latter, who were either sleeping or reading in their cabins at the time of the _émeute_, aroused by the cry of "down with the spaniards!" barricaded themselves in a drinking-saloon, determined to defend themselves as long as possible against the massacre which was fully expected would follow this appalling shout. in the bakeshop, which stands next door to our cabin, young tom somers lay straightened for the grave (he lived but fifteen minutes after he was wounded), while over his dead body a spanish woman was weeping and moaning in the most piteous and heartrending manner. the rich barians, who had heard a most exaggerated account of the rising of the spaniards against the americans, armed with rifles, pistols, clubs, dirks, etc., were rushing down the hill by hundreds. each one added fuel to his rage by crowding into the little bakery to gaze upon the blood-bathed bosom of the victim, yet warm with the life which but an hour before it had so triumphantly worn. then arose the most fearful shouts of "down with the spaniards!" "drive every foreigner off the river!" "don't let one of the murderous devils remain!" "oh, if you have a drop of american blood in your veins, it must cry out for vengeance upon the cowardly assassins of poor tom!" all this, mingled with the most horrible oaths and execrations, yelled up as if in mockery into that smiling heaven, which, in its fair sabbath calm, bent unmoved over the hell which was raging below. after a time the more sensible and sober part of the community succeeded in quieting, in a partial degree, the enraged and excited multitude. during the whole affair i had remained perfectly calm,--in truth, much more so than i am now, when recalling it. the entire catastrophe had been so unexpected, and so sudden in its consummation, that i fancy i was stupefied into the most exemplary good behavior. f. and several of his friends, taking advantage of the lull in the storm, came into the cabin and entreated me to join the two women who were living on the hill. at this time it seemed to be the general opinion that there would be a serious fight, and they said i might be wounded accidentally if i remained on the bar. as i had no fear of anything of the kind, i pleaded hard to be allowed to stop, but when told that my presence would increase the anxiety of our friends, of course, like a dutiful wife, i went on to the hill. we three women, left entirely alone, seated ourselves upon a log overlooking the strange scene below. the bar was a sea of heads, bristling with guns, rifles, and clubs. we could see nothing, but fancied from the apparent quiet of the crowd that the miners were taking measures to investigate the sad event of the day. all at once we were startled by the firing of a gun, and the next moment, the crowd dispersing, we saw a man led into the log cabin, while another was carried, apparently lifeless, into a spanish drinking-saloon, from one end of which were burst off instantly several boards, evidently to give air to the wounded person. of course we were utterly unable to imagine what had happened, and, to all our perplexity and anxiety, one of the ladies insisted upon believing that it was her own husband who had been shot, and as she is a very nervous woman, you can fancy our distress. it was in vain to tell her--which we did over and over again--that that worthy individual wore a _blue_ shirt, and the wounded person a _red_ one. she doggedly insisted that her dear m. had been shot, and, having informed us confidentially, and rather inconsistently, that she should never see him again, never, never, plumped herself down upon the log in an attitude of calm and ladylike despair, which would have been infinitely amusing had not the occasion been so truly a fearful one. luckily for our nerves, a benevolent individual, taking pity upon our loneliness, came and told us what had happened. it seems that an englishman, the owner of a house of the vilest description, a person who is said to have been the primary cause of all the troubles of the day, attempted to force his way through the line of armed men which had been formed at each side of the street. the guard very properly refused to let him pass. in his drunken fury he tried to wrest a gun from one of them, which, being accidentally discharged in the struggle, inflicted a severe wound upon a mr. oxley, and shattered in the most dreadful manner the thigh of señor pizarro, a man of high birth and breeding, a porteño of buenos aires. this frightful accident recalled the people to their senses, and they began to act a little less like madmen than they had previously done. they elected a vigilance committee, and authorized persons to go to the junction and arrest the suspected spaniards. the first act of the committee was to try a mexicana who had been foremost in the fray. she has always worn male attire, and upon this occasion, armed with a pair of pistols, she fought like a very fury. luckily, inexperienced in the use of firearms, she wounded no one. she was sentenced to leave the bar by daylight,--a perfectly just decision, for there is no doubt that she is a regular little demon. some went so far as to say she ought to be hanged, for she was the _indirect_ cause of the fight. you see, always it is the old cowardly excuse of adam in paradise,--the _woman_ tempted me, and i did eat,--as if the poor frail head, once so pure and beautiful, had not sin enough of its own, dragging it forever downward, without being made to answer for the wrong-doing of a whole community of men. the next day the committee tried five or six spaniards, who were proven to have been the ringleaders in the sabbath-day riot. two of them were sentenced to be whipped, the remainder to leave the bar that evening, the property of all to be confiscated to the use of the wounded persons. o mary! imagine my anguish when i heard the first blow fall upon those wretched men. i had never thought that i should be compelled to hear such fearful sounds, and, although i immediately buried my head in a shawl, nothing can efface from memory the disgust and horror of that moment. i had heard of such things, but heretofore had not realized that in the nineteenth century men could be beaten like dogs, much less that other men not only could sentence such barbarism, but could actually stand by and see their own manhood degraded in such disgraceful manner. one of these unhappy persons was a very gentlemanly young spaniard, who implored for death in the most moving terms. he appealed to his judges in the most eloquent manner, as gentlemen, as men of honor, representing to them that to be deprived of life was nothing in comparison with the never-to-be-effaced stain of the vilest convict's punishment to which they had sentenced him. finding all his entreaties disregarded, he swore a most solemn oath, that he would murder every american that he should chance to meet alone, and as he is a man of the most dauntless courage, and rendered desperate by a burning sense of disgrace which will cease only with his life, he will doubtless keep his word. although, in my very humble opinion, and in that of others more competent to judge of such matters than myself, these sentences were unnecessarily severe, yet so great was the rage and excitement of the crowd that the vigilance committee could do no less. the mass of the mob demanded fiercely the death of the prisoners, and it was evident that many of the committee took side with the people. i shall never forget how horror-struck i was (bombastic as it _now_ sounds) at hearing no less a personage than the whig candidate for representative say that the condemned had better fly for their lives, for the "avenger of blood" was on their tracks! i am happy to say that said very worthy but sanguinary individual, the avenger of blood, represented in this case by some half-dozen gambling rowdies, either changed his mind or lost scent of his prey, for the intended victims slept about two miles up the hill quite peacefully until morning. the following facts, elicited upon the trial, throw light upon this unhappy affair. seven miners from old spain, enraged at the cruel treatment which their countrymen had received on the fourth, and at the illiberal cry of "down with the spaniards," had united for the purpose of taking revenge on seven americans, whom they believed to be the originators of their insults. all well armed, they came from the junction, where they were residing at the time, intending to challenge each one his man, and in fair fight compel their insolent aggressors to answer for the arrogance which they had exhibited more than once towards the spanish race. their first move, on arriving at indian bar, was to go and dine at the humboldt, where they drank a most enormous quantity of champagne and claret. afterwards they proceeded to the house of the englishman whose brutal carelessness caused the accident which wounded pizarro and oxley, when one of them commenced a playful conversation with one of his countrywomen. this enraged the englishman, who instantly struck the spaniard a violent blow and ejected him from the shanty. thereupon ensued a spirited fight, which, through the exertion of a gentleman from chile, a favorite with both nations, ended without bloodshed. this person knew nothing of the intended duel, or he might have prevented, by his wise counsels, what followed. not suspecting for a moment anything of the kind, he went to rich bar. soon after he left, tom somers, who is said always to have been a dangerous person when in liquor, without any apparent provocation struck domingo (one of the original seven) a violent blow, which nearly felled him to the earth. the latter, a man of "dark antecedents" and the most reckless character, mad with wine, rage, and revenge, without an instant's pause drew his knife and inflicted a fatal wound upon his insulter. thereupon followed the chapter of accidents which i have related. on tuesday following the fatal sabbath, a man brought news of the murder of a mr. bacon, a person well known on the river, who kept a ranch about twelve miles from rich bar. he was killed for his money by his servant, a negro, who, not three months ago, was our own cook. he was the last one anybody would have suspected capable of such an act. a party of men, appointed by the vigilance committee, left the bar immediately in search of him. the miserable wretch was apprehended in sacramento, and part of the gold found upon his person. on the following sunday he was brought in chains to rich bar. after a trial by the miners, he was sentenced to be hanged at four o' clock in the evening. all efforts to make him confess proved futile. he said very truly that whether innocent or guilty they would hang him, and so he "died and made no sign" with a calm indifference, as the novelists say, worthy of a better cause. the dreadful crime and death of josh, who, having been an excellent cook, and very neat and respectful, was a favorite servant with us, added to the unhappiness which you can easily imagine that i was suffering under all these horrors. on saturday evening, about eight o'clock, as we sat quietly conversing with the two ladies from the hill,--whom, by the way, we found very agreeable additions to our society, hitherto composed entirely of gentlemen,--we were startled by the loud shouting, and the rushing close by the door of the cabin, which stood open, of three or four hundred men. of course we feminines, with nerves somewhat shattered from the events of the past week, were greatly alarmed. we were soon informed that henry cook, vice josh, had, in a fit of delirium tremens, cut his throat from ear to ear. the poor wretch was alone when he committed the desperate deed, and in his madness, throwing the bloody razor upon the ground, ran part of the way up the hill. here he was found almost senseless, and brought back to the humboldt, where he was very nearly the cause of hanging poor paganini ned, who returned a few weeks since from the valley; for his first act on recovering himself was to accuse that culinary individual of having attempted to murder him. the mob were for hanging one poor vattel without judge or jury, and it was only through the most strenuous exertions of his friends that the life of this illustrious person was saved. poor ned! it was forty-eight hours before his corkscrews returned to their original graceful curl. he threatens to leave us to our barbarism, and no longer to waste his culinary talents upon an ungrateful and inappreciative people. he has sworn war to the knife against henry, who was formerly his most intimate friend, as nothing can persuade him that the accusation did not proceed from the purest malice on the part of the would-be suicide. their majesties the mob, with that beautiful consistency which usually distinguishes those august individuals, insisted upon shooting poor harry, for, said they,--and the reasoning is remarkably conclusive and clear,--a man so hardened as to raise his hand against his _own_ life will never hesitate to murder another! they almost mobbed f. for binding up the wounds of the unfortunate wretch, and for saying that it was possible he might live. at last, however, they compromised the matter by determining that if henry should recover he should leave the bar immediately. neither contingency will probably take place, as it will be almost a miracle if he survives. on the day following the attempted suicide, which was sunday, nothing more exciting happened than a fight and the half-drowning of a drunken individual in the river, just in front of the humboldt. on sunday last the thigh of señor pizarro was amputated, but, alas! without success. he had been sick for many months with chronic dysentery, which, after the operation, returned with great violence, and he died at two o'clock on monday morning, with the same calm and lofty resignation which had distinguished him during his illness. when first wounded, believing his case hopeless, he had decidedly refused to submit to amputation, but as time wore on he was persuaded to take this one chance for his life for the sake of his daughter, a young girl of fifteen, at present at school in a convent in chile, whom his death leaves without any near relative. i saw him several times during his illness, and it was melancholy indeed to hear him talk of his motherless girl, who, i have been told, is extremely beautiful, talented, and accomplished. the state of society here has never been so bad as since the appointment of a committee of vigilance. the rowdies have formed themselves into a company called the "moguls," and they parade the streets all night, howling, shouting, breaking into houses, taking wearied miners out of their beds and throwing them into the river, and, in short, "murdering sleep" in the most remorseless manner. nearly every night they build bonfires fearfully near some rag shanty, thus endangering the lives (or, i should rather say, the property, for, as it is impossible to sleep, lives are emphatically safe) of the whole community. they retire about five o'clock in the morning, previously to this blessed event posting notices to that effect, and that they will throw any one who may disturb them into the river. i am nearly worn out for want of rest, for, truly, they "make night hideous" with their fearful uproar. mr. oxley, who still lies dangerously ill from the wound received on what we call the "fatal sunday," complains bitterly of the disturbances; and when poor pizarro was dying, and one of his friends gently requested that they be quiet for half an hour and permit the soul of the sufferer to pass in peace, they only laughed and yelled and hooted louder than ever in the presence of the departing spirit, for the tenement in which he lay, being composed of green boughs only, could, of course, shut out no sounds. without doubt, if the moguls had been sober, they would never have been guilty of such horrible barbarity as to compel the thoughts of a dying man to mingle with curses and blasphemies, but, alas! they were intoxicated, and may god forgive them, unhappy ones, for they knew not what they did. the poor, exhausted miners--for even well people cannot sleep in such a pandemonium--grumble and complain, but they, although far outnumbering the rioters, are too timid to resist. all say, "it is shameful," "something ought to be done," "something _must_ be done," etc., and in the mean time the rioters triumph; you will wonder that the committee of vigilance does not interfere. it is said that some of that very committee are the ringleaders among the moguls. i believe i have related to you everything but the duel, and i will make the recital of this as short as possible, for i am sick of these sad subjects, and doubt not but you are the same. it took place on tuesday morning, at eight o'clock, on missouri bar, when and where that same englishman who has figured so largely in my letter shot his best friend. the duelists were surrounded by a large crowd, i have been told, foremost among which stood the committee of vigilance! the man who received his dear friend's fatal shot was one of the most quiet and peaceable citizens on the bar. he lived about ten minutes after he was wounded. he was from ipswich, england, and only twenty-five years old when his own high passions snatched him from life. in justice to his opponent it must be said that he would willingly have retired after the first shots had been exchanged, but poor billy leggett, as he was familiarly called, insisted upon having the distance between them shortened, and continuing the duel until one of them had fallen. there, my dear m., have i not fulfilled my promise of giving you a dish of horrors? and only think of such a shrinking, timid, frail thing as i _used_ to be "long time ago" not only living right in the midst of them, but almost compelled to hear, if not see, the whole. i think i may without vanity affirm that i have "seen the elephant." "did you see his tail?" asks innocent ada j., in her mother's letter. yes, sweet ada; the entire animal has been exhibited to my view. "but you must remember that this is california," as the new-comers are so fond of informing _us!_ who consider ourselves "one of the oldest inhabitants" of the golden state. and now, dear m., adios. be thankful that you are living in the beautiful quiet of beautiful a., and give up "hankering arter" (as you know what dear creature says) california, for, believe me, this coarse, barbarous life would suit you even less than it does your sister. letter _the_ twentieth [_the_ pioneer, _september_, ] murder--mining scenes--spanish breakfast synopsis ramada, unoccupied, wrecked by log rolling down hill. was place of residence of wounded spaniard, who died but a few days previously. murder near indian bar. innocent and harmless person arrested, said to answer description of murderer. a humorous situation. a "guard of honor" from the vigilantes while in custody. upon release his expenses paid. had a rest from hard work. tendered a present and a handsome apology. public opinion in the mines a cruel but fortunately a fickle thing. invitation to author to breakfast at spanish garden. the journey thereto, along river, with its busy mining scenes. the wing-dam, and how it differs from the ordinary dam. an involuntary bath. drifts, shafts, coyote-holes. how claims are worked. flumes. unskilled workmen. their former professions or occupations. the best water in california, but the author is unappreciative. flavorless, but, since the flood, always tastes of sinners. don juan's country-seat. the spanish breakfast. the eatables and the drinkables. stronger spirits for the stronger spirits. ice, through oversight, the only thing lacking. yank's tame cub. parodic doggerel by the author on her loss of pets. a miners' dinner-party with but one teaspoon, and that one borrowed. an unlearned and wearisome blacksmith. letter _the_ twentieth murder--mining scenes--spanish breakfast _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _september_ , . if i could coax some good-natured fairy or some mischievous puck to borrow for me the pen of grace greenwood, fanny forester, or nathaniel p. willis, i might be able to weave my stupid nothings into one of those airy fabrics the value of which depends entirely upon the skillful work, or rather penmanship, which distinguishes it. i have even fancied that if i could steal a feather from the living opal swinging like a jeweled pendulum from the heart of the great tiger-lily which nods its turbaned head so stately within the mosquito-net cage standing upon the little table, my poor lines would gather a certain beauty from the rainbow-tinted quill with which i might trace them. but as there is nobody magician enough to go out and shoot a fairy or a brownie and bind it by sign and spell to do my bidding, and as i have strong doubts whether my coarse fingers would be able to manage the delicate pen of a humming-bird even if i could have the heart to rob my only remaining pet of its brilliant feathers, i am fain to be content with one of "gillott's best,"--no, of "c. r. sheton's extra fine," although i am certain that the sentences following its hard stroke will be as stiff as itself. if they were only as bright, one might put up with the want of grace, but to be stiff and stupid both, is _too_ provoking, is it not, dear m.? however, what must be, must be; and as i have nothing to write about, and do not possess the skill to make that nothing graceful, and as you will fret yourself into a scold if you do not receive the usual amount of inked pages at the usual time, why, of course i am bound to act (my first appearance on _any_ stage, i flatter myself in _that_ character) the very original part of the _bore_, and you must prepare to be bored with what philosophy you may. but, without further preface, i will begin with one of the nothings. a few days after the death of the unfortunate spaniard, related in my last letter, a large log, felled by some wickedly careless woodman, rolled down from one of the hills, and so completely extinguished the little ramada in which our poor friend lay at the time of his death that you would never have imagined from the heap of broken branches that remain that it had once been a local habitation with such a pretty name. providentially, at the time of the accident, none of those who had been in the habit of staying there were within. if señor pizarro had survived the amputation of his leg, it would only have been to suffer a still more terrible death,--an accident which would have deepened, if possible, the gloom which we have suffered during the melancholy summer. there has been another murder committed within a few miles of this place, which has given us something to gossip about, for the committee of vigilance had the good nature, purely for our amusement i conclude, to apprehend a lucky individual (i call him _lucky_ advisedly, for he had all his expenses paid at the humboldt, was remunerated for his lost time, enjoyed a holiday from hard work, had a sort of guard of honor composed of the most respectable men on the river, and was of more consequence for four days than ever he had been in the whole of his insignificant little life before) whom somebody fancied bore a faint resemblance to the description of the murderer. this interesting lion--i was so fortunate as to catch a glimpse of him one morning, and am convinced that he would "roar you as gently as any sucking dove"--was fully cleared from the suspected crime; and if, before his acquittal, one might have fancied from the descriptions of his countenance that none but that of mephistopheles in the celebrated picture of the game of life could equal its terrific malignity, after-accounts drew it a very saint john's for sweet serenity of expression. what was then called sullenness now took the name of resignation, and stupidity was quiet contempt. indeed, i began to fear that they would give him a public triumph, and invite me to make the flag with which to grace it. i confess that i would almost have voted him a procession myself, in gratitude for the amusement which he had given us. however, the committee were content with making him a handsome apology and present, and paying his expenses at the humboldt. o public opinion in the mines, thou art in truth a _cruel_ thing, but, thank god, most _fickle_! the other day we were invited by a spanish friend to breakfast at a garden situated half a mile from the junction, and owned by another spaniard. it was a lovely morning in the latter part of august, and as we started about six o'clock, the walk was a most delightful one. the river, filled with flumes, dams, etc., and crowded with busy miners, was as much altered from its old appearance as if an earthquake had frightened it from its propriety. i suppose that you are quite worn out with descriptions of walks, and i will spare you this once. i will not tell you how sometimes we were stepping lightly over immense rocks which a few months since lay fathoms deep beneath the foaming plumas; nor how sometimes we were walking high above the bed of the river, from flume to flume, across a board connecting the two; nor how now we were scrambling over the roots of the upturned trees, and now jumping tiny rivulets; nor shall i say a single word about the dizziness we felt as we crept by the deep excavations lying along the road, nor of the beautiful walk at the side of the wing-dam (it differs from a common dam, in dividing the river lengthways instead of across), the glittering water rising bluely almost to a level with the path. i do not think that i will ever tell you about the impromptu bath which one of the party took by tumbling accidentally into the river as he was walking gallantly behind us, which said bath made him decidedly disagree in our enthusiastic opinion of the loveliness of the promenade. no; i shall not say a single word upon any of these subjects, but leave them all to your vivid imagination. corkscrews could not draw a solitary sentence from me, now that i have made up my mind to silence. but i _will_ tell you about the driftings in the side of the hill, which we visited on our way,--not so much from a precious desire of enlightening your pitiable ignorance upon such subjects, you poor, little, untraveled yankee woman! but to prove to you that, having fathomed the depths of shafts, and threaded the mazes of coyote-holes, i intend to astonish the weak nerves of stay-at-homes, if i ever return to new england, by talking learnedly upon such subjects, as one having authority. these particular "claims" consist of three galleries lying about eighty feet beneath the summit of the hill, and have already been drifted from one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet into its side. they are about five feet in height, slightly arched, the sides and roof, formed of rugged rocks, dripping with moisture, as if sweating beneath the great weight above. lights are placed at regular distances along these galleries to assist the miners in their work, and boards laid on the wet ground to make a convenient path for the wheelbarrows which convey the dirt and sand to the river for the purpose of washing it. wooden beams are placed here and there to lessen the danger of caving in, but i must confess that in spite of this precaution i was at first haunted with a horrible feeling of insecurity. as i became reassured i repeated loudly those glorious lines of mrs. hemans commencing with-- for the strength of the hills we bless thee, o god, our fathers' god! and a strange echo the gray rocks sent back, as if the mine-demons, those ugly gnomes which german legends tell us work forever in the bowels of the earth, were shouting my words in mockery from the dim depths beyond. these claims have paid remarkably well, and if they hold out as they have commenced, the owners will gather a small fortune from their summer's work. there is nothing which impresses me more strangely than the fluming operations. the idea of a mighty river being taken up in a wooden trough, turned from the old channel along which it has foamed for centuries perhaps, its bed excavated many feet in depth, and itself restored to its old home in the fall,--these things strike me as almost a blasphemy against nature, and then the idea of men succeeding in such a work here in the mountains, with machinery and tools of the poorest description, to say nothing of the unskilled workmen,--doctors, lawyers, ministers, scholars, gentlemen, farmers, etc. when we arrived at the little oak-opening described in a former letter, we were, of course, in duty bound to take a draft from the spring, which its admirers declare is the best water in all california. when it came to my turn, i complacently touched the rusty tin cup, though i never _did_ care much for water, in the abstract, _as_ water. though i think it very useful to make coffee, tea, chocolate, and other good drinks, i could never detect any other flavor in it than that of _cold_, and have often wondered whether there was any truth in the remark of a character in some play, that, ever since the world was drowned in it, it had tasted of sinners! when we arrived at what may be called, in reference to the bar, the country-seat of don juan, we were ushered into the parlor, two sides of which opened upon the garden and the grand old mountains which rise behind it, while the other two sides and the roof were woven with fresh willow boughs, crisply green, and looking as if the dew had scarcely yet dried from the polished leaves. after opening some cans of peaches, and cutting up some watermelons gathered from the garden, our friends went in to, or rather _out_ to, the kitchen fire (two or three stones are generally the extent of this useful apartment in the mines) to assist in preparing the breakfast--and _such_ a breakfast! if "tadger could do it when it chose," so can we miners. we had--but what did we _not_ have? there were oysters which, i am sure, could not have been nicer had they just slid from their shells on the shore at amboy; salmon, in color like the red, red gold; venison with a fragrant spicy gusto, as if it had been fed on cedar-buds; beef cooked in the spanish fashion,--that is, strung onto a skewer and roasted on the coals,--than which i never tasted better; preserved chicken; and almost every possible vegetable bringing up the rear. then, for drinkables, we had tea, coffee, and chocolate; champagne, claret, and porter, with stronger spirits _for_ the stronger spirits. we lacked but one thing. that was ice; which we forgot to bring from the bar. as, only four miles from our cabin, the snow never melts, that is a luxury we are never without, and, indeed, so excessively warm has been the season, that without it, and the milk which has been brought us daily from a rancho five miles from here, we should have suffered. i must say that even though we had no ice, our mountain picnic, with its attendant dandies in their blue and red flannel shirts, was the most charming affair of the kind that i ever attended. on our return we called to see yank's cub, which is fast rising into young grizzly-bearhood. it is about the size of a calf, very good-natured, and quite tame. its acquirements, as yet, are few, being limited to climbing a pole. its education has not been conducted with that care and attention which so intelligent a beast merits, but it is soon, i hear, to be removed to the valley and placed under teachers capable of developing its wonderful talents to the utmost. we also stopped at a shanty to get a large gray squirrel which had been promised to me some days before; but i certainly am the most unfortunate wretch in the world with pets. this spiteful thing, on purpose to annoy me i do believe, went and got itself drowned the very night before i was to take it home. it is always so. i never had two humming-birds, with plumage like a sunset sky, but one was sure to fly away, and the other one was sure to die. i never nursed a flying-squirrel, to glad me with its soft black eye, but it always ran into somebody's tent, got mistaken for a rat and killed! there, m.; there is poetry for you. "oh, the second verse doesn't rhyme."--"doesn't?"--"and it ain't original, is it?" well, _i_ never heard that rhyme was necessary to make a poet, any more than colors to make a painter. and what if moore _did_ say the same thing twenty years ago? i am sure any writer would consider himself lucky to have an idea which has been anticipated but _once_. i am tired of being a "mute inglorious milton," and, like that grand old master of english song, would gladly write something which the world would not willingly let die; and having made that first step, as witness the above verses, who knows what will follow? last night one of our neighbors had a dinner-party. he came in to borrow a teaspoon. "had you not better take them all?" i said. "oh, no," was the answer; "that would be too much luxury. my guests are not used to it, and they would think that i was getting aristocratic, and putting on airs. one is enough; they can pass it round from one to the other." a blacksmith--not the learned one--has just entered, inquiring for the doctor, who is not in, and he is obliged to wait. shall i write down the conversation with which he is at this moment entertaining me? "who writ this 'ere?" is his first remark, taking up one of my most precious books, and leaving the marks of his irreverent fingers upon the clean pages. "shakespeare," i answer, as politely as possible. "did spokeshave write it? he was an almighty smart fellow, that spokeshave, i've hear'n tell," replies my visitor. "i must write hum and tell our folks that this 'ere is the first carpet i've seen sin' i came to californy, four year come next month," is his next remark. for the last half-hour he has been entertaining me with a wearisome account of the murder of his brother by an irishman in boston, and the chief feeling which he exhibits is a fear that the jury should only bring in a verdict of manslaughter. but i hear f.'s step, and his entrance relieves me from the bore. i am too tired to write more. alas, dear m. this letter is indeed a stupid one--a poor return for your pregnant epistles. it is too late to better it. the express goes at eight in the morning. the midnight moon is looking wonderingly in at the cabin window, and the river has a sleepy murmur that impels me irresistibly bedward. letter _the_ twenty-first [_the_ pioneer, _october_, ] discomforts _of_ trip _to_ political convention synopsis visit to the american valley. journey thither. scenes by the way. political convention. delegates from indian bar. arrival at greenwood's rancho, headquarters of democrats. overcrowded. party proceed to the american rancho, headquarters of whigs. also overcrowded. tiresome ride of ladies on horseback. proceed to house of friend of lady in party. an inhospitable reception, but the author entertains herself. men of party return to american rancho. inroad upon the eatables. landlord aghast, but pacified by generous orders for drinkables. california houses not proof against eavesdroppers. misunderstandings and explanations overheard by the author. illness of hostess. uncomfortable and miserable night, and worse quarters. handsome riding-habit, etc., of the hostess. table-service, carpeting, chests of tea, casks of sugar, bags of coffee, etc., "the good people possessed everything but a house". "the most beautiful spot i ever saw in california". owner building house of huge hewn logs. the author returns to the american rancho. its primitive furniture, etc. political visitors. the convention. horse-racing and gambling. the author goes to greenwood's rancho. more primitive furniture and lack of accommodations. misplaced benevolence of bostonians. should transfer their activities to california. letter _the_ twenty-first discomforts _of_ trip _to_ political convention _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _october_ , . since i last wrote you, dear m., i have spent three weeks in the american valley, and i returned therefrom humbled to the very dust when thinking of my former vainglorious boast of having "seen the elephant." to be sure, if having fathomed to its very depths the power of mere existence, without any reference to those conventional aids which civilization has the folly to think necessary to the performance of that agreeable duty, was any criterion, i certainly fancied that i had a right to brag of having taken a full view of that most piquant specimen of the brute creation, the california "elephant." but it seems that i was mistaken, and that we miners have been dwelling in perfect palaces, surrounded by furniture of the most gorgeous description, and reveling in every possible luxury. well, one lives and learns, even on the borders of civilization. but to begin at the beginning, let me tell you the history of my dreadful pleasure-tour to the american valley. you must know that a convention had been appointed to meet at that place for the purpose of nominating representatives for the coming election. as f. had the misfortune to be one of the delegates, nothing would do but i must accompany him; for, as my health had really suffered through the excitements of the summer, he fancied that change of air might do me good. mrs. ----, one of our new ladies, had been invited to spend a few weeks in the same place, at the residence of a friend of her husband, who was living there with his family. as mr. ---- was also one of the delegates, we made up a party together, and, being joined by two or three other gentlemen, formed quite a gay cavalcade. the day was beautiful. but when is it ever otherwise in the mountains of california? we left the bar by another ascent than the one from which i entered the bar, and it was so infinitely less steep than the latter, that it seemed a mere nothing. you, however, would have fancied it quite a respectably hill, and mr. ---- said that so fearful did it seem to him the first time he went down it, that he vowed never to cross it but once more,--a vow, by the way, which has been broken many times. the whole road was a succession of charming tableaux, in which sparkling streamlets, tiny waterfalls, frisky squirrels gleaming amid the foliage like a flash of red light, quails with their pretty gray plumage flecked with ivory, dandy jays, great awkward black crows, pert little lizards, innumerable butterflies, and a hundred other plumèd insects, winged and free, like golden boats on a sunny sea, were the characters, grouped in a frame of living green, curtained with the blue folds of our inimitable sky. we had intended to start very early in the morning, but, as usual on such excursions, did not get off until about ten o'clock. somebody's horse came up missing, or somebody's saddle needed repairing, or somebody's shirt did not come home in season from the washer-chinaman (for if we _do_ wear flannel shirts, we choose to have them clean when we ride out with the ladies), or something else equally important detained us. it was about nine o'clock in the evening when we reached the valley and rode up to greenwood's rancho, which, by the way, was the headquarters of the democratic party. it was crowded to overflowing, as our ears told us long before we came in sight of it, and we found it utterly impossible to obtain lodgings there. this building has no windows, but a strip of crimson calico, placed half-way from the roof and running all round the house, lets in the _red_ light and supplies their place. however, we did not stop long to enjoy the pictorial effect of the scarlet windows,--which really look very prettily in the night,--but rode straight to the american rancho, a quarter of a mile beyond. this was the headquarters of the whigs, to which party our entire company, excepting myself, belonged. indeed, the gentlemen had only consented to call at the other house through compassion for the ladies, who were suffering from extreme fatigue, and they were rejoiced at the prospect of getting among birds of the same feather. there, however, we were informed that it was equally impossible to procure accommodations. in this dilemma we could do nothing but accept mrs. ----'s kind invitation and accompany her to the rancho of her friend, although she herself had intended, as it was so late, to stop at one of the hotels for the night. we were so lucky as to procure a guide at this place, and with this desirable addition to the party, we started on. i had been very sick for the last two hours, and had only kept up with the thought that we should soon arrive at our journey's end; but when i found that we were compelled to ride three miles farther, my heart sank within me. i gave up all attempts to guide my horse, which one of the party led, leaned my head on the horn of my saddle, and resigned myself to my fate. we were obliged to walk our horses the entire distance, as i was too sick to endure any other motion. we lost our way once or twice, were exhausted with fatigue and faint with hunger, chilled through with the cold, and our feet wet with the damp night-air. i forgot to tell you that mrs. ----, being very fleshy, was compelled to ride astride, as it would have been utterly impossible for her to have kept her seat if she had attempted to cross those steep hills in the usual feminine mode of sitting a horse. she wore dark-gray bloomers, and, with a kossuth hat and feather, looked like a handsome chubby boy. now, riding astride, to one unaccustomed to it, is, as you can easily imagine, more safe than comfortable, and poor mrs. ---- was utterly exhausted. when we arrived at our destined haven, which we did at last, the gentleman of the house came forward and invited mr. and mrs. ---- to alight. not a word was said to the rest of us, not even "good evening." but i was too far gone to stand upon ceremony. so i dismounted and made a rush for the cooking-stove, which, in company with an immense dining-table on which lay (enchanting sight!) a quarter of beef, stood under a roof, the four sides open to the winds of heaven. as for the remainder of the party, they saw how the land lay, and vamosed to parts unknown, namely, the american rancho, where they arrived at four o'clock in the morning, some tired, i _guess_, and made such a fearful inroad upon the eatables that the proprietor stood aghast, and was only pacified by the ordering in from the bar of a most generous supply of the drinkable, which, as he sells it by the glass, somewhat reconciled him to the terrific onslaught upon the larder. in the mean time behold me, with much more truth than poetry literally alone in my glory, seated upon a wooden stool, with both feet perched upon the stove, and crouching over the fire in a vain attempt to coax some warmth into my thoroughly chilled frame. the gentleman and lady of the house, with mr. and mrs. ----, are assembled in grand conclave, in one room, of which the building consists, and as california houses are _not_ planned with a view to eavesdroppers, i have the pleasure of hearing the following spirited and highly interesting conversation. there is a touching simplicity about it truly dramatic. i must premise that mrs. ---- had written the day before to know if the visit, which her husband's friend had so earnestly solicited, would be conveniently received at this time, and was answered by the arrival, the next morning, for the use of herself and husband, of two horses, one of which i myself had the pleasure of riding, and found it a most excellent steed. moreover, when mr. ---- gave her the invitation, he said he would be pleased to have one of her lady friends accompany her. so you see she was "armed and equipped as the law directed." thus defended, she was ushered into the presence of her hostess, whom she found reclining gracefully upon a very nice bed hung with snow-white muslin curtains, looking--for she is extremely pretty, though now somewhat pale--like a handsome wax doll. "i am extremely sorry to find you unwell. pray, when were you taken? and are you suffering much at present?" commenced mrs. ----, supposing that her illness was merely an attack of headache, or some other temporary sickness. "ah," groaned my lady, in a faint voice, "i have had a fever, and am just beginning to get a little better. i have not been able to sit up any yet, but hope to do so in a few days. as we have no servants, my husband is obliged to nurse me, as well as to cook for several men, and i am really afraid that, under the circumstances, you will not be as comfortable here as i could wish." "but, good heavens, my dear madam, why did you not send me word that you were sick? surely you must have known that it would be more agreeable to me to visit you when you are in health," replied mrs. ----. "oh," returned our fair invalid, "i thought that you had set your heart upon coming, and would be disappointed if i postponed the visit." now, this was adding insult to injury. poor mrs. ----! worn out with hunger, shivering with cold, herself far from well, a new-comer, unused to the makeshift ways which some people fancy essential to california life, expecting from the husband's representations--and knowing that he was very rich--so different a reception, and withal frank perhaps to a fault, she must be pardoned if she was not as grateful as she ought to have been, and answered a little crossly,-- "well, i must say that i have not been treated well. did you really think that i was so childishly crazy to get away from home that i would leave my nice plank house,"--it rose into palatial splendor when compared with the floorless shanty, less comfortable than a yankee farmer's barn, in which she was standing,--"with its noble fireplace, nice board floor, two pleasant windows, and comfortable bed, for this wretched place? upon my word, i am very much disappointed. however, i do not care so much for myself as for poor mrs. ----, whom i persuaded to come with me." "what! is there _another_ lady?" almost shrieked (and well she might, under the circumstances) the horror-stricken hostess. "you can sleep with me, but i am sure i do not know what we can do with another one." "certainly," was the bold reply of mrs. ----, for she was too much provoked to be embarrassed in the least. "availing myself of your husband's kind permission, i invited mrs. ----, who could not procure lodgings at either of the hotels, to accompany me. but even if i were alone i should decidedly object to sleep with a sick person, and should infinitely prefer wrapping myself in my shawl and lying on the ground to being guilty of such a piece of selfishness." "well," groaned the poor woman, "jonathan" (or ichabod, or david, or whatever was the domestic name of her better half), "i suppose that you must make up some kind of a bed for them on the ground." now, m., only fancy my hearing all this! _wasn't_ it a fix for a sensitive person to be in? but, instead of bursting into tears and making myself miserable, as once i should have done, i enjoyed the contretemps immensely. it almost cured my headache, and when mrs. ---- came to me and tried to soften matters, i told her to spare her pretty speeches, as i had heard the whole and would not have missed it for anything. in the mean time the useful little man, combining in his small person the four functions of husband, cook, nurse, and gentleman, made us a cup of tea and some saleratus biscuit, and though i detest saleratus biscuit, and was longing for some of the beef, yet, by killing the taste of the alkali with onions, we contrived to satisfy our hunger, and the tea warmed us a little. our host, in his capacity of chambermaid, had prepared us a couch. i was ushered into the presence of the fair invalid, to whom i made a polite apology for my intrusion. my feet sank nearly to the ankles in the dirt and small stones as i walked across her room. but how shall i describe to you the sufferings of that dreadful night? i have slept on tables, on doors, and on trunks. i have reclined on couches, on chairs, and on the floor. i have lain on beds of straw, of corn-husks, of palm-leaf, and of ox-hide. i remember one awful night spent in a bedbuggy berth, on board of a packet-boat on one of the lakes. in my younger days i used to allow myself to be stretched upon the procrustes bed of other people's opinion, though i have got bravely over such folly, and now i generally act, think, and speak as best pleases myself. i slept two glorious nights on the bare turf, with my saddle for a pillow and god's kindly sky for a quilt. i had _heard_ of a bed of thorns, of the soft side of a plank, and of the bed-rock. but all my _bodily_ experience, theoretical or practical, sinks into insignificance before a bed of cobblestones. nothing in ancient or modern history can compare with it, unless it be the irishman's famous down couch, which consisted of a single feather laid upon a rock, and, like him, if it had not been for the name of it, i should have preferred the bare rock. they _said_ that there was straw in the ticking upon which we lay, but i should never have imagined so from the feeling. we had neither pillows nor sheets, but the coarsest blue blankets, and not enough of them, for bedclothes; so that we suffered with cold, to add to our other miseries. and then the fleas! well, like the grecian artist who veiled the face whose anguish he dared not attempt to depict, i will leave to your imagination that blackest portion of our strange experiences on that awful occasion. what became of mr. ----, our host, etc., on this dreadful night, was never known. mrs. ---- and i held council together, and concluded that he was spirited away to some friendly haystack, but as he himself maintained a profound silence on the subject, it remains to this hour an impenetrable mystery, and will be handed down to posterity on the page of history with that of the man in the iron mask, and the more modern but equally insolvable riddle of "who struck billy patterson?" as soon as it was light we awoke and glanced around the room. on one side hung a large quantity of handsome dresses, with a riding-habit, hat, gauntlets, whip, saddle and bridle, all of the most elegant description. on the other side, a row of shelves contained a number of pans of milk. there was also a very pretty table-service of white crockery, a roll of white carpeting, boxes of soap, chests of tea, casks of sugar, bags of coffee, etc., etc., in the greatest profusion. we went out into the air. the place, owned by our host, is the most beautiful spot that i ever saw in california. we stood in the midst of a noble grove of the loftiest and largest trees, through which ran two or three carriage-roads, with not a particle of undergrowth to be seen in any direction. somewhere near the center of this lovely place he is building a house of hewn logs. it will be two stories high, and very large. he intends finishing it with the piazza all around, the first-floor windows to the ground, green blinds, etc. he informed us that he thought it would be finished in three weeks. you can see that it would have been much pleasanter for mrs. ---- to have had the privilege of deferring her visit for a month. we had a most excellent breakfast. as mrs. ---- said, the good people possessed everything but a house. soon after breakfast, my friends, who suspected from appearances the night before that i should not prove a very welcome visitor, came for me, the wife of the proprietor of the american rancho having good-naturedly retired to the privacy of a covered wagon (she had just crossed the plains) and placed her own room at my disposal. mrs. ---- insisted upon accompanying me until her friend was better. as she truly said, she was too unwell herself to either assist or amuse another invalid. my apartment, which was built of logs, was vexatiously small, with no way of letting in light, except by the door. it was as innocent of a floor, and almost as thickly strewn with cobblestones, as the one which i had just left; but then, there _were_ some frames built against the side of it, which served for a bedstead, and we had sheets, which, though coarse, were clean. here, with petticoats, stockings, shoes, and shirts hanging against the logs in picturesque confusion, we received calls from senators, representatives, judges, attorney-generals, doctors, lawyers, officers, editors, and ministers. the convention came off the day after our arrival in the valley, and as both of the nominees were from our settlement, we began to think that we were quite a people. horse-racing and gambling, in all their detestable varieties, were the order of the day. there was faro and poker for the americans, monte for the spaniards, lansquenet for the frenchmen, and smaller games for the outsiders. at the close of the convention the rancho passed into new hands, and as there was much consequent confusion, i went over to greenwood's, and mrs. ---- returned to the house of her friend, where, having ordered two or three hundred armfuls of hay to be strewn on the ground, she made a temporary arrangement with some boards for a bedstead, and fell to making sheets from one of the innumerable rolls of cloth which lay about in every direction, for, as i said before, these good people had everything but a house. my new room, with the exception of its red-calico window, was exactly like the old one. although it was very small, a man and his wife (the latter was the housekeeper of the establishment) slept there also. with the aid of those everlasting blue blankets i curtained off our part, so as to obtain some small degree of privacy. i had _one_ large pocket-handkerchief (it was meant for a young sheet) on my bed, which was filled with good, sweet, fresh hay, and plenty of the azure coverings, so short and narrow that, when once we had lain down, it behooved us to remain perfectly still until morning, as the least movement disarranged the bed-furniture and insured us a shivering night. on the other side of the partition, against which our bedstead was _built_, stood the cooking-stove, in which they burnt nothing but pitch-pine wood. as the room was not lined, and the boards very loosely put together, the soot sifted through in large quantities and covered us from head to foot, and though i bathed so often that my hands were dreadfully chapped, and bled profusely from having them so much in the water, yet, in spite of my efforts, i looked like a chimney-sweep masquerading in women's clothes. as it was very cold at this time, the damp ground upon which we were living gave me a severe cough, and i suffered so much from chillness that at last i betook myself to rob roy shawls and india-rubbers, and for the rest of the time walked about, a mere bundle of gum elastic and scotch plaid. my first move in the morning was to go out and sit upon an old traveling wagon which stood in front of my room, in order, like an old beggar-woman, to gather a little warmth from the sun. mrs. ---- said, "the bostonians were horror-stricken because the poor irish, who had never known any other mode of living, had no floors in their cabins, and were getting up all sorts of howard benevolent societies to supply unfortunate pat with what is to him an unwished-for luxury." she thought that they would be much better employed in organizing associations for ameliorating the condition of those wretched women in california who were so mad as to leave their comfortable homes in the mines to go a-pleasuring in the valleys. my poor husband suffered even more than i did, for though he had a nominal share in my luxurious bed with its accompanying pocket-handkerchief, yet, as mrs. ---- took it into her head to pay me a visit, he was obliged to resign it to her and betake himself to the barroom, and as every bunk and all the blankets were engaged, he was compelled to lie on the bar-floor (thank heaven, there was a civilized floor there, of real boards), with his boots for a pillow. but i am sure you must be tired of this long letter, for i am, and i reserve the rest of my adventures in the american valley until another time. letter _the_ twenty-second [_the_ pioneer, _november_, ] _the_ overland tide _of_ immigration synopsis exoneration of landlords for conditions at greenwood's rancho. the american valley. prospective summer resort. prodigious vegetables. new england scenery compared with that of california. greenwood's rancho. place of origin of quartz hoax. beautiful stones. recruiting-place of overland immigrants. haggard immigrant women. death and speedy burial on the plains. handsome young widow immigrant. aspirants to matrimony candidates for her hand. interesting stories of adventures on the plains. four women, sisters or sisters-in-law, and their thirty-six children. accomplished men. infant prodigies. a widow with eight sons and one daughter. primitive laundering, but generous patrons. the bloomer costume appropriate for overland journey. dances in barroom. unwilling female partners. some illiterate immigrants. many intelligent and well-bred women. the journey back to indian bar. the tame frog in the rancho barroom. the dining-table a bed at night. elation of the author on arriving at her own log cabin. letter _the_ twenty-second _the_ overland tide _of_ immigration _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _october_ , . in my last epistle, my dear m., i left myself safely ensconced at greenwood's rancho, in about as uncomfortable a position as a person could well be, where board was fourteen dollars a week. now, you must not think that the proprietors were at all to blame for our miserable condition. they were, i assure you, very gentlemanly and intelligent men, and i owe them a thousand thanks for the many acts of kindness and the friendly efforts which they made to amuse and interest me while i was in their house. they said from the first that they were utterly unprepared to receive ladies, and it was only after some persuasion, and as a favor to me, that they consented to let me come. they intend soon to build a handsome house, for it is thought that this valley will be a favorite summer resort for people from the cities below. the american valley is one of the most beautiful in all california. it is seven miles long and three or four wide, with the feather river wending its quiet way through it, unmolested by flumes and undisturbed by wing-dams. it is a superb farming country, everything growing in the greatest luxuriance. i saw turnips there which measured larger round than my waist, and all other vegetables in the same proportion. there are beautiful rides in every direction, though i was too unwell during my stay there to explore them as i wished. there is one drawback upon the beauty of these valleys, and it is one peculiar to all the scenery in this part of california, and that is, the monotonous tone of the foliage, nearly all the trees being firs. one misses that infinite variety of waving forms, and those endless shades of verdure, which make new england forest scenery so exquisitely lovely. and then that gorgeous autumnal phenomenon, witnessed, i believe, nowhere but in the northern states of the union, one never sees here. how often, in my far-away yankee home, have i laid me down at eve, with the whole earth looking so freshly green, to rise in the morning and behold the wilderness blossoming, not only like the rose, but like all other flowers besides, and glittering as if a shower of butterflies had fallen upon it during the silent watches of the night. i have a vague idea that i "hooked" that butterfly comparison from somebody. if so, i beg the injured person's pardon, and he or she may have a hundred of _mine_ to pay for it. it was at greenwood's rancho that the famous quartz hoax originated last winter, which so completely gulled our good miners on the river. i visited the spot, which has been excavated to some extent. the stone is very beautiful, being lined and streaked and splashed with crimson, purple, green, orange, and black. there was one large white block, veined with stripes of a magnificent blood-red color, and partly covered with a dark mass, which was the handsomest thing of the kind i ever saw. some of the crystallizations were wonderfully perfect. i had a piece of the bed-rock given me, completely covered with natural prisms varying in size from an inch down to those not larger than the head of a pin. much of the immigration from across the plains, on its way to the cities below, stops here for a while to recruit. i always had a strange fancy for that nomadic way of coming to california. to lie down under starry skies, hundreds of miles from any human habitation, and to rise up on dewy mornings to pursue our way through a strange country, so wildly beautiful, seeing each day something new and wonderful, seemed to me truly enchanting. but cruel reality strips _everything_ of its rose tints. the poor women arrive looking as haggard as so many endorian witches, burnt to the color of a hazelnut, with their hair cut short, and its gloss entirely destroyed by the alkali, whole plains of which they are compelled to cross on the way. you will hardly find a family that has not left some beloved one buried upon the plains. and they are fearful funerals, those. a person dies, and they stop just long enough to dig his grave and lay him in it as decently as circumstances will permit, and the long train hurries onward, leaving its healthy companion of yesterday, perhaps, in this boundless city of the dead. on this hazardous journey they dare not linger. i was acquainted with a young widow of twenty, whose husband died of cholera when they were but five weeks on their journey. he was a judge in one of the western states, and a man of some eminence in his profession. she is a pretty little creature, and all the aspirants to matrimony are candidates for her hand. one day a party of immigrant women came into my room, which was also the parlor of the establishment. some observation was made, which led me to inquire of one of them if her husband was with her. "she hain't got no husband," fairly _chuckled_ one of her companions. "she came with _me_, and her feller died of cholera on the plains." at this startling and brutal announcement the poor girl herself gave a hysteric giggle, which i at first thought proceeded from heartlessness, but i was told afterwards, by the person under whose immediate protection she came out, and who was a sister of her betrothed, that the tender woman's heart received such a fearful shock at the sudden death of her lover, that for several weeks her life was despaired of. i spent a great deal of time calling at the different encampments, for nothing enchanted me half so much as to hear about this strange exodus from the states. i never weary of listening to stories of adventures on the plains, and some of the family histories are deeply interesting. i was acquainted with four women, all sisters or sisters-in-law, who had among them thirty-six children, the entire number of which had arrived thus far in perfect health. they could, of themselves, form quite a respectable village. the immigration this year contained many intelligent and truly elegant persons, who, having caught the fashionable epidemic, had left luxurious homes in the states to come to california. among others, there was a young gentleman of nineteen, the son of a united states senator, who, having just graduated, felt adventurous, and determined to cross the plains. like the rest, he arrived in a somewhat dilapidated condition, with elbows out, and a hat the very counterpart of sam weller' s "gossamer ventilation," which, if you remember, "though _not_ a very handsome 'un to look at, was an astonishin' good 'un to wear!" i must confess that he became ragged clothes the best of any one i ever saw, and made me think of the picturesque beggar boys in murillo's paintings of spanish life. then there was a person who used to sing in public with ossian dodge. he had a voice of remarkable purity and sweetness, which he was kind enough to permit us to hear now and then. i hardly know of what nation he claimed to be. his father was an englishman, his mother an italian. he was born in poland, and had lived nearly all his life in the united states. he was not the only musical genius that we had among us. there was a little girl at one of the tents who had taught herself to play on the accordion on the way out. she was really quite a prodigy, singing very sweetly, and accompanying herself with much skill upon the instrument. there was another child, whom i used to go to look at as i would go to examine a picture. she had, without exception, the most beautiful face i ever saw. even the alkali had not been able to mar the golden glory of the curls which clustered around that splendid little head. she had soft brown eyes, which shone from beneath their silken lashes like "a tremulous evening star"; a mouth which made you think of a string of pearls threaded on scarlet; and a complexion of the waxen purity of the japonica, with the exception of a band of brownest freckles, which, extending from the tip of each cheek straight across the prettiest possible nose, added, i used to fancy, a new beauty to her enchanting face. she was very fond of me, and used to bring me wild cherries which her brothers had gathered for her. many a morning i have raised my eyes from my book, startled by that vision of infant loveliness--for her step had the still grace of a snow-flake--standing in beautiful silence by my side. but the most interesting of all my pets was a widow whom we used to call the "long woman." when but a few weeks on the journey, she had buried her husband, who died of cholera after about six hours' illness. she had come on; for what else could she do? no one was willing to guide her back to her old home in the states, and when i knew her she was living under a large tree a few rods from the rancho, and sleeping at night, with all her family, in her one covered wagon. god only knows where they all stowed themselves away, for she was a modern mrs. rogers, with "nine small children and one at the breast." indeed, of this catechismal number the oldest was but fifteen years of age, and the youngest a nursing babe of six months. she had eight sons and one daughter. just fancy how dreadful! only one girl to all that boy! people used to wonder what took me so often to her encampment, and at the interest with which i listened to what they called her stupid talk. certainly there was nothing poetical about the woman. leigh hunt's friend could not have elevated _her_ commonplace into the sublime. she was immensely tall, and had a hard, weather-beaten face, surmounted by a dreadful horn comb and a heavy twist of hay-colored hair, which, before it was cut, and its gloss all destroyed by the alkali, must, from its luxuriance, have been very handsome. but what really interested me so much in her was the dogged and determined way in which she had set that stern, wrinkled face of hers against poverty. she owned nothing in the world but her team, and yet she planned all sorts of successful ways to get food for her small, or rather large, family. she used to wash shirts, and iron them on a chair, in the open air of course, and you can fancy with what success. but the gentlemen were too generous to be critical, and as they paid her three or four times as much as she asked, she accumulated quite a handsome sum in a few days. she made me think of a long-legged very thin hen scratching for dear life to feed her never-to-be-satisfied brood. poor woman! she told me that she was compelled to allowance _her_ young ones, and that she seldom gave them as much as they could eat at any one meal. she was worse off than the old woman who lived in a shoe, and had so many children she didn't know what to do. to some she gave butter, to some she gave bread, and to some she gave whippings, and sent them to bed. now, _my_ old woman had no butter, and very little bread; and she was so naturally economical that even whippings were sparingly administered. but, after all their privations, they were, with the exception of the eldest hope, as healthy-looking a set of ragged little wretches as ever i saw. the aforesaid "hope" was the longest, the leanest, and the bob-sidedest specimen of a yankee that it is possible to imagine. he wore a white face, whiter eyes, and whitest hair, and walked about looking as if existence was the merest burden and he wished somebody would have the goodness to take it off his hands. he seemed always to be in the act of yoking up a pair of oxen, and ringing every change of which the english alphabet is capable upon the one single yankee execration, "darnation!" which he scattered, in all its comical varieties, upon the tow head of his young brother, a piece of chubby giggle, who was forever trying to hold up a dreadful yoke, which _wouldn't_ "stay put," in spite of all the efforts of those fat dirty little hands of his. the "long woman," mother-like, excused him by saying that he had been sick, though once, when the "darned fools" flew thicker than usual, she gently observed that he had forgotten that he was a child himself once. he certainly retained no trace of having enjoyed that delightful state of existence, and though one would not be so rude as to call him an old boy, yet, being always clad in a middle-aged habit, an elderly coat, and adult pantaloons, one would as little fancy him a _young_ man. perhaps the fact of his wearing his father's wardrobe in all its unaltered amplitude might help to confuse one's ideas on the subject. there was another dear old lady to whom i took the largest kind of a liking, she was so exquisitely neat. although she too had no floor, her babe always had on a clean white dress, and face to match. she was about four feet high, and had a perfect passion for wearing those frightful frontpieces of false hair with which the young women of l. were once in the habit of covering their abundant tresses. she used to send me little pots of fresh butter,--the first that i had tasted since i left the states,--beautifully stamped, and looking like ingots of virgin gold. i, of course, made a dead-set at the frontpiece, though i do believe that to this distorted taste, and its accompanying horror of a cap, she owed the preservation of her own beautiful hair. to please me she laid it aside, but i am convinced that it was restored to its proud eminence as soon as i left the valley, for she evidently had a "sneaking kindness" for it that nothing could destroy. i have sometimes thought that she wore it from religious principle, thinking it her duty to look as old as possible, for she appeared fifteen years younger when she took it off. she told me that in crossing the plains she used to stop on saturdays, and taking everything out of the wagons, wash them in strong lye, to which precaution she attributed the perfect health which they all enjoyed (the _family_, not the wagons) during the whole journey. there is one thing for which the immigrants deserve high praise, and that is, for having adopted the bloomer dress (frightful as it is on all other occasions) in crossing the plains. for such an excursion it is just the thing. i ought to say a word about the dances which we used to have in the barroom, a place so low that a _very_ tall man could not have stood upright in it. one side was fitted up as a store, and another side with bunks for lodgers. these bunks were elegantly draperied with red calico, through which we caught dim glimpses of blue blankets. if they could only have had sheets, they would have fairly been enveloped in the american colors. by the way, i wonder if there is anything _national_ in this eternal passion for blue blankets and red calico. on ball-nights the bar was closed, and everything was very quiet and respectable. to be sure, there was some danger of being swept away in a flood of tobacco-juice, but luckily the floor was uneven, and it lay around in puddles, which with care one could avoid, merely running the minor risk of falling prostrate upon the wet boards in the midst of a galopade. of course the company was made up principally of the immigrants. such dancing, such dressing, and such conversation, surely was never heard or seen before. the gentlemen generally were compelled to have a regular fight with their fair partners before they could drag them onto the floor. i am happy to say that almost always the stronger vessel won the day, or rather night, except in the case of certain timid youths, who, after one or two attacks, gave up the battle in despair. i thought that i had had some experience in bad grammar since i came to california, but these good people were the first that i had ever heard use right royal _we_ instead of _us_. do not imagine that all, or even the larger part, of the company were of this description. there were many intelligent and well-bred women, whose acquaintance i made with extreme pleasure. after reading the description of the inconveniences and discomforts which we suffered in the american valley,--and i can assure you that i have not at all exaggerated them,--you may imagine my joy when two of our friends arrived from indian bar for the purpose of accompanying us home. we took two days for our return, and thus i was not at all fatigued. the weather was beautiful, our friends amusing, and f. well and happy. we stopped at night at a rancho where they had a tame frog. you cannot think how comic it looked hopping about the bar, quite as much at home as a tame squirrel would have been. i had a bed made up for me at this place, on one end of a long dining-table. it was very comfortable, with the trifling drawback that i had to rise earlier than i wished, in order that what had been a bed at night might become a table by day. we stopped at the top of the hill and set fire to some fir-trees. oh, how splendidly they looked, with the flames leaping and curling amid the dark green foliage like a golden snake fiercely beautiful. the shriek which the fire gave as it sprang upon its verdant prey made me think of the hiss of some furious reptile about to wrap in its burning folds its helpless victim. with what perfect delight did i re-enter my beloved log cabin. one of our good neighbors had swept and put it in order before my arrival, and everything was as clean and neat as possible. how grateful to my feet felt the thick warm carpet; how perfect appeared the floor, which i had once reviled (i begged its pardon on the spot) because it was not exactly even; how cozy the old faded-calico couch; how thoroughly comfortable the four chairs (two of them had been thoroughly rebottomed with brown sail-cloth, tastefully put on, with a border of carpet-tacks); how truly elegant the closet-case toilet-table, with the doll's looking-glass hanging above, which showed my face (the first time that i had seen it since i left home) some six shades darker than usual; how convenient the trunk, which did duty as a wash-stand, with its vegetable-dish instead of a bowl (at the rancho i had a pint tin pan when it was not in use in the kitchen); but, above and beyond all, how superbly luxurious the magnificent bedstead, with its splendid hair mattress, its clean, wide linen sheets, its nice square pillows, and its large, generous blankets and quilts. and then the cozy little supper, arrayed on a table-cloth, and the long, delightful evening afterwards, by a fragrant fire of beech and pine, when we talked over our past sufferings. oh, it was delicious as a dream, and almost made amends for the three dreadful weeks of pleasuring in the american valley. letter _the_ twenty-third [_the_ pioneer, _december_, ] mining failures--departure _from_ indian bar synopsis dread of spending another winter at indian bar. failure of nearly all the fluming companies. official report of one company. incidental failure of business people. the author's preparations to depart. prediction of early rains. high prices cause of dealers' failure to lay in supply of provisions. probable fatal results to families unable to leave bar. rain and snow. the squire a poor weather prophet. pack-mule trains with provisions fail to arrive. amusement found in petty litigation. legal acumen of the squire. he wins golden opinions. the judgment all the prevailing party gets. what the constable got in effort to collect judgment. why dr. c.'s fee was not paid. a prescription of "calumny and other pizen doctor's stuff". a wonderful gold specimen in the form of a basket. "weighs about two dollars and a half". how little it takes to make people comfortable. a log-cabin meal and its table-service. the author departs on horseback from indian bar. her regrets upon leaving the mountains. "feeble, half-dying invalid not recognizable in your now perfectly healthy sister." letter _the_ twenty-third mining failures--departure _from_ indian bar _from our log cabin_, indian bar, _november_ , . i suppose, molly dear,--at least, i flatter myself,--that you have been wondering and fretting a good deal for the last few weeks at not hearing from dame shirley. the truth is, that i have been wondering and fretting _myself_ almost into a fever at the dreadful prospect of being compelled to spend the winter here, which, on every account, is undesirable. to our unbounded surprise, we found, on our return from the american valley, that nearly all the fluming companies had failed. contrary to every expectation, on arriving at the bed-rock no gold made its appearance. but a short history of the rise, progress, and final fate of one of these associations, given me in writing by its own secretary, conveys a pretty correct idea of the result of the majority of the remainder. "the thirteen men, of which the american fluming company consisted, commenced getting out timber in february. on the th of july they began to lay the flume. a thousand dollars were paid for lumber which they were compelled to buy. they built a dam six feet high and three hundred feet in length, upon which thirty men labored nine days and a half. the cost of said dam was estimated at two thousand dollars. this company left off working on the twenty-fourth day of september, having taken out, in _all_, gold-dust to the amount of forty-one dollars and seventy cents! their lumber and tools, sold at auction, brought about two hundred dollars." a very small amount of arithmetical knowledge will enable one to figure up what the american fluming company made by _their_ summer's work. this result was by no means a singular one. nearly every person on the river received the same stepmother's treatment from dame nature in this her mountain workshop. of course the whole world (_our_ world) was, to use a phrase much in vogue here, "dead broke." the shopkeepers, restaurants, and gambling-houses, with an amiable confidingness peculiar to such people, had trusted the miners to that degree that they themselves were in the same moneyless condition. such a batch of woeful faces was never seen before, not the least elongated of which was f.'s, to whom nearly all the companies owed large sums. of course with the failure of the golden harvest othello's occupation was gone. the mass of the unfortunates laid down the shovel and the hoe, and left the river in crowds. it is said that there are not twenty men remaining on indian bar, although two months ago you could count them up by hundreds. we were to have departed on the th of november, and my toilet-table and wash-hand-stand, duly packed for that occasion, their occupation _also_ gone, have remained ever since in the humble position of mere trunks. to be sure, the expressman called for us at the appointed time, but, unfortunately, f. had not returned from the american valley, where he had gone to visit a sick friend, and mr. jones was not willing to wait even one day, so much did he fear being caught in a snowstorm with his mules. it was the general opinion, from unmistakable signs, that the rainy season would set in a month earlier than common, and with unusual severity. our friends urged me to start on with mr. jones and some other acquaintances, and leave f. to follow on foot, as he could easily overtake us in a few hours. this i decidedly refused to do, preferring to run the fearful risk of being compelled to spend the winter in the mountains, which, as there is not enough flour to last six weeks, and we personally have not laid in a pound of provisions, is not so indifferent a matter as it may at first appear to you. the traders have delayed getting in their winter stock, on account of the high price of flour, and god only knows how fatal may be the result of this selfish delay to the unhappy mountaineers, many of whom, having families here, are unable to escape into the valley. it is the twenty-first day of november, and for the last three weeks it has rained and snowed alternately, with now and then a fair day sandwiched between, for the express purpose, as it has seemed, of aggravating our misery, for, after twelve hours of such sunshine as only our own california can show, we were sure to be gratified by an exceedingly well got up tableau of the deluge, _without_ that ark of safety, a mule team, which, sister-anna-like, we were ever straining our eyes to see descending the hill. "there! i hear a mule-bell," would be the cry at least a dozen times a day, when away we would all troop to the door, to behold nothing but great brown raindrops rushing merrily downward, as if in mockery of our sufferings. five times did the squire, who has lived for some two or three years in the mountains, and is quite weather-wise, solemnly affirm that the rain was over for the present, and five times did the storm-torrent of the next morning give our prophet the lie. in the mean while we have been expecting, each day, the advent of a mule train. now the rumor goes that clark's mules have arrived at pleasant valley, and now that bob lewis's train has reached the wild yankee's, or that jones, with any quantity of animals and provisions, has been seen on the brow of the hill, and will probably get in by evening. thus constantly is alternating light and gloom in a way that nearly drives me mad. the few men that have remained on the bar have amused themselves by prosecuting one another right and left. the squire, bless his honest, lazy, leigh huntish face, comes out strong on these occasions. he has pronounced decisions which, for legal acumen, brilliancy, and acuteness, would make daniel webster, could he hear them, tear his hair to that extent--from sheer envy--that he would be compelled to have a wig ever after. but, jesting apart, the squire's course has been so fair, candid, and sensible, that he has won golden opinions from all; and were it not for his insufferable laziness and good nature, he would have made a most excellent justice of the peace. the prosecuting party generally "gets judgment," which is about all he _does_ get, though sometimes the constable is more fortunate, as happened to-day to our friend w., who, having been detained on the bar by the rain, got himself sworn into the above office for the fun of the thing. he performs his duties with great delight, and is always accompanied by a guard of honor, consisting of the majority of the men remaining in the place. he entered the cabin about one hour ago, when the following spicy conversation took place between him and f., who happened to be the prosecutor in this day's proceedings. "well, old fellow, did you see big bill?" eagerly inquired f. "yes," is the short and sullen reply. "and what did you _get_?" continued his questioner. "i got this!" savagely shouts the amateur constable, at the same time pointing with a grin of rage to a huge swelling on his upper lip, gleaming with all the colors of the rainbow. "what did you do then?" was the next meek inquiry. "oh, i came away," says our brave young officer of justice. and indeed it would have been madness to have resisted this delightful big bill, who stands six feet four inches in his stockings, with a corresponding amount of bone and muscle, and is a star of the first magnitude in boxing circles. f. saved the creature's life last winter, having watched with him three nights in succession. he refuses to pay his bill "'cos he gin him _calumny_ and other pizen doctor's stuff." of course poor w. got dreadfully laughed at, though i looked as solemn as possible while i stayed him with cups of coffee, comforted him with beefsteaks and onions, and coaxed the wounded upper lip with an infinite succession of little bits of brown paper drowned in brandy. i wish that you could see _me_ about these times. i am generally found seated on a cigar-box in the chimney-corner, my chin in my hand, rocking backwards and forwards (weaving, you used to call it) in a despairing way, and now and then casting a picturesquely hopeless glance about our dilapidated cabin. such a looking place as it is! not having been repaired, the rain, pouring down the outside of the chimney, which is inside of the house, has liquefied the mud, which now lies in spots all over the splendid tin mantelpiece, and festoons itself in graceful arabesques along the sides thereof. the lining overhead is dreadfully stained, the rose-garlanded hangings are faded and torn, the sofa-covering displays picturesque glimpses of hay, and the poor, old, worn-out carpet is not enough to make india-rubbers desirable. sometimes i lounge forlornly to the window and try to take a bird's-eye view of outdoors. first, now a large pile of gravel prevents my seeing anything else, but by dint of standing on tiptoe i catch sight of a hundred other large piles of gravel, pelion-upon-ossa-like heaps of gigantic stones, excavations of fearful deepness, innumerable tents, calico hovels, shingle palaces, ramadas (pretty arbor-like places, composed of green boughs, and baptized with that sweet name), half a dozen blue and red shirted miners, and one hatless hombre, in garments of the airiest description, reclining gracefully at the entrance of the humboldt in that transcendental state of intoxication when a man is compelled to hold on to the earth for fear of falling off. the whole bar is thickly peppered with empty bottles, oyster-cans, sardine-boxes, and brandied-fruit jars, the harsher outlines of which are softened off by the thinnest possible coating of radiant snow. the river, freed from its wooden-flume prison, rolls gracefully by. the green and purple beauty of these majestic old mountains looks lovelier than ever, through its pearl-like network of foaming streamlets, while, like an immense concave of pure sapphire without spot or speck, the wonderful and never-enough-to-be-talked-about sky of california drops down upon the whole its fathomless splendor. the day happens to be the inner fold of one of the atmospheric sandwiches alluded to above. had it been otherwise, i doubt whether i should have had spirit enough to write to you. i have just been called from my letter to look at a wonderfully curious gold specimen. i will try to describe it to you; and to convince you that i do not exaggerate its rare beauty, i must inform you that two friends of ours have each offered a hundred dollars for it, and a blacksmith in the place--a man utterly unimaginative, who would not throw away a red cent on a _mere_ fancy--has tried to purchase it for fifty dollars. i wish most earnestly that you could see it. it is of unmixed gold, weighing about two dollars and a half. your first idea on looking at it is of an exquisite little basket. there is the graceful cover with its rounded nub at the top, the three finely carved sides (it is triformed), the little stand upon which it sets, and the tiny clasp which fastens it. in detail it is still more beautiful. on one side you see a perfect w, each finely shaded bar of which is fashioned with the nicest exactness. the second surface presents to view a grecian profile, whose delicately cut features remind you of the serene beauty of an antique gem. it is surprising how much expression this face contains, which is enriched by an oval setting of delicate beading. a plain triangular space of burnished gold, surrounded with bead-work similar to that which outlines the profile, seems left on purpose for a name. the owner, who is a frenchman, decidedly refuses to sell this gem, and you will probably never have an opportunity to see that the same being who has commanded the violet to be beautiful can fashion the gold, crucibled into metallic purity within the earth's dark heart, into shapes as lovely and curious. to my extreme vexation, ned, that jewel of cooks and fiddlers, departed at the first approach of rain, since when i have been obliged to take up the former delightful employment myself. really, everybody ought to go to the mines, just to see how little it takes to make people comfortable in the world. my ordinary utensils consist of,--item, one iron dipper, which holds exactly three pints; item, one brass kettle of the same size; and item, the gridiron, made out of an old shovel, which i described in a former letter. with these three assistants i perform absolute wonders in the culinary way. unfortunately, i am generally compelled to get three breakfasts, for sometimes the front-stick _will_ break, and then down comes the brass kettle of potatoes and the dipper of coffee, extinguishing the fire, spilling the breakfast, wetting the carpet, scalding the dog, waking up f. from an eleven-o'clock-in-the-day dream, and compelling poor me to get up a second edition of my morning's work on safer and more scientific principles. at dinner-time some good-natured friend carves the beef at a stove outside, on condition that he may have a plate and knife and fork at our table. so when that meal is ready i spread on the said table, which at other times does duty as a china-closet, a quarter of a sheet, which, with its three companion quarters, was sanctified and set apart, when i first arrived here, for that sacred purpose. as our guests generally amount to six or eight, we dispense the three teaspoons at the rate of one to every two or three persons. all sorts of outlandish dishes serve as teacups. among others, wine-glasses and tumblers--there are always plenty of these in the mines--figure largely. last night, our company being larger than usual, one of our friends was compelled to take his tea out of a soup-plate. the same individual, not being able to find a seat, went outside and brought in an empty gin-cask, upon which he sat, sipping iron tablespoonfuls of his tea, in great apparent glory and contentment. f. has just entered, with the joyful news that the expressman has arrived. he says that it will be impossible for mule trains to get in for some time to come, even if the storm is really over, which he does not believe. in many places on the mountains the snow is already five feet in depth, although he thinks that, so many people are constantly leaving for the valley, the path will be kept open, so that i can make the journey with comparative ease on his horse, which he has kindly offered to lend me, volunteering to accompany f., and some others who will make their exodus at the same time, on foot. of course i shall be obliged to leave my trunks, merely taking a change of linen in a carpet bag. we shall leave to-morrow, whether it rain or snow, for it would be madness to linger any longer. my heart is heavy at the thought of departing forever from this place. i _like_ this wild and barbarous life. i leave it with regret. the solemn fir-trees, whose "slender tops _are_ close against the sky" here, the watching hills, and the calmly beautiful river, seem to gaze sorrowfully at me as i stand in the moonlighted midnight to bid them farewell. beloved, unconventional wood-life; divine nature, into whose benign eyes i never looked, whose many voices, gay and glad, i never heard, in the artificial heart of the busy world,--i quit your serene teachings for a restless and troubled future. yes, molly, smile if you will at my folly, but i go from the mountains with a deep heart-sorrow. i took kindly to this existence, which to you seems so sordid and mean. here, at least, i have been contented. the "thistle-seed," as you call me, sent abroad its roots right lovingly into this barren soil, and gained an unwonted strength in what seemed to you such unfavorable surroundings. you would hardly recognize the feeble and half-dying invalid, who drooped languidly out of sight as night shut down between your straining gaze and the good ship manilla as she wafted her far away from her atlantic home, in the person of your _now_ perfectly healthy sister. printed by thomas c. russell at his private press, seventeen thirty-four nineteenth avenue san francisco, california